CHAPTER SEVEN

Rated M. Yeah, more smut.

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. . .

Lassiter drove over to a diner Shawn didn't like because the proprietors had tossed him out for demanding a whole pineapple with his burger, and settled into a booth across from Juliet.

"Hi," he said, smiling. "Nice working with you again."

She inched her hand across the table under cover of the menu holder, and Lassiter caught it with his own. "Ditto."

He linked his long fingers with hers, still smiling. "Lincoln seems together. If I were still around, I wouldn't despise him."

She laughed. "That's a comfort. You'd like how he handles Shawn, too. He's just very matter-of-fact."

"Please tell me he's gay."

"Who, Lincoln? No; why?" He didn't answer, and she was delighted to realize he felt possessive. "Carlton! I'm flattered."

He looked wry. "Yeah, well, jealousy isn't admirable. Don't be flattered."

"You don't have to be jealous," she retorted, and squeezed his hand. "I am all about The Carlton these days."

"These days," he repeated.

"These fine and glorious days."

Lassiter relaxed. Their hands separated when the waitress brought menus and water, but after she was gone he said, "Come sit beside me."

She didn't need to be asked twice. Fitting snugly into the booth beside him, the two of them now facing the back wall and not easy to spot from the door, she slipped her hand back into his and looked up into his smiling Irish eyes. "Another great idea," she murmured, liking being this close to him.

"I have some now and then." He looked around, and swiftly kissed her upturned face and then her lips. "Mmmm," he added, "you've tasted good every time I've done that."

"I wish you'd done it years ago." Again, she felt breathless, glad to have said it and wishing she hadn't.

His eyes were hard to read, but he finally said, "Some things have to be waited for to reach maximum… flavor." Then he laughed. "I don't know. Yeah, maybe I do know. Do I make any sense at all?"

"You're saying we needed to marinate," she said solemnly, and he laughed again, and oh, how she loved his laughter. There had been precious little of it over the years, and to see him like this was wonderful.

"Yes, O'Hara," he agreed, leaning in very close and nuzzling her ear, "I am saying we needed to marinate."

She turned her head and captured his lips for a kiss, a little too deep and intimate for a public place, but really she simply didn't care. The door to her heart had been kicked down, chopped for firewood and turned into ash, and she felt wide open to him, to the possibilities, to love and hope and everything good.

They sat close together for the whole meal, undisturbed except for occasional visits from the waitress, and Lassiter commented that although he'd always been incredibly annoyed by couples who sat side-by-side in booths, he was beginning to understand its appeal.

For Juliet, hearing him refer to them as a couple was appealing in itself. She kept her hand tucked into his until it was time to leave.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet didn't see Lassiter the rest of the day, but he called her in the evening. He already had reading assignments for his first class, and incidentally had asked around a little about Napoli, but hadn't turned up much. His mind was on both the case and his class, and she didn't know what she wanted: for him to be focused like this, or for him to say come over right now and warm this bed with me. Or both. Yeah, both would be okay.

In the morning, she and Lincoln compared the list of Napoli's friends with the most frequently seen names in his emails, and came up with three likely choices. The first name on the list, Donald Flannery, was a professor at the university. The other names were for a man who'd been out of the country since the first of the year, and another whose line of work was fishing boats, so they figured he wouldn't be their primary interviewee.

Juliet looked up Flannery's courses, and read out loud to Lincoln. "American history and folklore. The note on the folklore class says it covers urban myths."

"Would a bogus Civil War article qualify as an urban myth?"

"Not very urban. But professors like to talk, so let's give him a chance."

He called Dr. Flannery and then she called Lassiter, who'd told her he had a morning class. She left a voicemail that they were going to meet with Flannery at eleven and if he was still on campus at the time he was welcome to join them. She caught Lincoln's glance (a la Vick; why were people so curious about her interaction with Lassiter?) (then she blushed, because she knew why they were curious, and it had a lot to do with the fact that she was blushing).

Dr. Flannery invited them to his office, and they were nearly to the building when Lassiter strode into view. "Good timing," Lincoln said. "Where's your schoolbag?"

Lassiter held up his netbook with a smile. "Times have changed." He walked up the steps with them, his hand resting lightly and yet (she hoped) possessively on Juliet's back. "Thanks for the invite. What do you know about this guy?"

"Just that he's a friend of Napoli's and teaches folklore." She wondered if she could possibly feel any pinker than she did right then , and was grateful Lincoln was leading their charge.

"Nice necklace," he murmured, and she blushed more deeply; she'd considered a different necklace this morning but the little silver handcuffs reminded her of him, that he'd chosen them for her.

She composed herself. "Did you have any time to research the article?"

"Yes, and it only took about ten minutes to establish it was a phony."

They had already reached Flannery's office, where the door stood open. "Come in," said the bulky man behind the desk, rising to greet them. "You must be the two detectives I was expecting, along with a total stranger."

"Detectives O'Hara and Lincoln," she said, "and this is Carlton Lassiter, who is assisting us with this matter."

Flannery's eyes grew wide. "Carlton Lassiter! My God, you did believe me!"

The three of them stopped, and Lassiter said slowly, "Excuse me?"

"My note! You believed my note!"

Lassiter gave the others a look, and Flannery scurried around to close the office door firmly.

"Sit, sit!" he urged, returning to his desk. "This means he was murdered. I knew it!" Then he paused, eyes wide. "He was, wasn't he? You're not just here to ask me why I sent it? How did you know I did?"

"Hold up a second, Professor." Lassiter sat back in the chair, relaxed in a way Juliet recognized as not relaxed at all. "Let's start at the beginning. You sent the note to the police?"

"To you, yes. You were the only one I could think of who would help me."

"I don't even know you." His tone was only very slightly acid. Juliet marveled. He really was more calm since he'd left.

"Jim and I have been friends for decades. I knew his death couldn't possibly be from natural causes. But how could I get anyone to believe me?"

"A simple phone call?" Juliet suggested.

Flannery scoffed. "Come on. I had no proof, only suspicions. And who was going to jump at the chance to prove an out-of-shape sixty-something history professor who apparently died in his sleep, didn't?"

"And this has something to do with the article he sent me? About the Missouri regiment?"

"No, of course not. That was just—look, we wanted to plant the article online to see if we could fool anyone. I'm teaching an urban myths class next year and we wanted to start one, only with a more authoritative slant than the typical 'a CD shot out of my computer and decapitated my dog' or 'woman finds gorilla finger in pudding' nonsense. But Jim was nervous we couldn't pull it off without a test reader, and when he met you, a cop with an interest in the Civil War, he thought you'd be perfect for it."

Lincoln interrupted. "Wouldn't posting a bogus article like that have damaged his academic reputation?"

Flannery blinked. "Not for long. We intended to leave it up until after the class began, and then replace it with an explanatory note for a few months before yanking it. He'd have been all right. We'd have hammered home that it was an experiment. And it had to be him because if I'd done it—as a professor of folklore—it would have been doubted from the beginning."

Lassiter sighed. "Okay, so if the article had nothing to do with his death, then why did you think he was murdered?"

Flannery ran his hands through what was left of his wispy brown hair. "Like I said, we've been friends forever. He confided in me. I know he was having marital problems."

Juliet cleared her throat. "We've met Mrs. Napoli. She doesn't seem like—"

"She's not! At least I don't think she is. I think whoever she's having the affair with is what worried Jim. He wouldn't say who it was. I just know he was intimidated. Scared."

"For his life?" Lassiter pressed. "He was afraid her lover was going to come after him?"

"Yes. Yes!" Flannery was relieved. "Now you understand."

Not completely, Juliet thought. "Well, your fears were correct. He was murdered. Are you sure you don't have any idea who her lover is?"

"No, none. I don't even know how she could have met anyone. Phyllis is a homebody. She's just so placid and undemanding it's hard to imagine anyone even—" he stopped, uncomfortable. "Let's just say she doesn't lend herself very well to the image of cheating spouse."

"No," Lassiter agreed, "she doesn't. But murderers come in many varieties. What else can you tell us?"

"Not much. Another reason I knew he was murdered was that he was found in his easy chair. That Phyllis assumed he'd fallen asleep. Bull," he said with more heat, "Jim hated that thing. He called it his uneasy chair. No way would he have sat it in long enough to fall asleep."

"He might have had chest pains and simply taken the nearest chair," Lincoln said.

"Maybe, except he didn't, because you just confirmed it was murder. Was he smothered? Was it poison?"

Lassiter stood up. "We're not at liberty to say, and while I wouldn't normally thank a citizen for wasting our time, I'll make an exception in this case since your approach did in fact lead to the truth. Or part of it, anyway."

Flannery held out a hand as if to stop him from across the desk. "But what about the article, Detective? What did you think of the article?"

Lassiter smiled, but it wasn't sincere. "It does read well. Very authoritative and dramatic. But anyone who's at all familiar with the Civil War in Missouri knows there's no legend about half a regiment murdered by villagers wearing wolfskin, let alone vanishing in the fog. It was too colorful to be trusted outright."

"Jim warned me the wolfskin was too much," Flannery muttered to himself. "But I thought… well, never mind. I'll think of something else. Wait! Yes! I can post it saying it was found in his other papers after his death, and—" he stopped, realizing they were all staring at him. "He'd have wanted my course to succeed. Really he would."

Juliet made their nonjudgmental goodbyes, and led the way out of the office.

In the hall, Lincoln said, "Okay, so where does a homebody meet a potential lover?"

"At home," Lassiter answered at once. "The lover comes to her."

"She could belong to clubs—book clubs, sewing clubs, that sort of thing."

"Those would primarily bring her into contact with women, though. We need to look at the neighbors," Lassiter said, and then looked sheepish. "Sorry. Forgot this isn't my case. You need to look at the neighbors. Even if it's none of them, someone may have noticed who comes to the house regularly."

"Or hears it creaking," Juliet said with a small smile, and the men laughed. "Okay, we'll get started."

They started out of the building, and on the steps in the sunshine, Lassiter caught Juliet's arm. "A word?"

Lincoln's glance was casual, and he bounded away to fetch the car. Juliet looked up into Lassiter's blue, blue eyes, already wanting to be closer.

"I don't really have time for lunch but if you let me buy you coffee I can swing you by the station afterwards."

Juliet didn't answer; she simply got out her cell and called Lincoln to tell him she'd meet him soon. "Done."

Lassiter smiled, and they strolled along under the trees to where he was parked, in a shady spot in the corner of the lot. No one was around; he put the windows down to let in cool air as soon as they got in, but didn't start the engine. "Or," he said slowly, "we could sit here a minute and—"

Juliet was already tugging at his jacket to bring him close enough to kiss.

"Damn, woman, you're killing me," he sighed as she nuzzled his throat, and several things seemed to happen very quickly: he pushed his seat back, tilted the steering wheel out of the way, and urged Juliet into his lap.

She went willingly, kissing him fiercely the whole time. His mouth was like silken fire, like quicksand, any number of forces not to be resisted by a mortal woman such as herself. She loved the taste of his lips and the feel of his tongue and there was just no way to kiss him as deeply as she wanted.

He yanked her blouse out of her slacks so he could slide his warm hands underneath, up to her bra, to the bare skin beneath it, but she was so embroiled in their kisses that she could feel little else other than his mouth claiming hers.

It was when the bra got unhooked and his warm hands began to knead her breasts that she began to feel more, that her pounding heart took a back seat to her enormous desire for him, and her hands went to his belt, and to his zipper, and to the heat and hardness of him inside those pants.

Lassiter groaned when she touched him, and his kiss grew even more ravenous until finally at least one of them remembered they were in a car in a student parking lot in the middle of the day, and to top it off, they were both cops.

"Son of a bitch," someone said, and Juliet realized it was her, and that she had somehow disentangled herself from him and had collapsed back into her own seat.

"Don't need coffee now," he muttered, his hands on his face, still breathing raggedly.

She felt hot all over. Burning up. Wanting him. She hurriedly refastened her bra and tucked her blouse back in, and got out of the car for a minute for more air.

How in the hell had they gone so many years with this passion unreleased? How in the hell was it possible to want one man so damn much?

She heard his door, and when she looked over, he was resting his head in his forearms on the roof of the car. Instant guilt flooded her: how in the hell had she so quickly lost her resolve to give him space? Was this at all in his best interests, or hers?

Hers, yes. She knew that. But she didn't want to be only a source of hormonal craziness for him. She didn't want him to have any doubts about her, but so far she'd only told him she cared about him and repeatedly tried to jump his bones.

Lassiter was a man who needed commitment; she knew this with complete certainty. He wasn't looking for a fling or for farewell sex or to be 'friends with benefits.' And she didn't want those things either, so there had to be a strong foundation for him to trust in.

She also had to know his feelings for her weren't based on their partnership alone. She had to be sure his new life wasn't going to make him rethink all of his old interests.

She wanted to be a permanent interest.

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