Shawn pitched the remaining greasy pizza napkins in the trash while Juliet cleared her desk of all matters food. "So, Jules," he said to the blonde detective, "Why's your dad coming down to Santa Barbara?"
Juliet shrugged, confused. "I don't know, it's weird. Dad just called me out of the blue and told me he was coming for a visit."
Shawn frowned, thinking. "Did you call your mom to find out why?"
Jules chuckled "Yeah. I didn't get any help from her. She just clammed up. She said he had his reasons and to make sure he picked up some peaches on the way back." Juliet grinned. "Mom makes a mean peach cobbler, and she knows how good the Santa Barbara peaches are."
The pseudo-Psychic raised an eyebrow, still in contemplation. "Yeah…" he murmured, "Weird…" He quickly dropped the pensive expression, and smiled. "We should make sure we send him on his way with a pineapple, too."
Juliet laughed. Shawn loved his pineapple, and went out of his way to share that passion with the rest of the world, too. It was an interesting personality quirk.
"Well, come on," she said, straightening and letting her feet take her weight again, "You took over that cold case from me, the least you can do is help me bring up the boxes from the file room."
"Why, Detective," Shawn answered, his characteristic smirk in place, "Are you asking me to go to the stacks with you?"
Juliet laughed. "Right, Shawn. Like I'm going to do that in the police department… you of all people should know that by now." She walked airily off towards the records department, and after a few moments, Shawn jogged after her.
"Jules? Seriously? I wasn't serious…"
She paused at the door to the records room, and tilted her head. "Huh," she said, feigning disappointment, "…pity."
Shawn raised both eyebrows, shocked, before following.
Retired General Thomas O'Hara arrived in the Santa Barbara Police station. The thin ears under his gray hair picked up scraps of conversation: "Interrogation room two isn't cleared to be used, yet; the intercom still has that broadcasting glitch…" "You might want to try the coffee; Shawn made it today, and it rocks!" The warm, keen brown eyes were taking in his surroundings as he passed; there was a bulletin board with pictures half-hidden in a conference room where the chief was talking to a few criminologists. At least two suspects were resisting as they passed on their way to central booking. But what Thomas was searching for eluded him.
He was looking for one person in particular: his little girl, Juliet O'Hara. He was phenomenally proud of her; she was a junior detective, had passed the detective's exam with flying colors, and was as sharp as they came.
So, he wondered, why couldn't he find her?
She was nowhere to be seen, when her blonde hair would have been unmistakable in the bull pen.
From the photographs she'd sent the family, Thomas could spot her desk (spick and span, just as she'd been taught as a girl). He could also see a man leaning against the wood, intensively reading a police report that he'd picked up from Detective O'Hara's 'out' tray.
This, the retired general reasoned, must be the detective that his wife mentioned. He looked the part- a typical 'Philip Marlowe' tough guy, with salt and pepper hair, shoulder-holsters on either arm, and his jacket missing. O'Hara frowned; his wife had laid rather obvious hints that Juliet was seeing Spencer, the detective. This man did not look at all Juliet's type, not to mention that he was not what she needed. The person reading the report was clearly not the person to help Juliet relax. He looked familiar, though…had he seen that stony face in the paper?
O'Hara had tried to do research before arriving, but his PC at home was ancient, and did not allow him to access the pictures on the web, as would the new 'laptop' his children had been bugging him to get. For lack of a better idea, the General approached Juliet's desk, and addressed the man. "You're Shawn Spencer?"
The man looked up, his piercing blue eyes filled with annoyance. "Excuse me?" He demanded, closing the file slowly.
"Are you Shawn Spencer?" Thomas repeated clearly, un-rattled by the simple act that had obviously been perfected to drive lesser men away.
"Hell, no!"the man answered in equally clear distaste and length. "I'm head detective Carlton Lassiter. Who the hell are you? And why are you in my police station?"
It hit Thomas why the man seemed familiar; he'd seen him at Christmas. The man had been just as cold, just as hard-nosed then. This, then, wasn't the detective. "I'm-" O'Hara was interrupted as two people entered the bull-pen. A man in a polo and jeans was holding the door for Juliet. Both were carrying a box of what was unmistakably files, both were grinning at each other.
"O'Hara!" Lassiter shouted, "Why is Spencer in the possession of classified police information!?"
The two looked up, and the scruffy-looking man raised his eyebrows as he took in the visitor. "Jules," he said quietly, "Why don't you hand me that box and go greet your father?"
"Thanks," she told him with a grateful grin, carefully stacking her load on top of his.
"Really, Lassie," Shawn spoke up as Juliet advanced, "I've been scrutinized the whole time!"
Juliet, meanwhile, had come up to her father. "Hey, dad," she greeted him with a broad smile and a hug. "You came early!"
"Hey, Juliet," he answered her greeting, "How's my favorite detective?"
She opened her mouth, but then glanced behind her suspiciously at Shawn, who shrugged innocently, before smiling at her father again. "Great, daddy."
General O'Hara looked down as Spencer put the boxes on the corner of Juliet's desk. "What's with the files?"
Before Juliet could answer, Shawn spoke up. "Jules just solved a cold case," he answered, straightening. "These are the pertaining pieces of the investigation… actually, they're the rest of the files. The evidence is still in the locker."
Thomas was impressed, and turned to his daughter. "Really?" He knew his eyes were sparkling; they always did when Juliet made him proud.
Detective O'Hara blushed. "Actually, Dad," she began, "Shawn is exaggerating. I started working on the case, but credit really goes to him; I was stumped, and he figured it out. I wouldn't have been able to get it… at least, not so quickly."
"Oh, come on, Jules," Shawn objected, clearly embarrassed that she didn't take the credit he offered, "You would have cracked it. I butted in because you were looking upset and I thought I could help nudge things along; life's too short to be frustrated."
Lassiter snorted and stared. "You've gotta be kidding me." The trio turned to the head detective. "What, Spencer, it's not enough that you poach our normal cases, now you're on cold case files?"
"I was just helping!" the younger man objected.
"Well, quit it, Spencer," Lassiter snapped rudely back.
Shawn winced, and it was clear to the general that Spencer was trying to end the spectacle as soon as possible, for Juliet's sake. The un-shaven man smiled absent-mindedly and shrugged. "Two words, Lassie: Blue. Sedan."
Lassiter immediately quit talking and sat down at his desk.
"Blue sedan?" Juliet questioned, confused.
"Just reminding Lassie not to turn down help that's cheerfully offered, Jules," Shawn responded with a small smile. He cleared his throat. "Ah, Mr. O'Hara, we haven't actually met. I'm Shawn Spencer." He extended his hand with a confident smile.
"I know who you are" O'Hara answered, shaking hands. "Google has a lot to say about you, Mr. Spencer… including the statement that you're apparently psychic."
Shawn cleared his throat, uncomfortable again. "Please, call me Shawn."
Juliet raised an eyebrow at her father. "You Googled him?"
"I was curious," he tilted his head. "He doesn't look anything like I pictured."
"Daddy," she chided him, "Preconceived notions don't work… especially not with Shawn."
The object of the conversation cleared his throat. "Jules," he said quickly, "Karen's gonna call us in, soon."
"On what?" Jules frowned.
"On a case," Shawn responded in an 'of course' tone, grinning. He raised an eyebrow, closed his eyes, and held his hands up. His fingers wriggled, and the motion seemed to translate up his arms, undulating.
"Not enough coffee this morning, Shawn?" O'Hara suggested lightly, amused by the psychic's antics.
"I'm getting…" Shawn said, beginning to shake, "Rippples... waves... a pond… thrashing…" His movements became violent, and somehow morphed into a ghandi-like pose, still keeping his eyes shut. "Flowers?" He frowned as if confused. "And fish…" he shook his head. "Colors… red… black… the East… Goldfish in fancy dress…" he stopped abruptly, opened his eyes, and spoke directly to Juliet. "You have no idea how weird it is to see a goldfish in a tuxedo."
Thomas's daughter giggled, inspiring a wink from Shawn.
"Fancy goldfish… You're talking koi?" The general asked, one eyebrow up. He was impressed against his will. "That's more specific than most psychics are. What kind of investigation is it?"
"Wrongful death," Interim Chief Karen Vick announced, entering the bull pen from her office. "Mr. Spencer, I don't seem to remember calling you."
Before Shawn could answer, Juliet spoke up. "He was helping me, Chief Vick. Shawn was instrumental in closing a cold case."
"Hence the files," Shawn added quickly, gesturing to the boxes on Jules's desk. "I wanted to gift-wrap them and leave them on your desk. Jules thought that might be a teensy bit over the top, and you'd be happy with just the files." He pulled a false pensive face as he continued, "I believe my plan was to put a gift bow on top of the boxes- probably something shiny." His dead-pan humor caused Juliet to turn away, hiding a grin.
O'Hara caught both his daughter's reaction and the twinkle in Shawn's eye when Juliet tried not to laugh. It told him a great deal about the relationship between the two, even if they were oblivious.
During their short acquaintance, Thomas O'Hara also noted a few facts specifically about Shawn. The General wasn't an idiot. He knew there were real and fake psychics, and real psychics were tapping into a dangerous power. He also knew Shawn was bringing 'faking it' to a whole new level. O'Hara had seen, as Shawn did, a bulletin board with pictures and notes posted all over it… most importantly, there was a picture of a lily pond. It wasn't until a uniformed policeman that Shawn greeted as 'Buzz!' wheeled in the display that O'Hara took in the photo of a corpse. He hadn't noticed that on his precursory glance. And he had passed right by it. The board had been several yards away, only accessible to Spencer's peripheral vision. The kid was good.
Only when it was close did O'Hara notice the shadows of koi in the pond, the glistening and wet pavement around the edge of the water, and the victim's bloated face. The general felt his stomach seize up and forced himself to regain control of his lunch.
"Victim's name was Alec Mesmet, MD. Blood alcohol was high," Vick was saying, glancing at the preliminary toxicology report in her folder. "Which could indicate that he tripped, hit his head, and drowned, still making it wrongful death because the barman didn't cut him off. Besides that-"
"Don't bother releasing that," Shawn interrupted authoritatively, examining the board. "This was murder." When everyone stared at him, he seemed to catch himself. The psychic turned around to face the others. He smiled awkwardly, almost nervously, and pointed over his shoulder at the board. "What? The… the spirits.. told me…" He concluded weakly with a shrug.
The chief seemed to take his opinion into account, then return to her office. Lassiter rolled his eyes, and headed right back to his desk for a headache cure. Juliet was the only one, the General noted, who took him seriously. She raised an eyebrow, and tilted her head.
General Thomas O'Hara raised an eyebrow of his own. Clearly, his daughter knew something he didn't. She didn't blindly put her faith in anyone, and this Shawn had somehow earned hers.
His fatherly instincts were aroused, and he made a mental note to let the young man know that he still had his service revolver. After all, it wasn't every day that his Juliet took such a shine to someone… especially not in the capacity that her mother assumed.