CHAPTER FOUR
Rating: M! Yeah, you can take it.
. . . .
. . .
"Sorry it didn't work out," Shawn said, plopping down into the chair across from Juliet's desk.
"Sorry what didn't work out?" She pulled her fries away from his reach.
"Your date."
"My date? You mean from a week and a half ago?"
"That's the one."
"How do you know it didn't work out?" She pulled the rest of the sandwich away from his reach as well, and he sat back, thwarted.
"Because it was only the one date. What happened? He turned out to be too fussy? Too clingy? Too macho? Too effeminate? Too warbly-voiced? Too tall? Too short? Too many toes?"
"And how do you know I haven't been on other dates? Have you been stalking me?"
"Yes, of course. Well, not exactly. I just check in of an evening and know you've been home. It's no big deal. Your place is on my way to my dad's if I make six extra turns and go the wrong way on Devonshire."
"Shawn, go away." She was so glad she'd asked Lassiter to pick her up at the back of her house that night, and even more glad Shawn hadn't been 'on his way' by when he got her home again via the front door.
"What? Look, I'm just being a friend. And seriously? What is up with Lassie? I couldn't get into his place so he must have changed the locks again. But I don't think he's there, and I haven't seen his car around."
"Shawn! You are unbelievably invasive!"
"Thank you!" He preened.
Juliet was exasperated, more so than usual. "I can't talk to you right now. Lincoln is going to be back soon and we have to go talk to a witness."
"Lincoln? Damn, reincarnation? Wait, I did see him in that Geico commercial. He looks good."
"No, my new partner. Greg Lincoln. And leave Lassiter's place and stuff and life alone, you hear me? He's out of town."
"Really? Where'd he go? Roswell?"
Juliet frowned at him. "You are a very strange person."
"No, wait, Roswell's for aliens. Where's a good robot town?"
Pause for breath, Juliet. Pause. It would not be a good idea to tell him Carlton is way too… mmmm mmm MMMMmmm…. to be a robot. "Shawn, I mean it. Stop screwing around with things that don't concern you."
She knew what he was going to say. He was going to say everything concerned him, and then she was going to dump her soda on his head. Fortunately, Greg Lincoln appeared to inadvertently save Shawn from this fate. "Hey. This must be the psychic." He stuck his hand out and Shawn took it reluctantly. "Lincoln. New kid."
Shawn grinned. "Oh, but I already knew that, because I am the psychic."
Lincoln was compact, not much taller than Juliet; his hair had a tinge of red and he was a direct fellow. She liked him okay and so far their partnership had been uneventful, but fair or not, he was no Lassiter, and she only hoped he never had reason to think he was being held up to an unreasonable benchmark.
She let Shawn put on a show for Lincoln while her mind wandered back to Lassiter. They'd talked every night since he'd gone. He was enthralled with the landmarks he was seeing, caught up in the sense of history and place and country. When he spoke of what he saw and how he felt she could see him, eyes alight, animation in his every word.
Maybe she should tell Shawn she had been on dates since that Friday… dates spent curled up on her sofa, talking with Carlton on the phone, enjoying his voice and that they were close enough now, even separated by the entire country, for him to share his experiences with her. They didn't speak of anything intimate, of emotions or feelings or even what happened on the boardwalk that night, but it was intimate all the same. She knew he was lying on a hotel bed, relaxed, trusting her, and he knew she would be there when he called.
Still another week and a half to go, she thought. She couldn't wait to see him again—they had never been apart this long. She was starting to crave him, actually, and this made her nervous in a curl-of-desire way.
Lincoln had the guts to break into Shawn's performance with an apologetic, "Sorry, we really have to go now," and she was grateful. Shawn gave a longing look to the rest of her lunch and she rolled her eyes and let him take it.
. . . .
. . .
At the courthouse the next day, Juliet was waiting to testify in a chop-shop case when she spotted Daniel Grenovich being led into a room off the main hall. It must be his day in court, she realized, and no way was she passing up the chance to speak to him.
The bailiff outside the door thought otherwise until Grenovich's public defender came out. "Excuse me," she said with authority. "I'm Detective O'Hara and I need a word with your client."
"I know who you are," he said, "and your work here is done. He pled out, and this is just his sentencing."
"Just two minutes. It's not about the case."
He was suspicious. "You have some other connection to Mr. Grenovich?"
"It's complicated. I want to ask him something about an unrelated matter. You can stay in the room."
He wasn't interested. "No, be my guest. Bailiff, listen for screams, would ya? I'll be right back." He headed down the hall, and the guard let her into the holding room.
Grenovich looked up and seemed to need a minute to remember her. "Oh, it's Detective O'Something or other! I could have made you the loveliest chain-mail vest. Perfect for bringing in perps with flair."
"No, thanks." She pulled up a chair at the table across from him. "Though I looked at your eBay listings. Nice work with stolen property."
"Thank you, my dear. What brings you to this moment of my final humiliation?"
How to put this? "You remember the conversation you had with my partner, Detective Lassiter? All that stuff about accepting where you came from but not letting it control you?"
"Certainly. He turned it against me quite nicely."
"Did you know he quit his job because of that conversation?"
Grenovich's eyes grew wide. "Did he now?"
"He walked away from his career because of you," she said. "He gave up everything he'd ever worked for because of what you said to him."
"Fascinating. Mostly people agree with the philosophy but never do anything about it. I wonder if—"
"Mr. Grenovich," she said tightly, "he was my partner. Your long-winded ramblings cost me my partner."
He stared at her, curious. "I'm sorry you feel that way but how am I responsible for the choice he made?"
"You—"
"Words, Detective. They fall where they may and take root only in a select few who are not only able to hear them but willing to act on them."
"What if it doesn't last? What if he finds out he made these huge changes based on the words you threw at him, and he ends up regretting it all?"
"Are you really asking about him, or about yourself? I presume your life changed too. Are you angry with me about that?"
She needed someone to blame. It was true.
Grenovich persisted, "How is he doing? Is he happy? Or at least happier?"
She still wanted to punch him in the nose. "For now, he is. For now. But I don't want to see it all come crashing down around him."
"Does his happiness not please you?"
At those words, she stopped. Too much needed to be said, and not to him. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Grenovich." She left the room while he was still calling after her.
Lassiter was happier, and even if it was temporary, it was good.
His choice had brought them closer; it had changed their relationship in a way which she could only describe as positive, and hopeful, and long overdue. She was happier, too. She missed him like crazy and even now her fingers were itching to get out her phone and call him, just to see where he was, know what he was doing, to hear him. She couldn't have had that if he hadn't made his choice. And she wouldn't regret what had passed between them if this all came to an end.
Damn Grenovich. Unthinking, babbling man. Had to be right, didn't he. Just had to be right.
. . . .
. . .
Just a few more days until Lassiter came home. Juliet was planning her evenings around their phone conversations, and this startled her until she reminded herself they'd spent hours of every day together for years, much of it alone together, and not all of their talk was about work. It was natural to miss that contact.
When he called on Wednesday night, she took the phone up to her bedroom and lay on the quilt, imagining him lying beside her, warm and close. "How are you?"
"Tired. I like what I've seen, but I'm tired of the driving. I'm ready to come home."
"I'm ready for you to be here," she admitted.
Lassiter sighed. "I'm ready to see you again, and sorry, I shouldn't say that."
"Why not? I'm willing to say it to you. Plus it's true."
"Well, thanks."
She sensed she should change the subject. "Did you take your gun with you? You kept one, right?"
"Yep. A man's first Glock is always a part of him," he said, and she could tell he was smiling. "But it's locked up in Santa Barbara. I figured I could make it a few weeks."
"And how's that going?" The idea of Lassiter sans gun was still unfamiliar.
"Not bad. It's odd how much I don't miss having that thing strapped to me. It's like every morning I put it on with my clothes, and I never knew how heavy it was. I don't mean physically heavy. I mean... a weight in my mind. I think it went along with the whole image I was trying to live up to: must be cop, must have gun, must be prepared, must not fail." He added abruptly, "Juliet, how do you get me to tell you this stuff?"
She laughed. "I'm just asking questions and listening to your answers. I always did that, didn't I? Though you didn't always answer the questions."
"Of course not. You might have spotted a weakness, and you were definitely one of the people I couldn't fail."
She was surprised. "Me? But I was just the junior partner."
"Just," he repeated with derision. "I felt twice as much pressure—from me, not you—to not fail in your eyes."
"But why? Did I do something to make you—"
"No, no. It was... God, I don't know why you listen to this crap."
"It's not crap, and I would listen to just about anything you wanted to tell me."
"Not true," he challenged. "I got the eyeroll many times over the years."
"Oh, come on. Like you didn't roll your eyes at me? I kept coming to work, didn't I?"
He laughed then. "Yeah, somehow you did that. I can't tell you how many times that first year I expected Vick to call me in and tell me you were requesting a new partner."
"Carlton, that would never have happened. Ever." She felt rather fierce about it.
After a pause he asked, "How's the new one, then? What's his name? Lincoln?"
"Yeah. He's okay. I mean, he's steady. I think it'll work out, but he's nothing like you."
"Most people would consider that a plus," he said dryly.
"I don't."
"O'Hara..."
"Lassiter. You know you always call me O'Hara when you think I'm getting too... I don't know. Close?"
"Which should explain why I called you O'Hara from day one."
"Are you saying," she teased, "that I was getting to you that early?"
"Of course. My God, you were this sweet, beautiful young woman who dared to challenge me—and I am human, contrary to popular belief."
"Even if I didn't know that, you've more than proved it in the past few weeks." She savored the intimate quality of his voice as he called her beautiful.
He sighed. "I've said more to you about... me ... than I ever have to anyone else. How do you do that? And why?"
Juliet felt a little trembly. "I care about you, Carlton. I always have. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you trust me. That you feel you can tell me anything. Anything at all."
He was quiet for a bit. "I want to," he said slowly. "That's the damnedest thing. I want to. I feel... like I'm at a disadvantage because our feelings aren't really on the same page, but I also feel like you're… getting… closer and I don't want that to be my imagination."
She was pretty sure they were already on the same page, but knew he would need to draw that conclusion for himself, and anyway, it was too soon. "It's not your imagination."
"Good," he almost whispered.
Juliet went on in a rush, "I miss you. I miss you so much. I can't wait for you to be home again. We've never gone this long before without seeing each other, do you know that?"
He sounded wry. "Believe me, I am painfully aware of how long it's been since I got to look into your lovely blue eyes."
The words made her feel breathless. "I could say the same about you, you know."
"But would you use the word lovely?"
"Hmmm... beautiful. Vivid. Amazing. Incredible. Compelling. Irresistible. Less frou-frou words because you're, you know, macho."
He laughed. "Thank you. And thank you, by the way."
"You're very welcome, and what for?"
"Juliet," he said huskily, "you're tempting me in ways you can't imagine."
She couldn't help saying, "Oh, I can imagine a lot. Especially now that I know what a great kisser you are."
Lassiter cleared his throat. "Great, now I'm imagining things I wasn't even imagining a few minutes ago."
They laughed together, and she felt warm—and titillated—but still wished fervently for him to be home.
Soon. Soon he would be here. She knew she had promised herself to back off and give him space but hearing his voice like this every night kinda threw all that out the window. Just don't screw it up, O'Hara, she warned herself.
. . . .
. . .
On Friday, Shawn and Gus came in to finish off a case involving forged prescriptions; Shawn 'read' the staff to figure out which one was doing the dastardly deed because it was quicker than calling in known writing samples for everyone to prove it, and it was their luck that once accused, the woman made a tearful confession.
Lincoln had just handed off his report to her for verification when Vick called them both into her office. "We have another case." She stopped suddenly, sighing, and Juliet didn't have to turn around to know Shawn and Gus had come in behind them. "This isn't for you, Mr. Spencer. Go home and rest on your laurels after this morning's success."
"Oh, come on, Chief, we're just here to help." He took a chair unasked, but Gus wisely remained standing close to the door.
"A professor of military history died a few days ago in his sleep. It looked like a heart attack, the coroner confirmed, the wife confirmed he hadn't been feeling well, and there appeared to be no surprises. But now," and she handed a letter to Juliet, who kept it in her grasp despite Shawn's attempt to snatch it, "we've received this anonymous letter claiming he was murdered."
"Who did the autopsy?" Juliet asked.
"Woody. He may be weird but he's good, so if he says there was nothing suspicious, he's either right or the murderer used a form of poison which couldn't be detected in a standard autopsy. I've asked him to run more stringent blood tests."
Juliet read the letter. Printed on plain white paper, it simply said, "History repeats itself in the murder of Professor Napoli. Check the papers, and you'll find the motive. Sometimes research is about money instead of truth."
"The papers," repeated Lincoln. "Newspapers?"
"Research papers," Gus suggested. "Was the professor interested in any particular area of military history?"
"Civil War," Vick said, with a look at Juliet. "This case would be right up Lassiter's alley. In fact," she added with a curious tone, "the envelope was addressed to him." She handed it to her.
No return address, no markings. Urgent: Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. "Someone who didn't know he was gone," Juliet mused. "But did know about his interest in the Civil War?"
"Let's ask him what he thinks," Shawn said brightly. "Meaning, where is Lassie-face?" When no one answered, he stood up as if impatient. "What is the deal? I've been asking about the guy for weeks and everyone's stonewalling me. Is there some reason I'm not supposed to know where he is? Is there a restraining order out on me or something?"
Juliet was a little surprised he hadn't managed to hack into any of Lassiter's financials yet; Lassiter must have requested extra safeguards with his bank. "He's in Virginia," she finally said, since she could feel Vick waiting for her to answer. As if Juliet was his keeper.
"What the hell's he doing in Virginia?"
"Sightseeing," she said simply. "Chief, we'll go talk to the professor's wife and get her take on this. Shawn, we don't need you yet. When we do, I'll call you." She looked him square in the eye. "So if I don't call you, We. Don't. Need. You. Okay?"
Vick handed her the file, smiling slightly. "I concur. Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, thank you and we'll be in touch."
. . . .
. . .
Lassiter called that night, and it scared her more than a little to feel how her heart raced at the sound of his voice. "Home tomorrow, mid-afternoon," he said. "I have a souvenir for you. If you're not busy, I could give it to you over dinner."
"I would have dinner with you even without a souvenir to sweeten the pot. I've missed you." Damn her lack of willpower. "I miss your eyes. Your smile. You."
He was quiet a moment. "Same here." Another pause. "Damn."
"Sorry?"
"You make it hard to be… calm and collected."
But I don't want you to be calm and collected. She almost said it out loud. "I'm just trying to get you mellow for your long flight home."
"Mellow isn't what I feel."
She swallowed. God, she wanted to tell him what she felt. Instead, she mustered up the courage to murmur something about changing the subject, and then, "We have a new case you'd be interested in. A Civil War professor may have been murdered."
He cleared his throat. "Really. May have been? Who's the vic?"
"Jim Napoli."
"Really," he repeated. "I heard him lecture several times. I even met with him when I was choosing my summer classes. What was the cause of death?"
"It looked like a heart attack but Woody's doing more tests now to look for poisons." She explained about the letter. "Lincoln and I went to see his wife this afternoon. She claims she doesn't know anything, and I don't get any vibe that she killed him, but she wasn't as shocked as she should have been about the possibility he was murdered."
He was quiet. "What did that note say? Research isn't always about the truth?"
"'Sometimes research is about money instead of truth,' she quoted. "We've asked for access to his files and computer. The widow seems cooperative so far."
"Civil War research and money don't gibe. It's not like there's secret pockets of lore left to be tapped. Unless someone managed to find a previously unknown diary, but the authentication process alone means there's no quick buck to be made." After a moment, he added, "My last conversation with him was odd. I'm not sure it's relevant, though."
"Well, technically you're still on the payroll, so you're still a cop and can't hold out on me. What did you talk about?"
Lassiter was amused. "Let me go over it in my head and tell you tomorrow night."
"Deal." Juliet felt much too warm at the idea of seeing him again. "Miss police work at all?"
He laughed. "You can't drag me back in that easily. But yeah, I'm always going to be a cop on some level. It's only been a month."
"Seems longer," she said. Seemed like too damn long.
"I can't wait to see you," he said softly, and she said it back.
. . . .
. . .
The knock on the door was earlier than she expected, but apart from being agitated in the extreme, she was ready. Thus, when she pulled open the door to see Shawn standing there with a pineapple, she was both disappointed and appalled. "Shawn! What are you doing here?"
"Jules! Why are you dressed like that?" He looked her up and down.
"Like what?"
"Black dress, not too short, not too long, just enough leg and a touch of cleavage. Earrings, hair down; hell yeah, it's date night again. Perfect," he added, grinning, "I'll get to meet him."
Oh God, she thought, this isn't happening. The one good thing about it was his bike parked front and center; no way would Lassiter miss it.
"I don't think so," she said brightly. "I'm ready really early, and you're not staying that long."
"I'm not? Oh, Jules. You are so cruel to me." He almost got past her, but she barred the door and he opted not to force his way in. "He's not already in there, is he?"
"No, Shawn. Stop prying."
"Again, you forget who I am!"
"Why are you here?"
"Look. I'm actually, seriously, sincerely, worried about Lassiter. See, I even used his full name. I know there's a story about this and I want to know not just because I'm nosy but because, come on, the guy's been a central player in my life too all these years, and dropping off the planet isn't like him. I do give a damn. Come on, Jules."
She studied him—he did seem sincere. For Shawn. No, he was sincere, and she might as well tell him what it was safe to tell him. "He went to Virginia to tour Civil War sites. As for the job, it's just that he felt the need to make drastic changes in his life."
"It can't be that simple."
"What if it is?"
"Then why hasn't he taken any of my calls?"
Juliet sighed. "When have you ever given him a reason to think you're not just going to poke and pry and badger and needle and invade?"
Shawn blinked. "Well, he knows I don't mean any of that."
"Oh come on, Shawn. You two are oil and water and you do mean all that. You want to get under his skin. It's like you have a crush on him."
"Oh, no. No no no no. No no no no no no no, now, there's no need for that kind of talk." His hands were up and he was backing away.
She knew she was smirking. "Sorry. The point is, why should he trust you on a personal level? Everything you've ever learned about him you've trumpeted around to the rest of the world. You're no…" she stopped. It would be too harsh.
"No what?" he pushed. "Say it."
"You're no friend of his. Colleague, yes. Someone you can count on when your life is on the line, absolutely. But friend? You may feel that way, but what have you ever done to make him feel it?"
Shawn was silent. "Wow."
Inside the house, her phone rang. "I'm going to get that," she said gently. "Sorry to be such a downer. Good night, Shawn."
She closed the door and raced to pick up the phone, seeing Lassiter's name on the screen. "Hey. You're not standing me up, are you?"
"No way. I'm standing at your back door. I saw Spencer out front. Is he gone yet?"
Peering out the window, she saw Shawn getting on his bike. "Yes," she said, and hurried to the kitchen while disconnecting, almost yanking the door open to see him.
"Hi," Lassiter said in a low voice, pocketing his phone. He looked tired and wonderful and his eyes were so damn crystal blue. "God, you look good."
Later she couldn't explain what came over her then, but looking at him, looking into his eyes and feeling everything at once, she couldn't speak; she simply wrapped herself around him.
He didn't resist her kisses; in fact he met them more than halfway, snaking his arms around her, kissing her as if they were picking up from where they'd left off that night on the boardwalk. It was urgent and intense, and in time he simply lifted her up onto the kitchen table, allowing her thighs to clamp around his hips while he pressed himself to her and devoured her mouth with his own.
"Damn," he said huskily, "now that's what I call a welcome home."
"I missed you a little," she agreed, nuzzling his throat, not letting him step back. "Maybe a lot."
He kissed her again deliciously, still pushing hard against her lower body. She could feel his increasing arousal, and welcomed it.
So much for giving him space.
She caressed his jaw, unbuttoning his shirt and planting light kisses along his exposed shoulder, feeling the tickle of the soft hair of his chest against her lips. Lassiter nipped at her earlobe, his breathing rough, pressing against her. He lifted her head back and kissed her harder, starving, suckling at her lips and tongue, and he might as well have been inside her for how erotic and raw it felt.
Juliet moaned against his mouth, her hands in his hair now, her thighs still clamping almost involuntarily around him. God, she wanted him. All of him. Now.
He stilled briefly. "Are we still going to dinner?" His voice, almost a growl, sent shivers down her spine and through every nerve ending.
"I'd rather not," she whispered, trailing her tongue along his throat.
Lassiter slid his hands up under her dress, and it took her a moment to realize he was pulling it up as those warm hands traveled north up her thighs and to her hips. "Then you won't need this," he whispered back, tugging.
The dress was on the floor and his hands were under her bra, on her willing flesh, when someone started pounding on the back door just a few feet from where they tangled.
They jerked apart, staring at each other in complete shock and don't-know-what-the-hell-to-do-ness when the voice yelling on the other side of the door settled into Juliet's brain as being Shawn's. "Dammit!" she cried, grabbing for her dress.
"Go," he urged. "Go and—whatever. I'll talk to him. Go!" He practically pushed her out of the kitchen, tossing her discarded shoes around the corner after her.
. . . .
. . .