Movie referenced: The Quiet Man. You can't go wrong with John Wayne. You just can't.

Well, I'm feeling better, what with some good anti-nausea meds. I hope this chapter isn't too schmaltzy, but I kinda think this is how Marlowe thinks of Carlton. How that spells out on the show itself, I don't know. Just a gut instinct. Besides, I can't be the only one who saw Lassiter's clarity after he met Marlowe. Maybe a soothing presence in his life makes him able to concentrate more.

Eh...that may just be me. :D

Carlton partially tuned out the real estate agent, pondering the notion of why they always looked at your actual budget and tried to sell you a house at least three times above your budget. As if they expected you to be an idiot and a spendthrift at once, and would look down their noses at you when you informed them that you couldn't afford such a price. He was neither, however, and looked the woman over, taking in her blonde hair that was coiffed in such a way that, when matched to her mustard-yellow coat, made her look a lot like a parakeet. Her fingernails and her lipstick were the same plum color, which was even rather disturbing. Her mouth seemed to have been pulled together like a purse, her lower lip pooching out like a porn star after a bad facelift.

He had a tendency to picture Robert E Lee in situations like this. Like whenever he was buying a car or anything that cost a good deal of money, and shortly after his divorce had finalized. The great Confederate general would be wearing his beechnut grey uniform, his eyes sad and resigned but always noble and strong as he sat astride the similarly colored Traveller (who stepped on a nail after Lee died and perished from lockjaw, having lost his rhythm after losing his master), and would look at Carlton and say 'Are you going to let this fool do this to you? Did not your great-great-grandmother's parents' home get burned to the ground by that moral-free arsonist General Sherman's bloodthirsty soldiers, and did she not still survive and shoot three of them? Is not the rebellious Irish and Scottish blood of kings and poets coursing through your veins? Didn't your Cherokee great-great-great grandfather survive the Trail of Tears and become a landowner in Oklahoma? Your back is straight for a reason, Carlton Lassiter! There'll be no bending today! They couldn't break your ancestors and by God, they will not break you!'

This was real estate. It was also, apparently, a war of wills. He looked at Mrs Claypoole, who smiled ingratiatingly at him, then looked around the condo. It wasn't his style. He didn't like it. He looked at the agent again. "I don't want this place."

"But it's perfect for you, Mr Lassiter. It's got the right number of rooms, just like you…"

"I said I don't like it. The rooms are too small, the floor plan is all screwy, and it's too far from my work. Find me something else and give me a call, okay?" He put his sunglasses on. "I've got to go."

"But Mr Lassiter…" she said, her tone wheedling now. Irritatingly so. She had shown him six houses so far. He could sort of understand that she was desperate to just sell and get him out of her hair, but he wasn't about to bend.

"No. It's outside my budget, too. Which I gave you when I called up your agency. It's a strict budget, and I won't go a penny above it. Got it? When you've got something, we'll barter. Until then, cut the crap and stay within the numbers."

She sighed and had the nerve to look petulant. "Yes, sir."

"Good. So the next house you show me will be within my budget, or I won't see it." His phone started ringing then, and he blessed O'Hara's inadvertent good timing. "Yeah? All right, all right, I'll be there." He hung up before O'Hara could say anything more. "Civil war, my ass."

Pouring rain did little to improve Carlton's mood. He arrived at the station at eleven o'clock, having surprised Vick by asking for a half-day so he could do some more house-hunting. He had stunned O'Hara a week ago by saying he was looking to buy a condo, and had disappointed her immensely by refusing to say why. He hadn't even given her basic statistics on what he was looking for. Just that he was looking for something 'a little bigger' and possibly with a back yard.

O'Hara was at her desk, and when he came in she handed him a small stack of papers. "Messages."

He muttered his thanks and flipped through them. One was from Marlowe – she rarely called him at work, unless something important was happening. He considered calling her back, but nothing in the message sounded urgent, so he put it by his monitor and read over the others.

"So Spencer thinks the one of the killers walked backwards while the second person walked over his footprints, in a kind of murderous rumba?" He scratched the back of his neck. "Still doesn't make sense, about the mud. Why track mud in the house and leave two such obviously different prints?"

"I have had a vision!"

Spencer came bouncing into the bullpen, displaying that raccoon-eating-through-chicken-wire grin of his that made Carlton need to do an hour or so of shooting at the gun range more often than even he thought was entirely healthy.

"Please, expound on that," Carlton muttered.

"Huh?"

"Expand?"

Another blank stare.

"Elaborate?"

"Geesh, why not just use that word first time around?" Spencer asked, looking disgruntled. "Anyhow. I think there were two intended killers, while only one did the actual shooting."

"Hm."

Juliet peered around Spencer at Carlton, raising her eyebrows.

"I think that Mrs Tomlinson hired the one guy to do the killing, but someone else walked in as he was doing it, and they left together. He walked backwards, to the door, and the other killer – or would-have-been killer – walked on his footprints. Thus, a set of prints on the bigger prints."

Carlton pondered this, not wanting to admit that he had been thinking the same thing, last night, while sitting with Marlowe, watching A Fistful of Dollars. It had seemed farfetched, but weirder things had happened in the course of a murder, but he had forgotten about the case when the oven timer dinged and they had tucked into a perfect roast beef and potatoes. "But…" Carlton leaned forward, giving Spencer a cold look. "The larger set of prints lead from the body to the back door, not from the door to the body. You're saying he walked backwards into the room and shot Lloyd Tomlinson?"

"Uh…well, yes…"

"Because it would be kind of hard to miss, Spencer. Tomlinson might have been awfully stupid to be sleeping with Miss Whoever in the sixth guest bedroom upstairs, but surely he would have noticed a man walking backwards into his living room and leaving big red footprints on the Berber carpet and then shooting him. And the killer would have to be really careful about stepping directly on his own prints, too, as he walked backwards to the back door."

"Well, that's what I'm seeing in my visions," Shawn said, looking a little nettled.

"Yeah. Marx envisioned economic equity through socialism, but that whole system also loathes, despises and spits upon the human soul. Go play with your crystal ball, Karnak. We'll do the actual work around here." He gestured to Juliet. "Would you hand me those photos of the prints, please?"

Juliet handed them over, and Carlton noted a bit of tension between the psuedo-psychic and his partner. He didn't let himself dwell on it, though. He and O'Hara had some legwork to do now.

O'Hara was fidgeting. Carlton checked his cell phone for messages, but Marlowe hadn't left one. He drew in a breath – was she angry at him for not calling back? He had told her that it was best that she not call him except for emergencies, and to not call his cell at all while he was on duty. It wasn't as though he would mind hearing her voice, but it would also be distracting, and as much as he enjoyed talking to her (and hell, hearing her talk), he still had a job to do and he had to be focused.

They had paused at a local gas station and picked up taquitos for lunch. Chicken and cheese, a bit spicy, and they did terrible things to O'Hara's stomach. He could hear it grumbling its protests now. Not that he would comment on the matter, because women did not appreciate questions about their bodily functions. They also did not appreciate being asked how old they were, how much they weighed or when they were due.

"Am I supposed to believe those things aren't making you sick?" Juliet finally asked him.

"Yep. They were pretty good, actually." Red light. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His partner glared at him.

"Any theories?"

Amazing, how they could so easily take a train of thought and jump to another track, without missing a beat. It was almost like being an old married couple. "I have one."

"Okay. Dish."

"I think the girlfriend did it."

"The girlfriend?"

"Yep."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because…well…" The light turned green and he continued forward, until they got to the next red light. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The footprints from the door were smaller, right? Then they're bigger from the body to the back door. I think the killer switched shoes. Did you see the photos of the larger prints? There's drops of mud on either side of them – like as if the killer was carrying a muddy pair of boots as he or she was walking out, and there was…drippage. What I'm still curious about is why the killer would even bother with something like that. Plus there's the pair of prints over the larger pair of boots." He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Far-fetched?"

"Shorter-fetched than Shawn's theory," she smiled. "I just can't imagine somebody walking backwards over their own prints after shooting someone."

"Me neither. And all those drugs Mrs Tomlinson's on – painkillers, mainly, but there's also Valium and Ambien, for God's sake – she's a walking backstreet pharmacy. You know how people can act while on Ambien. One minute you're asleep, the next you're killing a man in Reno just to watch him die, or you're whipping the pool boy with a tennis racket. I can't help thinking she was involved in some way. Maybe after the fact, but I just figure she was…aware, if only in a drugged-out, seeing musical notes floating to the ceiling kind of way."

"Hm." She closed her eyes. "Got any peppermints?"

"Why would I have peppermints, O'Hara?" he asked, giving her a blank look. She remembered him telling her he was allergic to mint. He had said that just before she had thrown him that disastrous surprise birthday party. Oddly enough, he had forgiven her for it. Eventually. He still got a strange twitch whenever he saw a birthday cake or heard someone singing 'Happy Birthday'. In fact, the last time they had thrown a birthday party for Buzz, he had hidden in the men's room.

"Okay. So do you think we should question Mrs Tomlinson again?" she asked. They were headed back to the Tomlinson mansion, and were turning onto the street.

"Not at this point. I suspect she doesn't remember anything. Plus, she creeped me out."

"Does that house have video surveillance?" she asked.

"Yes, but the alarm was off, and that also turned off the video feed indoors and outdoors. No video from six in the morning until about ten in the morning, when the wife turned it back on again. I got to watch myself drink coffee in the living room, and let me tell you, the camera doesn't add ten pounds to me – it adds ten years." They turned into the mansion's driveway. "They did a full canvas of the neighborhood for that 'willowy blonde' but they got bupkiss aside from that guy across the road." He parked and turned off the engine. Shawn and Gus were already standing there, sipping coffee and kibitzing with a couple of uniformed cops.

"Hey, Jules, Lassie," Shawn greeted them. "Lassie-face! How's it going with the Queen of Cell Block C?"

Carlton ignored the fake psychic and walked past him and into the mansion. Gus gave his friend a vaguely disgusted look and followed Juliet inside. The two uniformed cops followed them in and stood guard at the door. The Berber carpet – ruined beyond any kind of restoration - was being pulled up, having been examined carefully by the CSI's, each muddy footprint, drop of mud and the entire pool of blood having been cut out and sent to the lab for exhaustive study. One of the CSI's walked over to Carlton – she was an attractive brunette of about thirty-five, and she eyed the detective with interest. Juliet glanced at her partner, and noted that he was sans tie again, and that the cut of his suit was considerably…sharper. Was that Hugo Boss? Surely not…

"Detective Lassiter? Detective Melissa Hardwicke, SBPD CSI unit."

"Yeah. Anything of note?"

"Yes, actually. We've found, from the tread of the two pairs of boots, that just one person wore both pairs."

"Hm."

"Question is, why would the killer change boots?"

"Maybe they're trying to throw us off by getting us to wonder too much about it?" he suggested. Hardwicke raised an eyebrow. "Any info on the boots?"

"Same brand. One a size six, the other a size eleven. But there's a third pair of tracks, superimposed over the large pair of prints, and they didn't actually add more mud to the prints at all. They were a size seven."

"Could this case get any weirder?" Juliet asked.

"Found the boots?" Carlton asked.

"No. The house and the yard have been searched thoroughly, and the garage. You were right about the killer carrying the first pair of muddy boots, by the way. And I agree – the killer is trying to throw us off with a red herring, with the larger set of prints. It's a false lead." Hardwicke held up the series of photos of the larger prints. "See how they get lighter and lighter as they reach the back door? My own guess is that the killer squished them around in the mud outside before bringing them in here, came upon Tomlinson at the fireplace, shot him, changed boots, and carried the first pair out, with the third person possibly just following in their footsteps."

"So why no drops of mud from the front door to the body?" Carlton asked.

Hardwicke retrieved the photos of the smaller prints, tapping her finger on spots alongside the footprints. "Drops of mud. Only three, and pretty small, but we did find them. At first we thought they were just stains from something else."

Spencer was trying to edge closer, but the two uniformed cops were apparently on orders to keep him away from the conversation between the three detectives. He was blocked and firmly pointed back to his place beside Gus, which he clearly did not appreciate.

"Wouldn't the killer have to go to the couch to get the pillow?" Juliet asked. "The prints lead straight from the door to the body. It's a beeline – no divergence to the couch at all."

Shawn, excited, called from his corner of the room, "Somebody handed him the pillow!"

"Did you just say divergence? What are you, Miss Marple? Anyway, Spencer's probably right about that," Carlton nodded. "And it's strange that the killer made no effort to take anything from the house, except the pillow. Which he or she dumped in the back yard, under some leaves."

"All we have to do now is find the killer."

"Killer's probably long gone by now."

Mrs Tomlinson appeared in the doorway then, and she was swaying a little as she walked. In fact, she was listing a bit to starboard as she made her way over to the trenchcoat convention in her living room, and she was carrying a tumbler of amber liquid in her diamond-encrusted hand. "Gentleman…and ladies. Oh…my…Hugo Boss…" she said, put her hand on Carlton's chest. "Ooh…very nice. Brings out those gorgeous eyes!"

"Uh..."

Juliet saw Hardwicke's eyebrow lift as she studied Carlton.

"You're wearing Hugo Boss, Carlton?" Juliet asked.

"Um…Mrs…uh…"

"Tomlinshun," the widow said, smiling.

"Where is your husband's killer?"

She giggled.

"You know who killed him, right?" Carlton asked. "You witnessed the murder. In fact, you were even in on it, weren't you? You handed them the pillow…helped with the boots, too, right?"

She waggled the glass of whiskey at him. "I wanna shee my arto-…my attro…my lawyer."

Shawn's shoulders slumped. "He stole my reveal!"

Melissa Hardwicke and Carlton were sitting in the interrogation room, attempting to get some kind of coherent statement from Mrs Tomlinson. He ran a hand through his hair and began rubbing his temples. The widow's head was currently on the table and she was happily humming 'Blues for Dixie', which Carlton thought was a rather good song but kind of inappropriate to the current situation.

Her attorney was sitting beside her, also rubbing his forehead and clearly wishing he had some of the Jack his client had been inhaling all morning.

Juliet and Shawn were watching from the other side of the mirror. He had been remarkably quiet as they listened to the interview, and was still keeping his yap shut, which was a great blessing. Their discussion of the night before was still apparently bothering him, and still had him pretty subdued.

"I think we should just take her to a cell and let her…dry out," Carlton finally said. The attorney nodded, looking relieved.

"I quite agree. Lydia…Lydia, it's time to get up. We're going to…uh…put you in a nice room where you can relax and get some sleep."

"Okay. Can I call my lawyer?"

The attorney sighed. "Sure. Let's go."

"I really need to talk to my lawyer. I seem to be in a little trouble!"

Juliet sighed and leaned against the glass, glad for the coolness of it and hoping it would alleviate her headache. She watched Carlton writing notes in the file, his mouth tightening as he scratched something out, looking a little irritated.

"So you're the SBPD head detective?" Hardwicke asked him. "I expected you to be a little older."

"Yeah." He slapped the file closed and stood up. Juliet was startled when his cell phone started ringing, and she and Shawn both looked at each other when they heard the theme from The Good the Bad and the Ugly, instead of Cops. Hardwicke took a sip of her coffee and smiled. "Hello? Oh. Yeah. Sorry I didn't call you back. Had a lot of crap to deal with, as usual. What is it?" Carlton sat on the table, his back to Hardwicke, and casually crossed his ankles. Good God, he looks good, Juliet thought. "Really? Well, with one phone call, I can have him assassinated, but unfortunately I can't do that legally. I'll see if I can get anybody at the CIA. Yeah, I'll call you back later. Right. Yeah. Bye."

"Wife?" Hardwicke asked.

"Eh? Oh. No." Carlton put his phone back in his pocket. He grabbed his jacket. Hardwicke sat back in her chair, taking another sip of her coffee.

"Interesting case," she said.

"Yeah. If she can even remember what the killer looked like, we might be able to extradite him…or her. Probably in Canada by now."

"Maybe." Hardwicke stood up. "Um…I don't usually do this, but…maybe you'd like to join me for a drink tonight?"

"Wha…huh? Oh. Uh…" He looked bewildered, and Juliet felt a surge of sympathy for her partner. He had no social skills, and was more accustomed to being shot down and even humiliated by women, beginning with his mother and all the way through his ex-wife. The notion of having to refuse a woman's advances was obviously something entirely foreign to him. What was worse, she was going to have to watch him struggle through this alone. "I…I mean, thanks, but…I…I'm…"

"Already involved?" Hardwicke raised her eyebrow.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

She nodded. "Okay. Just thought I'd take my chance."

"It's…I…yeah. Right. Okay."

"It was very nice to meet you," she said.

"It was? Oh. Okay. Right. Uh…same…here?"

"I suspect I'll be meeting you again, tonight. While I'm alone in the bathtub, most likely." She grinned at him and left the room. Juliet watched her partner sit back on the table, running a hand through his hair. He had no clue. The poor man had no clue.

"She asked me out for a drink!"

Marlowe paused, mid-stride, as she was making her way back to the couch. She was at Carlton's apartment, and they had just enjoyed a leg of lamb together. He was an amazing cook, she had discovered, and since she was a definite omnivore, she was enjoying fabulous meals of various types of meats and vegetables (never shellfish) ever since she had been paroled. Most were relatively simple fare, but he had been expanding into unfamiliar but ultimately delightful territory lately, cookingwise. He had admitted that he still couldn't make himself buy a lobster, mainly because he had seen an article about how lobsters were related to cockroaches and he also wasn't too sure he could go through the trauma of actually killing one and eating it. 'Murderers and rapists, I can shoot with unreserved glee. Ocean-dwelling cockroaches…I'm not so sure. Maybe it's the green ooze...'

"What did you say?" she asked, sitting down beside him.

He had stretched his legs out, stocking feet on the coffee table. The TV was on, but paused right in the middle of Father Peter telling the crowd to cheer like Protestants. The fire was crackling, and the room was warm and only dimly lit. She cracked open a bottle of beer for him, and another for herself.

"I said, 'Sure, and what hotel do we go to afterwards'? Geesh, what you think I said? I said I was…uh…attached."

Marlowe smiled. She had had a rough day at work. A filmmaker, whose name she had not been willing to reveal to Carlton because he would immediately drive to the studio and shoot the bastard, had had the gall to grope her. He had actually grabbed her ass and asked her what she was doing that night. She had informed him that she was going to see her boyfriend, a big, mean, bad-tempered, blue-eyed cop who enjoyed shooting assholes. That had put the filmmaker off fairly well, but it still left her shaken.

She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "But you solved that case?"

"More or less. The widow is still sobering up. There's at least four different types of drugs coursing through her veins, plus most of a bottle of Jack. So it might be a day or two before she's coherent enough to tell us who did the actual shooting. And then it's liver treatment and psychological assessment and blah-dee-blah…" He rubbed his face. "I was never so glad to just leave that damned place and come home."

She rubbed her foot on the carpet. She and Carlton had been seeing each other for almost two weeks now. Most of her nights, after work, were spent at his apartment, and she rarely got back home before midnight. Her roommates seemed kind of amused about her relationship with a cop, but were also pretty accepting of him, even if he remained very standoffish with them. He was also still very cautious with her, and she tried to tell herself she understood, but she was a little frustrated with him.

Emotional manipulation not being her forte, she decided they should have a little discussion about where they were, currently. Make-out sessions on his couch, with buttons undone and the need for a cold shower when she got home, were leaving her in a state of confusion and elation at once. She was sure of how she felt about him. How he felt about her, however, was something his reserved nature was still nervously two-stepping around.

"So…" She placed her hand on his chest, and she felt him stiffen a little, before he finally settled. Nerves, fear, uncertainty…arousal. He reminded her of a colt, sometimes. An abused and angry colt that didn't trust anybody any more, and was watching for the whip to come out again.

"So?"

"Where is this going, Carlton?"

He swallowed.

"I'm not going to push you into anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just want to know what you're after."

"Oh."

"Where do you see us going?"

He stared at her, then took a shaky swig of his beer. "We almost went to bed…on our first date. That probably…well, definitely…would have been a mistake."

She nodded. "I agree. A very…happy mistake, but a mistake nonetheless."

He stared at her, bewildered, then nodded. "Your brother told me you were sweet on me," he blurted out, and looked embarrassed.

"I am," she smiled. "Very sweet on you."

"Oh." His hand went to tug at his tie, but it wasn't there. She thought about Robert on Everybody Loves Raymond, and how he would do that weird 'crazy chin' thing, and figured that maybe Carlton wore ties to help cope with his own nervous tics. Yet he also seemed much more relaxed without the blasted things, and was far more apt to just sit back and veg with her in front of the TV, or just talk, when he wasn't so formal. It was only when she started asking him personal questions that his hand would seek the phantom tie and he would look uneasy. He was not comfortable in his own skin. Yet.

"Do you know why?"

"I haven't a clue," he said, and she sighed, shaking her head.

"Because you're kind and want to be on the right side of things. You have a good heart and the best of intentions. Because you're honest and strong and a little grumpy and commanding and you often say the wrong thing, but you're also capable of saying the right thing at the right time and making a girl melt." She saw his eyes widen, and she smiled. "You know, I've dated actors, athletes, lawyers, doctors, and rich, handsome men…"

"So now you're going in the opposite direction…" he nodded.

"No. I'm going in the right direction. And I never cared about the money. Eh…it's nice to have around, yes, but it's also just paper. And the good-looking guys generally never grew up, because they could coast on their looks and so-called charm, which generally just got annoying – like that Spencer twit your partner is dating, for instance. A lot of women are that way, too, by the way. Plus, you're incredibly sexy. A little odd, yes, but…I mean, what other man would send a girl a chocolate Glock?"

He reddened a little. "Please. I'm not sexy. And…and the chocolate Glock was…a really…bad…joke." He was looking at her mouth, and she could feel his heartbeat quickening. "And…and I really want this to work…" He looked down. "I'm just such a wreck…a miserable, lonely wreck…and I just…like you. I like everything about you. Everything." He swallowed nervously. "You're in for a lot of trouble, with me."

"I can handle trouble. In fact, I rather enjoy it," she said, giving him a wicked grin.

He looked totally embarrassed then, but she shook her head before he could protest again, pressing her finger to his lips, and kissed him before he could say anything more to refute her opinion. By then, it didn't matter very much any more.

TBC