I know, I know: Its been for fucking ever since the last time I updated. What can I say, except that I've been busy? Re-watching Psych, catching up on season four of Supernatural, working, reading (a whole damn lot of reading), sleeping, etc.
But aside from my inexcusable excuses, I am back to present to you the fourth installment in my (semi) anxiously (and ridiculously long) awaited Psych fanfic!
Enjoy, and please forgive me!
As usual (depressingly enough), I own nothing except the computer that I'm typing this on (which I didn't even pay for- 'twas a gift). Suing me will get you nowhere!
He saw the truck again before he reached Bad Fashion Guy's (also known as Elliot Mercer, according to the DMV database- Shawn liked to think that he'd been made fun of and called 'Ellie' all throughout school, the jerk) address, heading in the opposite (-ish; it was more like a 162 degree angle) direction. Sitting in the passenger seat, once again, was Lefty Psycho Chick. Neither of them appeared to have changed their clothes (and he wasn't exactly sure whether or not that was even important, but his brain registered and stored it anyway).
The DMV database had listed Elliot's address; a townhouse about eleven or so blocks away from the police station itself (and he had to ask himself why a criminal would want to live in a townhouse- they really didn't afford one much privacy when going about illegal activities.) Now, however, he faced a dilemma- follow Elliot and Lefty to their current destination (and for all he knew they could be going out to lunch or on a date), or continue on his current path to see what insight the man's residence offered.
He decided that Elliot's home could wait (and it could- after all, where was it going to go?) and made a slightly less than 180 degree turn to follow the Ram.
One of his more dangerous choices, as it turned out.
The forensics guys had finally finished photographing the bodies and processing the car, and so the detectives were given dominion over the scene as the coroner had Thomas and Ashley placed in body bags and loaded into the back of the state-owned refrigerated van (where they would undoubtedly be more comfortable than everyone else, as it was still way too damn hot).
O'Hara had found a cell signal about thirty-three feet from the Taurus and was reporting to Chief Vick that the tip about a double homicide had been confirmed.
"Do we know yet who called it in?"
"He called from a payphone. He sounded young, and the dispatcher said the voice was familiar but couldn't place where she'd heard it before," The connection was almost nonexistent, and Juliet had to strain her ears to make out what was being said.
"What about a location on the phone that was used? Was there any other information?"
"We know what payphone he called from, but that's it- there aren't any cameras with a view of it. I'm sending McNab to see if anybody saw. Also, the caller said the suspects were driving a black pick-up truck, and gave us a partial plate number. We're running it through the DMV database right now, but it could be awhile. He didn't give descriptions, just that it was a man and a woman and that she was the one who pulled the trigger."
"Really? Wow. Alright, thanks, Chief."
"Just wrap it up out there and I'll push the tech guys to ID our caller," She hung up without further discussion.
Juliet sighed and paced back to where Lassiter was currently scrutinizing the interior of the victims' car.
They'd gone to lunch. At Red Robin.
Shawn figured they'd be occupied for at least twenty to thirty minutes, and so decided to rummage through the truck. They'd locked the doors but left the windows down, presumably to avoid turning the cab into an oven while they ate delicious cheeseburgers.
He found nothing of interest out in the open (a very good practice for criminals to have, he thought) and so very quickly moved on to better hiding places.
In the glove box there were pictures of a cabin that was near where he and his father set up camp whenever they went hiking on weekends (in fact, looking very closely, he could just make out the pineapple he had carved on a tree as a way to relieve his boredom while simultaneously ignoring one of Henry's lectures about seventeen years ago; he made it a point to go over it every couple of months- whenever he was in Santa Barbara, anyway- so that it would always be visible). Also in the compartment were the registration for the truck (which he disregarded, having already seen a copy, courtesy of the DMV) the gun used to kill Thomas and Ashley Greyson (which he studiously avoided touching), a receipt for an oil change paid for by an Elizabeth Harrell (who he assumed to be Lefty Psycho Chick), an unopened pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum, and three unused condoms (which caused Shawn to cast a suspicious eye at the seat upon which he was perched).
He replaced his findings, backed out of the cab, heard the footsteps behind him, saw Elliot out of the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to block the crowbar aimed for his head with his left forearm, and the shattering of his bones elicited a decidedly unmanly squeak. To his credit, Shawn made a valiant effort to escape (and if they had seen him going through their stuff, why the hell couldn't any of the other patrons see them beating the shit out of him?), lunging to the left and sinking his right elbow into Lefty's (Elizabeth's?) solar plexus (because, seriously, all that crap about not hitting women goes right out the window when survival instincts take over). She fell, gasping desperately for breath, and he sidestepped to go around her. Elliot let him get six steps before catching up; this time he swung for the leg, striking behind the right knee.
Shawn's leg crumpled beneath him, and his scream was cut off when Elliot smashed his head into the side of the truck. The last thing he saw was the formation of a new dent above the rear tire well, and he had just enough time to wonder if the broken taillight had come about in a similar fashion.
"Where the hell is Shawn?"
Gus nearly fell out of his chair. He hadn't even heard anyone come in (granted, he was rather preoccupied with his dinner- Chinese- and the television- the History channel), and he certainly hadn't sensed anyone behind him. Really, the stealth with which either of them could sneak up on people was astounding. He took a moment to slow his heartbeat before replying.
"I don't really know. He's probably out with Gwen, though."
Henry folded his arms across his chest, scowl firmly in place, "Gwen?"
"His new girlfriend. Two dates now, if that's where he is."
"He isn't answering his phone. He was supposed to mow my lawn today, since I helped him out with the dinosaur thing."
Gus grimaced, remembering their earlier conversation and the many plans Shawn had outlined to avoid just this sort of thing.
"Why wouldn't he answer his phone? I used my neighbor's cell so he wouldn't know it was me calling."
The grimace morphed into a grin- he had absolutely no trouble believing that. None at all. Back to the inquiry at hand, though, "Maybe they went back to her place…"
Henry's eyes narrowed momentarily in confusion, and then opened wide in understanding, and maybe a little discomfort. He cleared his throat, "Right, well, let him know to get his ass over to my place when you see him."
And with that he turned and hurried out of the Psych office. He really had no desire to know anything about his son's sex life.
The partial plate had turned up 3,614 hits in the California DMV database. Black pick-up trucks matching the partial numbered 982 in the state, 16 of which were registered to drivers residing in Santa Barbara. From there they disregarded five (the mayor, two elderly men living in retirement homes, a middle-aged woman who was currently in a coma after totaling said truck, and a twenty-something crackhead who was up in County awaiting trial), leaving them with ten names. Three hours later McNab had run down all but four of those names:
-Amanda Neilson was in Los Angeles recovering from cosmetic surgery.
-Jesse Goldsmith had had his truck impounded after thirty-seven unpaid parking tickets.
-Kristina Jones had flown to New York for an internship on Wall Street, her truck sitting in the long term parking lot at the airport.
-Nicholas Devlin was dead, all his possessions tied up in a bitter court battle between his wife and his mother.
-Hannah Richers and Ryan Greene had both been at work at the time of the murders, confirmed by their bosses and several coworkers.
The last four names (Christian Forbes, Elliot Mercer, Joshua Weston, and Sarah Beckett) had not answered Buzz's persistent phone calls, and so he and Officer Allen had divided up the remaining names and set out to track them down.
There was no confusion when he woke up; no moment of looking around and wondering what he had been doing before falling asleep (or, in his case, being knocked unconscious). Any panic he might have felt was tightly reined in and controlled, just in case Elliot and Lefty happened to be hanging around.
Shawn figured (hoped) he hadn't been out for more than a few hours (anything more and he would most likely be suffering brain damage, and his brain didn't feel scrambled- no more so than usual, anyway). He was no longer in the Red Robin parking lot (which really didn't surprise him at all), but neither was he at the cabin from the pictures ( he knew what those woods sounded like as well as he knew a lot of things). He was…in a closet.
More accurately, he was lying awkwardly on his right side (not pleasant, considering his right leg seemed to be one throbbing mass of pain from the thigh down) on the floor of a tiny closet with his hands cuffed behind him (and he really didn't want to know where the cuffs came from, as he was fairly-to-pretty-damn sure that neither of his captors was a cop). The carpet was cheap and scratchy, most likely a blue-gray color (working off what little light came through the crack under the door), and not very comfortable.
Judging by the sounds filtering through the door and surrounding walls, he was being held in the hallway closet of Elliot's townhouse (and wasn't that just the stupidest place to bring someone you'd kidnapped?), and both Elliot and Lefty were home. Even more fantastic, it seemed that they already knew who he was and were just trying to decide what to do with him.
"Maybe we can use him, Lizzie." Ah, so Lefty really was named Elizabeth Harrell…but Lizzie? Really?
"How would that be at all beneficial?" And Lizzie's voice was surprisingly sexy, what with her being a psycho killer and all.
"He's psychic! He can tell us what the police know and what they're doing!"
"He's a police psychic, which means they're going to spend a great deal of energy looking into his disappearance. Do you think the extra heat is worth what little he might be able to tell us?"
The next bit of their argument was drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears as a sudden wave of nausea hit. He rolled to the side, just in case he felt the need to vomit, and realized that that really wasn't a good idea. The movement pulled on his left arm, the cuffs digging into the broken ulna (which really fuckin' hurt). The nausea won, but he wasn't conscious long enough to worry about it. Elliot could clean it up, for all he cared.