It also did not escape his notice that Spencer was away the rest of the day.
And he hated it, but that bothered him.
Item number . . . very high on the list of things he didn't like: Worrying about Spencer who was a grown man and yet acted enough like a child to have Carlton think of him that way more often than he should.
Especially since it happened most often when Spencer was in trouble or might be in trouble.
Mostly he hated this feeling because it led to him inevitably being so distracted worrying about what mischief the younger man was getting into that Carlton could no longer deny the fact that he had to locate Spencer and make sure he was okay before he'd be able to concentrate again.
He had no idea how Spencer got into some of the scrapes and situations that he did, but Carlton did know that while he could often also get himself back out, that was not always the case. And when he couldn't he expected Carlton and O'Hara to come to his rescue.
Like they were his personal knights in shining armor or something.
Carlton would have snorted at the thought, but he was too busy trying to decide if he should start his search at Guster' house or Henry's.
He opted to call Henry and visit Guster.
Over the phone the elder Spencer would not be able to divine the reasoning for the concern—or even that it was concern. He'd chalk it up to annoyance.
Plus Guster's place was closer and he had plans for this evening that didn't involve running all over town tracking Spencer only to find out he had crashed a wedding party down at the beach and was making an impromptu speech because the father of the bride was too drunk to do so.
One round of that humiliation was more than enough, thank you very much.
He'd sent O'Hara home hours ago and so needed only to tidy up a little and flick off his desk light before heading out to find Spencer.
He better be at Guster's passed out after crashing from a sugar high and too many 80's movies.
o.o
Carlton crossed the parking lot, alert as usual and maybe a bit more so than normal considering it was an especially foggy night.
Well at least the beach was unlikely with this weather, he thought with a sigh as thunder rumbled in the distance.
He unlocked his car and slid inside freezing with his briefcase hovering an inch over the passenger side seat.
His eyes were glued to the folded sheet of paper that rested on the steering wheel, the corners tucked in under the edges of the wheel and 'Lassie' scrawled across the center in an unfortunately familiar scrawl.
Carlton looked back at his door, but yeah, he was sure he'd felt the lock disengage. He glanced at the passenger door and saw it was locked. A quick check of the rear doors said the same thing.
Okay, well that was a new skill to add to the list of potentially illegal things Spencer was capable of.
The thunder rumbled again, closer this time, and apparently that was the sound of the clouds tearing in two because it was followed almost immediately by a drenching cloudburst.
A quick yank locked the rain outside with only a little dampness on his sleeve to show for his slow reflexes.
Oh this was just perfect, he thought bitterly as he watched the tiny rivers of water cascade down the windshield. Because having to search for Spencer wasn't bad enough. Now he had to do it in the pouring rain.
He sighed and considered going home, but the idea was rejected before he even finished thinking it. He'd never be able to sleep until he was sure Spencer hadn't pissed off the Russian mafia or managed to get himself locked inside a bank vault or something.
That thought his eyes went back to the note.
He hesitated, then gingerly lifted it and unfolded it.
It wasn't very much more wordy on the inside than Spencer had been earlier. Though it was just as cryptic and worrisome.
Lassiter,
If you've found this note something went wrong. Please don't tell Gus, Juliet, or my dad.
Shawn
At the bottom were scribbled directions and a crudely drawn map.
Well at least he'd narrowed down the search area.
Although the request not to tell anyone who might genuinely worry about him did not make Carlton feel better.
He debated what to do. Really, he shouldn't go without backup, especially since something had obviously—as Spencer had put it—gone wrong.
Just to be sure this wasn't some kind of prank he pulled out his phone, looked up the last time Spencer had called, and hit send.
It didn't even ring, going straight to voice mail.
Well that wasn't good.
While the possibility was there that Spencer had simply forgotten to charge it, combined with the note it was not bringing any real comfort.
A second glance at the map, then he looked in his phone for another number.
Spencer had said not to call O'Hara. But two of them vanishing into a black hole in what appeared to be a rural area of the foothills above Santa Barbara would also not get them anything.
This phone was answered on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, uh, Francie?" Carlton asked with a wince, sincerely hoping he'd remembered the name correctly.
"Detective Lassiter!" she said in happy surprise. Pretty much how she said most of the things he'd heard come out of her mouth. "How are you doing?"
"I'm . . . fine. I, uh, need to talk to Officer McNabb."
"Oh, of course. One second." A hand was placed over the phone and then a muffled, "Buzz!" A pause followed and then, "It's Detective Lassiter."
Less than a second passed before, another line picked up. "Detective Lassiter? Sir? Is there something wrong?"
Carlton hesitated, feeling a little stupid about this.
"Sir?" McNabb asked. "Are you all right?"
"I need your help with something, Officer," he finally said.
"Of course, sir. I can be at the station in-"
"No. I'll swing by and pick you up. Don't get into uniform. But, uh, bring your weapon."
"Yes, sir," McNabb said like the good little obedient junior officer he was. "I'll be ready when you get here."
"McNabb?" Carlton said before he was hung up on.
"Yes, sir?"
Another moment to feel more like an idiot, then, "Can you refresh my memory on how to get to your apartment building?"
"Of course, sir," came back the immediate response, not a hint of recrimination or mockery to be heard.
Armed with directions and an acceptable—mostly—alternative to going alone, Carlton ended the call and plugged his phone in, then tossed it onto the seat and started the car.
The bright side to choosing McNabb over O'Hara was that if this turned out to be nothing he'd never have to endure any attempts at teasing. He knew that McNabb wouldn't dare speak against him.
Nice to know he still intimidated someone in the department.