I'm extremely nauseated tonight, what with painkillers and antibiotics after wisdom tooth extraction yesterday. I nonetheless finished this chapter out and hope to have something written before I hack up a boot.

I own nothing of Psych. Of course, you know that. But I'm sick to my stomach and feel obligated to say that, to assuage any guilt should I perish from this dreadful nausea.

"Uh…okay, so we need to go over a few…guidelines."

Marlowe tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and studied Carlton, watching his hands as they flipped through the sheets that spelled out her fate for the next year and a half. He had such beautiful hands. She wondered if he played the piano – his fingers were long and strong and graceful, while still incredibly masculine. She remembered that they were a little calloused, too, and she wondered what sort of outdoors work he did. Chopping wood? Roughing up large, recalcitrant criminals? Chopping large, recalcitrant criminals?

"Okay, first of all, for the first five months of your parole, you have to meet with your parole office four times a month. He'll send you a schedule. You also can't leave Santa Barbara during that time for any reason unless you can submit viable cause to leave, like a death in the family or a nuclear strike from North Korea, which would render parole kind of…moot."

"Right." She smiled.

They were seated on a bench, looking out at the ocean, and the breeze was getting a little chilly. That was why she was currently wearing his suit coat, and she was breathing in his slightly woodsy scent – a light, masculine cologne that she had smelled on him during that first date, when she had ended up in his bed and had been extremely willing to wake up there the next morning after a very active night. Four months of sitting around in jail had failed to obliterate that scent or that memory from her mind.

She looked at him again, barely able to believe she was out of that prison, breathing in fresh air and sitting beside her…

What was he? He had visited her every Wednesday during her incarceration. He had told her about himself, but she sensed he was still being guarded, holding back the parts that were still bruised and aching, and she often had ideas of going after every person that had ever hurt him with a sternal saw and a wood chipper. He hadn't told her his entire story, but not because he didn't actually trust her in many ways, but because – and this was just a hunch on her part – he had been burned a few times before and was still uncertain. She didn't blame him for that. Besides that, she knew that he was taking a risk on her. A risk of his reputation, but mainly a major risk of his heart.

Okay, so he's forty-two, Marlowe thought. Forty-two, divorced, six feet four inches, dark hair with delicious silver threads, gorgeous blue eyes and an interesting hook to his nose, and he could probably do a little about the length of his sideburns, but really, there was little that seemed to require improvement. He was too old – well, ripened - for her to call him a boy, so boyfriend sounded like something out of Happy Days, and cops don't generally date convicted felons. She sighed and looked out at the ocean. She supposed she might end up having to settle with just sleeping with him. God knew she wanted to. More than anything. In the past hour, she had been thinking about all the delicious things this quiet, reserved, clearly damaged man could do to her, and of the passionate nature that existed under that cool, collected demeanor.

So was he her boyfriend, in the sense most people considered the term? The term was still so totally inappropriate for Carlton. He was not a boy by any stretch of the imagination. He was a mature man, with unmistakable signs of insecurity and a drop or two of goofy without being silly, which she liked in a man, and he was easily the sexiest man she had ever met. Finally, she figured she should go ahead and ask him.

"Carlton?"

"Mm?" He was perusing the papers, squinting a little because the light was fading. He looked at her, and she drew in her breath, realizing she was always going to get stopped mid-thought by those eyes.

"What are we, exactly?"

"Er…huh?" His brow furrowed. Okay. He's male. Men often don't get things unless they're explained carefully.

So. Patience. "I mean, are we…boyfriend, girlfriend…lovers…friends? You visited me every Wednesday, these past four months. You sent me stuff – like The Merchant of Venice and a Glock made out of chocolate, which I had to hide from my cellmate, and packs of cigarettes to use for bartering. You put notes against the window – terse, to the point notes, which is very like you, about various cases you were working on, and little bits about your family and your life that you didn't elaborate on a lot. A little blunt honesty would be good right now, because I'm kind of a…wreck…wondering."

"Oh." He put down the papers and looked out at the water, tugging nervously at his tie. Then she realized he was getting cold. The breeze off the ocean was getting chillier by the moment, and she wondered if he was the 'sit in front of the fire and drink wine' type. She recalled a fireplace at his place. She had one at hers, too.

Her roommates were delighted to have her back, but she had kept that reunion brief, because when she had called Carlton after getting home, he had told her he needed to see her. Immediately. As he was the sort of man who was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, she had declined an invitation to go dancing (sans stick-on nails) and gone to the pier and waited for him instead.

"Yes?"

He rubbed his nose. "Well, definitely yes. I mean, we're…we're…uh…something. I suppose a questionnaire would be a helpful thing right now."

"A questionnaire?" she raised an amused eyebrow.

"Did a few of those on E-Harmony and those idiotic speed dating things, which in both cases were disastrous. I mean, what do you say for those questions that won't scare a woman off? So…maybe I'm wrong there. A questionnaire might be unhelpful."

"You tried online dating?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. Pathetic, huh?"

"No. It just means you were tired of being lonely. I'm pretty damned sick of it myself."

"Yeah, but you have friends. Those roommates…Eddie, Jake, Lucien…plus dozens of others, I'm sure. I don't really have…friends. Colleagues, acquaintances, my partner…"

"Well, yes, they're friends. Good friends. They've been very supportive through all this. Even Lucien, who collects Limoges figurines and believes aliens built the Pyramids. Eddie is obsessed with pirates. Pirate history, pirate lore, pirate booty, Captain Morgan rum, Johnny Depp. Jake likes to wear kilts and attend Scottish Highland games and Renaissance fairs. And I seem to recall five people at your door that night, all very concerned about your safety. Something about a thump or a cough of some kind, and a battering ram…and a wooden stake…"

He scoffed and stared at her, eyes almost opaque in the fading light, his brow furrowed. "Limoges?"

"Yep."

"Hm." He fidgeted with his tie, and she felt a curling excitement in her stomach, watching those hands. "After I got my divorce, I shot several of my ex-wife's figurines. She called me a few days later, asking where they were. She wasn't too pleased…"

"Why did you get divorced?"

He swallowed and looked down. "I screwed it all up. Too devoted to work. I didn't spend enough time with her. She thought I hated kids and didn't want any. It was my fault…"

"What, you were only married to yourself? Marriages don't fail because of just one person. It takes two to tango, Carlton. I can't imagine that it was just you."

He sighed and leaned back, stretching his long legs out, shaking his head. "Then I tried to fix it. To get her back, because I couldn't bring myself to admit that I had failed, even though I knew she didn't love me. Probably never loved me, in fact. Most people don't. Most people can't stand me. And one thing I have trouble admitting to is failure." He exhaled, as if giving such a speech had taken all his strength to force out.

Marlowe smiled, knowing the last thing he needed now was pity, but his statement of how nobody loved him brought tears to her eyes. Still, she knew that was a statement best left unexplored for the moment, because it was one of the bruises he still wore. "Everybody fails sometimes, Carlton. It's okay to fail. In fact, it's very brave."

"Brave?" he snorted with bitter laughter.

"Yes. Extremely brave. It means you've got to start over. Get the ducks back and try and line them up again, even if they keep running off, quacking and laughing at you. It's hard, it's painful, it's often humiliating, but humility is a good thing for anybody. You know – pride goeth before a fall. We could all use a dash of humility. It's brave because you're letting yourself go back to square one, saying, 'Okay, where do I go from here?' and not knowing the answer. You're stepping out into the abyss, without a parachute, no less."

He stared at her, and Marlowe smiled. "None of the self-help books say that. I read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, because my therapist insisted on it. Victoria was actually from hell. Her and her family. Particularly her father."

Marlowe laughed, but gently. She looked at Carlton, and saw his expression – he looked horrified. "What?"

"Uh…somebody's…coming. Look straight ahead."

She gazed out at the ocean, the arc of the sun slipping into the ocean, spreading molten gold all around as it slowly succumbed to its nightly death. In the sun's last gasps, she could make out the stars coming out, and the sky turning a shade almost as beautiful as the color of Carlton's eyes.

He glanced back and watched the couple walk by, hand in hand. He turned back, licking his lips and finally leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"I like to think that we're…uh…in a…relationship. Except that I suck at relationships. I either scare them off or I mess everything up by being…well, myself."

"And you think yourself is the only problem?" she asked softly.

"Well, yeah…that's part of the whole failure thing. I'm also Irish, so I ought to be accustomed to disappointment. But I'm not. I'm not entirely Irish. There's some German in there, too. And a dash of Cherokee. All in all, a very tragic family tree."

She touched his hand, and he actually looked startled. Contact was clearly something this man craved, but was also wary of. Maybe even afraid of, because of the potential for more damage, more bruises, more scars. But he looked at her, expression guarded but…hopeful. Longing. Terrified.

"I'm scared too," she nodded, and saw his eyes darken. "I'm not perfect, I screw up, too. My unfortunate incarceration being a true testament of that. I also tend toward low self-esteem sometimes and before I met you, I had rather poor choicing skills when it came to men. But I'm sick of being lonely."

Shyly, almost boyishly, he intertwined her fingers with his, and in the fading light she caught that heart-melting smile of his. The one that made her shiver with excitement. "But are you willing to…uh…take a chance? On somebody like me? Because believe me, I'm no prize."

"I do enjoy gambling," she smiled. "I even win sometimes."

His mouth twitched, and she knew there was a story to tell. He looked at the ocean again, and finally drew in a breath. "Gambling? You enjoy gambling?"

"Sometimes. Never with the rent or grocery money."

"Well, yes, only a fool would do that. What do you bet on?"

"I like to go to Hollywood Park sometimes, or Santa Anita. I love watching the horses – they're such beautiful, brave animals, and the jockeys, and all the color and pageantry…it's magnificent. Football and baseball just pale in comparison."

He nodded. "Well, I'll let you in on a secret. It's about form. Sometimes it's the trainer, or the jockey, but mainly it's form. How's the horse been running lately, is he or she still into the game, and so on. The horse with the bad attitude and the swagger almost always wants to win the most."

"Swagger?"

"Yeah." He sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. She smiled and knew he was relaxing. A little. "A good horse always has a swagger. The crappy ones tend to…mince."

"So you really do enjoy gambling?"

He shrugged. "I haven't done it in a while." She watched him loosen his tie again and sighed. She decided that first, she would persuade him to shorten his sideburns, then to maybe eschew ties sometimes. Beyond that, she wasn't going to push. The last thing he needed, clearly, was to be henpecked. Just a little scrubbing down and some Hugo Boss and he'd be stopping traffic.

"But yes, I always did enjoy it. I made quite a bit of money during college, from the ponies. Paid off my entire loan, in fact. I currently have no debts…a rarity for gamblers, yes, but there you are."

Marlowe stared at him. He was like an artichoke, really. Peel back one layer, only to discover another astounding layer, just beneath. She smiled at him. She was going to enjoy uncovering all those layers.

"I swear it, Jules. I saw Lassie out there, with some woman."

Juliet shrugged and perused the menu.

"She must have been blind or something. Or maybe he had just arrested her after a lengthy foot chase and was letting her rest a bit before he dragged her to the station. I'm leaning toward blind, though."

"Shut up, Shawn," Juliet said, annoyed with him. Again. He was drinking his third bottle of beer now, and his eyes were starting to swirl around.

He looked offended, then suddenly straightened in his seat. "Oh. My. God."

She looked up at him. "What?"

"Lassie! Hey, dude! C'mon over here and sit with us!" Shawn called, waving his arm, but then his eyes widened, and Juliet turned back to see what her boyfriend was looking at. Her own eyes widened when she saw Marlowe Vicccellio standing there with her partner. The blonde looked cold but cheerful, and her fingers were intertwined with Carlton's. The detective said something to her and she shook her head. They threaded their way through the tables of the seafood restaurant and the head detective acknowledged Juliet but pretty much ignored Shawn.

"What is this?" Shawn said, gesturing between Carlton and Marlowe. "Out on a date furlough or something? Do they have that in the California penal system? An external conjugal visit?" He grinned. Marlowe's eyes narrowed, but Carlton only looked slightly bored.

"How did your interview with Mrs Tomlinson go?" he asked.

"I still don't think she did it," Juliet said. "And the footprints still don't jibe with me. I do think she knows who did do it. We'll go over the details again tomorrow. It's nice to see you, Marlowe…are you out on…uh…parole?"

"Yes," she nodded, giving Juliet a polite smile. The meeting was extremely uncomfortable, what with Shawn's wickedly delighted expression. He was still looking back and forth between Carlton and Marlowe.

"I don't think she did it, either. I read over the report – no gunshot residue on her hands." He pulled out his cellphone and put it on 'vibrate', which was something Juliet had never seen him do in her six years of working with him. "I'll see you tomorrow." He put a hand on Marlowe's back and guided her gently away, toward a table on the other side of the room.

"That is just too weird. Lassie on a date…and with a relatively hot blonde. I mean, an ex-con hot blonde, granted, but still…weird."

"What's so weird about it? He liked her back then, and it was obvious she liked him. She's out on parole. Parolees can go on dates." Juliet wished to God Shawn would just shut up about it. If he said another word about it, he might end up with a spinach and artichoke dip stain on his shirt.

"With Lassie?" Shawn hooted with laughter.

"I hope that didn't make you too…uh…uncomfortable."

Carlton was looking over the menu, hiding his own personal distaste for shellfish and looking for something he could eat. Chicken maybe. Surely this place had chicken. Right…on the childrens' menu. Chicken fingers and French fries hardly seemed right, at this point. He sighed and put the menu down. Coffee and maybe something somewhat dessert-ish. He snatched up the drinks menu and was relieved to see strawberry cheesecake. Better than nothing, and he was too jittery to eat much anyway.

"Not really." She looked the menu over and was cheered to see steamed crabs.

"Good. So…what do you like?"

She looked across the table at him. The dim lighting did a lot for his features, softening them and making him look several years younger. "I like the company quite a lot," she smiled. "And I'll have steamed crabs."

"Ah. Yes. Okay. Good." He would make sure all of the little creatures were facing away from him. Simple enough. He simply couldn't eat anything that still had a face.

"You don't like crab, do you?"

"Hate it, actually, but that's all right, and you said you liked seafood."

"I do." She smiled. "I won't try to convert you, though."

"Good. I'm not sure I'd take to being immersed in crab sauce."

She laughed and looked at the dessert menu. "Oh, my God…cheesecake! I love cheesecake. Maybe we'll get a big piece and just share it."

"Sounds like a plan."

The waiter came and took their orders, then left, Carlton stirring his iced tea and Marlowe squeezing her lemon into her water. A comfortable silence fell between them, and her hand slowly inched across the table to touch his, her fingertips trailing lightly over his knuckles. He swallowed.

"You're investigating a murder?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it…if it's okay to, I mean."

Just then, a violinist came strolling by, playing a bit of Bach. Carlton eyed him, and the little man changed his course a bit and moved toward the other side of the room. Marlowe almost giggled. The man could probably stop a herd of stampeding cattle with that glare.

"Man shot three times in his living room. Wife slept through it. Alarm system off, five used condoms in the guest bed. So, it has all the required elements – adultery…eww…pillow fibers, diamonds…"

"What evidence do you have at this point?" she asked, interested.

"Two sets of footprints. One from the front door to the body, another from the body to the back door. Two separate sizes, no less. It's not coming together yet. We'll get there.

"I know you will."

The waiter arrived then and dumped a bucket-load of steamed crabs on the table. Carlton watched, startled, as the waiter put a bib around Marlowe neck and mashed it down to her lap. She took that kind of manhandling in stride, but the waiter flinched at Carlton's sharp glare. He fled, and Carlton's fingers squeezed hers just a little before she gently pulled her hand away and picked up the mallet.

"Hm. Bergman and Bogart had Casablanca. We've got crabs."

She giggled as she smacked whatever life remained out of a crab. "These bibs are pretty silly, I admit," she said, digging the meat out of the shell and dipping it in the melted butter.

"Yeah. Wait'll they bring out the pants."

She looked up at his deadpan expression and sat back in her chair, observing him as he sipped his coffee. "What?"

"You have a touch of the smart-ass in you, don't you? But I admit, I like the adultness of you. You seem to be a very serious man."

"I am. Very much so. A grown-up, I mean. Whenever somebody asks me what I was like when I was a child, I tell them I was shorter." He took up his mallet and smacked his knee, his leg twitching reflexively. Marlowe raised her eyebrows. He took one of the crabs and put it in front of himself, closed his eyes for a moment, and finally picked it up and studied it. "Huh. This one's scrunched up little face reminds me of my mother." He put the crab down and smack! went the mallet, cracking the shell and pretty much ruining the meat. Marlowe covered her mouth with her hand and tried to muffle her laughter.

The violinist strolled by again. Carlton eyed him, almost daring him to come any closer. The little man did a U-turn and headed back to a safer area of the restaurant. He took another crab and eyed it. "This one reminds me of Spencer!" He put it down, studied it for a few moments, and smashed it with the mallet, with just a tiny trace of malice, unconcerned that pieces of crabshell had hit another diner across the way.

Marlowe covered her mouth again and succumbed to helpless laughter.

The violinist came back up the aisle, and actually had enough nerve to stop at their table. She caught Carlton's displeasure – he was clearly not much on Bach. The little man continued playing, flourishing extravagantly as he performed Air On a G String, and was halfway through the well-known tune when suddenly Carlton snatched his bow away and threw it across the room, where it landed near Spencer and O'Hara's table. The violinist made a valiant grab for the instrument, but he didn't stand a chance. He huffed at Carlton, straightened his red jacket, and stomped off.

Carlton took a sip of his iced tea and gave Marlowe a bemused look as she continued laughing. She couldn't remember having had a better time.

Juliet was not laughing. Shawn was on some kind of riff about vampire movies and had continued to make comments about Lassie and his 'Queen of the Night' girlfriend. He was also drinking a little more than usual, which meant that he was twice as talkative and childish as ever. She had seen Carlton smack two crabs in a rather emphatic manner, and couldn't help but think that at least one of them was Shawn, and then the violinist's bow landed next to their table. Her irascible partner never had liked classical music.

"I mean, if she dyed her hair black, she'd look just like Elvira, right? Without the…uh…extra-large mammaries, of course, but even then…you think Lassie's a breast man?" Shawn giggled.

That was it. "I'm going to the bathroom. When I get back, Shawn, I will have rehearsed my 911 call and will be wearing my gloves. See if you can divine what that implies for the remainder of this evening." She snatched up her purse and stalked away to the ladies' room. She stood in the line, her headache starting to actually blind her. What the hell was she doing with a guy like Shawn? She looked back at him – he was playing with the utensils. Playing with the damned utensils! She wasn't so much dating him as she was usually babysitting him and stroking his ego.

Ugh.

She was digging around in her purse for her lipstick when she glanced up and saw Marlowe standing behind her. "Oh. Hi!"

"Hi."

The blonde's expression was guarded, and Juliet couldn't blame her. She probably figured Juliet was in on all the nasty jokes and smirks Shawn was shooting their way all night. "I see you're having a good time with Carlton."

"Yes. He's…very interesting. Intriguing. Surprising."

"Yes, he is that," Juliet laughed. "He's very hard to know. But he's worth the effort, Marlowe."

The line moved forward and the two women stood side by side now, and Juliet was glad to see that Marlowe looked a little more relaxed.

"Have you two ever…?" Marlowe asked.

"What? Me…and Carlton? No. No, of course not. He's…well, he's…there's the age difference, really, and then there's…he's…really not my type. Plus we're partners…and I'm protesting too much. But really, no." Juliet could feel her cheeks getting hot.

"But you've wondered?"

Pink to red, Juliet thought. She couldn't help what she dreamed about sometimes. "Okay…yeah. Sometimes I wonder. I…I hope that doesn't bother you."

"No. It doesn't. Not really." Marlowe sighed. The line was long. "Maybe we should sneak into the men's room. I certainly don't have trouble with having to pee in unfortunate places."

"Yeah. I guess not. Prison wasn't fun?" Juliet smiled.

Marlowe laughed softly. "Wednesdays were all I had to look forward to, aside from knowing I'd get out some day."

"Oh?" Juliet studied Marlowe. "Really? What happened on Wednesdays?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. What…?"

"Carlton visited me every Wednesday," Marlowe smiled softly. "Usually in the mornings. He sent me packages, too. Books and music and stuff to make it a little easier in there. It was never easy, but it wasn't a maximum security prison, and my cellmate was relatively…well, weird, but she wasn't too bad. She had just committed insurance fraud. I never got the details, but nobody died. Just a lot of money was stolen. Anyway, Carlton sent me a chocolate Glock."

"Milk chocolate?" Juliet grinned. She could just imagine him doing something so…sweet. And odd.

"Yeah. I had to hide it from Deb." She exhaled and looked at Juliet. "You know, he's actually very funny. In a quiet, dry kind of way. He seems very serious, but he's got a little streak of…wickedness in him. I sense that he could be very, very bad, but wouldn't because he has those pesky morals."

"And those pesky blue eyes, too," Juliet said, laughing.

"That too. He looks at you with those eyes, and you just…oh God, he's just so sexy. He doesn't know he's sexy, which makes it all that much better. I won't have to be fighting anybody off."

Juliet looked across the restaurant. Shawn was still playing with his utensils. She stood on her toes and peeked over Marlowe's shoulder, spying Carlton, who was checking his cell phone for messages. "Right." She sighed. "He's really putting a lot on the line, Marlowe. I hope you'll treat his heart gently."

They finally got into the women's room, but the wait was still on. As women usually came in groups to the ladies' bog, there was much talking going on about respective dates, the food, the service, and so on, along with a great deal of touching up of makeup, adjusting of clothes, and combing of hair. Both women checked themselves in the mirror. Juliet decided she didn't care about her lipstick. Marlowe pushed her hair back a little and checked her teeth for bits of crab.

"I don't know where this will go," Marlowe told her, after making sure everything was right. "I hope it works. That's all I can do now. Just hope. I want it to work. I've never met anybody like him – it was like we just…clicked. I want to see what happens."

Juliet remembered Carlton's words to her, about how hope was a bastard, and could only smile softly, knowing he had spoken those words while still reeling. "I can tell you for sure – you will definitely never meet anybody like Carlton Lassiter. I hope it works, too. He deserves to be happy. I know he's never had much happiness in his life."

Carlton was at his desk before Juliet arrived, and he gave her a disapproving look when she flopped into her chair and began struggling to log in. "Password? What's my password?"

"Tardy?"

She finally remembered and managed to get clocked in within the grace period. "Okay, so I'm late!" she squawked. "Five minutes! Just five minutes!"

"Busy night?"

She frowned at him. "No."

"Weren't you and Spencer at that seafood place? Or did I just imagine that? He was half way to Snockersville when I saw you."

"He was all the way there by the end of the night," Juliet muttered. He had declared that the knife and the fork were having an affair and that the spoon was insanely jealous. Then he had tried to make out with her on his couch after she dumped him there, and for a few moments she had just stared at her Glock, morality finally winning out over sheer disgust and she had left him there, singing Shout It Out Loud to the fichus.

"Hm."

She hated it when Carlton said 'hm' whenever she told him about something Shawn had done. Or hadn't done. Or should have done, which was why she didn't usually say much about Shawn in the first place, since talking about Spencer generally just annoyed her partner. Carlton's response would be just a 'hm' and she knew what he was thinking, which meant she was soon thinking the same thing and wishing she had more willpower.

"So how did it go with you and Marlowe?" she asked.

"What have you got on the Tomlinson case?" he asked.

"Nice segue there, Carlton. From drunken boyfriend to a murder."

"One does kind of lead itself to the other rather smoothly, doesn't it? Glock's nice and clean, right?"

She gave him an icy glare, and amusement lit up his eyes. "I was looking over the crime scene photos, of the larger footprints leading from the body to the backdoor, and I wanted you to look at them more closely."

He coughed and nodded as she handed him the photos. He peered at them for a moment, then sat up sharply. "Smaller footprints on top of the larger prints."

"Right."

"Hm." He clicked his pen for a moment. "We went for a walk."

"Huh? Oh. Really?"

"Just a…walk. That's all. We talked about a few things. General things, a few specifics, and…er…so on."

"Okay. Good." She felt her heart twist. Treat his heart gently.

"Drove her home. She's…got to get her life set up again. I'm not going to interfere in that. And it'd be best if nobody really knew about it. Bad enough for her reputation, to be seen with me, but cops aren't generally supposed to date parolees. I don't know if it's an actual rule, but some piss-ant with a ant-hill to piss from might make a big deal about it and…" He glanced at Juliet. "I don't want to put her through that, much less risk her having to go back, so…"

"Right. I won't say a word to anybody, Carlton, I promise."

He nodded. "Do you think maybe the killer was one person? But if that's the case, why would they change shoes, mid-murder, and for that matter, why not just take off their shoes entirely when they came in and walk out barefoot, too? Why leave prints?"

"It's all too weird," Juliet shook her head.

"Did Spencer talk to her?"

"Yes. He didn't get anything. Nada."

"Hm. Let him go to the crime scene, then. Maybe he'll pick something up. A vibe or a premonition or, preferably, a virus. I've got a meeting…budget crap. I'll see you 'round." He got up, and Juliet noticed he wasn't wearing a tie.

"Carlton?"

He drained the last of his coffee and waited.

"Where's your tie?"

"Left it at home."

"Oh."

He started to say something then, but stopped himself. He put the cup down and looked around the bullpen for a moment, thinking. She could almost see the wheels spinning as he made up his mind. "Uh…O'Hara, recently I made a decision. A momentous decision – a really big one…about my life."

Juliet stared up at him, unable to deny a tiny tremor of excitement…and worry…for him. "What decision did you make…about your life?" she asked him, keeping her voice low as two other detective walked by.

"I've decided to have one."

TBC