A little humor before stuff gets really, really ugly for poor Lassiter. Alas, my vacation is over as of tomorrow morning and I won't be posting as often. Hopefully I can write on the weekends. But then my weekends get hectic too.

I recommend listening to Billy Squier's My Kinda Lover for this chapter.

"My, my, my, my, my…what a mess."

Police cruisers were everywhere, lights flashing and providing rather good light to the crime scene. A van from the coroner's office was parked at the curb, near a fire hydrant, but that was kind of a minor issue. TV news crews were everywhere, too, and he could hear the hiss of inflated egos as anchors set up for on-the-spot reports. A group of CSI's were standing around, pointing flashlights at a shallow grave that contained the body of a sixteen-year old girl. Trash littered the little field, and Carlton paused briefly as a plastic shopping bag rolled by like hell's tumbleweed, and he walked on, his partner behind him.

"Detective Lassiter," Melissa Hardwicke said, nodding to him.

"What ya got?" he asked tersely. He hadn't even been able to eat dinner. He recalled eating half of his cheesesteak lunch back at the station, and wondered what had happened to it. Had he finished it at some point along the way?

"Sixteen-year old girl. No ID. Died about nine hours ago, according to preliminary findings. She was raped."

Carlton walked past her and stood at the edge of the crime scene, looking down at the body of the dead girl, O'Hara silent beside him. He felt as though cement blocks were being piled on his shoulders, and a pressure was building up behind his eyes. He forgot about the cheesesteak – when had he last slept? He edged past a couple of uniformed cops and got his first look at victim number seven.

She was half-naked, her plaid skirt pushed up around her waist, her bra cut open, and her panties were down to her knees, which were spread apart. He wished someone would at least pull her underwear up and pull her skirt down, so she would have some…privacy. There was blood for God's sake. He swallowed and looked across the way, and was startled to see Vick standing there, looking miserable. He returned his gaze to the dead girl and saw the puncture marks on her chest. She had been stabbed several times. His stomach did something it hadn't done in fifteen years: it lurched.

Hardwicke was at his side, leaning forward a little to acknowledge O'Hara, who didn't seem to know whether she should smile, wave, say 'hi', or what – she finally just nodded but said nothing, choosing to write on her notepad instead as she walked around the body. Funny how a dead body seemed to muddy the basic rules of etiquette. 'Pass the potatoes, please, and by the way, that girl down there was brutally raped and murdered'. "Canvas of the neighborhood gave us nothing," Hardwicke informed him. "I hear the FBI is on board now?"

He nodded.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, brow furrowing.

"I'd sure love to be."

The plaid skirt was a helpful clue. It was part of the uniform of a local Catholic girls' school, and a brief questioning of the school principal determined the victim to be Dalija Ćaćić. She had been a rather odd girl, heavily into Goth and a definite loner, according to her family and the school authorities. Her parents had immigrated to the United States only two years before, and she had begun to withdraw from them almost immediately thereafter. She was tall – almost five-eight – and slim, dark-haired, and aside from the inky black hair and Liquid Paper pale skin, she was very pretty.

He stood in the morgue and watched her parents sob, the mother brushing the girl's hair, removing bits of dirt and twigs from the black tresses. O'Hara, standing beside him, was just as stoic, just as miserably accustomed to this, and he thanked God she was there to keep him from grabbing his Glock and going hunting for serial killers on his own.

It was an outrage. Simple as that. An outrage.

Carlton arrived back at his house at almost four in the morning. Marlowe was asleep, lying on her side, and he undressed quietly in the semi-darkness, shivering a little in the cold. He climbed in beside her and stretched out on his back, feeling his bones protesting against the silly notion of rest, and fully expected her to withdraw from him and drag away the blanket. Victoria had done that whenever he came home cold, smelling of grief and death, and frequently sweaty and so exhausted he was incoherent. He was startled, then, when Marlowe murmured softly in her sleep and moved toward him, her hand gently sliding across his bare chest as she lined up her body to his and nuzzled his neck. "Mmm…Carlton," she whispered, sighing against his shoulder.

"Marlowe?"

"Mm?"

"Are you ready for the mess that is my life?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and her fingers slowly traced the line of his jaw to his chin. "You have nothing to worry about at home, sweetheart," she whispered. "Nothing at all. Now…go to sleep."

He slept like a rock, with not a single dream.

It took Marlowe three shoves, a tickle, a bit of tapping on his chest, and finally a threat of having water poured on his head for him to finally open his eyes. He looked at her, mock-growling as she stood by the bed, holding a cup of water in one hand and her shoes in the other. She was wearing a faded, cotton wash-softened New Orleans Saints jersey and jeans, which made her look as cute as a button.

"I was about to break out the air horn," she told him, putting the glass on the bedside table. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the shoes – Nikes – on.

"What time is it?" he asked, sitting up.

"Eleven-thirty," she nodded. "And before you freak out, someone…Vick?…called this morning and said you had the day off and that if you showed up at the station, she would order snipers to start firing from the roof the moment they see you. I also appear to have the day off, as we finally finished that bear documentary and the PETA whackjobs all finally went home for their yearly showers. So what are we going to do?"

He eyed her, pondering all the wonderful things they could do right now, but then again, he figured she might actually want to get out in the sunshine and crisp December wind – Good God, it was almost New Years! He looked around the room, with the walls still stark white. He hadn't hung anything up yet, and couldn't think of anything to hang up. Marlowe had not completely moved in yet, though she had several things in the bathroom (toothbrush, her own toothpaste, one of those razors for women that couldn't do anything against his own stubble, and a bra and pair of panties that had spent the night hanging on the shower curtain), and he was still debating just asking her to move in anyway. She had already added some softer touches to his décor, and he liked her simple, soft-colored taste. She was into blue and gray and soft pink pastels, which didn't bother him, and liked a mildly African motif, but he could handle that, so long as she didn't bring in those huge, ugly masks or Masai shields. Or peacock feathers. He wouldn't tolerate peacock feathers. Or leopard and zebra skin patterns. That would be a bit much.

"Uh…well, we could…" He rubbed his forehead. He and Marlowe had been keeping their relationship kind of under the radar, as much as he could without making her feel like he was embarrassed to be with her, which he wasn't. It was quite the opposite, actually. It was simply that he didn't want her to get in any trouble with her parole officer and he also didn't want people talking. He still wasn't sure if police detectives were allowed to date parolees, much less sleep with them, but he wasn't going to stop seeing Marlowe even if there was a specific law against it.

Never in his life had Carlton Lassiter thought about breaking any law. He looked at her and realized that he would kill or die for this woman. Funny how he had never thought that way about Victoria, or his mother, or any other woman he had ever known, except for O'Hara, but she was his partner…

"Carlton? Are you in there?" Marlowe asked, and he ran a hand through his hair. She looked amused.

"Uh…sorry. I…how do you feel about lunch…a walk on the beach…and target practice?"

"So which end do I point toward that target-y thing?" Marlowe asked, holding the Glock upside down and pointed toward herself. Carlton briefly felt the entire left side of his body go numb and yelped, grabbing the gun and putting it right side up and pointing out. The safety was still on, but still, he wanted to berate her, but she was laughing so hard he forgot about being angry.

"Don't you do that again!" he hissed at her, trying to sound gruff and commanding, and glanced down the aisle at the young, clean-cut man at the far end, who was firing away, uninterested in them. Marlowe didn't seem terribly impressed with his Bad Ass routine.

"I'm sorry. The look on your face – it was priceless. Now, I pull the trigger and aim?"

"Aim and pull the trigger," he corrected. "Always in that order."

Marlowe nodded and adjusted the earplugs, and proceeded to nail the target with an accuracy that stunned him. Both eyes, throat, center of chest, heart, and…well, that was scary. Mr. Target Man had no chance of ever creating more little Target children, that was for sure.

"Wow."

"I should have told you I won a few sharpshooting prizes, when I was younger. I'm from Louisiana, remember? I can also skin a buck, run a trout line, grow tomatoes, and make homemade wine that will put you under a table. You know…a country girl can survive, though I didn't actually grow up in the country. Daddy just insisted all of us learn how to handle firearms properly and safely, though he was a little uneasy about giving Adrian guns, because he already liked to play with matches. Fortunately, Adrian can't hit the broad side of a barn with a cow and a catapult, so that turned out to be fortunate and he liked musicals and jewelry a lot anyway, so guns were not going to be part of his future."

He just stared at her, heart pounding. "Wow!"

"I also took archery in high school, and did a lot of skeet shooting, too," she explained, removing the earplugs and grinning wickedly at him, watching his expression go from astonished to delighted. "And I do like the element of surprise."

Generally, Carlton hated surprises. This one, though, was pretty damn good. "Wow."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Wow…za?"

She started laughing again, which got him laughing, and he felt ten years lift off his age and fly away. He couldn't help but hope those years found their way to Spencer and gave him unreliable knees and gray hair. Not to be petty, of course. He wasn't going to give the little twerp anything else. Like this woman, for instance.

"And I'm an NRA member," she finally told him, giving him a gamine little smile. "And DAR."

Dear God. He was going to have to marry this woman.

"Okay. Here goes!"

Marlowe smiled at him, swirling her glass of wine as he tossed back his measure. They had stopped by her place and picked up a bottle of her homemade wine before going back to his condo. Now, they were seated at his kitchen table, doing a wine tasting, sans those chalky little crackers. He took a sip, wheezed, and put the glass down.

"Dewberry."

"Dew…" He was blinking rather quickly, and feeling a warm fuzziness spreading through his entire body. He poured himself another glass.

"Dewberry. Basically a blackberry, except sweeter and adored by fire ants. That's why dewberries are hard to find," she explained. "I made that wine ten years ago, from a whole patch I found on my parents' property in Metairie. It's properly aged. I use small cedar-wood kegs for dewberry wine, and oak for watermelon and strawberry, because I prefer that particular flavor. It's not like I can fit a Balthazar in my bedroom, so I make small amounts. Enough for two or three bottles at best. How does it taste?"

"A little…aggressive…just a dash of salt…strong, but…uh…s-sweet…with a kick like a Tennessee mule!" He hiccupped, drained the glass, and poured another.

"Describing yourself or the wine?" she asked, taking a sip.

"My girlfriend makes wine," he said, the alcohol loosening his tongue. "My ex-w-wife couldn't even fry eggs."

Marlowe giggled. He leaned forward, sloshing the wine a little before taking a deep draught of the almost blood-red liquid.

"You're so beautiful," he said, with the emphatic seriousness only used by small children and drunks, plonking the glass back down on the table, a bit of wine splashing on the table. "So beautiful. Every day, I…I can barely wait to see you. Even if it's just a glimpse, or if I can only hear your voice on…on the ph-phone. Those…those Wednesdays I spent with you were the best days of my life, until…uh…now." He took another sip of the wine, and Marlowe reached across the table and took the glass from him, then removed the bottle from within his reach. "Now you let me make love to you and don't even act like you…you're just…enduring it, and I was going crazy when you said you wanted to…to wait. I had a tantrum. Stomping and cursing…like some damned horny kid…but I wanted you. Want you. Need you…" He swallowed, eyes so blue they were violet.

"I like making love with you, Carlton," she whispered. "A lot. You're amazing."

"You do?" he asked, looking almost childlike as he stared at her. "I…what? Really?"

"Yes. I do. You are. You take my breath away."

"Oh."

He was too drunk to look pleased, or even a little smug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Marlowe figured she ought to be ready to catch him if he fell over. Frankly she was surprised he had lasted this long. Three glasses – a definite record.

"I love you," he said. "I love you. I love you."

Marlowe smiled, and touched his hand. "I love you, too, Carlton."

He looked down at her hand on his, and stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over, and she moved to him, sighing against his mouth as he kissed her hungrily. She was not surprised, however, when he passed out, his head dropping onto the table with a wince-inducing thwack, arms hanging at his sides. Concerned, Marlowe checked his pulse, and lifted one eyelid. He was merely unconscious, but otherwise unharmed.

She sat down and sighed. "I should have started him on the watermelon wine."

A thump woke Marlowe from a sound sleep, and she sat up, gasping. "What was that?"

Carlton was pretty much dead to the world, and she pondered him for a moment. It had taken a lot of cajoling, gentle berating, and finally enticement to get him to stagger up the stairs (two falls, one against the wall, and then another into an aspidistra that she wasn't sure was going to survive being attacked by a drunken detective) and he had finally managed to get to the bed. She had undressed him, delighting yet again in his strong, fit body and hard muscles, and not minding a bit when he groped her. He fell asleep, though, before things could get any further and she had just laughed and lay down beside him, cuddling against him and listening to him breathe. He didn't snore, which was a relief.

She heard another thump.

Okay. He had a gun – he had several guns – but the one in his bedside table didn't have a clip in it – the clip was swimming with Tootsie Rolls in the candy dish downstairs. She regretted having insisted on that, but he had been fairly reasonable about it. It wasn't as though Marlowe was afraid of guns, or disliked having them in the house. She had read all the statistics – for a woman in particular, having a gun in her home was an excellent idea, and having one on her person at all times was even better, no matter what some bed-wetting Congressman said, so long as she knew how to use said gun. And she did.

Of course, she had also heard of a woman who had grabbed the family jewels of a man who was trying to rape her and kept him…subdued until the police arrived. Sure, the police had nearly wet their pants laughing, but that tactic had worked wonders. Good strong hands and sharp fingernails were good weapons, when no guns were available. She had learned self-defense in high school. She had no intention on demonstrating her skills on Carlton, because she couldn't bear to break his interesting nose or do damage to his…equipment. Spencer might come in handy, though…

She sat up and grabbed Carlton's shirt from the foot of the bed – another thing she had found useful in the past few weeks. His shirts were so comfortable, and far too big for her. She buttoned it up quickly and took a deep breath.

"Carlton?"

He twitched.

"Carlton, wake up. Somebody's in the house."

He lifted his head, winced, and put it down again, burying his face in the pillow.

"Whoever's here, tell 'em to go 'way."

"I'm not sure it would be that simple, Carlton. The clip is downstairs, in the candy dish."

He sat up, bleary-eyed. "What?"

"Go see what's down there!" she hissed. "Find the clip – it's with the Tootsie Rolls!"

Hangover (n): the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.

Carlton stopped in the hallway, observing the aspidistra with some alarm. Poor thing – it looked like a troop of howler monkeys had attacked it and left it for dead. He nonetheless continued bravely onward, heading toward the stairs, and paused at the top when he heard another thump. All right, whoever was down there was about to suffer a severe ass-kicking, because hung over Carlton Lassiter was not a man to be trifled with.

Granted, he would have to sit on the floor and whimper afterwards, but that was neither here nor there.

Stumbling downstairs, he stomped into the kitchen, not giving a damn if he found a thief rummaging through his cabinets, because if he did, the thief would soon be a wet, bleeding pile of bones and wails on the floor. He looked around, saw nothing of interest aside from an empty wine bottle and two wine glasses (one half-full), and stomped into the living room. He stopped, standing perfectly still, and listened. No sounds, but he sensed that he wasn't alone. He looked up the stairs and could see the bedroom door was closed. Marlowe wasn't into trying to scare him, and she wasn't into cruel practical jokes. He looked around the room again, and took a slow, deep breath.

Damn. He had left the Glock upstairs. He couldn't remember, now, where his other gun was. On the mantelpiece? He stepped toward it, snarled, and grabbed the gun. He stalked to the coffee table, interrupted the clip from its visit with its Tootsie Roll friends, and smacked it into the Glock. He breathed in and looked around the large room, taking in the suede-covered couch and easy chairs, end tables, and the coffee table. Marlowe's cellphone and iPad were there, and his wallet, checkbook, and badge were there as well. He kept the safety on the Glock and took another breath. What was that smell…?

It took only a few moments, then his temper flared. Badly. His jaw clenched so hard he could have sworn he felt a tooth crack. Pineapple!

"All right, Spencer, Guster. Both of you, come on out."

The hall closet door finally opened a little, then a little more, and finally the two young men came out, holding up their hands and looking more than a little embarrassed. Carlton put the gun on the mantelpiece, because it would only upset O'Hara if he actually shot Spencer, and the last person he wanted to face was Guster's mother.

"Hey…er…Lassie. Fancy seeing you here!"

"Why are you in my house?" Carlton asked, keeping his voice mild and low. Even strangely friendly. It wasn't as though he could afford to start yelling now. His head was starting to hurt. Horribly.

"Uh…well, we were…conducting a series of…er…experiments," Shawn finally said, hands still up.

"How did you know we were here?" Guster asked.

"I smelled stupidity and despair."

Both men looked offended. Offended.

"Well, I'm not the stupid one!" Shawn said, indignant.

"What, so that means I smell like despair?" Guster grouched.

"You're both going to smell like torn, searing flesh soon, if you don't tell me why you're in my house!" Carlton finally shouted at them, and immediately felt like his brain had exploded. He sat down in the chair by the fire and held his head in his hands. Shawn was immediately solicitous, rushing over to put his hand on Carlton's shoulder.

"Hey, man, it's not a big deal. We were just doing some…you know…ghost hunting."

"In my house? Without my permission? Without asking?" Carlton asked, sounding absolutely bereft, which startled Shawn, who immediately felt pretty bad.

"Well, it had to be a controlled experiment, see? We had to make sure that the ghosts didn't know we were coming. If we had asked you and then come in here and set up for the hunt, they would have known and…"

Spencer caught the expression on the older man's face and took a step back, out of immediate reach.

"He has an expression of mayhem on his face," Guster said at last.

"Yeah," Spencer said, looking philosophical. "Like he wants to get the Glock again. Remember the last time we really made him mad? He uprooted a mighty Sequoia."

"But we did…hear something," Guster said suddenly. "We heard…thumps."

"Well. Isn't that nice?" Carlton said, between gritted teeth.

"I wouldn't say nice, really. It was sort of like thumps you'd hear when something was…uh…moving around between the walls."

"Get out. Get out, both of you, before I shoot you. Go. Now. Out."

"Aren't you curious?" Shawn asked, but he started heading toward the door, even though Carlton was still sitting there, seething. "Hey, dude, we're just trying to help and…" He looked behind him, toward the stairs, and drew in a breath when he saw Marlowe standing at the top of the stairs, wearing Carlton's shirt and a disgusted expression, her hands on her hips. "Holy…cheesecake…"

"Mr Spencer, what in the name of Mother Dixie are you doing in this house?" she asked him, stalking down the stairs. Good Lord, that woman had legs. Long, slender, glorious legs. Spencer could barely take his eyes off them.

"We were conducting a series of experiments," Gus finally said, actually attempting to sound righteously lofty.

"On what?" Marlowe asked, coming toward them, eyes narrowed and lit up with baby blue rage. Shawn swallowed, looking from her to Carlton and back. They were definitely a matched set, and Marlowe definitely was as no-nonsense and straightforward as Lassie, but he sensed this girl packed one hell of a punch. Just like Lassie, actually, Shawn thought, remembering the time the detective had punched his lights out. Sometimes, his jaw still ached from that punch.

"Uh…well, the theory is that Lassie's place is haunted and…"

"Lassie? His name is Carlton Lassiter. Not Lassie, you silly little fraction of a man. Lassie was a dog! Carlton is a detective – who was arresting criminals while you were still waiting to find hair on your balls…which I frankly doubt have even dropped yet! How dare you break into his home! He would be perfectly justified in blowing what little brains you have out! And you…here I thought you were a relatively decent person!" she snapped at Gus, who took a step backwards, startled.

"We think Detective Lassiter's home might be haunted," Shawn finally said, with as much dignity as he could.

"Now you listen to me!" Marlowe snapped. "If you want to truly be frightened, you can piss me off! Do you really want to know what I can do to you? It may nor may not involve a gun, but it will be painful and it will scar you for life!"

"Uh…no. Definitely not," Shawn said, taking a few more steps backwards. He clattered into the fireplace and knocked over the iron instruments that were apparently used to maintain a fire but actually looked like something out of Torquemada's playbook. Marlowe picked up one of the instruments, which looked like a cross between a pickaxe and a sword, and took a step toward him. " We heard something! We did, Marlowe! But we'll be going now! Running! Possibly screaming, maybe crying!"

"And maybe even wetting our pants…but we did hear something!" Gus said, grabbing Shawn and dragging him back to his feet. The two young men scrambled out of the house and into the night, running for the Blueberry, both of them babbling in terror. Only when she heard the car screeching out of the parking lot did she look at Carlton, who was still seated in the chair by the fireplace, eyes wide.

"You know," she said. "I almost get the impression, under all that stupidity and lack of moral resolve, that those two actually do care a lot about you."

"They broke into my house," he said, looking dazed.

"An alarm system would be useful," she finally said.

"Spencer can get past any alarm system."

"Dogs?"

"Dogs love the little twerp."

"Uh…hm…well, I know a trick or two. Come on up to bed. You clearly need some rest. Tomorrow, raw eggs, a dash of brandy, a hot shower and some sex and you'll feel fine."

"Okay."

"You know," she said, as she helped him to his feet and started leading him back toward the stairs, "it is rather interesting that as an Irishman, you aren't interested in the possibility of ghosts."

"I don't believe in ghosts. And I'm not entirely Irish, remember. I've got a lot of German blood, so at any moment, in my current state, I might invade Poland."

She laughed. "Part Irish, part German?"

"I'm a very neat drunk."

"I'll say. You insisted I fold your pants before I put you to bed."

"I can't help it. I need help."

"I know. It's okay. C'mon. See the nice step? That's good…up the steps…here we go. Let's not fall into the aspidistra again. It didn't come out looking too good after the last fight. Here we go now…back to bed…"

"I really do love you," he said sleepily.

"I love you, too," she said, giving him a kiss and a little shove into the bedroom. He almost went down, but she was fast enough to put her weight under him and prevent him from falling on his face. For her lack of size or heft, Marlowe was a strong woman and she soon had him sprawled out on the bed again, wearing nothing but his shorts and a rather goofy smile. She didn't care. She turned out the light, said a quick prayer for his headache to be easily cured, and climbed in with him, snuggling into his arms and laughing when he started singing the theme from Cops. He had a good voice. She could listen to him all day.

Dewberries really do exist, and are found in my part of the state of Texas (central Texas, north of Austin). Alas, fire ants consume them the second they're ripe (which is why we loathe and despise fire ants and seek colorful and vicious ways of killing the stinging, hateful little jerks). I haven't had one in years, but they're delicious. I've not had dewberry wine, though, because I don't drink. But I have a feeling it puts folks under.