To bring the minds of three or four,
or sometimes a gang of detectives to bear on a problem,
is not only to disperse the interest and break the direct thread of logic,
but to take an unfair advantage of the reader.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

-x-

12.

Lassiter was again away from his desk. Buzz was beginning to wish he had a way of pinning the detective to his chair. Every time Buzz swept through the first-floor section, he was disappointed to find his supervisor missing.

Hopeful, Buzz stopped in front of O'Hara. Her fingers flew over the heavy keyboard keys, but suspended mid-word when she felt his humble presence.

A quick glance at the empty chair across the room told Juliet what Buzz wanted. "I don't know where he is. He was hoping that Forensics would have the hair from the trunk matched with the hair from Anabel Ingelow."

Buzz nodded, but that's not exactly the info he wanted. "The chief says I should go over Mr. Bledsoe's hovel—I mean home—again. Maybe we missed something the first time."

"I have mountains of paperwork to get through, McNab, and this robbery case is just making my blood absolutely boil."

"That sounds painful," he replied, taking it a little more literally than he should've. "I know you're busy with that robbery and all, but I was thinking—do you think Shawn would go with me?"

Juliet's studious glance to a distant workspace concluded with a raise of her eyebrows. "Why don't you ask both Spencers to go with you? And find Kennedy. She needs more street time."

"Right," nodded McNab. "Thanks. And while I'm at it," he leaned into her slightly, lowering his voice if unable to entirely lower his height, "I'll see if I can butter up Shawn into looking at that robbery case."

Juliet tried not to be too happy at the idea. "Would you? Because it's just—it's just not in my wheelhouse at all."

He clicked his tongue, winked, and pointed at her. "You got it."

"That was so creepy," O'Hara said, frightened into a deadpan expression. "Don't do that again."

Buzz cleared his throat, trying to rid the air between them of awkwardness. At Mr. Spencer's desk, he paused. Shawn Spencer's father was a little old-school. He still preferred paper files and street work to utilizing anything that came off the computer. But, of course, Henry Spencer wasn't exactly a police officer, either. Buzz had heard from Lassiter that Spencer had retired far earlier than he should've. Buzz promised himself that he'd never cut his own career short—unless he had to, lest he end up emotionally embattled like Henry Spencer. Shawn, on the other hand…

"What is it, McNab?"

McNab was beginning to feel like Goldilocks: never quite finding the most comfortable place to be. For a nice and sunny Sunday in late August, everyone was in kind of a cranky mood. Except him, as usual. "Uh, just wondering if you and Shawn would like to take a look at Bledsoe's hovel—I mean home—" he was so embarrassed to have made the same slip-up twice in three minutes, "again. We might've missed something."

"Isn't Shawn still at home?" Henry glanced at Lassiter's empty desk, feeling a strange awareness of doing it, too. He so deeply associated Shawn with Carlton, and Carlton with Shawn, it was impossible to separate the two. "Where's Lassiter? It's his case. Take Kennedy with you. She needs more street time." He unwittingly repeated what O'Hara had said, returning to his file. Part of the file was Shawn's work into the Hayworth case. Shawn's important but eerily unfinished work.

Buzz lingered. "The thing is, Mr. Spencer—the thing is—is that I'm not naturally observant like you, and I'm definitely not psychic like Shawn. I might miss something. Again."

Unable to forgive himself if it turned out that way, Henry closed the folder and, standing, threw his suit coat over his arm. "Let me call Shawn and find out where he is. Although if he's anywhere other than at home in front of the TV, watching God knows what garbage with Hank Ingelow, I'd be surprised."

Buzz gave a small smile. He'd liked seeing Shawn and Carlton with Hank, and Shawn's ability to sign and Lassiter's comic inability to sign added a nice layer to the whole image.

Seconds later, though, Henry was cursing his son's lacking awareness. "He's not answering. That figures."

Buzz thought it was ironic. He wanted Shawn to go to the Bledsoe place to help see things that no one else could see, and Henry was berating his son for not realizing—through some psychic vibration—that he was needed. There hadn't been a parent-child duo at the Santa Barbara Police Department since 1973. And, back then, there were no cell phones that the parent could use to kick the kid into action.

By chance, they ran into Lassiter in the stairwell. He was coming up from one of the storage rooms on the ground floor, while McNab and Spencer the Elder were heading out the door.

"We're going back to the Bledsoe place. Do you know where Shawn is?" Henry suspected that Lassiter had a good guess, if he didn't know outright.

"Probably out shopping," answered Carlton. "He was going to get a few things for Hank. I'll go with you. I wanted to go back over there today, anyhow." But, like them, he'd been hoping that Shawn would tag along. It wasn't really Shawn's case, though, and he was better off—maybe—spending his time with Hank. It seemed like Shawn was the only one in Santa Barbara with the talent to keep Hank Ingelow from falling into silence.

He had information to drop off at his desk. Passing O'Hara, she stopped him for a Question and Answer session.

"Did you find McNab and Henry?"

"Yes. We're going to Bledsoe's."

"Did you get the results back yet on that hair found in the sea chest?"

"Yes." He let out a long, low breath. "It doesn't match Anabel Ingelow's."

"It does?"

"It does not," Carlton corrected. "Not a match. And there's no testable DNA, either. So. I've been welcomed back to Square One."

Juliet wasn't sure what to think of this. On the one hand, it made sense that it wasn't Anabel's. On the other hand, it brought another layer of mystery to the hair in the sea chest. "Shawn going with you over to Bledsoe's?"

"No." He failed to say why. "How's that robbery case coming along?"

But the look of exasperation and fatigue on her face was enough.

"I'll try again to get Shawn to look at it."

"McNab said he'd try, too. But I don't want you to bother. I don't want Shawn to revolt against crime-solving," she threw a little tantrum, "even though he's so, so ridiculously good at it!"

"I know," Carlton said quietly. "Want some good news?"

"I'd love some good news."

"The nickel rivet we uncovered on the street matches a missing rivet from the jeans Zach Ingelow was wearing that night. They're are being processed now as evidence. It means we get to hold him a little longer. At least it puts him near the place where she was found. And, what little he did say, he always denied being anywhere near the Hayworth place."

Juliet wasn't sure what to think of this, either.

Neither did Carlton. Somehow, someway, Zach Ingelow was involved in his wife's death. If they didn't find Nina Grayson soon, what would happen to Hank Ingelow? He tried to keep Juliet from hitting him with that very question. "Nothing in the crime lab will come through until tomorrow. I'll still see if I can get Shawn to look at that robbery case. You've been at it a week and a half. Sure you don't want to come with us? Might get your head away from it."

Juliet threw up her hands, rising. "Yeah, okay. McNab will think I don't know my own mind."

McNab thought no such thing, of course. He was pleased O'Hara had decided to come along to the Bledsoe hovel—he had no shame using the pejorative noun 'hovel' during his inner narrative. That Shawn was absent bothered him only a little. Shawn would've been nice to have around, but maybe, at that point, something like an accessory. McNab wished to have Shawn there because Shawn's presence was missed, and had been missed for months. Shawn's change of life following his long stint in the hospital, that was understandable. Everyone reacted differently to change. But after his phone conversation with Shawn, Buzz really thought Shawn had an answer—or the vague representation of an answer—seeping slowly into the foreground. Eventually, one of them would realize what was going on. Though it was usually Shawn who knew far ahead of everyone else.

The old Gypsy Drive Car Wash had fallen into a sorry state of disrepair. McNab, having done homework, discovered that the plot of land was actually owned by a distant Hayworth relation who now resided in Las Vegas.

"The taxes are paid on it and everything," related McNab. "It's all paid automatically out of an account at the local Central Coast Credit Union. Nothing really astonishing there. But yikes," he said, now noticing the run-down condition of the place.

"What a dump," Lassiter said. Glad to have something to focus on that didn't have to do with his relationship with Shawn or Hank Ingelow's future, Lassiter picked on Homer Bledsoe's choice of residence. "Who'd live here—voluntarily? I mean, you'd have to be a functioning alcoholic to want to come back to a place like this day after day."

Buzz thought that was true. "Bledsoe's been hospitalized three times going back ten years. He was arrested once in 1987 for a DUI. He never renewed his license after it expired later that year."

"Guess it's good he's refrained from hitting the roads all these years," Henry said. He gave a shielded compliment to McNab for his ability to dig into things. There was nothing wrong with Buzz's ability to commit to the hard work involved when on a case. Even at six feet and five inches, six-six in his shoes, McNab was no slouch.

Henry edged toward the door. It was a metal fire door upon which layers of exterior latex paint were peeling off. The plastic sign overhead had yellowed and cracked with age, exposing the hollow interior where fluorescents once burned in the dark. A stereotypical gypsy woman smiling next to red text announced the name of the joint. Beyond the window, patched here and there with plywood, Henry saw no gleam of light or representation of life within.

"I don't see anything," he announced. His knuckles let out a deadened knock on the fire door. He doubted it'd be answered.

Something was happening in Lassiter's mind, however. He wasn't paying much attention to Henry and O'Hara's attempts to get Bledsoe to answer. His mind flailed back upon the recent history, in a kind of seeable rewind. He stopped at one point, replayed what he'd heard—then shot his head to McNab. "Did you say he was arrested in Eighty-seven?"

"Yeah," Buzz said, not sure what had sparked the detective's interest. He handed over the tablet when Lassiter reached for it. "Eighty-seven."

Lassiter's thoughts flared, bright as fireworks. Knowing he'd not be able to reach Shawn by phone, he called the next best thing. "Guster, it's Lassiter."

Gus got a little nervous whenever Carlton called him in the middle of the day and sounded more than a bit tense. So that was pretty much every time Lassiter called. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Look, when was it that the first sea chest was on the beach? Do you remember?"

"Eighty-seven. In the summer."

"Do you remember any date other than 'in the summer'?"

"August. Or July. It was hot. Wait." Gus moved newer memories out of the way. He wasn't as great at the semi-eidetic memory thing, like Barbara Gordon or Shawn Spencer, but he did all right for himself. He'd been thinking more and more of that summer the last couple of weeks, too. In fact, most of his childhood was beginning to come back to him in waves of color, light and nostalgia. "Wait, it was the second-to-last weekend, because Superman IV had just come out the day before. So it was a Saturday, I think. May I ask why this is relevant?"

Lassiter's eyes lit up. "Because Homer Bledsoe was arrested the night before that sea chest landed on the beach."

"So? It could be a coincidence."

"I'm hanging up now," Carlton said, borrowing one of Shawn's phrases. He did hang up, then gave the tablet over to Officer Kennedy. "You have the warrant?" he questioned both McNab and Kennedy.

McNab nodded, wondering what Lassiter was getting at with July '87 and Homer Bledsoe.

"Then let's get ourselves inside."

After no one answered Lassiter's announcement of who they were and who they were looking for, McNab didn't have to do much to get them across the dingy threshold: the door handle was unlocked and unbolted. The loose thing nearly came off in his hand. Gently, he lifted his grip while Lassiter, O'Hara and Spencer the Elder raced into the bleak hovel. The smells of ancient car polish and coffee hung thick in the stagnant air, but overpowering it all was the stale scent of alcohol. It was definitely the home of Mr. Bledsoe.

Officer Kennedy found him on a pile of blankets on the floor, in the next room over. He was unresponsive, his pulse weak. McNab eased the emptied bottle of cheap whiskey out of the old man's fingers before the emergency responders arrived.

-x-

From a distance, Shawn looked into the hospital room of Homer Bledsoe. Homer, still not entirely "with it" just yet, was no longer alone, at least. His half-sister sat next to the bed. The two held wrists, and Mrs. Glass looked plenty worried for the safety and care of her brother.

Shawn felt an awakening smack at his arm. "What?" he signed to Hank.

"What are you thinking? You look deep in thought."

Shawn had been thinking a whole mess of things. Where should he start? Hank, being like a miniature Shawn Spencer, would've preferred the pop-culture reference. "'Whatever Saves Me' by The Mary Onettes. It's a song. I'll give you the lyrics later."

"And," Hank paused, showing off his best impatient expression—his eyes were rich in expressions, "what else? I think they'll be all right. Were you thinking about my mother?"

"Your grandmother," Shawn confessed. "I'd like to know where she is—for your sake."

Disturbingly, Hank had no joyful response to this. "Grandma Nina had been acting all weird lately, anyhow. I thought she was going away somewhere for a while. She's done that before. Almost every year about this time."

The SBPD had never considered that Nina Grayson might've gone as far away as Timbuktu, or, for that matter, anywhere else along the once-prosperous trans-Saharan trade routes. Of course, she could be somewhere really remote and terrible when she was needed the most.

"Don't worry about it," Hank signed. "I'm not worried. I'm happy with you and Carlton."

"Thanks. We like having you, too. But that's not really the idea."

"I know," Hank said, shearing short the rest of his impressions of Grandma Nina. Another glance at Mrs. Glass and Homer the handyman, Hank thought they were still better off than he was. And Homer might've seen something that he hadn't wanted to—like the death of Anabel Ingelow. Hank rather doubted it.

"Stay close," Shawn told him. "I want to talk to Carlton and my dad for a minute. Wait." He fished his phone from his pocket and gave it to Hank. "Talk to Leighton. I'll be right back."

Carlton and Henry were in the middle of a conversation, so Shawn checked on Hank over his shoulder. The kid must've gotten a hold of his faraway boyfriend, as his thumbs were flying at nearly supersonic speed. The celerity of young love…

Shawn heard how Carlton had realized that Homer Bledsoe had been given a DUI the night that the first sea chest had shown up. At first, Shawn laughed, then, "—in Nineteen Eighty-Seven!" slipped out of his mouth with a fascinating and shocked boom in it. Carlton was surprised to find Shawn so unsure that the two situations were connected. "That was a long time ago, Lassie," Shawn tried to sound reasonable. "Is it on record where he was stopped for this DUI?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet," Lassiter said, choking on the words. He coughed a little. "O'Hara is looking into it. She thinks it's likely that the two things are connected. Unlike some people. And it's not like the liquor sponge in there is saying much."

"I doubt he remembers yesterday," Henry said, "let alone more than twenty-five years ago."

"I admit that it's a stretch, but it's the biggest lead we've had in the trunk case since—since forever," said Carlton. Why were the Spencers so obstinate sometimes? And why did he care? He was still the only cop standing in that circle of three. Shawn obviously had his reasons, but Carlton wouldn't hear them until later. "I'll tell you what I find out from O'Hara later, Shawn."

Shawn dove into a thoughtful pause. "Is she still working on that robbery case?"

"Armed robbery on Santa Rosa a week and a half ago. She wants you to look at it, if you can. It's been bothering her for more than nine days."

"The robbery was nine days ago?"

Carlton and Henry understood the implications of Shawn's question. He was picking up some obscured, marred and clandestine piece of information that they'd been blind to. Even Henry couldn't see it. Then again, the skills he'd imbued in Shawn had taken on a development far greater than he'd imagined at the onset so long ago.

"Ah, never mind," Shawn said, laughing and throwing his hands their way. "I'll stop by later, Lass, see if I can help Juliet and, if you're very good, take you for an ice cream cone. It'd be my second ice cream confectionery yumminess of the day, but I'm willing to put my stomach in jeopardy to show how much I love you—through the scientific wonder of soft serve."

Lassiter was amused and bothered. Once upon a time, he might've disbelieved the ice-cream-cone part—but now he was rather sure Shawn meant it. When Shawn turned back to Hank, the two of them entering their own private discourse, Lassiter shot a question to Henry. "Do you know what that was about?"

"I assume he's made some connection between the robbery that's been driving O'Hara nuts and Anabel Ingelow's death. But I don't know what that connection is. Didn't you say that robbery was on Santa Rosa?"

"The five-hundred block," Lassiter replied automatically, "right across from—" He froze, and all blood seemed to recede from the tips of his extremities; the back of his neck overheated. "It's right across the street from the St. Francis School for the Deaf."

Carlton felt like face-palming. Instead, he ran toward the lobby to stop Shawn from getting into the elevator. He was in time to see the doors shut on Hank and Shawn. But Shawn caught his look. A few seconds later, Carlton's phone blurted with a text message from Shawn.

"Way to go, Pooch! I knew you'd figure it out! ilu!11"