"So…you're really a psychic?" Nancy asked, leaning across the seat, watching Lassiter's face as he concentrated on the road ahead.
Lassiter stiffened almost imperceptibly, glancing at Shawn out of the corner of his eye. Shawn returned his knowing look, both of them knowing Lassiter would rather walk barefoot through a sea of broken glass than say anything that implied Shawn Spencer was actually a psychic.
"Yeah, Spencer," Shawn growled, barely able to contain his laughter enough to sound passably gruff and hostile. "You're really a psychic, aren't you?"
Lassiter's eyebrows shot up momentarily as he tried desperately to think of a way out of this. "That's what my business card says," he shrugged finally. "Of course, any jackass can get a business card that says anything."
"Aww…Spencer," Shawn grinned, giving the detective a good-natured clap on the back. "You're just being modest." He turned to the reporter, his face and tone completely deadpan. "Shawn Spencer is the single best psychic detective I've ever met in my entire life. And you can quote me on that. Just make sure you spell my name right. Lassiter. L-a-s-s-i-t-e-r. Or, you can just call me 'Lassie'," he added with a wink at Lassiter.
Lassiter scowled at him, but Shawn was having way too much fun with the ruse to give up now.
How often did he get to put words in the head detective's mouth?
"That's Lassie with an i-e, by the way," he continued. "Just like the dog. Or a girl."
Nancy sat back in her seat, quickly writing all of this down in her pad. "Lassie? Right. Got it. I-e."
Shawn's eyes flashed victoriously at the detective, but Lassiter wasn't about to let the affront go unanswered.
"Gosh…I don't know about the best, Detective Lassiter," he countered, trying to sound innocently contrite, but missing by several cynical octaves. "Most of the time, I'm just a pain in the ass who gets in the way and just makes a lot of noise. I don't know a damn thing about real police work. Hell, I've interfered in so many investigations I didn't belong in, I should be in jail. Or dead."
"Dead seems kind of harsh," Shawn blinked, delicately dusting off the lapel of Lassiter's jacket, which was suddenly feeling eerily comfortable on him.
Lassiter mockingly mirrored the gesture, running his knuckles over the breast pocket of Shawn's plaid shirt. "Oh…" he intoned flatly. "Dead sounds about right to me."
"But don't your visions help solve cases for the SBPD?" Nancy asked.
"Yeah, Spencer?" Shawn grinned, elbowing Lassiter. "Don't your visions help solve cases for the SBPD?"
Lassiter shrugged. "I get lucky sometimes…"
"Luck?" Shawn snorted. "You call a perfect thousand batting average luck? Seriously?"
"That can't be luck!" Nancy agreed. "How does your psychic gift work? Do you get visions of the killer?"
"Mostly, I just jump around like an idiot and make obscure pop-culture references no one with an actual life would ever get or even care about," Lassiter shot back.
"Those references are awesome and you know it!" Shawn insisted defensively. "And anyone who was cognizant during the eighties would totally get them!"
"What do eighties references have to do with crime?" Nancy asked.
Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Believe me…if you heard them…they're crimes."