"You, me, dinner. Like a date. What do you say?" (other: while talking)
While he hadn't been avoiding Spencer, before, he certainly couldn't make that claim, now. He was actually getting quite good at ducking the younger man, able to sneak away just seconds before he would have been found – and confronted about that stupid kiss he'd laid on Spencer.
But, he considered, he ought to be getting good at avoiding the other man, considering that he'd been at it for nearly three weeks, now. Nineteen days – and, yes, he was keeping track – of not having to explain what he'd been thinking when he'd kissed Spencer. Which was good, because he couldn't even explain it to himself.
He'd gone over that moment probably a hundred times since he'd walked out of the conference room, and he couldn't think of a single reason why he'd kissed Spencer. It wasn't like he'd been forced into it, after all. He could have explained – lied, a traitorous little voice in the back of his head chimed in – that he'd just been joking both previous times. And that would have been the end of it, and he and Spencer would never have talked about it, ever again.
Instead, he'd gone and made things a million times more complicated, and then, on top of it, he'd called Spencer cute. The word cute wasn't even in his vocabulary, but it had slipped out as easily as if he used it every day.
'Maybe getting hit on the head by Mulvaney affected me more than I thought,' he thought, suddenly, cheered by the idea that there might be an explanation for his strange behavior. 'Or, maybe it's a brain tumor. Or an aneurysm, or something-'
"Detective Lassiter, are you with us?"
Chief Vick's voice, loud and extremely annoyed, cut through his thoughts, and he jerked to attention, fighting the urge to squirm with discomfort when he realized that everyone in the room was staring at him.
"Sorry, Chief," he apologized, wondering what he'd missed before she'd tried to get his attention.
"As I was saying," Vick said, the words gritted out through tightly clenched teeth, "it's been over two weeks, and we still don't have any leads in the boardwalk murders. This maniac is on his third victim, and we're just sitting on our asses."
Around him, the other cops in the room were all but squirming in their own seats, looking everywhere but up at Vick, who still had a scowl fixed firmly on her face. Carlton, for his part, managed to keep his composure, but it was a close thing.
The boardwalk murders, as the papers had been calling them, were a trio of mutilated bodies that had been found down at the boardwalk. There had been nothing accompanying the bodies, no notes taunting the police, no incriminating fingerprints, and no tokens left with or taken from the bodies, at least none that they'd been able to find.
And there was nothing connecting the victims to each other. Two men and one woman, all different ages, no occupations, hobbies, or people in common, and there'd been no indication that they'd known each other. He hated to even think the word, but the murders were practically unsolvable, confounding every cop in the precinct since the first body had been found.
"This is unacceptable, people," Vick went on, her voice practically coming out in a growl. "We have a duty to the people of Santa Barbara, and we're failing. We need to catch this lunatic, now."
She didn't mention the political angle involved, which made Carlton's respect for her rise even more, even though he knew she was under pressure to close the cases. He'd heard too many conversations, lately, that involved Vick apologizing to some trumped-up city official about something that she couldn't prevent. And he'd inferred enough to guess that her job was on the line, which explained the dark circles under her eyes.
"We should bring Spencer in on this," he said, and the words surprised the hell out of him the second they left his mouth.
And he wasn't the only one, if the looks that he was getting from around the conference room were any indication. His usual disdain for Spencer was no secret, and he knew his fellow cops were wondering exactly what he was thinking. Only O'Hara looked unsurprised by his declaration; from the satisfied smile on her face, she looked like she had finally figured out the missing piece to some puzzle.
Even Chief Vick looked shocked by his words.
"You want us to bring in Shawn Spencer?" she asked, incredulously, and he didn't miss the unspoken, 'Who are you and what have you done with Carlton Lassiter?'
"We're obviously not having any luck catching this murderer, ourselves," he pointed out. "Maybe it's time we thought about employing some more … unconventional means."
Whatever his feelings for the man, he wasn't about to dignify Spencer's spastic flailing by calling him a psychic.
Vick stared at him for a long moment, and then she nodded, decisively.
"Call Spencer," she told him. "And then brief him on everything we've got so far when he gets here."
Carlton nodded, leaving the conference room and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. Dialing Spencer's number, he listened to the phone ring a couple of times before Spencer picked up with a slightly less perky than usual greeting.
"You need to get down to the station," Carlton told him, brusquely. "We've got a case we could use your perspective on."
"Wow," Spencer deadpanned, "Carlton Lassiter is asking for my help. Mark this day on the calendar."
"Just get down here," Carlton snapped, hanging up his phone before Spencer could say anything else.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the younger man finally walked through the doors of the station, moving quickly towards Carlton's desk.
"Took you long enough," Carlton muttered, without looking up from the photos of the crime scenes that he was examining.
"I had to take a taxi," Spencer told him, "seeing as how I'm still stuck with this."
He'd been leaning on a cane, and now he thumped it on the floor for emphasis. Hearing him, Carlton looked up and saw the black boot that had replaced the plaster cast in incasing his foot and leg. While lighter than the previous cast, the boot was still bulky, and would have prevented him from riding his bike, yet.
"Conference room," Carlton said, rather than replying, as he tipped his head toward the room in question. "I'm supposed to get you caught up on the case."
He let Spencer precede him across the squad room, matching him nearly step for step. The younger man was still moving slowly, his usual frenetic energy hampered by the cast and cane. But, the bruising that marked his skin was almost completely gone, and if he knew Spencer, the other burdens wouldn't be far behind.
"No Guster, today?" he asked, as they walked over to the conference room.
"Gus had to work," Spencer said. "I'm flying solo."
He raised an eyebrow when Carlton reached in front of him to open the door to the conference room, but slipped inside without a word. Carlton shut the door of the conference room and then turned to see Spencer watching him, an odd expression on his face.
"What?" Carlton grumbled, as he walked over to the board where the crime scene photos had been tacked up.
"I'm just trying to figure out what to do with the new and improved Carlton Lassiter," Spencer told him.
"New and improved?" he asked, dryly.
"Well, you held the door open for me, for one," Spencer replied. "Not to mention certain other things that have happened, lately."
"Right," Carlton muttered, "those other things. I don't really want to talk about that."
"So I figured," Spencer said, "what with the way you've been avoiding me like I've got the bubonic plague."
"I don't think I've been that bad," Carlton argued.
"You ducked into the woman's restroom last week when I walked into the station," Spencer reminded him. "Sergeant Corbett chucked a soap dispenser at you."
"What's really impressive is that she ripped it off the wall, first," Carlton muttered, and Spencer snorted out a laugh.
"Remind me never to mess with that woman," he replied. "So, what's up with the case?"
"Three bodies," Carlton began, gesturing to the board as Spencer walked over to join him. "All dumped down at the boardwalk after they were killed."
"Yeah, I remember reading about these in the paper," Spencer said, quietly.
He reached toward one of the photos, trailing his fingertips lightly over the glossy surface. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he turned to face Carlton.
"How were they killed?" he asked, and Carlton shook his head.
"The medical examiner couldn't determine the cause of death," he replied. "The bodies were too mutilated."
He watched Spencer contemplate the board, a frown on his face as he stared intently at the pictures. He was almost completely still, and Carlton wondered if the other man was even aware that he'd dropped his usual façade.
"Any connection between the victims?" Spencer asked, without turning his attention away from the board.
"None," Carlton said, letting his frustration show through, as he spoke. "The first was a single mother of two who worked at a bakery, the second was a retired attorney with six grandkids, and the last was a college student who had a part time job and still lived with her parents."
"There was no connection between them, at all?" Spencer pressed, insistently. "They had nothing in common?"
"You don't think we already looked at all of that?" Carlton snapped, glaring at the younger man. "What do you think we do all day, here, Spencer? Do you think we just sit around all day waiting for you to show up and have one of your psychic visions about our cases?"
He was practically yelling by the end, but he cut himself off, teeth clicking together, sharply, when he realized that people outside the conference room were staring at them in amazement. Spencer, meanwhile, had his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Carlton to finish ranting.
"Are you done?" he asked, when Carlton finally fell silent. "Can we get back to working, or are you going to yell at me, some more?"
"Sorry," Carlton apologized, brusquely. "This case has just been getting under my skin, lately."
"Just the case?" Spencer asked, quietly, but Carlton ignored the unspoken invitation to talk about recent events.
"The thing that's really been getting to me," Carlton went on, pacing the length of the room in frustration as he talked, "is that I know these people."
"You knew the victims?" Spencer asked, but Carlton shook his head.
"Not personally," he explained, dragging a hand through his hair and making it stand on end. "But, I recognize their faces."
"From where?" Spencer asked, and even though it was the logical thing to ask, the question just pissed him off.
"I don't know!" he exploded, his voice coming out in a short bark before he cut himself off. "Aren't you supposed to be having one of your damn visions, right about now?"
"All of a sudden, now, you think I'm psychic?" Spencer asked, wryly, earning a glare from Carlton. "Aren't you the one who's always calling me a fake?"
"This isn't helping me on the case," Carlton growled, ignoring the implied admission he could hear in the other man's words.
"Then, let's try something else," Spencer told him. "Close your eyes."
"Excuse me?" Carlton asked, in disbelief.
"Close your eyes," Spencer repeated, patiently. "It's so that you can shut out all the distractions and just concentrate."
Carlton huffed out an irritated sigh, but after a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that came from making himself so vulnerable.
"Now just focus on the first victim," Spencer told him, his voice low and soothing, coming from somewhere behind him. "Margie Bastion," he went on, and Carlton could hear him flipping through the case files. "Just see her face in your mind."
"I see her," he said, after a moment.
"Now, just let everything else come into focus," Spencer continued, his voice still quiet. "Just let yourself see her surroundings."
Carlton sighed as he concentrated on Spencer's voice, trying to remember where he'd last seen the first victim.
"She's sitting in a courtroom," he said, at last.
"Where?" Spencer prompted. "Where do you see her sitting? In the crowd? The witness stand?"
"In the jury box." His eyes snapped open and he whirled around to face Spencer. "She was on the jury."
"Now we just need to figure out which trial it was," Spencer said, but Carlton was already out the door and halfway to his desk.
By the time Spencer reached him, he was typing furiously at his computer, practically glaring holes in the screen.
"They were all there," he said, without looking up. "I remember where I saw those faces," he said, triumphantly. "They were all on the same jury."
Spencer settled his hip on the edge of his desk, but rather than push him off, Carlton just moved a stack of papers over to give him more room. Then, what he'd just done hit him, and he wondered if he had time to stop by the hospital and get an MRI. Personality-altering tumors were becoming more and more likely as the day went on.
"Doesn't the courthouse keep a record of jury panels for all the trials?" Spencer asked, looking around at the computer screen. "So that they can keep track of who's served and who's due for jury duty?"
"Exactly," Carlton told him. Then, a few seconds later, "Got it." Ruefully, he added, "I just wish I'd figured this out two victims ago."
"You found the list of jurors?" Spencer asked, clearly not willing to let him wallow in even a second of self pity.
"They served together two years ago," Carlton said, skimming through the information on the screen. "The Kyle Mason murder trial."
A flash of recognition crossed Spencer's face, and then he flinched.
"You're not going to like what I'm about to tell you," he hedged, carefully.
Carlton sighed; he didn't even need to look at the last name on the list to know what it was going to say.
"And here I thought you would have done anything possible to get excused from jury duty," he said, instead.
"I was an alternate," Spencer told him. "I got called up on the last day when one of the original jurors was run down in broad daylight and was sent to the hospital with a broken spine."
"I remember that," Carlton replied. "We figured that it was Mason's attempt to get his trial postponed because of an incomplete jury."
"So, where's Mason, now?" Spencer asked. "Please say he's still in prison."
"He was released last month," Carlton told him. "Twenty-one months into his ten-year sentence, and he walked because of a technicality."
"He skates by on someone's stupidity, and now he's killing all the jurors who put him away?" Spencer asked, incredulously. "Is he crazy?"
"Hopefully, he's crazy enough to make a mistake," Carlton replied. Raising his voice, he called out to the rest of the squad room, "We've got a lead on the boardwalk murders!"
A ragged cheer went up around the squad room, and what seemed like half of the cops in the station converged on them, all talking at once. Carlton handled their rapid-fire questions, easily, and in just over twenty minutes, there was a plan in place and everyone was getting ready to go.
Carlton unlocked the top drawer of his desk and pulled his gun out, sliding the weapon into the holster on his shoulder after he checked it. He turned back around in time to see Spencer standing up from his perch on the desk, using his cane for support.
"No way in Hell," he said, flatly, and Spencer's eyes widened in shock. "One," he continued, before the younger man could say anything, "you're injured and likely to be a liability to the bust. Two, did you not just admit to being on Mason's hit list?"
"I did," Spencer said, reluctantly.
"Then, you're staying here," Carlton told him. "Mason has already gotten three members of his convicting jury. I'm not handing him the fourth on a silver platter."
Spencer looked like he wanted to argue, but he seemed to bite back the words with an effort.
"Don't get shot," he said, instead.
Carlton nodded, turning to follow the rest of the task force out of the station, but then something stopped him before he went out the door. He couldn't put a name to the impulse that had him turning around and crossing the distance between him and Spencer in a few, short strides.
"Don't tell me you forgot your Kevlar vest," Spencer told him, looking up as he stopped in front of him. "Because, if you go out there and get yourself hurt because you didn't have the common sense-"
Wordlessly, Carlton grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and pulled him closer. He closed his lips over Spencer's cutting off the other man's startled squeak of surprise. Then, to his surprise, Spencer kissed him back, giving just as good as he got. His hand snaked up to curl around the back of Carlton's neck, holding him in place.
Finally, and with more reluctance than he ever could have imagined, Carlton pulled away. Spencer had the same shocked look on his face that he'd had the last time they kissed – and Carlton could feel his brain shorting out at the reminder that there had been multiple kisses with Shawn Spencer, of all people.
"Thanks," he said, gruffly, trying to get his brain working again. "For your help on the case, thanks."
He was babbling, and he knew it. Turning, he started toward the door before he could do something eminently stupid – like grab Spencer and kiss him, again.
"Go to dinner with me," Spencer called out, stopping him in his tracks. "You, me, dinner. Like a date," he continued, and he sounded just as shaken as Carlton. "What do you say?"
Had to be a brain tumor. That was the only explanation for what popped out of his mouth, apparently bypassing the logical part of his brain.
"Yes, okay, dinner." And then he walked out of the station without looking back.