CHAPTER THREE

. . . .

. . .

Karen Vick opened the folder in front of her, sparing a glance for her two lead detectives. Lassiter looked artificially calm—the kind which suggested he would give 'calm' his best shot but wasn't making any promises—and O'Hara merely seemed uncertain.

"What I gave you were your character backgrounds, which means you know you're Jim and Sherry Tackett from St. Louis, Missouri. Jim, you graduated from Waverly High School in Kern County in 1987, and you and the missus here have been married for eight years." She glanced at them again with a faint smile. "Your anniversary is coming up."

Lassiter shifted in his chair. "I won't forget it this time."

She was privately delighted he'd made a joke, and O'Hara had already relaxed because of it. In fact, she observed, Juliet's look of relief was palpable.

But she had to move on. "Anyway, here's the back story. Waverly High's graduating class in 1987 had 400 students, at least 350 of whom have confirmed their attendance for their twenty-fifth reunion this weekend. The reason for the large number is—"

"State football champs," Lassiter supplied. "I remember."

"Very good. They beat out their rival school…?" She paused to see if he remembered that as well.

"Ashford," he said with a nod.

"Exactly. They've had pitched battles ever since, and this class reunion is a big damn deal. The problem is that threats of violence have been made to the alumni group organizing the affair. The local police have tried to convince them to cancel or postpone, but they can't force them because the threats are non-specific."

"And postponing would only postpone the threat as well," Lassiter agreed.

Juliet asked, "What do the threats say? And how are they being made?"

"They're being mailed, either to the offices of the various organizers or to the high school. There have been six in all."

"And no one person is being targeted?"

"Not so far. The letters say something is going to happen during the reunion, but stop short of expressing—or even hinting—what that might be."

"What are their thoughts about who's behind it?" Lassiter inquired. "Disgruntled Ashford grads, or a guy who didn't make the football team that year?"

Vick smiled. "It's impossible to say at this point, and the letters are vague." She handed him another folder. "There are the copies. The one thing everyone agrees on from the local PD on up is that whoever is making the threats will almost certainly be in attendance during the weekend. This kind of big splashy forewarning indicates someone who will want to be there when it happens, whatever it is, to see the reaction first-hand."

"Why do they need us?" Juliet asked.

"They simply don't have enough manpower, and despite the size of the class, the community is small and local authorities would be recognized. They need people watching on the inside while they're watching the outside. The reunion is being held at the convention center hotel, and it's being swept daily for explosives and anything else which could meet the definition of 'threat.'"

One of Lassiter's dark brows went up. "With this much local interest, how am I going to pass myself off as a graduate?"

"Well, if you noticed in your packet, you were a senior-year transfer to Waverly and missed the school photo session, and your family conveniently moved away the following summer. There's been a lot of change in Waverly over the years according to the PD, and the neighborhood you supposedly lived in doesn't even exist anymore. And, you know, find ways to get out of conversations like that. Chances are no one will delve that deep if you weren't associated with the football team."

"So you just want us to mingle, observe, and report?" Juliet opened her folder and pointed to a particular section. "It says we have kids."

"Two. Adorable. You can talk about them all you like," Karen said with amusement. "And since one of them has the measles, you'll be on the phone as often as necessary to check in."

"Clever," Lassiter commented. "But it sounds—"

Karen gave him a second to continue, and when he didn't, she finished for him. "Simple. It sounds simple. Certainly nothing I need to send my top detectives out on. I know. But truthfully, this is a chance for everyone to cool down and regroup, and I can use the time to make my decision." She closed the folder. "You're leaving in the morning and checking into the last available room at the convention center, a miracle possible only because of a cancellation, but you'll check in with Captain Travanti as soon as you hit town. He'll brief you more fully at the time. Any questions for now?"

There seemed to be none, so she sent them away, relieved it had gone so smoothly and wondering which one would be the first to call her when they realized their hotel room only had one bed, and it wasn't even a king.

. . . .

. . .

Waverly was about twenty miles north of Bakersfield, and the drive from Santa Barbara on Friday morning was pleasant, certainly scenic in the miles which took them through Los Padres. Carlton was at the wheel, of course, and seemed steady enough mood-wise.

Juliet was feeling a touch of optimism. She was unflatteringly relieved to be out of town for a couple of days, away from the possibility of Shawn coming to see her, and she'd left her personal cell at home in lieu of carrying only a department-issued phone in Sherry Tackett's name. It was sad—she was sad—that she welcomed this escape.

It was sadder still that she was pretty sure the break she'd asked for was going to be permanent.

She and Carlton had made good progress on the park killings, enough to pass the case off to Becker and Steel to take over. They had IDed one of the men and were close on the other, plus had leads on some potential witnesses, and Henry hadn't made a single comment about Shawn being pulled from the case… so she knew Shawn had told him about the 'break.'

"Jim, tell me about Marcy," she said suddenly, not wanting to think about any of that.

"Marcy," Carlton said with the faintest of smiles, looking straight ahead, "has my eyes, and thankfully your ears. She just started first grade and wants to be a ballerina."

"What about Thomas?"

"Thomas has your eyes, and regrettably, my ears, but we're talking to a good plastic surgeon and—"

"No, we're not," she laughed, hitting him in the arm. "His big ears are cute. What else?"

"He is four as of last week, and kisses all the girls in his daycare every day."

"Yes, he does," she said proudly. "He'll be a peeping Tom yet."

"Oh hell, we did name our child Tom! Who wrote that profile?" Carlton was laughing, and Juliet was delighted to see it. He cast his blue gaze her way, unmistakably amused. "We're either changing his name or that back story. I will not have a sex-fiend four-year-old for a son."

"Okay, he only hugs them. He's a very loving boy," she said innocently. "Just like his father."

Carlton shook his head. "More like his mother."

She felt a little flushed because he wasn't talking about Sherry Tackett. "No, his dad's got a big heart too. Bigger than he lets people see."

He cleared his throat. "Anyway. I'm a history teacher for a private school, eighth-graders, and you're working your way to the top of the PTA without bloodshed, because while you despise Mary Ann Inman, you refuse to sink as low as she did when she added brown food coloring to the white frosting for the—"

"Jim!" she protested, nudging his arm again but laughing anyway. "Don't tell that story."

"Damn," he said with regret. "I love that story."

Just like that she was giggling, half because he was relaxed and funny and half because she was still agitated about his ultimatum to Vick, and plus there was Shawn, but Carlton looked over at her, grinning, and she knew again—like a stab to the heart—that she wouldn't make it without him as her partner. There just wasn't anyone else.

. . . .

. . .

"On behalf of the hotel, I'd like to offer our apology for the items missing from your room." The clerk was nervous, and at first Lassiter thought it was just the usual effect he had on people, until the noise and chaos behind the desk sank in.

"We just got here. What's missing?" He kept his tone mild, and sensed Juliet's approval.

"Well, the sofa, mainly." He handed over the room keycard. "With the reunion in town, we've had to shift some furnishings around to accommodate everyone, and we had to move the sofa bed to another room. We did put in an extra chair for the desk, and of course it's a queen bed so you and your wife should be comfortable. Oh," he added brightly, "and everything in the mini-fridge is free during your stay. Can I be of any other assistance?"

Lassiter made himself be still. Very still.

Juliet smiled at the clerk. "I think we're good." She grasped Lassiter's elbow and pulled him away from the desk. "Come on, honey, let's go get settled before we sign in for the reunion."

Okay, if she wanted to be a man about it, so could he. They were only here two nights and surely the floor was carpeted. Been awhile since he slept on the floor but maybe there were extra pillows in the closet—assuming there was a closet—and suddenly he was pulled back by his partner's voice.

"Jim," she said meaningfully, "this is it."

He blinked and looked at the keycard. Room 117, the clerk had said, and this was it. He inserted the card and pushed the door open, letting her pass through first. He carried their small bags and her garment bag in, averting his eyes from the contents of the room until absolutely necessary. He took too much time to hang the garment bag, too much time to place the travel bags just so on the dresser, and finally allowed himself to survey the room itself.

Juliet was standing by the bed—the queen bed which looked like a twin by his estimation—arms folded. "Are you going to freak out?"

He drew himself up and lied with authority. "No." (Well, maybe a little, quietly, privately, to himself.)

"Good. And before you say it, neither one of us is sleeping on the floor. This bed is big enough for two and we've been closer than this on stakeouts, so get over it." Her tone was mostly amused.

Lassiter met her curious gaze and relaxed a little, because Juliet could always, always, get him to relax. "Well, after eight years of marriage, honey, a man's gotta have a break."

She immediately threw a pillow at him, and for a second, he thought eight years with her would barely be a taste. He caught the pillow deftly and pegged it back, and she advanced with pure mischief in her eyes—and her cell rang.

"Oh! Lucky you. Must be the babysitter," she said with a grin. It was Vick, making sure they'd checked in with Captain Travanti when they got to town.

Travanti had told them there'd be another undercover couple working the reunion, a pair of cops from San Luis Obispo, and they were to meet up over dinner. The events included tonight's reception and mixer, a picnic on the convention grounds tomorrow afternoon, and a more formal dinner dance for Saturday evening. "Just keep your eyes open," he said. "Call in anyone or anything which looks off to you."

His money was on a handful of 'miscreants' (Lassiter liked Travanti; 'miscreants' was underused and he liked anyone who took it down off the shelf) who'd been particularly belligerent back in 1987 about football jocks and cheerleaders. Three of the men had done time for various offenses since then, two were living in Los Angeles, and the whereabouts of one were currently unknown, but most of them had registered for the reunion. One of the ex-cons had blown up a savings and loan in the 1990s, so they were particularly interested in him.

Lassiter realized he was watching Juliet as she talked, but not hearing her end of the conversation at all. He was… distracted.

Dammit. They were fully dressed and working a case and yesterday he'd had this under control but now, simply standing in a hotel room, the phone to her ear, one hand supporting her elbow, her wavy golden hair cascading over her shoulder, she was making him think things he usually only allowed himself to think in the dead of night.

Time to unpack, then. Enough of this mindless drooling on his incredibly unavailable partner.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet, although she was Mrs. Sherry Tackett and had every right to touch her husband Jim, felt a little as if she were getting away with something as she confidently grasped Carlton's hand when they neared the meeting room where the reunion registration was set up. His fingers were warm and he only tensed a little bit, and his glance downward held a trace of acceptance.

They were slapped with nametags, asked to sign the 'late registrations' page, and greeted effusively by Pamela Unger and Susie Otten, both of whom swore they remembered Jim Tackett's big blue eyes from all those years ago. Juliet detected a genuine interest on Pamela's part, and reclaimed Carlton's hand as soon as she could.

Susie gave them the agenda and welcome packet and what even Juliet considered a lot of hot air about how fabulous everyone looked and what a fantastic event the reunion was going to be and how the returning members of the football team were going to put on such a show at the picnic tomorrow, gush gush gush mawk mawk mawk.

Beside her, Carlton had partly shut down, but his grip on her hand was tightening, so Juliet said cheerfully that they'd had a long flight in from St. Louis and were going to walk around a bit to unwind.

She knew she didn't have to, but she tucked her arm in his as they walked, and he didn't resist, so that was good. It was nice. You're working, she reminded herself. So is he. And he's probably freaked.

As they passed one of the mid-sized conference rooms, they were hailed by a group of Jim Tackett's fellow students, a few guys and their wives who had also arrived early from out of town and were looking for familiar faces.

"You probably don't remember me," Carlton assured them. "I was only here the one year and was pretty much invisible."

One of the women, a brunette stuffed into shoes too small for her, said, "Man, I wouldn't have come back for that." She glanced at her husband. "No offense, Jack."

"You should have worn the loafers," he said reasonably. "But I don't have to remember Jim to know he came back for the same reason we all did—to relive our glory days!"

Juliet was surprised at how easily Carlton adapted to his persona, and the women were nice to her as they gave her 'husband' the once-over. He did look good. Dark gray shirt, open at the neck, black slacks, the vivid blue eyes, relaxed manner. She was just wondering about how soft his chest hair might be when Jack's wife Gretchen spoke directly to her.

"Newlyweds?" she asked, smiling at their clasped hands.

Juliet blushed, gripping Carlton's hand harder to prevent his initial reaction of letting go. "No, we're going on eight years now. Two kids."

Gretchen looked her over. "You've held up well, then, honey. I have three and you can see they've pretty much done me in." She looked tired, and the shoes weren't the only thing she was stuffed into.

Sympathizing, Juliet drew her away from the others and managed to find out that Jack had been on the football team, one of the jocks who actually had non-jock friends. Gretchen was friends with a few of the cheerleaders, and remembered the days leading up to the big game as well as the weeks of head-rush-euphoria afterward. The rival school, Ashford, had not taken the loss well, and until she and Jack moved to Reno, each year's football matchup had gotten more and more tense. "Jocks hold grudges," she said with a shrug.

"What about cheerleaders?" Juliet asked, smiling.

"They're not all bitches, I swear, but that spring, our girls beat out Ashford in a state competition as well and oh, did the fur fly." Gretchen smirked. "It just wasn't Ashford's year." She glanced over at Carlton. "He was only here in 1987? I don't remember him at all, sorry."

"He said he was very thin and when he turned sideways, he'd disappear. I think he was sick a lot, too," Juliet assured her. "Turned out good, though, didn't he?"

"Mmm-hmmmm, he did." Gretchen laughed. "Hey, I've been married for 24 of the last 25 years so I'm allowed to look. If I'd seen those big blue eyes back in '87 I might have tried to fatten him up enough to be visible from any angle."

Juliet felt unaccountably proud, and looked over at her partner. "Yeah, but then I'd have missed out." She grinned at Gretchen. "So yay for me, girl!"

Carlton came to collect her, hand on her back, curious about why they were laughing, and Juliet wasn't sure she'd be able to tell him later. "They say there's a couple of good restaurants within walking distance. You ready for lunch?"

"I am," she said, smiling at him, catching the honesty in the smile he gave back to her. "I am so ready."

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter couldn't remember when he'd had such a pleasant time working without using his gun, besting Spencer or arresting graffiti 'artists.' It was an odd sensation to be working with Juliet in a way which involved simply having lunch, walking the perimeter of the sprawling convention center, snaking their way up and down the halls of the hotel section to learn the lay of the land, and sitting in their room going over the information Travanti had given them.

She was sipping a Coke, twisting a few strands of her hair idly while studying the recent photos of Travanti's chief suspects, and for a second Lassiter didn't think he would be able to drag his gaze from her at all.

Was he… dammit, was he this easy? Or God forbid, this green, that going undercover as half of a married couple had so quickly turned him into a lovestruck moron?

No. He refused to spend one more moment analyzing his feelings for Juliet. She was in a relationship, specifically with the clod who was making him contemplate a significant career change, and no matter how much Sherry Tackett might look up to her husband, Juliet O'Hara would never be that happy with Carlton Lassiter.

So. Not one more moment. Enough.

"I'm getting another Coke," he said abruptly; the mini-fridge had been short on beverages. "Can I bring you one?"

She looked up, startled. "Sure. Get some ice, too?"

He grabbed up the bucket on his way out as if it were a life preserver. In the hall, he paused to take a deep breath. Then another.

At the ice machine he ran into a couple more Waverly alumni, one of whom was sure she remembered him, and he humored her up until she asked if they'd ever made out behind the gym, at which point he felt the heat in his face, and he hated to blush; he hated it—the woman was amused and her friend giggled and he excused himself as abruptly as he'd left Juliet and walked quickly back to their room.

She was halfway out of her shirt, her flat stomach bare before him, her upraised arms lifting her lace-covered breasts just so, and he turned without a word and strode the halls, still carrying the ice bucket, for fifteen minutes.

His cell rang at the sixteenth minute, and he didn't want to answer because it was Juliet.

"Come back to the room, Carlton. I'm decent and ready for that Coke."

"Okay," he said gruffly, and disconnected.

It was the longest walk of his life, that distance to their room.

. . . .

. . .