The maitre d' of Natalino's greeted Lassiter and Keith and led them through the dim restaurant to their table. Keith noted the hanging gossamer drapery and the candles, and raised an eyebrow at Lassiter.
"This is a very intimate restaurant," he said as he seated himself.
"Really? I hadn't noticed." Lassiter pulled at his shirt collar, which suddenly felt constrictive. He looked around at the other tables, where couples gazed loving at one another or engaged in public displays of affection. "I often come here for work dinners," he lied. "I recommend the garlic penne." He arranged the white linen napkin on his lap and smoothed down his tie—anything but look at Keith and his knowing smile.
Their waiter arrived, poured ice water for them, and presented them with menus.
"I'll take your word for it, Carlton." Keith looked at the menu. "Wow. This is upscale."
"Don't worry about the prices," Lassiter said firmly. "I'll pay." Given that he was using Keith as a decoy to lure Shawn into the open, paying for the man's food was the least he could do. He looked at the prices again and thought about his credit card bill. Since they would be discussing a case, maybe the department would consider it a work expense. Or maybe he could claim it on his taxes.
"They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Keith said. He ran a hand through his black hair and leaned back in his chair. "Stuff me with pasta and parmesan and I'm all yours."
Lassiter felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut. Keith was a colleague, even if he worked for another department, and Lassiter was lying to him to further his own sexual agenda. He pulled the case folder from his briefcase and glared at the sparse contents, trying to focus on something less personal. Something that didn't make him feel depraved.
"I don't like our odds on this homicide," he said grimly. "The fire burned all the evidence."
Keith shook his head. "You're looking at it all wrong, Carlton. The burn is the evidence."
"It doesn't make much sense from a criminal point of view," Lassiter complained. "I've talked to the building owners. They're waiting for a permit so they can begin construction on a condominium. The fire doesn't move their schedule ahead any, and it may even delay them. They haven't insured the building since they were planning to knock it down, so they aren't collecting any money." Lassiter sighed. He prided himself on his profiling abilities, but arson was outside of his area of expertise, even if he had watched Firestarter more than a few times. "I think we're looking at some crazy firebug, and that's really your territory."
"I'm happy to give you whatever you need," Keith said. Something in his tone made Lassiter think he was referring to more than just the case.
"What can you tell me about our perp?" Lassiter asked, looking at the photo of the woman's footprint. "Other than that she finds fire sexy and probably wet the bed as a kid?" He glared at the crime scene photos. He'd arrested some cowardly criminals in his time, but using fire to kill someone was pretty low.
Keith laughed. "You're thinking of Freud's definition of pyromania. I'm afraid that theory's about 150 years out of date. Pyromaniacs have a whole ritual they go through, and their fires are usually pretty sophisticated. And research hasn't established any connection with bed-wetting. Animal torture, yes, bedwetting no."
"Given a choice, I'd prefer bedwetting over animal torture," Lassiter said. He glanced up to see their waiter trying not to look horrified by the snippet of conversation he'd just overheard. The waiter took their order, collected the menus, and then fled to the kitchen.
"Besides," Keith went on, "This fire isn't sophisticated; quite the opposite. The woman we're looking for is an amateur. It's more likely we're dealing with someone who's had a recent crisis and lacks other coping skills. The fire is a cry for help."
Lassiter clenched his jaw. "Well she can get all the help she needs in prison after we've arrested her for murder."
"Most fires are set by people under eighteen," Keith said. "Chances are good our perp is looking at probation and counselling. Maybe juvenile detention."
"So we're looking for a teenager?" Lassiter paused, thinking. "How about an immature adult?"
"That could be, too," Keith acknowledged. "They usually show a lack of appropriate remorse and they'll likely deny they did it or try to claim it happened by accident."
Lassiter frowned. "That's pretty much anyone I've ever arrested." In his experience, all criminals were liars. Of course sometimes detectives lied too.
"So, where's that gruesome autopsy report you promised me?" Keith asked.
"There's no need to put you off your food." Especially considering how expensive it is, he thought. Lassiter tapped the folder thoughtfully. "Our victim died of smoke inhalation. She was likely sleeping at the time and never knew what hit her. Woody thinks she was homeless. He's provided basic details as to height, weight, age, and probable appearance and we're running them through missing persons."
"Don't you have someone who can model her face in clay based on her skull?" Keith asked.
"This isn't an episode of Bones," Lassiter growled. "The department's not going to pay for anything that won't get us closer to catching the killer." He knew that if O'Hara had been there she'd have argued that giving the victim's family piece of mind justified the expense, and he didn't disagree in principle. But when people ended up living in abandoned buildings it wasn't likely that they had a loving family looking for them.
The waiter arrived with their food. Lassiter had ordered steak and whipped potatoes. Keith had taken Lassiter's advice and ordered the pasta. The rich aroma of the food reminded Lassiter of how hungry he was. His stomach, which had been clenched in anticipation all day, suddenly protested loudly and demanded feeding.
"You didn't lie," Keith said. "This garlic penne is delicious. I can see why you come here." He smiled and Lassiter felt his internal alarm bells go off at the unasked questions he read in Keith's expression. He couldn't blame Keith for misunderstanding his intentions. Given the location, it looked like they were on a date. It was supposed to. That was The Plan. But it was also starting to feel like a date, and he didn't feel good about that. Apart from any sense of loyalty he might feel to Shawn—and he wasn't sure that he did or should—he didn't like misleading Keith. He was going to have to set the record straight, so to speak, no matter how awkward it was.
"Are there really enough arsons to keep you working all year?" Lassiter asked as he cut his steak. The meat was a beautiful medium well, with a slight trace of pink, and it just fell apart under his knife. He watched Keith dig into his garlic pasta and searched his mind for an easy way to communicate his intentions—preferably something more subtle than blurting out 'this isn't a date.'
Keith swallowed. "There were over sixty last year. The worst year was 2004, when we had close to a hundred."
As Keith described the various patterns in arsons over the years Lassiter spotted Shawn, leaning against the front window, peering into the restaurant. Seeing Shawn released the tension that had been knotting his back and shoulders and filled him with a sense of triumph. The Plan had worked. Shawn had been curious enough to come see the situation for himself.
That has to mean something, doesn't it? Lassiter mused.
"Someone you know?" Keith asked, nodding toward the window.
"Just my stalker," Lassiter joked, turning back to Keith. "Pay no attention. It just encourages him." Lassiter sighed with relief and seemed to taste his food for the first time. The dinner had served its purpose. Now he just had to make things right with Keith. "Listen…" He stared into his plate, unable to look the other man in the eye. "I have a confession to make."
"Are you talking to me or to your whipped potatoes?" Keith asked.
Lassiter faced Keith. He swallowed, straightened his spine and determined to get this admission over with as quickly as possible. "There's something I haven't been entirely honest about," he said. "I had an ulterior motive in asking you here."
"I thought you might have," Keith held his gaze, which made Lassiter look at his potatoes again.
"It's an unusual situation," he said. "My divorce just became final not that long ago, and uh…" he grasped for some way to describe his situation without using terms like 'midlife crisis' or 'turning gay.' Finally he said, "You're out at work, right? I mean, the guys at the station…they all know?"
"Oh yeah. I'm the SBFD's gay poster boy. I ride a pump truck in the parade every year, spraying people with a supersoaker."
"And the guys at the station don't give you a hard time about it?'
"They joke about it sometimes, but it's not mean-spirited. Those guys have saved my life." Keith looked up at him with sympathy in his dark brown eyes. "You must know what I mean, Carlton."
"What about career advancement?" Lassiter asked. "Aren't you worried about your future?"
Keith shrugged. "I'm happy where I am," he said. "Why, are you aiming to be head of Homeland Security someday?"
"I wouldn't mind," Lassiter muttered. Although he'd be glad to settle for Police Chief. "I'm not in the same situation you are. I mean, I'm not…" Lassiter trailed off as his mind grappled with the anxiety of describing his situation aloud, to another person.
"Let me guess," Keith said, "this is the part where you assure me that you're not gay, which is code for we can sleep together but I can't expect you to be seen with me." He smiled sadly.
Lassiter cringed at hearing it put that bluntly. What Keith was describing sounded self-centred, and underhanded. But isn't that exactly the kind of scenario I've been trying to manoeuvre Spencer into? He wondered. For the first time since he'd overheard it, Shawn's description of him as smart, brave and hot seemed to mock rather than flatter. If this was the kind if relationship he was offering Shawn then he wasn't any of those things. But as seedy as the offer Keith described sounded, Lassiter was unable to imagine an alternative that didn't result in career suicide.
"That doesn't sound very honourable," he said at last.
"But it's true, isn't it?" Keith asked.
"No!" Lassiter said forcefully. "Not the way you mean." He set his fork and knife down, with a loud clatter. The steak and potato felt like a lead weight in his churning stomach. He ran a hand down his face and let out a frustrated groan as the last of his self-control broke under the tension. "I'm seeing someone. Sort of. And this whole dinner thing was…" he lowered his voice and muttered, barely audible, "was designed to make him jealous. Just so he'd tell me where I stood."
Keith looked at him with an amused expression. "It isn't that psychic, is it?"
Lassiter nodded.
"I should have guessed," Keith said. "Straight guys get all the good men." He looked off across the restaurant and then softly swore. Lassiter followed Keith's gaze. There was a woman at the window, dressed like Carmen Sandiego, in a trench coat and hat pulled low.
"Who's that?" Lassiter asked.
"Oh, that's my stalker." Keith laughed, but there wasn't any humour in it. "She's a volunteer at the station. She's got a crush on me. I feel bad for her, but it's getting a little creepy."
"Has she threatened you or made you fear for your safety?" Lassiter asked, concerned. "I can have her locked up in county for a year if you like."
Keith shook his head. "She wouldn't hurt me. She's going through some tough times and I was nice to her and she just got overly attached." He added wistfully, "I've had the whole 'I'm gay' conversation with her, but she doesn't get it. It's kind of sad."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow and gestured to the table with his open palm. "How about if you just say her name and I do a quick door-to-door to inform the citizens in her area about the state's strict anti-stalking laws?" He smiled, as if this were a task he would enjoy, and be glad to do.
"No thanks, Carlton." Keith shook his head. "The California arson investigators' code of ethics says it's more important to protect the innocent than to convict the guilty. I think I'll just leave Claire protected for now."
"What kind of bleeding-heart liberal crap is that?" Lassiter asked, not bothering to hide his outrage. Keith might be a criminal investigator, with a great body and a sharp mind, Lassiter thought, but I could never date a guy who was soft on crime.
Lassiter fumbled with his apartment keys as he approached his front door. He and Keith had said their goodbyes at the restaurant. Lassiter felt glad that they were at least parting as colleagues, if not exactly as friends. Now, alone, he had expected to feel elated that The Plan had worked, but instead he found himself second-guessing it.
Shawn showed up at the restaurant, he told himself. That has to mean something.
That could mean anything. He could have been curious, or nosy, or hungry.
Or it could mean that he feels…something. Lassiter's gut told him that something more than curiosity had caused Shawn to peer through the window at Natalino's. Of course here Lassiter had to admit that his ideas got pretty vague. What exactly was this something Shawn felt? Attraction? Lust? Jealousy? Heartbreak? He wasn't sure, and he felt slightly guilty for hoping it was heartbreak. Despite being unsure how much he was willing to risk himself, he still liked the idea that Spencer liked him, wanted him.
Of course, he thought, I'd sleep a lot better if I knew the particulars.
Lassiter unlocked his door and stepped into the foyer of his apartment. He needed a glass of scotch and the mental escape of watching The First 48.
"So…the good night kiss," a voice called out from the dark livingroom, "tongue or no tongue? I'm just curious."
Lassiter's heart leaped and he had his gun halfway out of its holster before he recognized Shawn's voice. He relaxed, turned on the light, and dropped his keys into a dish by the door.
"What are you doing here, Spencer?" He tried to sound angry, but the warm flush moving over his skin and the hitch in his breathing undercut the force of his words.
Shawn ignored his question, staring at him from the sofa with heavy eyes. "How'd your date go?" he asked. "Are the two of you taking it slow or did you just blow him in the car?"
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Lassiter said. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of Johnny Walker Black. He stepped out, leaned back against the tiled kitchen island and sipped at the whisky. The warm burn was a reassuring sensation, and he wished his pounding heart would take the hint.
"Why'd you do it?" Shawn asked. "The same restaurant, the same table…"
"Why do you think?" Lassiter stared down at Shawn.
"Oh, I know why you did it," Shawn said, toying absently with the edge of a lampshade. "I just wanted to see if you knew."
"What is it you think you know?" Lassiter asked. He stood straight, trying to look aloof, but all he could think about was that Shawn was here, alone with him in his house, only a few feet from the bedroom. His mind might not know what he could offer Shawn in terms of a relationship, but his body definitely had ideas.
"The spirits finally explained why I was going all Kaci Battaglia on you." Shawn leaped energetically from the sofa and closed the distance between them. "Well, actually, they reminded me of an Ally McBeal episode where Ling hired an escort for Ally to make Greg jealous." Shawn leaned in close, as if he were going to kiss him, then pulled back again, leaving Lassiter's lips feeling the absence. "You've been trying to make me jealous."
"Have I?" Lassiter asked. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry as sand. Shawn's eyes looked green in the lighting from the kitchen. He wanted to grab him by the hair and pull him into a kiss, but he wasn't sure where that would end, sexually or emotionally.
"Yep." Shawn ran his tongue across his lower lip, leaving it glistening. "It worked. I'm totally jealous. I wish I could be all Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful, and drive the two of you around in a limo, but I just can't. In fact, if you keep seeing him, I'm seriously considering planting drugs in his car."
Lassiter laughed. "Where would you get drugs?" He placed the empty whiskey glass on the island, where it clinked loudly against the tile.
Shawn threw his arms wide. "Dude, it's one of the perks of having a best friend who works at a pharmaceutical company."
"Guster would never help you do that," Lassiter said. His hands, now free, hovered inches away from embracing Shawn's body.
"You think I'd tell Gus?" Shawn scoffed. "Please! I'd replace half his sample case with Skittles and Good & Plenty."
"If that did happen, Spencer, you know you'd be my first suspect. Guster's too." Shawn was standing so close now that Lassiter could smell whatever citrus product it was Shawn had put in his hair.
"Speaking of suspects," Shawn asked, "how's that arson case going? Have you eliminated The Human Torch? How about Sailor Mars or Liz Sherman? Or that little girl from Firestarter?"
"Her name was Charlie McGee," Lassiter muttered.
"See? I love it that you know that," Shawn said. He leaned his head against Lassiter's chest and ran a hand across Lassiter's belt and around to the small of his back.
"Shawn…." Lassiter's voice had an undertone of warning, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be warning Shawn about. Be careful or we might have sex? It's a bit late for that, Lassiter thought. And since the harm's already done, what would it matter if we did it again? Maybe even a few times?
Regardless of the warning tone, Shawn leaned into Lassiter's neck and tentatively kissed along his jugular, then ran his warm tongue along the skin. The move sent shivers down Lassiter's spine and he gripped the edge of the island, feeling the cold tile under his thumbs, trying to resist the instinct to wrap his arms around Shawn and crush him possessively against him. Shawn dragged his mouth up to Lassiter's and kissed the colourless mole on the right side of his lower lip.
"Truce?" he asked, speaking the word into Lassiter's mouth. "No more Keith?"
"Truce," Lassiter murmured before pulling Shawn forward into the kiss his body had been wanting all day. Shawn tasted like a ripe mango.
When they finally pulled away, Shawn spoke, almost whispering. "This…thing between us. It confused me, I admit it. I'm talking Rip Torn robbing a bank kind of confused. My God, Lassie, courting you is more stressful than a season finale of Breaking Bad."
"Then why bother?" Lassiter asked.
"Because I like you. There. I said it. I like you. You're classy. You're Lena Horne singing Stormy Weather. You look like Dick Dastardly and you dress like a character from Mad Men. I like that. Plus, you're smart, brave…"
"—and hot. I remember," Lassiter said.
"And your with your hotness and my hotness, and your smartness and my…psychic smartness—bordering on genius, really—it's pointless to resist. More pointless than the last Resident Evil movie."
Lassiter noticed that Shawn had avoided describing himself as brave. On the one hand, he had to agree. He usually found Shawn's actions more foolhardy than brave. On the other hand, he had made the first (and possibly second and third) move when it came to this attraction between them without fearing the consequences. Of course maybe that's just another example of his complete lack of foresight, Lassiter thought.
"Well, if you're sure it's pointless…" Lassiter ran his hand across Shawn's back, marvelling at the feel of his muscles through the t-shirt he wore.
"Totally pointless," Shawn assured him. "The spirits assure me that you and me getting together is as inevitable as sequels to Saw, but less likely to put me off my popcorn and Twizzlers. And I'd hate to go against the spirits on this. " He rubbed his palm against the front of Lassiter's trousers. Lassiter exhaled heavily and leaned his head back, pushing his hips forward. He could feel the hardness of Shawn's erection pressing against his hip.
"I wouldn't want you to risk your job," Lassiter barely got the words out before he leaned in and invaded Shawn's mouth with a deep kiss, his tongue running desperately against Shawn's. He could feel the butt of his glock between them and when they broke for air he quickly slipped out of his holster and heard it drop heavily onto the island at his back.
Shawn unzipped Lassiter's pants and slid his hand into his briefs, gripped Lassiter's warm erection firmly and stroked down, then up again.
"I don't know how you prepared for your date tonight," Shawn whispered, "but I brought condoms just in case."
"Oh God," the moan erupted from his throat as much for the physical sensation of Shawn's hand on his cock as for the rush that came with the realization that they were really going to do this. If some part of Lassiter's mind still held reservations about getting sexual with Spencer it had long since been drowned out by the demands of his body and by his gut instincts. All that mattered at the moment was Shawn's hand. His strong grip and the feel of his fingers sliding over the head of his cock were quickly ramping Lassiter up, beyond the point of logical thought.
In the middle of this tormenting bliss, the doorbell rang, followed immediately by a loud knocking.
"Ignore it," Lassiter whispered, pleading for Shawn's hand motions to resume. "Don't stop."
"Maybe it's Keith," Shawn said, his pumping slowed to a torturously slow pace. "You should get it. I can wait."
"I'll get rid of whoever it is," Lassiter said, his voice low and desperate. He quickly tucked his straining and erection away and zipped up his pants.
Lassiter pulled the door open and turned to look at the young blonde woman standing on the stoop. She was wearing a trench coat and her face was so pale that she almost shone in the darkness. She was breathing fast and shaking slightly. She raised her right arm and Lassiter leaned forward, thinking she was about to fall. By the time he noticed the gun in her hand he was already hearing the shots and feeling their impact against his chest.