Lassiter pulled into his driveway and sat there, trying to overcome the urge to return to the place where Shawn was staying. He shut off the ignition, pocketed the keys, walked himself into his house and then barricaded himself behind his door. He was feeling very much like Dr. Jekyll, fighting to overcome the rampaging hormone-monster in his body that was Mr. Hyde. At first he'd thought it was just the scotch that seemed to bring out his long-forgotten impulses and turn him into some sort of homosexual Lothario. But now the transformations were taking place without the aid of alcohol. Well, without the aid of much alcohol, anyway. He'd had half a glass of wine with dinner, but it certainly wasn't enough drink to stupefy his conscience.

Several hours of dark, scotch-assisted introspection later, Lassiter realized that the situation had been entirely his own fault. He'd had this repressed attraction within him, probably for years, and he'd allowed it to come out during his interactions with Spencer. Maybe he'd sensed they had some kind of sexual kinship. Was that what they called gaydar? His enthusiasm to uncover the secret to Spencer's psychic act had probably just been a smokescreen to justify his continuing obsession with the man. The attraction was so strong that he'd clung to the flimsiest of excuses just to eat dinner with him. He'd used Spencer as an outlet for feelings he couldn't even acknowledge to himself, and he'd ended up leading him on. Spencer had just reacted as any gay (partly gay?) man would have under the circumstances. Lassiter realized that he owed Spencer an apology.

While he'd have loved to just write it all out in a letter, he'd learned at an early age never to put anything on paper that you wouldn't be comfortable having Sister Mary Edgars read to a roomful of your grade four classmates. So the apology would have to be verbal, and that meant he have to see Spencer.

No, he thought. That would be too dangerous right now. He didn't quite trust himself to be able to resist his impulses. But maybe, he thought, I could do it over the phone.

He began to feel in control again for the first time in days. He'd call from work, be apologetic but curt, and then they could forget about the whole thing. He'd work harder on getting his libido under control. Maybe then he could put his full attention on this damn Maxwell disappearance.

He took a long shower before going to bed, to wash off the grime and the guilt. And if he worked out some frustration in his soap slicked hand while remembering the taste of Shawn's garlic-buttered lips that was certainly nobody's business but his own.

The next morning Lassiter checked his mail, made coffee, and cleared his desk of paperwork before finally pulling out his cell phone. The thought of calling Spencer made him feel sick. He looked at his phone accusingly, as if it were the force driving him to call. He pressed some buttons and heard Shawn's cell ring.

"Lassie!" Spencer sounded happy and cheerful, but he steeled his nerves. This wasn't any time to back down. It had to be done.

"Spencer. Glad I caught you." His tone was cool and professional. "I wanted to clear something up. About last night."

"An underrated performance by Rob Lowe," Shawn said. "I really felt that he captured the angst of a man torn between ambition and love."

"Okaaay…." Lassiter frowned and tried to keep himself on track. "Listen, I called to say. That is, I just wanted to let you know…" This had seemed so much easier when he'd come up with the plan last night.

He looked up, startled, as Juliet O'Hara smacked his desk with a rolled up report sheet. "Heads up, partner," she said. "They just brought in a body matching the description of Maxwell Harris."

Lassiter slapped a hand over the receiver. "Damn," he said, his words at odds with the growing smile on his face. Finding a body, sad as it was for the family, meant a break in the case. "I guess we'd better call the wife. I mean, widow." He turned back to the phone. "Sorry about that. Are you still there?"

"Yep," Shawn said. "You were going to tell me something about last night."

"I was." He watched O'Hara as she headed down the stairs leading to the morgue. "What I wanted to say was…." He cleared his throat. Maybe this talk would be better if done face-to-face. "You owe me a hundred dollars. We just found the body of Maxwell Harris."

"What? No way!" Shawn sounded offended at having been proven wrong. It felt nice to have the upper-hand for a change.

"Way," Lassiter said. "Well, probably. They found the body matching his description. We just need to bring the widow down to ID him."

"I'm coming down there," Shawn said. "Right now." Lassiter couldn't tell if the high tone in his voice was anger or disbelief.

"Better stop at the bank on your way," Lassiter said before hanging up. He could always apologize to Spencer later, after they'd settled their bet.

Shawn pocketed his phone and swore.

"Bad news?" Gus asked. He'd purposely avoided asking Shawn any questions about his date with Lassiter, but he could tell from the Bad Boys ring tone who had just called.

"As if life wasn't being difficult enough," Shawn said. "It's gone from being Rubik's Cube tricky to being Missing Link tricky."

"You're not seriously going to suggest that the Missing Link was a tougher puzzle than the Rubik's cube?" Gus stared hard at his friend.

"Fine," Shawn acknowledged. "They were both difficult, as the pieces scattered all over Henry's garage proves. Although in my defence, the Missing Link puzzle was much harder to dismantle with a hammer and chisel than the Cube was."

"So what's the problem now?" Gus asked, not sure he wanted to know.

"Where do I start," Shawn asked rhetorically. "Our office is more attractive to intruders than a house made of candy. We've had two break-ins in the span of a week. The body of a man I was pretty sure didn't exist just turned up, and I won't even get into what went wrong on my date last night, because frankly, I'm not sure. One minute it's kisses and groping, the next minute he's taking off like Flo-Jo." He looked around his desk, moving magazines and take-out containers. "And now I can't find my keys."

Gus stared at Shawn for a moment, his face impassive as he processed all the information. "Why didn't you tell me we'd had a break-in?" he asked finally, settling on the item that seemed most pressing and least likely to involve Lassiter. "That's it. I'm getting a better lock and upping our insurance coverage."

"Relax. As I told you before, a good lock just encourages break-ins by suggesting we have something valuable to protect."

"We do have something valuable to protect." Gus began to count off on his fingers, "Computer equipment, a game system, a television, not to mention confidential client files and my portable AM/FM radio."

"Dude, nobody wants your radio. Those haven't been cool since the seventies."

"It's a vintage piece of transistor technology, Shawn." Gus slammed a hand onto his desk. "And someone could have stolen our identities and be using my social security number to take out fraudulent mortgages." He picked up the phone. "I'd better call Equifax."

"Relax. The people who broke in aren't after your identity. I promise." Shawn went to the door and began to walk himself through his arrival, trying to remember what he'd done with his keys.

"Wait a minute. " Gus looked at Shawn suspiciously. "You know who broke in?" When Shawn nodded Gus asked, "Then why haven't you reported it?"

"Because nobody would believe me." Shawn had retraced his steps to the point where he'd played a game of waste-basketball and was rooting through the bin in case he'd slam-dunked his keys.

Gus said. "I'd believe you."

"Fine. The first break in was Lassiter, and the second was that lady whose husband is missing, Mrs. Harris"

"It's okay to just say you don't know," Gus said, annoyed.

"Like I said," Shawn gestured toward Gus as if he were Exhibit A, "no one would believe me."

"Fine," Gus said. "Suppose I do believe you. It's one thing if Lassiter can get through a locked door, but Mrs. Harris doesn't strike me was particularly skilled at housebreaking. We're getting a better lock." Gus thought about the other issues on Shawn's list and added, "I'm sorry to hear your date went sour. But realistically, you had to have been expecting that."

"What? No I wasn't expecting it," Shawn said defensively. "Women love me. I have great dates."

"I'm pretty sure that neither of you had been on a date with another guy before," Gus offered. "It was bound to be awkward. Not that I ever want to hear the details again, but consider yourself lucky that you even got to first base."

Yeah," Shawn mumbled. "But he took off so fast I feel like I was walked." He smiled triumphantly as he found his keys, which were resting in a bowl of jelly beans on his desk. "Maybe I need a cooler alter-ego, like Steve Gutenberg did in Don't Tell Her It's Me, or court him through a prettier friend like Steve Martin did in Roxanne."

"That's a terrible idea, Shawn," Gus said. He made a mental note never to eat from Shawn's bowl of jelly beans now that he'd seen him root through it with the hands that had just been touching the garbage can.

"You're right." Shawn said, pausing in the doorway. "I'm operating at maximum coolness now, and I certainly don't have a prettier friend."

Gus simply huffed and determined to throw out the jelly beans once Shawn was gone.

Twenty minutes later Shawn was standing in the morgue at the SBPD, looking at a dead man. Mrs. Harris has just identified the body as her husband and Juliet had led her away. Shawn's eyes quickly took in the details of the body on the autopsy table. He was of medium height and build, with hair that could be seen as blonde or brown. He looked to be about forty, and had a fresh haircut and manicured nails on his hands and feet. Except for the stab wounds on his chest, the guy was the picture of health. Shawn swore under his breath. He hated being wrong. It went against the natural order of things.

"Do those feet interest you particularly?" the coroner, Woody, asked as he strolled into the room, pulling on a second pair of latex gloves.

"Only that there's nothing wrong with them," Shawn said. "Listen, when you do the autopsy can you look for things like hepatitis, or signs that he's been drinking floor cleaner or doing his own dentistry with a skate blade?"

Woody looked at Shawn curiously. "Sure I can. Is there any special reason you want to know?"

"I just had a very strong…psychic premonition…that this guy would turn out to have been homeless." Shawn picked up a pen and grimacing, pushed the body's lower jaw slightly open, revealing even white teeth. "But he doesn't look very homeless."

Woody laughed indulgently. "No. This guy wasn't homeless. He's well-fed. His muscle development suggests gym workouts. He'd got dental veneers. There's no evidence of lice or scabies. He's even seen the inside of a tanning booth recently. I'm afraid your premonition is wrong this time."

Shawn's brow wrinkled. "I guess so."

"Still," Woody said, slapping a friendly hand on his shoulder, "if I find any evidence of pancreatitis or cirrhosis I'll give you a call. Deal?"

"Thanks," Shawn said. He turned toward the door.

"And Shawn?" Woody called.

"Yeah?"

"You might want to leave that pen here." He pointed to a wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser "And disinfect your hands, just in case."

Shawn set the pen on the autopsy table, pumped out a generous dollop of isopropanol, and then rubbed it vigorously into his hands as he stepped into the hall.

Lassiter was there, leaning against the ochre wall. He was wearing the same dark suit he'd worn on their date, this time with a blue shirt and a red and white striped tie that made Shawn think of Captain America. It did nothing for his eyes. And if ever eyes deserved to be highlighted, Shawn thought, Lassie's do. Lassiter's expression was pleased, but Shawn also spotted the dark circles under his eyes that suggested late nights and early mornings and the drawn look of worry marking his forehead. With the light from the overhead bulb he looked like a character from a noir film. Shawn sighed. He was a sucker for that sexy broken look.

"Cheer up, Spencer," Lassiter said. "You can't be right all the time."

Really?" Shawn said, cocking his head, "Experience suggests otherwise." Despite the evidence lying in the morgue, Shawn still felt right. It was the body that felt wrong.

"That's the circle of life, Spencer. People are born, people die and people lose bets so that others can win them."

"I'll write you a cheque," Shawn said, distracted. His focus was torn between the Maxwell case and Lassiter, and neither situation was making him feel very good about himself right now.

"Listen," Lassiter said, shifting his glance down the hall for possible eavesdroppers. "I need to have a word with you. In private." Shawn nodded and let Lassiter lead him to the viewing room of one of the interview cells. Shawn prepared himself for a second disappointment. If the vein throbbing on Lassiter's forehead was anything to go by, he was about to deliver some bad news.

Lassiter turned and put his long hands together, as if he were about to pray. "I wanted to apologize for last night," he began, "I was way out of line."

"Good," Shawn said, hesitantly. "Because I was starting to think I'd done something to put you off." He'd gone over their date dozens of times in his mind, but all that had accomplished was to make him horny and frustrated.

"You didn't do anything wrong." Lassiter took a deep breath and continued. "The whole thing was entirely my fault. I apologize if my actions led you to think I was interested in you sexually. My behaviour was inappropriate. I'm very sorry and it won't happen again." The lines sounded practiced. This, Shawn realized, was what Lassiter had called to say to him that morning.

"You're dumping me." Shawn didn't bother to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Well, not technically," Lassiter squinted at him. "We weren't actually dating."

"We had a date. We date-ed. We kissed. You told me the dead clown story. I think it counts."

"I've upset you," Lassiter said, nodding his head. Shawn figured it was probably something he'd been taught to do during marriage counselling to show that he acknowledged the other person's feelings.

"I'm not upset." Shawn said. "I'm pissed. You act like being attracted to me is the worst thing that ever happened to you. Frankly, it's a little insulting. Especially if you're including the day you picked out this hideous tie." He reached forward and grabbed the offending tie, giving it a brief shake for emphasis. He turned to leave then paused with his hand on the door, his head hung low. "I wasn't going to ask but now I may as well, why exactly did you break into my office? Just curious of course, since it's illegal and all."

"I'm sorry about that too," Lassiter said. He sounded exhausted and defeated. "I was looking for evidence."

Shawn relinquished his hold on the door knob and walked slowly back to Lassiter.

"Evidence of what?" he asked.

"Of how you…" he gestured at Shawn, "…do what it is you do. Professionally."

"Dude, just ask." Shawn said. He was standing close enough now that he could smell Lassiter's cologne. If he had Gus' super-smeller powers he could have recognized its brand and components, but as it was he merely found it interesting that he had chosen to wear cologne today but hadn't worn any on their date.

"Yeah," Lassiter scoffed and crossed his arms. "As if you'd just confess."

"To you?" Shawn locked his gaze onto Lassiter's pale blue eyes, which looked away, then quickly back again. "I might. If you asked." When Lassiter didn't respond Shawn continued, "You know I've got more on the line here than just a cool job. I get to work with Gus. And with you." He paused, and wondered if maybe he'd already said too much. "And Jules and Buzz and Chief Vick and that guy in fingerprinting," he added quickly, trying to erase the import of his previous words.

"Wait," Lassiter frowned. "You knew the fingerprint lady was a guy?"

"Duh!" Shawn said. "He could model gloves for Michael Jordan. We're talking serious man-hands."

"I wish someone had told me," Lassiter grumbled. He looked at Shawn with pleading eyes over purple shadows. "Can we just agree to move forward from here, with no hard feelings?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Shawn said, running a hand slowly down the hideous tie, and breathing deeply of Lassiter's scent. "My feelings are still plenty hard." He turned and walked out of the viewing room before he did something that might get him arrested.

Shawn was sitting on the couch of his borrowed apartment, watching Some Kind of Wonderful when his phone rang. It was Woody.

"I thought some autopsy details might cheer you up," Woody said.

"Hit me, big guy," Shawn said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Cause of death was the obvious stab wounds to the chest, probably from some kind of kitchen knife. Other than that, he'd just your typical forty-year old frat boy. "

"Frat boy?" Shawn asked. "You mean like Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn in Old School?"

"Yes indeed," Woody said. "His lungs tell me he was a smoker. His liver shows evidence of heavy drinking. Based on the toxicology screen he was probably drunk when he died. His nasal cavity showed evidence of frequent cocaine use and his heart is slightly enlarged."

"That's good isn't it?" Shawn asked. "Mind you, I'm basing my knowledge on having watched The Grinch Who Stole Christmas over fifty times."

"Having a big heart is only desirable metaphorically," Woode explained. "In this condition, with the inflammation of the lining, he was well on his way to a heart attack." He chuckled. "If he hadn't been murdered, that is."

"Thanks, Woody."

"On the up side," the coroner added, "you were right about one thing. He tested positive for Hepatitis C. But it was mostly asymptomatic, with little evidence of liver scarring."

"That's an STD, isn't it?" Shawn asked.

"Sometimes," Woody said. "But he also could have gotten it from the tattoo, if the equipment wasn't properly sterilized."

"Tattoo?" Shawn sat up. "What about a tattoo?"

Shawn could head the coroner turn a page in his report. "Our Mr. Harris had a tattoo of a pair of dice on his gluteus maximus," Woody said. "It wasn't especially good work. I've seen much better in both a professional and non-professional capacity."

Shawn thanked Woody and rang off. For the first time in a while, things were starting to feel right again.