Lassiter let out a frustrated cry and threw his cellphone against the side of the Store-It-Yourself. "God damn it!" he shouted.

Juliet was hovering, concerned, by his side. "Was that Shawn? Do you know where he is?"

"No," Lassiter snapped. "Riner was listening. All Spencer would say was that Riner was innocent, and we had to reopen the case, and look into James Clavor."

Juliet frowned. "James Clavor? I don't remember seeing him on the list of suspects."

And Juliet would know. She may not have been here at the time of the case, but she'd read the case reports cover to cover twice since Riner had escaped.

"You might remember him being mentioned in one of the transcripts of Riner's interviews," Lassiter said.

Juliet's eyes widened. "Right! Of course. He claimed Clavor was the murderer."

"Clavor was a fiction," Lassiter said. "Riner made him up. We did look for the guy, we even had a sketch artist draw up a profile, we ran the name through every system we have, we checked for fingerprints. There was no evidence whatsoever that Riner had a partner with him that night."

"Do you think Shawn really believes him?" Juliet asked quietly. "Or is he just playing along?"

"You didn't see Spencer that night with Drimmer," Lassiter said quietly. "He says whatever he thinks, whether he's got a gun on him or not. And if we don't find him fast, it's going to get him killed."

"But if he really believes Riner, then Riner is going to want to keep him around, he's going to find him useful," Juliet protested.

"And he's going to kill him the moment Spencer figures out the truth, as he inevitably always does," Lassiter said grimly. "There wasn't anyone there with Riner that night, he killed that man himself."

Juliet bit her lip. Lassiter was her partner and she took that very seriously, she backed him up no question—but there was one thing they never could quite seem to agree on it, and that was Shawn Spencer. Juliet didn't know if Shawn really talked to spirits, she didn't know if he was really psychic, she just knew that so far he'd nearly always been right.

"What if he didn't?" she asked hesitantly. "What if Shawn's right?"

Lassiter went still. "Then I put an innocent man in jail."

"He still did the robbery, that would have put him away at least this long," Juliet said. "But we need to find the truth, one way or another. I think we should do as Shawn says."

Lassiter turned to her, his face stony. "Go ahead, then," he said. "You look for some phantom killer, and while you're doing that, I'll look for Spencer."

"Lassiter!" Juliet called as he started to head off. She cut him off and came to a stop in front of them. "You know I want to find him too. We need to work together." She paused, noticing the way that he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. "None of this is your fault, you know that, right?"

"Some of it's his fault," Vick snapped, as she came up behind them. "What the hell were you thinking, Detective?"

"Chief," Lassiter said, looking horrified. "I hope you don't think that I . . . I never would have allowed a civilian to accompany—"

"I know you're not responsible for Mr. Spencer getting himself into trouble, but that doesn't explain what you were doing here in the first place," Vick said curtly.

"We tried to surround him at a meeting, it wasn't working," Lassiter said. "I thought I might have a chance if I did as he said and came alone, but Spencer heard the same message as I did, and figured out what it meant somehow."

"Does that really surprise you?" Vick asked.

"No, that's why I handcuffed him to a file cabinet in the records room," Lassiter explained. "I have no idea how he got out."

There was a gasp from somewhere nearby, and Vick, Juliet and Lassiter all turned to look at where Buzz stood by the storage room. "He told me he was practicing a magic trick!" he said.

"Of course he did," Lassiter said tiredly. "And of course you believed him."

"It seemed like something he would do," Buzz said miserably.

"You can't really argue with that," Juliet pointed out.

"However he got here, we need to focus right now on getting him back," Vick said. "We're going to have to go to the media. I want Spencer on every station. Someone has to spot him somewhere, he's usually kind of hard to miss." Vick turned to eye Lassiter speculatively. "We'll finish this discussion later. Right now, I need you to call Henry Spencer."

Lassiter's eyes widened. "What?"

"We have to tell him what's happened before it hits every news station in Santa Barbara," she said. "Since you were with Mr. Spencer when it happened, it gets to be you."

"But Chief—"

Vick didn't stick around to hear his protests. She stormed off shouting for someone to arrange a press conference, and people cowered in her wake. Lassiter walked over to pick his bent, dented cellphone up off the ground, and stared at it in horror.

He tentatively held it out to Juliet. "O'Hara, maybe you should—"

"I don't think so," she said. "I'm too young to die."

x x x x x x

Henry Spencer used to have big dreams for his only son. He knew most parents did. Old Lou Butters used to wax poetic every time his kid blew his nose, but unlike most of the parents he knew, Henry'd actually had a kid worth bragging about. Not that he ever did.

Shawn had always been a little too smart for his own good. No one ever knows what to do with a prodigy—move them forward three grades, hold them back for another year. He won't stop talking, his teachers always said. Or, he won't focus on the work.

But Shawn always passed his tests with flying colors when exam time came. Used to drive Gus nuts that he didn't even have to study to do it.

Henry honestly didn't know where he'd gone wrong.

Shawn should have been a cop. He had it in his blood. He was that kind of rare detective that you could usually only find in Sherlock Holmes. Henry had resented Shawn for years for giving it all up to be a river-rafting tour guide, a bartender, an ice-cream taster, and god knows what else.

But there are times when Henry is secretly relieved, when he thinks it's better this way, better that Shawn doesn't have to see the things he's seen, or do the things he's done, or put his life on the line every single day.

And then this job came along, where Shawn could do all of those things without even having to follow the rules that might save him.

Henry really shouldn't be so surprised that this call finally came.

"You want to say that to me again?" he growled.

"Your son's been taken hostage by Cyril Ringer." Lassiter didn't sound like his usual matter-of-fact self, Lassiter sounded worried. And that scared Henry most of all.

"Where is he?" Henry demanded. "What's being done?"

"We don't know," Lassiter said. "But we'll find him. That's a promise."

"You've been at this job long enough to know better than to make promises," Henry snapped.

"I've been at it long enough to know you only make the ones you can keep," Lassiter said. "I will find him."

Henry wasn't reassured, because he was doing this job when Lassiter was a kindergartner, and he knew all the tricks. That was one promise you were allowed to make. You could say, we'll find him. You couldn't say, we'll find him alive.

Because you only made the promises you could keep.

"I'm coming to the station," Henry said.

"That's not neccess—" Henry hung up on him.

The thing about Shawn was that he wasn't at all the son that Henry had wanted. He was careless, reckless, thoughtless, and as always, too smart for his own good.

None of that mattered, of course. He still loved him so much it hurt.

x x x x x x

They managed to pay for the Red Bull, the notepad, the pack of number 2 pencils (they wouldn't sell them separately), as well as two bags of Cheetos boasting 20% more cheese, without arousing any undue suspicion.

Mostly Shawn suspected this was because the cashier was actually sleep-working. He was wearing a nametag that said Tad, and he took their money and bagged their stuff all while looking past them with the kind of vacant stare Shawn only ever expected to encounter on a zombie. You know, if he encountered zombies outside of Resident Evil.

They got back in the truck and Cyril pulled up to the one of the gas pumps. "I need to fill up," he said. "You stay here or—"

"Or you'll go on a killing spree, bad things will happen, lots of death and mayhem, got it," Shawn said.

Cyril frowned at him. "I have a feeling you're not taking me seriously."

"Don't take it personally," Shawn said. "I don't take anything seriously."

Cyril slammed the door on him, and Shawn leaned forward, watching as he tried to feed a twenty into the Quick Pay machine. It kept spitting it back out, so Shawn figured he had a few minutes. He could, of course, always open the door and make a run back to the zombie-cashier, but honestly, he felt safer with Cyril, and anyway, he had a case to solve.

Instead he pulled out the notepad, and his pencil, and scribbled a note on each side, before folding it in half and sticking it in the glovebox. Then he took out his cellphone, and started text-ing Lassiter.

allo allo

Spencer where are you?

am ok slving case dnt wory u'll get frwn lines h n k

where are you? how are you texting?

Stl hve my phne. wrst kdnpr evr. lmao.

"Are you text messaging?" Cyril shouted, leaning into the car to snatch the phone out of his hands. "Give me that! I thought the 'Can you hear me now' guy stole your phone back? Christ, you're like the worst hostage ever!"

Cyril climbed into the truck, scrolling back through the messages to see what had been said.

"Sorry, I flunked out of hostage school," Shawn told him. "But you're not doing so great as a kidnapper either. For instance, you're not a killer."

"That's what I've been saying," Cyril said.

"Exactly, but I have no fear for my life," Shawn explained. "You've had the safety on your gun this whole time, and there's not even any bullets in it."

Cyril frowned, tossing the gun on the seat between them after a moment, with a resigned sigh. "Then why did you come with me?"

"Well, I didn't know that at the time, and you are kind of scary looking," Shawn conceded. Cyril had probably been called ruggedly handsome once, like that Brawny towel guy, but he'd since acquired scars down beside his right eye and across the left side of his chin, and his eyes were perpetually narrowed, suspicious of everything they saw.

"Two years in prison'll do that to a guy," he said after a moment. Cyril looked down at the phone. "What the hell is H and K?"

"Hugs and Kisses," Shawn explained, unabashedly.

"You're sending hugs and kisses to Lassiter?" Cyril asked, disbelievingly.

"He's a big softy, really," Shawn said. "Those little signs of affection are good for him. It makes him feel appreciated."

Cyril looked a little pale. "Oh my god, are you Lassiter's boyfriend? Have I kidnapped Lassiter's boyfriend?"

"Not at all, but if it makes you feel better, you're not the first to think we were lovers," Shawn told him primly. "The last guy that kidnapped me thought so too."

"The last guy to kidnap you?" Cyril asked. "How often does this happen to you?"

"More often than you'd think, honestly," Shawn said.

Cyril started to turn the key to start the truck, but hesitated. "What happened to him? The last guy to kidnap you?"

"Lassiter killed him with the gun he keeps in the peanuts," Shawn said. Cyril looked a little sick, and Shawn felt obligated to reassure him. "Don't worry, that guy really was a murderer. This is totally different."

"But Lassiter doesn't know that," Cyril said.

Shawn frowned, realizing he was right. "I can handle Lassiter," he said.

"You've got to stop contacting him, you're only making things worse," Cyril said.

"Au contraire," Shawn said. "It's pissing him off. And Lassie doesn't think clearly when he's angry."

Cyril peeled out of the lot and turned back onto a main road. "The last thing I want is to make Lassiter angry."

"Really?" Shawn said. "Personally, it's one of my favorite pastimes."

Cyril looked down at Shawn's phone as it buzzed again, proclaiming: answer me on the text screen. Cyril rolled down the window and tossed it out. Shawn cried out and turned to look behind them, but his phone was lost along the dark road.

"That was a new phone," he said sadly. "I wasn't kidding about the Verizon people, you know, they're scary. You'd better watch your back."

"I've got bigger problems, don't you think?" Cyril asked. "And so do you."

"Oh, please," Shawn said. "I wasn't kidding. You really are the worst kidnapper ever. I could have escaped like fifty times if I'd wanted to."

Cyril glanced at him sideways. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I believe you," Shawn said. "And you haven't got anybody else who does."

"Why?" Cyril asked. "Why do you believe me?"

"Because you're tell the truth," Shawn said simply. "Psychic, remember? I just know."

"I don't believe in psychics," Cyril said. "But I've kept up on Lassiter's career, which means I've seen quite a bit of yours, too, and it's kind of hard to argue with your success."

"What is this thing between you and Lassiter?" Shawn asked. "You're like Kimble and Gerard."

"He's the guy that put me away," Cyril said. "It's not something that you forget. He never believed me. I tried to explain it, I went through the lie detector test, nothing worked. He thought I was scum."

"You broke the law," Shawn said. "Lassiter takes that very seriously. He'd put me in jail if he could."

"What for?" Cyril asked, surprised.

"He doesn't believe I'm psychic, either," Shawn said.

"If he's not going to believe you either, then I don't know how we're going to prove to him that he's wrong," Cyril said.

"That's nothing, I do that once a week at least," he said. "All you have to do is show the evidence to him in a way that makes sense. He doesn't do leaps of faith. So let's start with something solid. Tell me about James Clavor."

"I don't know much," Cyril said haltingly. "I barely knew him, and it was two years ago."

"Two years in which you've had nothing to do but think about him," Shawn said. "So tell me everything."

"We met through a mutual friend, Fred Greenly," he said. "He said that Clavor had a job for me, low risk, high pay off. I was a construction worker, you know, but it was only part time. I could never seem to make end's meet."

"Where did you meet?" Shawn asked.

"The Hottie Tottie Tavern," he said.

"The Hottie Tottie Tavern?" Shawn echoed. "Did you just make that up?"

"It's a strip bar at the edge of Summerland," Cyril explained. "Looked like he spent a lot of time there, everyone knew him. Fred made the introductions and James laid out the plan. It was a really good plan, I really didn't think anything could go wrong. It seemed odd though."

"What did?" Shawn asked.

"He didn't seem exactly capable of making that plan on his own, you know? Rumor had it he'd just fallen out of favor with his former crew, a group of successful, smalltime jewel thieves. He'd just been their muscle. He wasn't a planner," he said.

"No, obviously," Shawn said. "Anyone that was thinking would have known better than to shoot that guard in a panic."

"Exactly," Cyril said. "But if he was working with anyone else I never met them."

"What about Fred?" Shawn asked.

Cyril shook his head. "Fred didn't have anything to do with it. He even used to visit me in prison, said he blamed himself for making the introduction."

"Yeah, I'm going to need to talk to him," Shawn said.

"That's going to be a little hard," Cyril said, "he died about a year ago of a heart attack."

"That's never stopped me before," Shawn said. "I'm on very good terms with the spirit world."

Cyril shot him a disbelieving look. "Uh huh."

"It does, however, complicate matters," Shawn admitted. "So keep going. What happened then?"

"Nothing much," he said. "Clavor told me I had the job, said to meet me across the street from old Dah-Ling's. We got number thirty-six open but Clavor wouldn't let me go in it. He'd paid me a couple thousand up front, so I didn't argue with him. And the rest you already know."

"What did they call him?" Shawn asked.

Cyril frowned. "What?"

"You said the people at the Hottie Tottie seemed to know him, so what did they call him? James? Jimmy? Hey, you?" Shawn asked.

Cyril shook his head. "Maybe Jimmy? One of the girls thought his name was Daniel, another thought it was Dave. Clavor said he never gave any of them his real name."

"And you thought he had given it to you?" Shawn asked.

"Not really," Cyril said. "But it was the only one I had."

"Fair point," Shawn said, and turned to glance out the window as they stopped at a light. Shawn squinted into a little Mom and Pop Electronics store. There were about a dozen televisions set up in front of the window of varying size, and Shawn was staring back at himself from every single one of them.

Shawn recognized the photo. He was smiling and holding a pineapple that had been wrapped in a large pink bow for Juliet's birthday. She'd taken the photo in front of the police station, and if you looked hard enough, you could just make out Gus's elbow on the very edge of the left side.

The picture flashed off the screen, and switched to Vick holding court with the media, giving a press conference in a freshly pressed suit. Shawn knew this created about a million and one problems for him and Cyril both, but all he could think was that his father was going to see this, if they hadn't called him already.

"I think we've got a problem," he said.