Lassiter flashed his badge at the security guard, took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked purposely past a hive of cubicles to Marla Robarts' corner office.
There's something creepy about an office at night, he thought. Maybe it was the quiet, dark, and empty workstations, or the lack of noise coming from the air vents. Whoever owned the building certainly didn't want to waste any money lighting or cooling the place when it wasn't in use. He guessed that hadn't been Creighton Morris' decision. Maybe it had been the penny-pinching Marla.
Despite her reputation for budgetary restraint, Marla Robarts' office was plush. With its deep carpet and its leather club chairs it was more like an executive office than the trailer where he'd interviewed Creighton Morris. He started with the desk, a wide expanse of mahogany, spotless save for a desk set and a telephone. He opened the top drawer and sorted through the papers inside.
Suddenly icy tendrils crawled up Lassiter's spine and he became aware of a noise coming from the outer offices: a slow shuffling accompanied by an intermittent sound between a groan and a wheeze. His head raised and his eyes widened as he identified it as the sound the zombies made as they approached you in the Umbrella Corporation's office tower. He quickly determined that the sound was coming closer. Where most people's instinct might tell them to run away, Carlton Lassiter had always found that he had more fight than flight. He padded silently around the desk and glanced into the hall, his hand on the butt of his Glock. He saw nothing save for the warren of grey padded cubicle walls. Overhead a fluorescent light buzzed, flickered to life briefly and went out again.
There's nothing out there, he assured himself. Especially not a zombie. Or zombies.
He turned back to the office and resumed his search. The sound started again, closer this time. He pulled his gun and stood with his back to the wall, peering into the hallway. He half expected to see the freshly undead body of the security guard who'd let him in shambling toward him. But as before, the office looked deserted. He tried not to imagine office drones suddenly rising into view from the cubicles like Nazis rising from the water in Zombie Lake.
"This place is kinda creepy."
Lassiter's head jerked to the right to find Shawn, standing next to him, peering across the labyrinth of dark cubicles. Lassiter exhaled a long breath of relief.
"Jesus, Spencer. I thought you were—"
"What?" Shawn asked innocently. "One of the undead? No, just in need of sleep. I'm much prettier in the morning."
"You can't be in here, Spencer." Lassiter tried to sound as stern as possible. "This is an official police search."
"Which would be so much easier with a psychic." When Lassiter failed to look convinced, Shawn added, "Or just a second pair of eyes. Come on. Two heads are better than one. You can be Ray Milland and I'll be Rosey Grier."
"Where's Guster?" Lassiter asked.
"He wouldn't come," Shawn said. "He's got qualms about entering buildings that strictly speaking we're not supposed to be in. And he has a fear of cubicles. Or is that cuticles? I can't recall. He also refuses to join me for mani-pedi Mondays, so it's hard to be sure."
Lassiter smiled. "But you have no problem with illegal entry, I see."
"Surprised?" Shawn asked.
"That you've shown up where you're least wanted again?" Lassiter turned away and resumed his inspection of Marla Robert's office, trying not to think of all the places he'd thought about wanting Shawn lately. "No," he added. "I can't say I'm surprised."
"It could be worse," Shawn said. "You could be on a planet surrounded by hundreds of my android clones." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Although I hear that they're all fully functional, physically speaking."
Lassiter allowed his mind to dwell on that scenario for a moment. When he didn't reply Shawn shifted gears.
"So what are we looking for? Weapons, threatening letters, a script we can post to the internet?"
"I'm looking for anything that might lead me to Jeffrey Robarts." Lassiter rolled his eyes. Two head would be better than one. "Since you're here, you may as well help."
Shawn moved to a filing cabinet and opened the uppermost drawer, which bulged with thick files. As he flipped through the folders he reflected that never once during his many hours spent in darkened theatres had he imagined the reams of paperwork that accompanied a film production. It was times like this that he wished he there really was a magical force leading him to the evidence. He let out a pained groan and rolled his head in a wide circle.
"Aug!" he complained. "This is so boring. Don't you have someone to do this stuff while we grab dinner and a movie?"
"I am that guy we have for doing this stuff," Lassiter said evenly, ignoring the fact that Shawn had just invited him on a date.
"Can't you call for backup?"
"We're not in danger."
"Sure we are. In danger of papercuts." Lassiter ignored him and continued his search. "Fine," Shawn added, "but if a hologram of a creepy British girl pops up and tells us we're going to die I vote that we barricade the door and call Jules and Buzz."
"Sure," Lassiter said. "In the event that we receive death threats, I'll call backup. Until then, how about making yourself useful?"
Shawn glared at the filing cabinet. There were three more enormous drawers of boring to go. If Henry had been there he would have had something to say about character building. Shawn took a step back and brought all his powers to bear on the issue at hand. One: people were lazy. They preferred to file things where they could get at them easily. Logically, the more immediate things would be easiest to access. He closed the uppermost drawer, opened one at waist level, and began to flip through the files. Then, as if the words were illuminated by a glowing light, he spotted the document he'd been waiting for. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure himself that Lassiter was engrossed in the contents of a desk drawer, Shawn slipped the paper from the file, folded it quickly and stuffed it into his pants pocket.
As he sorted through Marla Robarts' desk, Lassiter thought back to O'Hara's words from the stakeout: If you think you've found that guy who could handle it, shouldn't you grab that chance with both hands? He wondered if Shawn's ability to handle the hassles of his job could possibly outweight all the hassles that having a secret relationship would entail. Then, in the midst of his daydreaming, he saw an envelope marked Personal Financials and his smile widened as he pulled a stack of bank statements from it. He sat in the comfortable leather swivel chair and began to flip through them.
"Wow," Shawn said, leaning over his right shoulder, "The last time I saw that many zeros on the left side of the decimal point it was my all time high score on Asteroids."
Lassiter, whose bank balance wasn't exactly overflowing either, licked his lips. Robarts had a lot of large payroll deposits, but she also had a lot of withdraws. He flipped back through the statements.
"Now we're getting somewhere," he mused to Spencer. Regular payouts of this size could mean blackmail. He slipped the envelope into an evidence bag. Blackmail would be a new angle. He was tired of making no headway on their current suspect. The forensic accountants could find out where that cash was going.
"What time is it?" he asked, forty minutes later, as he sorted through the last of the documents in the desk.
Shawn, sprawled in a padded chair, didn't even glance at the large clock on the wall. "Will you look at that," he exclaimed. "It's go-home o'clock!"
"You're probably right," he conceded. "I don't think there's anything else here anyway." He looked at Shawn through narrowed eyes. "Unless you found something."
"Me?" Shawn put a hand to his chest. "No. I'm afraid not. It's been a total bust." He stood, feeling the pressure of the wadded letter in his pocket. "I may as well have been digging holes in Texas with Shia Labeouf. Let's call it a night."
As they left the building, Shawn followed Lassiter across the parking lot to his car.
"Can I help you, Spencer?" Lassiter asked. He didn't think Shawn was expecting to grab a few more seconds of paradise, but he was half-hoping he might try.
Shawn smiled. "I need a lift home. Gus is using the psychmobile to visit a friend in the hospital." He didn't elaborate. Some subjects—such as hiding a fugitive from justice—were, he felt, better not discussed until their relationship was on a more solid footing.
"Get in." Lassiter tried to sound more annoyed than he felt. Once inside the Crown Vic he turned to Shawn. "Where to?"
"Go west on Mission and then take a right onto State," Shawn directed. After a few blocks he pointed to the parking lot of a storage company. "Pull in here."
Lassiter complied, but eyed Shawn suspiciously. He certainly didn't intend to defile the Crown Vic's upholstery to satisfy some sordid sexual curiosity. Hell, he didn't even let people eat in his car.
"Listen," Shawn said, making no move to exit the vehicle, "I feel like I'm supposed to apologize or something for the other day."
"No, it's fine." If by fine we mean that it's been haunting me and ruining my sleep.
"So you're not freaked out by the kiss?"
"We didn't kiss."
"Didn't we? I seem to remember a kiss. Maybe I dreamed it, like that time I imagined I was Val Kilmer's masseur for six weeks." Shawn looked thoughtful. "Although that still leaves the question of where those paycheques came from."
"It takes two to kiss. You just," he looked for the words, "assaulted me with your mouth."
Shawn raised his eyebrows. "Are you going to charge me, detective?"
"No. Provided you understand that nothing's going to happen between us." At least not right now, and certainly not in this car.
"Of course, Lassie. We're just good friends who work together. Like Batman and Robin.
Or, Lassiter found himself thinking, like Clyde Tolson and J. Edgar Hoover.
"You can let me out here," Shawn suggested, not looking him in the eye.
"I'll drive you home. It's no problem."
Shawn spread his arms wide. "We're already there."
Lassiter looked around but saw only the long concrete building belonging to Budget Self-Storage. "You live at a storage depot?" His suspicions were in high gear. If Shawn wanted to be dropped off here it couldn't be for any legitimate reason.
Shawn shrugged. "I'm in between apartments right now. Don't tell Gus. He'll make me live at his place, and we both know that would a worse idea than Teen Wolf II: Hirsute Boogaloo."
"This I have to see." Lassiter shut the engine off and followed Shawn into the brightly lit storage facility. They cast dark shadows across the concrete. Shawn pulled out a key, unlocked storage locker 24B and rolled up the garage-style door. Ducking his head slightly, Lassiter stepped inside and frowned at the tiny bunker where Shawn's possessions were currently arranged. Shawn was keeping up a running commentary about the advantages of storage facility living, but Lassiter barely heard him. While the unit was relatively clean, he'd seen jail cells that were larger, and that boasted more amenities. At least jail cells had a bathroom.
"…and I shower at the gym," Shawn was explaining, "so it's fine. And temporary. Did I mention it's only temporary? I'll be out of here faster than The Hasslehoffs got booted off A&E."
Lassiter cleared his throat and spoke with his Voice of Authority. "Grab your things. We're going to my place." He didn't have a plan. He only knew he had to get both of them out of that dismal cell.
It'll only be for a few days, he assured himself as he watched Shawn pack a bag. Just until he gets himself properly situated somewhere.
They drove to Lassiter's in relative silence—or at least what passed for silence when Shawn Spencer was involved.
Forty minutes later the two of them were sitting on Lassiter's couch, eating pizza and watching NCIS. Before they were halfway through the episode Shawn had insinuated himself under his arm, and was reclining against him in a position that strongly resembled cuddling.
Lassiter took a deep breath and relaxed, daring to enjoy the weight and heat of Shawn's body against him. This is what it might be like, he thought wistfully, if this actually went anywhere. Which of course it wouldn't. Couldn't.
"So," he asked, nodding toward the screen, "who do you think the killer is?"
"There is no killer. It's suicide."
"You've seen it before?"
"No. But the position of the," Shawn paused, "the uh, aura of the dead man tells me it was suicide."
"The position of his aura?" Lassiter sighed. "You know the dead guy's being played by an actor, right?"
"Yes," Shawn agreed. "And it's some of the most impressive aura acting I've seen. Very realistic."
When the episode ended, and Shawn's suicide theory was proved correct, Lassiter pulled himself reluctantly to his feet, crossed to the kitchen and poured himself a nightcap of Jack Daniels.
"I'm going to bed," he said. "You can have the couch. I've got some sheets and blankets in the hall closet." He watched as Shawn walked casually across to him, running a hand languidly across the counter.
"Lassie?" Shawn was standing alarmingly close now, but his voice was hesitant.
"Yeah?" Lassiter felt his stomach tighten. Shawn's fingers grazed over his own as he took the glass from his hand and gulped a mouthful of whiskey, grimacing as he swallowed. Passing the drink back to him, Shawn leaned in close and whispered, "I hate the thought of sleeping on your couch." He leaned back and met his gaze. "I'd prefer the bed."
"Would you now?" Lassiter swallowed the remains of his drink, set the tumbler down, and grasped Shawn by the shoulders. He told himself that his intent was to push him back, and away, followed by some stern words about boundaries and how Shawn should count himself lucky to sleep on the couch. But even as he moved he knew he was lying to himself. As he crushed Shawn to him and tasted the whiskey on his lips he knew that this had been what he'd intended since he'd offered to drive him home. Now, giving in to the lust he'd suppressed so hard for so long, the moment felt inevitable, and he knew where it was heading as surely as the hammer hits the primer, igniting the propellant.
"This is a bad idea, Spencer," he mumbled into Shawn's neck. But in that moment, with Shawn's hands wandering over his body, it felt like the best idea he'd had in a long time.
"Call me Shawn." He yanked Lassiter's dress shirt free of his trousers and began to fumble with the buttons. With the front open he tried to push the stiff dress shirt off, but it stuck at the cuffs. "Damn, Lassie," he complained, "how many buttons do these things have?" He retraced his steps and released the shirt cuffs.
"This is a bad idea, Shawn," Lassiter repeated, hoping that somehow Shawn would be the one to apply the breaks, since his own self-control seemed to have dissipated.
"I know. It's bad," Shawn whispered against his ear. "It's very bad." He began to kiss his way down Lassiter's neck, across his collarbone, to his chest.
Lassiter reflected that he wasn't bad very often—in fact, he'd spent most of his life being painfully good, even when it cost him. He was sick of being the good guy who never got what he wanted. He slipped a hand under Shawn's jaw and tilted his head up to meet his gaze, his heart pounding in his ears.
"If we're going to do this, we do it my way," he said, his voice rough and low. "Under no circumstances will you tell anyone about this." Even as he spoke it felt more like pleading than insisting.
"I can keep my mouth shut," Shawn assured him, and then busied his tongue with Lassiter's nipple.
Lassiter groaned. "Bite me," he asked tentatively. Shawn complied, and Lassiter swore and pushed against him.
"Sorry. Too hard?"
"No. Perfect." He turned and pushed Shawn against the counter, kissing him deeply and squeezing his erection through his jeans. Shawn, open-mouthed and gasping, clung to him as his legs went weak.
Lassiter hadn't expected the pleasurable rush he got from having Shawn panting and desperate. This wasn't the cocky Spencer who breezed through his crime scene, took outrageous shortcuts and then hogged all the glory when the killer was unmasked. This was an open, compliant, Shawn, begging for his attentions. It sent a warm thrill through him that was better than whiskey.
"Bedroom. Move it." Before I change my mind.
Shawn's eyes widened but he complied almost immediately. Lassiter smiled as he watched him race down the hall. He'd seen escaping felons move slower. He steeled his nerve and followed after him.
As Lassiter slammed the bedroom door closed with his foot, it occurred to him that this was just possibly the most dangerous thing he'd done since he started wearing a badge.
The next morning Lassiter watched as Shawn padded into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his Joe Boxers. As his eyes wandered over Shawn's exposed body his mind wandered over the events of the previous night. He'd gone into the bedroom having a very narrow idea of what he might be willing to do. Now, looking back, he'd crossed some of those lines, but he wasn't sorry. He wondered if Shawn would be.
"There's coffee," he offered, indicating the machine on the countertop. Maybe, he hoped, the next few days would tell him whether or not Shawn could handle being with a cop. It was like the free trial period for those higher stations he'd got when he bought his cable package. If it didn't work out, he wasn't risking anything. Provided he quit before the bill came due, of course.
"Thanks." Shawn smiled at him as if having made extra coffee was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Lassiter had feared that Shawn might be upset at waking to an empty bed. Some women he'd slept with had been resentful when they hadn't awoken to cuddles and breakfast in bed. But Lassiter was an early riser, and he liked his morning alone time. If today was any indication, Shawn was not an early riser, and he didn't seem to expect a smorgasbord of breakfast as proof he hadn't been used. That, at least, was promising.
"Is that the Carrillo Plaza robbery homicide on the fridge?" Shawn asked, returning to the couch with a mug of coffee.
"Yes it is." Lassiter steeled himself for the avalanche of teasing criticism he was sure was about to pour over him.
"I never noticed how odd those shots to the torso were before," Shawn said. "It almost looks as if there was a second shooter." Shawn didn't bother to wrap the observation in a psychic guise, but Lassiter was too elated to notice.
Of course! If there was a second shooter then the bag boy had to have been lying about how the robbery had gone down.
"I knew something didn't feel right about that eyewitness account. Thanks Spencer."
"Shawn. After last night, you're calling me Shawn."
"Thanks Shawn."
"No problemo."
"I'm leaving for work in about twenty minutes," Lassiter said. "I can drop you off at the Psych office if you like." He certainly couldn't show up at the station with him in tow. It would raise too many questions, and he didn't want to have to deflect the good-natured jokes that his coworkers would make, never realizing they were right on the money.
"That'd be great." That smile again.
Lassiter relaxed a little more. Of course maybe Spencer—Shawn—had reasons of his own for keeping things private. They finished their breakfast and Shawn showered and dressed. Finally he emerged from the bedroom, carrying his duffle bag.
"Leave your stuff." Lassiter grabbed his briefcase and keys.
"Really?" There was hope in Shawn's voice. Lassiter felt his chest swell. Shawn wasn't sorry about last night.
"Like I said, you can stay here until you get yourself situated." The thought of Shawn sleeping in that storage locker was intolerable. Providing him with a descent place to crash for a few days was the least he could do. And if that meant that they had a few more repeats of last night, he wasn't exactly going to complain.
Lassiter paced in front of the tiny storefront that was Burt's Boots, holding his key in his increasingly sweaty palm. In addition to being Lassiter's go-to guy for shoe repair, Burt also cut keys.
It's not like there's a relationship going on here. Lassiter assured himself. Giving Spencer a key is just…practical. It was like when his sister visited, even if she had moved into a hotel room after the second day. The simple fact was that his schedule didn't permit him to be on hand all the time, and he certainly didn't want Shawn camped out on his steps for everyone to see and wonder about.
It's not like I'm asking him to move in with me. It's a few nights, and having his own key will help keep things discreet.
But as he handed the key over to Burt and watched the sparks fly as he ground out a copy, he realized that it wouldn't hurt to take a few precautions anyway. Just enough to give him the heads up if Shawn turned out to be as indiscreet as…well, as he usually was.
"The mustard is on the hotdog," Shawn said, when Gus entered the Psych office that afternoon. "I repeat: the mustard is on the hotdog."
Gus stared at Shawn, his face grave. "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means." He handed Shawn a pineapple smoothy and set his own blueberry explosion on a coaster on his desk.
Too obvious?" Shawn asked, around sips of pineapple goodness. "Shall I return to space metaphors? How about if I said Lassie was 'engaged in maneuvers in the Alpha Quadrant.' Or that his starship had entered a wormhole?" He sucked deeply on the straw.
"Well, I guess I should say congratulations," Gus said, sitting at his desk. "Was there a date involved or did you go right into awkward metaphors?"
"We seem to have jumped past the whole 'dating' stage to the 'living together' stage," Shawn admitted. "It's as if there's a warp in the space time continuum located in his pants."
"Living together?" Gus's hand paused half way to his slurpee. He leaned back, and grasped the edge of his desk. "That's a pretty big leap. What happened to taking things slow? You usually take months to work up to giving someone a drawer."
"Things are different with Lassie," Shawn admitted. "He's a member of a proud warrior race, and I like that. From the sweet glow he gets when he's having impure thoughts to the cold steel of his Glock 17, he's hard to resist." He set the slurpee down on his desk. There was no way he could tell Gus about the storage locker situation. He sighed. "But you're right. It is moving fast."
"You're moving at warp factor six," Gus commented. "In the original series that was as fast as the ship could safely go." He began to open the mail, not looking a Shawn. "You might want to think about scaling it back a notch. If you want to the relationship to work, that is."
Shawn returned to his slurpee. He'd never lived with someone like this before, and despite the risks, he was hoping to enjoy it as long as it lasted.
Back at the station, the report Lassiter was reading filled him with both annoyance and a strange sense of inevitability. He prided himself on always following the evidence, and as usual, the evidence was starting to support Shawn's crazy theories.
The house on North Alisos where they'd found the body of Marla Roberts had been furnished with prop items stolen from the film set. According to the props master, the producers had ordered all the items used in the film to be stored for auction. Although he sometimes visited his sister on set, Jeffrey Robarts would not have the kind of free access that would have been required to get at those props. They had to be looking at a film set insider with a knowledge of procedures. Someone like Creighton Morris. Or, Lassiter thought sourly, any of the numerous personal assistants, gophers or actors they had running around the place.
"Here's some news that might cheer you up," O'Hara said, smiling and rocking lightly on her heels. "Guess who's just been appointed director on the Resident Evil reboot?" she asked.
"How about if you tell me before I have to read about it in the checkout line," Lassiter grumbled.
"Patricia Teresa Kayne, Marla Robarts' business partner. We got word from the studio just now."
"You don't say?" Lassiter brightened. Given the prestige and financial perks of directing, Kayne had just moved to the top of his suspect list. "Very well, O'Hara. Let's bring her in for an interview." He hoped they had better luck finding Kayne than they were having tracking down Jeffrey Robarts. There'd been no sign of him for days now. Lassiter was beginning to wonder if they should be looking for a body instead of a suspect.
Forty minutes later O'Hara approached his desk with that determined smile he'd come to think of as her game face.
"Kayne's in interview room 2."
"Great." Lassiter slapped the report down on his desk. "I'll run point. You take observation. If I get a sense that we need a softer approach we'll switch off."
O'Hara grimaced. "Oh, I don't think the soft touch is going to work on her. Good luck in there."
Lassiter was halfway across the bullpen when he heard Shawn Spencer's voice ring out.
"Lassie! Fancy meeting you here."
Lassiter paused mid-step. He finally had a chance to make some headway on the Robarts case and he was not going to allow Shawn to ruin that, regardless of how much he might enjoy that thing he did with his tongue.
"The spirit world is abuzz with the news that you've brought Patricia Kayne in for questioning." Shawn made movements with his fingers that Lassiter assumed was meant to represent spiritual buzzing.
"How do you know that?" He narrowed his eyes at Shawn. In answer, Shawn put his middle and index finger to his temple, vaguely reminding him of the Cub Scout salute. He grabbed Shawn by the arm and dragged him into an alcove by the stairs.
"Nothing about last night gives you free rein over this station, Spencer." He kept his voice low. Hopefully this would look like any other day in which he had to tell off the annoying psychic.
"You're calling me Shawn now, remember?"
"Not at work I'm not."
"Come on," Shawn wheedled. "I just want to sit in on the interview. You're in charge. You're in the captain's chair. Think of me as watching through that Viewmaster thing at Mr. Spock's desk. What is that thing anyway?"
Lassiter looked at Shawn's quizzical expression. It was getting more difficult to say no to him—a problem he had not anticipated.
"You can sit in the observation room with O'Hara," he offered. But no banging on the glass and no shouting suggestions."
"You know how my process works," Shawn complained, following Lassiter as he turned and walked toward the interview room. "I need to be there, see people, feel things, touch things, taste, bite if need be."
Lassiter blushed.
"I need all six senses working overtime."
Lassiter paused and turned on Shawn. "We have five senses." In no way did anything he'd done last night mean that he was going to support Shawn's pretence of having psychic powers.
"Maybe regular people do." Shawn put his fingers to his temple, implying that he was reading the world through some additional sense, akin to picking up radio waves. "But I also have my sense of style and my sense of humour, so I guess I have eight. Maybe more. But I think eight is enough, don't you?"
Lassiter looked at Shawn's pouting lips, remembered how nice they'd been to him last night, and caved.
"Fine, you can sit in. But keep your mouth shut."
"That's not what you said last—" Shawn began to say, but was silenced by a glare from Lassiter as he led the way down the hall.
Patricia Kayne was a tall, thin woman with a severe bob of dark hair. She wore an expensive wool suit and looked entirely unimpressed by Lassiter's attempt at an intimidating stare. She sat with her chair turned, and rested an arm casually on the long oak table.
"I'm head detective Carlton Lassiter, and this is our consultant, Shawn Spencer." He pointed his pen at Shawn, who had seated himself on the table, despite the fact that there were two free chairs in the room. "So Patricia Teresa Kayne," Lassiter leafed through a file. "It says here you've been Marla Robarts' business partner for six years now." He liked having a file to use as a prop in an interrogation. It implied that he knew a lot about the suspect already.
"I go by P.T., like P.T. Barnum."
Makes sense, Lassiter thought, considering what a circus this case was turning into.
"Fine. P.T."
"Yes. Marla and I direct pictures." A brief glimmer of something that might have been guilt or regret washed across her face and was quickly gone again. "We did. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. I just wrapped a rom-com with Emma Roberts. It's slotted for a Christmas release." She looked at Lassiter evenly. "You look like an Emma Roberts fan, detective."
Lassiter, who had enjoyed Roberts in Nancy Drew, but not so much in Scream 4, leaned back, crossed his arms and looked down his nose at the suspect before him.
"And now you've been chosen to take over directing the Resident Evil movie."
"Well done, Detective." Kayne dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Even variety doesn't have that yet."
"Kayne Careens from Rom Com to Zom Bomb." Shawn said. Then, at a glare from Kayne and Lassiter, he added, "Not that I think your picture will bomb. I meant it like Bombshell. Sounded better in my head."
"Did you and Marla ever discuss the film she was directing?" Lassiter asked, trying to pull the interview back on track.
"Of course." Kayne glanced at Shawn, who was now leaning on his side, propped up on an elbow, seemingly ignoring her. "It's damn lucky we did. Now I'm able to take up where she left off without losing time in the shooting schedule."
"Creighton Morris seemed to think he'd get the job," Shawn said.
Kayne laughed, a short sharp sound like a bark. "If Creighton directed this picture, within a week they'd be so deep in a financial hole they'd never crawl out. The producers know that. Everyone knows that but him. He never had a chance." She laughed again. "Creighton has an over-inflated sense of his own importance."
Lassiter sighed and tried not to look at Shawn.
"And as Marla's business partner you had access to the film set?" he asked, consulting the file again.
"Of course. Where are you going with this?" Kayne crossed her arms.
Lassiter closed the file and tucked it under his arm. "We have proof that the killer had access to Robarts' office and was intimately familiar with the procedures involved on set."
Kayne smiled. "Someone like me, in fact?"
"Are you a lesbian, Ms. Kayne?" Lassiter asked.
"What's that got to do with Marla's murder?" Kayne seemed genuinely confused, and slightly annoyed.
"Since you asked," He slowly circled Kayne in what he hoped was an ominous, shark-like manner—an effect he realized was seriously undercut by the fact that Shawn seemed to be sprawled over half the table. "Maybe it had everything to do with it. Maybe Marla was planning to tell people about your affair, so she killed her." He jabbed the air in front of Kayne with a finger. "You had access to the film set, you stole those props, and you planted the knife and the bloody clothing in her brother's closet."
Kayne laughed and shook her head. "You're off the rails. Marla and I were partners in business only. But even if we were more than that, why would I have a motive for killing her?"
"Because being unmasked would have destroyed your career," Lassiter said, feeling the words stick in his throat as he spoke them.
Kayne barked again. "Detective, I work in the film industry. All they care about is how much money the last project made so they can get the next one greenlit. My sex life doesn't even come into it. I could be sleeping with half the Laker Girls for all they care."
Shawn, lying almost boneless on the table, cut in. "The murderous lesbian thing has been done to death. It's totally 1985."
"I don't know," Lassiter said. "It sounds pretty reasonable to me."
"No, Mr. Green, lesbianism is just a red herring." Shawn sat up, hopped off the table and waved a hand dismissively. "We're looking for something less Single White Female." He leaned against the stucco wall and smiled at Lassiter. "Something more Columbo."
"Oh I'm sorry," Lassiter said sarcastically. "But this is police work, not some ABC movie of the week. In police work, we follow the evidence." Although even he had to admit that the evidence against Kayne wasn't particularly strong. Yet.
"Columbo was on NBC," Shawn said, smiling. "They're the one with the peacock." He spread his fingers on both hands to suggest the colourful tail of the NBC logo. "They also had Rockford Files and Police Woman."
P.T. Kayne looked at Shawn and Lassiter with narrowed eyes and a smirk on her crimson lips. "So is it a rule now that the gay cops interview the lesbians?"
"What?" Lassiter stood frozen in place, thinking of O'Hara behind the mirror and wondering what she must be thinking.
Kayne indicated Shawn with a toss of her head. "I see the way he looks at you. You're a couple, right?"
"No." he said defensively. Oh God, he thought. Could people somehow tell what they'd done? "What could possibly make you think—" Then he smiled and wagged a finger at her. "Oh, I see. You're trying misdirection."
Kayne shook her head curtly. "My gaydar is never wrong."
"Oh really?" Lassiter put his hands on his hips and smiled his most menacing smile.
Kayne nodded, unfazed. "Yep. Let's just say I don't get invited to the Scientology barbeques anymore."
Lassiter turned to Shawn. "Shawn—I mean Spencer. Tell her there's nothing going on."
"There's nothing going on," Shawn said. Lassiter was pretty sure that his look of injured innocence wasn't convincing Kayne. He hoped it was more convincing to O'Hara.
"Well boys, don't think you can push me around by playing the rainbow family card. I had nothing to do with Marla's death. I loved Marla." She smiled icily at Lassiter. "In a totally non-lesbo way. I hope whoever killed her gets the chair."
"Actually," Lassiter said, "in the state of California you get to choose between lethal injection or cyanide gas. If you want my advice, take the injection. Gas is nasty."
"Your threats don't mean anything to me, detective." Kayne stood. "Unless you have something relevant to ask me, this interview is over. You can talk to my lawyers."
"Nothing says 'innocent' like lawyering up," Lassiter said petulantly.
"Detective, I work in a cut-throat multibillion dollar industry," Kayne said. "I lawyer up when I get out of bed in the morning." She walked coolly out of the room.
Shawn clapped his hands together. "Well, I think that went well, don't you?"
Lassiter hung his head. "Get out, Spencer."