Lassiter didn't think about Shawn Spencer much over the next day and a half. Sometimes spans of three to four minutes would pass where he barely thought of him at all. He stormed around the station snapping at people and shouting orders. He spent his lunch hours at the firing range. When Chief Vick assigned him a missing persons case Lassiter was relieved to have something new to focus on.

The missing man was Maxwell Harris, a reclusive millionaire who had built a fortune through property speculation. His wife returned home late one evening to find her husband was gone. The door had been standing open and there was a message on the machine. Maxwell Harris' voice reminded Lassiter of Raymond Burr. "Darling, it's Max," the message began, "I'm in terrible trouble. I'm being followed but I think I gave them the slip. If you could meet me at the airport, and bring the…oh God. They're here." The message ended in a hoarse cry and then the line went dead. Lassiter had listened to the message dozens of times and the boys in the lab were going over a copy with every piece of equipment they had, trying to find a lead. Lassiter wasn't optimistic. Background sounds of foghorns or train station announcements usually only happened in the movies.

Lassiter had gone over the Harris house but there was no sign of a break-in, and no evidence of foul play. Looking for Harris, or what might be left of him, wasn't going to be easy. His wife had provided a description, but it was next to useless. Harris was of medium height and build, with hair that could be taken for brown or blonde, and if he had any distinguishing marks, his wife had never noticed. Lassiter sighed and hung his head. He hoped that Victoria could have provided a better description of him if he'd ever gone missing. Since Harris detested getting his picture taken, the missing man's wife didn't even have a photo she could provide them. He'd never had a drivers' licence or passport photo taken, so there weren't any government records they could fall back on. Mrs. Harris said that she couldn't understand why anyone would have wanted to hurt Maxwell, and she assured Lassiter that all of her husband's business practices were strictly above board. Somehow, Lassiter didn't believe her.

If it hadn't been for the phone message, Lassiter would have been looking hard at the wife. For what it was worth, he still might. Despite pressure from City Hall to solve the case fast, it was hard to look past the fact that he did have a hefty insurance policy. If a body did turn up, Mrs. Harris would be an even richer woman.

With so few clues, there wasn't much to occupy his time. Certainly, uniforms were combing the city for a body, and they'd tapped the phone in case a ransom call came in. They were trying to trace his movements, but those had proved to be scarce, which wasn't surprising for a shut-in. Lassiter was suddenly faced with a lot of waiting—for reports, for lab work, and for a break in the case.

Waiting was not a friend to Lassiter's mind. As he headed to the gun range he found his thoughts drifting inexorably back to Shawn, and the question of whether or not this supposed crush was as fake as his psychic act.

As the bullets from his Glock 17 tore through yet another human-outline target, Lassiter realized that one of the reasons he was so intent on uncovering Spencer's true feelings was that he wasn't entirely clear about his own. The confusing part was that Lassiter sometimes found himself responding sexually to Spencer despite being 90% sure that he wasn't gay. Yes, he'd had occasional crushes on men, but he put that down to a type of hero worship. It was normal to find Gary Cooper, or Steve McQueen attractive. And everyone, regardless of sexuality, seemed to like Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt. It didn't make him gay. Any anxieties he might have had about being gay had been laid to rest in his teens, when he'd discovered girls. He liked women. He found them attractive, and he loved having sex with them. And sleeping with women certainly isn't gay, he assured himself. Except when lesbians do it.

It wasn't as if he was effeminate in any way. Sure, some people might look critically at his lanky frame, but he had a wiry strength. And while there had been early experiments with figure skating, and some classmates had thought that joining the high school wrestling team was kind of suspicious, those years were behind him now. He enjoyed manly activities, like fishing, shooting guns, riding horses, and drinking scotch. His job was very masculine. Yet what should have reassuring suddenly seemed like over-compensation. With a few well-placed touches and innuendos, Shawn Spencer somehow managed to make him feel like one of the Village People.

Lassiter frowned and reloaded his clip.

Shawn was sprawled on the couch in the Psych office when Gus came in carrying what was obviously a gift-wrapped book. He stood at the head of the sofa, looking down at Shawn, his face concerned.

"I got you something." He held out the book. The wrapping paper was a design of tiny cartoon molars, obtained from one of the dental offices on his pharmaceutical route.

Shawn took the package and held it. "A book. How thoughtful of you, Gus. But your wrapping doesn't leave much to the imagination. Why not put it in a box? Maybe throw in some dry pasta to make it rattle? Or, put that box in an even bigger box. These are elementary wrapping skills, my friend."

"Just open the damn book, Shawn."

Shawn unwrapped the package and stared at the present. It was a called You Can't Always Get What You Want, written by a psychologist he had never heard of. It came with a CD of the book narrated by Winston Winters, another guy he had never heard of.

"I apologize for my hasty remarks," he said, dipping his head in place of a bow. "I didn't see the CD coming. Well played."

"Just listen to the damn thing already," Gus said. "I'm tired of you moping around the office because the obscure hints you drop to Lassiter aren't being picked up on. You need some perspective. I thought this book would help, but I know you're too lazy to read. So I got one that has a CD of some guy reading it to you. Hell, all you have to do is put the CD on. How difficult is that?"

"I appreciate you putting me on the road to healing," Shawn said. "I really do." He looked at the book and CD, "In fact, I'm going to go sit in your car and listen to this right now. On account of CDs being such an obsolete technology, they're only found in cars now."

Gus raised his eyebrows. "You're really going to listen to it?"

"Yes. Really."

Shawn extended his hand for the keys and Gus reached out to pass them, pausing in mid-air.

"Wait a minute," Gus said. "Your laptop can play CDs." He pulled the keys back. "Stay away from my car unless I'm driving."

"Fine." Shawn went to his desk and turned on his laptop. "Where do CDs go?"

The next day, when Gus arrived at the Psych office, Shawn was sitting at his computer while a deep voice talked about how important it was to live each moment to its fullest.

Shawn paused the CD and spoke. "I've made a decision. I'm going to take charge of my life. I'm on my way from misery to happiness today. Like that guy from the Proclaimers."

"The Proclaimers are identical twin brothers," Gus said. "There are two of them."

Shawn tilted his head, thoughtful. "I'm pretty sure it's just one guy. He's playing both roles, like Haley Mills in the original Parent Trap."

"Why go with Haley Mills?" Gus asked. "Lindsay Lohan did the same thing in the remake."

"Nope." Shawn shook his head. "I have it on good authority that Lindsay Lohan is actually two people. That's why she's always being arrested." He smiled. "Both of them are wild little scallions."

"I think you mean rapscallions."

"What are scallions?" Shawn asked.

"A type of strong flavoured onion."

Shawn shrugged. "Maybe that's exactly what I mean. They're tiny and white, and they make me cry."

Gus shook his head to dislodge Shawn's ridiculousness. "Still," he said. "I'm glad the book is helping you."

"It sure is. I've decided I'm going to ask Lassiter out. Make my intentions clear. Point blank."

"Let's just hope it doesn't turn all Grosse Point Blank on you," Gus said. "Lassiter carries a gun. Possibly several."

"What else can I do?" Shawn asked. "Show up outside his house with a boombox and blast Peter Gabriel at him?"

"I think something like Tainted Love might be more appropriate."

"Ow! Dude! That hurt." Shawn gripped his hand over his heart as if mortally wounded. "First I need to lay the proper groundwork. Get on Lassiter's good side."

"I don't think the man has one," Gus said.

"Sure he does. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I'm pretty sure that the way into a cop's pants is through his arrest record. I'm going to help him solve that missing persons case that has them all stumped."

"Fine, but if you end up sharing a cell with guy who's got face tattoos you can use your one phone call to dial 1-800-I-told-you-so."

Shawn scoffed. "That doesn't even work as a number."

Shawn and Gus stood outside the palatial estate of Maxwell Harris. The reclusive millionaire had been reported missing, and although O'Hara had told him that no ransom note had arrived, the folks at the SBPD feared the worst.

"Harris never leaves his house," O'Hara had explained. "So for him to go missing is way out of character." Forensics had been over the house from top to bottom, but there was no sign of the missing millionaire and no sign of foul play. The man had just disappeared.

"I hear they're combing the city looking for a body," Gus said. "Lassiter might appreciate it if you could have some kind of vision of what he looks like."

A maid showed them in to the foyer and Mrs. Harris came down to greet them.

"Hello," Shawn said, shaking her hand. "I'm Governor Jack Stanton," he motioned to Gus, "and this is my assistant, Adrian Lester. We were hoping to see your husband."

The woman stared down her nose at Shawn. "You're a little young to be a governor."

"Not necessarily," Gus said, "J. Neely Johnson was Governor of California at thirty."

"Maybe you haven't heard," Mrs. Harris said, "But my husband has gone missing."

"Really?" Shawn said, using his surprised voice. "That's terrible. When did this happen?"

"Four days ago now. I came home to find him gone. I called the police right away but I had to wait before they'd let me report him missing. It's even possible he's been kidnapped." Mrs. Harris glanced up toward a picture of ballerinas dancing, then back to Shawn.

Shawn looked around the room. There were pictures of Mrs. Harris, but none of her husband. He gazed up at the wall. Amng the many paintings on the wall was an oil portrait of an older man."

"Is this Mr. Harris?" Shawn asked. "We've only spoken on the phone," he explained.

"No," Mrs. Harris' voice was sharp. "That's a Rembrandt."

"Really?" Shawn said. "He's very good. Did you know that he also makes an excellent toothpaste?"

"Why did you want to see my husband?" Mrs. Harris asked.

"We'd been discussing the possibility of buying a property through him," Shawn said. "I need a new horse ranch for Skipper."

"Really?" Mrs. Harris looked at him with renewed interest. "I don't remember Max mentioning that."

"Did your husband often discuss his work with you?" Shawn asked.

"Yes." Mrs. Harris said, staring curiously at Shawn. "Very often." She smiled a wide, alarmingly toothy grin. "Why don't you leave me all your contact details and when my husband returns I'll get him to call you?" She placed a long thin hand on Shawn's shoulder. "What state did you say you represented?"

Shawn smiled and looked at Gus expectantly.

"He represents American Samoa," Gus explained smoothly. "It's am unincorporated territory in the South Pacific. Governor Stanton increased their tuna exports by 5% last year."

"I'm sorry I was so unfriendly earlier," Mrs. Harris said. "I've been so preoccupied since Max disappeared. And you weren't exactly my idea of a career politician"

"Things have changed a lot since the Obama election," Shawn said. Now it's about politics. The politics…of dancing. The politics of ooooo feeling good."

Mrs. Harris' lips pressed together in annoyance and she crossed her thin arms.

"We should go," Gus said.

"I think my message is understood." Shawn looked at his watch. "I'm afraid we do have to go. I'm scheduled to open a karaoke fundraiser in Santa Barbara Heights. It's a lot of fun. You should swing by. I do a mean version of Straight Outta Compton."

Gus shook hands with Mrs. Harris. "It was nice meeting you." He then grabbed Shawn firmly by the arm and pulled him toward the door.

"Well," Gus said. "That was fun. Are there any other relatives of Mr. Harris that you'd like to traumatize?"

"Don't feel so bad about it," Shawn said. "Because she," he pointed back toward the house, "is lying."

"How do you know?"

"Neuropsychology." Shawn said. "I remember reading somewhere that when people are telling the truth they look up and to the left, accessing their visual cortex. But if they're lying their eyes go up and to the right, accessing their creative centre. And she," he pointed at the house again, this time more energetically, "looked up and to the right."

"You didn't read that in a book," Gus looked accusingly at Shawn. "That's a scene from The Negotiator with Samuel L. Jackson."

Shawn shrugged. "I still say she's lying. And now I've got Sam Jackson on my side."

Lassiter glanced up from his desk to see Shawn enter the station and stop to flirt with O'Hara.

"Oh, for the love of Mike," he muttered to himself, "What is he doing here?" Spencer was wearing a blue t-shirt and red short sleeve shirt on top. "For crying out loud, he looks like he's wearing a Superman costume."

Lassiter tried to look busy. As Spence's shadow loomed over him Lassiter looked up and said, "Why don't you just turn around and slide on out of here?" he pointed to the door.

"I would, Lassie," Shawn said, "but I recently sustained a serious injury on a Slip n Slide, and my physiotherapist has banned me from slipping or sliding for at least six weeks."

"Why are you here, Spencer?"

"My psychic powers tell me that you might want to take a closer look at Mrs. Harris."

"Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?" Lassiter asked. "She's the one who reported him missing."

"Yes. I find that very suspicious."

"I didn't think you worked on suspicious, Spencer. I thought you heard voices or what-have-you."

"Yes. And right now the voices are telling me that I need to listen to Maxwell Harris' phone message."

"Fine. Lassiter made some keystrokes on his desktop and a stern and sonorous voice emerged from the speakers. Lassiter had listened to the message so many times he could lipsync to it by now.

"Darling, it's Max. I'm in terrible trouble. I'm being followed but I think I gave them the slip. If you could meet me at the airport, and bring the…oh God. They're here."

"So psychic," Lassiter began tersely, turning off the media player, "any flashes of—" he looked up at Spencer and stopped, mid-sentence. Spencer looked as if he'd just seen a ghost, which of course was ridiculous, because there were no such things as ghosts. Still, in terms of visions, it was oddly sedate. Spencer's visions were usually accompanied by movements that would have been more appropriate on a stage with a pole. This expression was almost frozen.

"Yeah…" Shawn said at last, seeming to come out of a trance. "If you could just go ahead and look into Mrs. Harris, I think you'll find something worth your while."

Lassiter asked, his eyes watching Spencer with suspicion. "If you're so sure she's dirty, why don't you look into it?"

"Now I'm no expert, but aren't the police supposed to do the actual detecting part?" Shawn asked brightly, his irreverent self once again.

"You're right, Spencer." Lassiter frowned, stood, and moved out from behind his desk. "Thanks for reminding me." He spun Shawn around, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and the band of his jeans, and began to march him away from his desk.

"Wow," Shawn said. "Detecting really brings out the animal in you, Lassie. If this is foreplay, I have to warn you that I get a little loud when—" Shawn's sentence was cut off when Lassiter pushed him into the alcove by the stairs. He placed a hand on Shawn's chest and slammed him firmly against the yellow stucco wall and held him there.

"Level with me, Spencer," he narrowed his eyes and glared down at him. "Is this all some colossal prank on your part or are you really homo…"

"—sapien?" Shawn cut in, smiling.

"No," Lassiter growled threateningly, deep in his throat.

"—erectus? Only when you're standing this close."

Lassiter stepped back, his face flushed red. "Get serious for a minute, will you?"

"I'm totally serious. I'm Yahoo Serious."

"What?" Lassiter asked, confused.

"I take it you're not a fan of late eighties Australian comedy," Shawn said.

"I should have known I wouldn't get a straight answer out of you," Lassiter said, turning away. "I'd be better off talking to McNab's cat."

"How's this for an answer?"

Lassiter turned back and Shawn lunged forward, cupped Lassiter's jaw in both his hands, and planted a firm kiss on his lips. Lassiter's mouth was warm and dry, and Shawn's fingertips could feel the rough bristle on his jaw. It lasted only a moment, and then, just as suddenly, Shawn released him and stepped back, his breathing high and ragged. He stood there, chin tilted up and muscles tensed, waiting for a reaction, prepared to duck in case that reaction resembled a Hawaiian Punch commercial.

Lassiter looked over his shoulder, as if to see if anyone was watching, then turned back and looked at Shawn with narrowed eyes. "What are you after here, Spencer?"

"Dinner?" Shawn offered. "Friday at Natalino's, on the boardwalk." He raised his hands. "Just to talk, I swear." Lassiter stared at him as if expecting him to break into laughter at any moment, revealing it had all been a hoax. When he didn't answer, Shawn went on. "I'll be there at seven. Either you'll meet me or you'll stand me up and I'll be eating pasta all by myself. It's your choice. But given how helpful I've been today…." He left the sentence hanging.

Lassiter stepped back, searching him with those cold blue eyes.

"Maybe." He turned and strode back to his desk, but Shawn noticed the detective touch his lips as he went.

Lassiter sat at his desk, thinking. Occasionally his fingers would graze his bottom lip, reliving that strange moment by the stairs.

He hadn't felt this confused since he was a child, when his unmarried cat had surprised him by having kittens. Of course most of this confusion was Spencer's fault. The way he moved was borderline obscene. The things he said were packed with innuendo, and he took every opportunity to touch him in some inappropriate way, usually in front of others. Spencer was more physical in public with him than his last three girlfriends combined. And he had those lips, which never quite seemed to close all the way. What straight man had lips like that? They were practically forcing him to think…things. Dark, perverse things, of which his very Catholic mother and her book club would not approve.

Spencer was all kinds of wrong. Lassiter was confident that the men and women that worked alongside him were some of the best law enforcement officers that Santa Barbara had ever seen. But Spencer treated detective work like a word search puzzle and acted as if he were playing charades at every crime scene. Psychic vibrations were hokum. Lassiter knew this. But somehow Spencer solved cases. How exactly he did it still eluded him. And since his initial attempt to uncover Spencer's secret had failed abysmally, he needed to find a new approach. He couldn't break into the Psych office again. If there was anything incriminating there he was sure Spencer would have moved it by now. Maybe by accepting this dinner invitation, and cultivating his acquaintance a little, he could figure out Spencer's secret and unmask him for the charlatan he was.

It's not a date, he told himself as he reached for the phone. Think of it as undercover work.

Shawn ended the call and stood, staring dazedly at his phone for a few seconds. Then he swivelled his chair to face Gus, who was doing budget work at his desk.

"That was Lassiter," he said, his voice hesitant, as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying. "He agreed to go to dinner at Natalino's with me."

"Natalinos?" Gus looked surprised. "That's a nice place. What made you choose it?"

"I went there once on that poisoning case," Shawn said. "I didn't actually eat there," he added. "I spent most of my time pretending to be a health inspector. But the food looked good, it's romantic, and their kitchen was clean and completely up to code."

"Well," Gus said, "don't do anything to embarrass Lassiter and make him shoot you." He paused, and then added, "And don't take my credit card or I'm reporting it stolen and you and Lassiter can get to know each other over your arrest sheet."

Shawn stared at Gus for a few moments, curiosity lighting up his hazel eyes.

"So you're just 100% cool with this?" he asked. "After saying that my bisexuality was fictional you're suddenly completely disinterested in the fact that I have a date. With a man."

"I'm surprised that Lassiter said yes," Gus admitted. "But I'm fine with it." He shrugged. "If you and Lassiter want to be gay together, go ahead. It's got nothing to do with me."

Shawn laughed, but there was a nervous undertone to it. "We're just meeting up for dinner. There may be some innocuous touching, perhaps some accidental groping or kissing. But that doesn't mean we're being gay together."

"It's Aristotilian logic, Shawn" Gus counted off the on his fingers. "One, men who want to sleep with other men are gay. Two, you and Lassiter are both men. Three, you want to sleep with one another. Ergo, you and Lassiter are…"

"Bisexual," Shawn cut in. "One same-sex relationship isn't going to make me no longer attracted to the opposite sex. This isn't an episode of Buffy."

"Fine. Enjoy being bisexual with Lassiter."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"Hell no." Gus smiled. "The way I figure it, that just leaves more women for me. In fact, statistically speaking, the more men date other men, the closer I get to dating Nia Long."

"I'm glad you see it that way, buddy. And don't worry about apologizing for not believing me earlier. I'll take that as a given."

Gus looked up from his bookkeeping program and narrowed his eyes at Shawn.

"I meant what I said before." He sat up straighter and turned his attention on Shawn, who had plugged his earbuds into his computer and was pretending to be engrossed in his book on CD. "In fact," Gus said loudly, "I'm 99% certain based on your behaviour since that phone call that this is your first ever date with a guy."

"What? No." Shawn removed the earbuds and laughed, unconvincingly. He shook his head. "No. Definitely not." Gus continued to look at him, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief. "Okay fine," Shawn broke under the disbelieving Guster glare. "This might be my first date with someone of the male persuasion."

Gus relaxed and went back to examining his financial records.

"But a date's a date, right?" Shawn asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I mean, I've been on dates before. This is no different, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Gus said, not looking up. "I don't date men, Shawn."

Shawn went hack to his book on tape, trying to ignore the gnawing anxiety that had just appeared in his gut.