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Lassiter Rides the Pineapple Express	By : MsTeragram Category: M through R > Psych Views: 2561 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Psych. I make no money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Lassiter Rides the Pineapple Express
- 2-Lassiter Rides the Pineapple Express: Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
Shawn slid behind the
wheel of the red Crown Vic and adjusted the seat forward. Lassiter looked
around anxiously before climbing into the passenger seat.
This feels
entirely wrong, he thought as Shawn started the car and pulled
out of the park. But the only thing worse than the thought of Shawn driving his
car was what he could imagine happening if he tried to drive home by himself.
The detective closed his
eyes and leaned against the window. He realized that his muscles had been tense
for some time and were beginning to relax now that he was headed homeward. It
felt as if the energy was draining from every muscle in his body. Even his
eyelids felt heavy. He closed his eyes momentarily but quickly opened them actually
could fall asleep, and if this awful day was going to end with his career
intact that couldn't sat upright, opened the window and focussed on remembering
to be angry at Shawn for telling Guster everything at the press tent.
Finally as they neared
the apartment he spoke.
"So much for you
being a vault of secrets. You obviously told Guster everything."
"What makes you say
that?"
"How else could you
have convinced him to go to the hospital while you ferry me around? I mean,
gummed auras? Not believable. Unless you think Guster and O'Hara are high as
well."
"Seriously, Lassie.
The subject of your reefer madness never came up. I told him I wanted some
quality Lassiter time. Gus understands."
"Yeah. Right. Did he
laugh when you told him how I accidentally dosed myself?"
Shawn pulled the car to a
stop outside Lassiter's apartment. He turned off the ignition and leaned in
toward him.
"You want the
truth?"
"Of course I
do." Although judging from the intense look on Spencer's
face, maybe I don't.
"I told him I wanted
to get you alone so I could put the moves on you." Shawn raised an eyebrow
and leaned in toward him. Lassiter could feel the blood rushing through his
body, flushing his face. Just when he had concluded that Shawn actually
expected them to kiss, the fake psychic broke out in a smile and jumped out of
the car.
It was a joke.
Of course it was. Spencer wasn't actually...didn't really mean...wouldn't want....
The very idea of Spencer
trying to 'put the moves on him' was preposterous. He laughed at the absurdity
of the situation. It was ridiculous to think that he would have kissed Spencer,
despite having finished the remains of his slurpee. He was infuriating and
exasperating and attention-seeking and strangely touchy-feely. Just imagining
it made him laugh.
Spencer came around to
the passenger side of the Crown Vic and opened the door.
"It'll be easier to
pass you off as not-high if you can cut down on the hysterical giggling there,
Lassiface."
Lassiter swung his legs
out. It felt like he was wearing iron shoes. Shawn grabbed his arms and pulled
him out and upright. Lassiter was suddenly aware of how close Shawn's body was,
and of the heat that was radiating off of him. Or is that my
imagination?
Shawn shut the car door
then guided Lassiter up to the apartment and let them inside.
"Okay Lassie, we
need to get you out of these clothes, showered and back into your detective
costume, quick like Batman."
"There's no we for
this part, Spencer. I can undress and shower all by myself." At
least I hope I can.
"Are you sure you
don't want me to scrub your back or stand by with towels? We don't want a nasty
accident, do we? What if you fell and slipped into a coma?"
Lassiter laughed.
"If I slip into a
coma, I'll call you."
Lassiter walked slowly to
the bathroom, focussing on being as unhigh as possible. Getting to the bathroom
unaided would prove his competence to shower alone, but was more difficult than
he had expected. It was as if there was a switch in his head that kept getting
flicked. One moment he was sure that the drug had worn off and he was now fine.
In the next moment he felt too intoxicated to move or speak.
He turned on the light,
entered the bathroom and then started the water running in the shower. He
didn't shut the door because it occurred to him that if he did fall he'd want
Shawn to be able to save him, however humiliating that would be.
He leaned against the
sink and pulled off his socks and shorts.
So far so good.
We're half way there.
He began to pull off his
t-shirt. He pulled and pulled, his head trapped in a seemingly endless swath of
fabric, his arms bound and failing to bend where he thought they should. He was
lost in his shirt. He felt short of breath and struggled harder to free
himself, which only made it tighter and more constricting. At the same time the
room seemed to be spinning and he had a distinct sensation that he was now
falling through the floor. His attempts to counterbalance only made him
unsteady on his feet and he knew he was moments away from falling.
Great, he
thought. I'm freaking out.
Lassiter felt as if he
were two people. One of him was trapped, claustrophobic, and clearly going to
die. The second was rational, understood that he was just tangled in a t-shirt,
and not in actual danger except from the panic. This second person could only
watch helplessly as he fought against the dark suffocating mass constricting
around him.
I'm going to
die in my bathroom, he thought glumly, and they're
going to test my blood and find the drugs and they'll all remember me as the
cop who died because he was too high to remember how a t-shirt worked.
Although he hadn't called
for help, he must have been making noise, because suddenly Shawn was there. He
spoke in soft reassuring tones, and wrapped an arm around Lassiter's waist to
hold him upright.
"Reeeelax," he
said. "I've got you."
Lassiter couldn't
remember having felt so relieved. Shawn slowly untangled the attacking shirt
from his arms and head, and then tossed it to the floor. Lassiter grabbed
Shawn's shoulders to steady himself and gasped for air. The sinking, spinning
feeling was still there, but the sense of certain doom was gone. Shawn cupped
Lassiter's jaw in his hands and looked into his eyes for an indication that the
panic was subsiding.
Lassiter was not what
anyone would have described as touchy-feely. Being this close to someone
usually meant he was subduing them prior to arrest, or he was having sex.
Standing there naked, with Shawn's hands on his face, felt a lot more like the
latter situation. He breathed slowly and deliberately, feeling what he could
only call excitement buzzing through his blood.
Lassiter's mind wandered
to his relationships. So many of them were based on how well he played the role
people wanted—perfect cop, partner, or husband. He had put a lot of work
into excelling in all these areas of his life. But how many people really knew
him for who he was? How much of himself did he hold back from O'Hara? They'd
developed a sense of respect and even camaraderie, but she really didn't know
the first thing about him as a person. That birthday fiasco was a prime
example. It was the same with Victoria. In a way, she hadn't even divorced him;
she'd divorced the husband he'd tried to be—the man he thought she wanted
him to be.
Obviously, he
thought, I was wrong about that.
"Are you still in
there, Lassie?" Shawn asked nervously.
Lassiter realized that
there was someone who saw through all his protective facades and seemed to like
him anyway. Now, standing there together, he felt like Shawn was really seeing
him. He assumed it must be an effect of the drug, but instead of feeling
terrifying and exposed it felt reassuringly intimate. He relaxed and allowed
himself to dwell in the experience. It seemed as if it was going on forever,
and always had been.
I'm standing
naked in front of him, he thought, and all he wants to look at
is my eyes? In that moment Lassiter realized that on some level
he wanted to do more than just look Shawn in the eyes. Tightening his grip on
Shawn's shoulders, he pulled him forward and tentatively pressed his lips to
Shawn's. Aside from the rough stubble, it wasn't all that strange. Shawn's lips
were soft and hesitant. They kissed cautiously at first, and then Lassiter
gently urged his mouth open with his tongue. Suddenly Shawn was responding and
the kiss deepened to something intense, wet, and achingly sexual. Lassiter
groaned at the rush of exhilaration and lust that coursed through him. The feel
of Shawn's fully clothed body pressed against his bare skin was powerfully
arousing and vaguely kinky. Shawn tasted faintly of pineapple smoothie and
Lassiter recalled his earlier remarks. He'd been right. Sharing his drink was
nothing like French kissing. Just when he began to wonder what he was supposed
to do next Shawn pulled back, pushing gently but firmly on Lassiter's chest.
"Well," Shawn
said, looking away and laughing. "I guess it's true what they say about
skinny guys and penis size. Maybe you can use that thing for leverage and we'll
try to get you into the shower." Shawn motioned to the bedroom. "I'll
just go grab you some clothes. You know what they say�no shirt, no shoes, no
service weapon." He quickly backing out of the bathroom door.
And now he's
running away.
Lassiter stood gasping
and shaking, trying to slow his breathing and adjust to the adrenaline coursing
through his system.
What the hell
were you thinking? Lassiter went over the past ten minutes in his
mind. He'd clearly misinterpreted the signals and taken Spencer's bizarre sense
of humour and complete lack of personal space as a sign of interest.
Bolting from the room is not a good sign.
He ran a hand over his
face and sighed. He definitely felt like he needed a shower; he reeked of guilt
and stupidity. He turned on the water and waited for it to warm, trying to
direct his mind to non-sexual topics like preparing his taxes, or his ex
father-in-law, or cleaning his gun. Although that last one now
sounds like a euphemism.
Maybe I can
blame the drugs.
And say what?
Sorry, Spencer, drugs made me gay but I'm better now?
This doesn't
need to make things awkward between us forever.
You're kidding,
right?
As the warm water washed
over him Lassiter had a realization. He had been flirting with
Spencer. Not only had he permitted him to pass even the most
liberal boundaries of personal space, but he'd been pursuing contact.
Bearhugging him in the parking lot of the McCallum house...wrestling him in the
kitchen of the Hotel De La Cruz...slamming him against walls at the station. It
was classic sublimation. And the things he'd said to him in Tom Blair's Pub
after all that scotch—he remembered more than he cared to admit. And now
he'd just played some kind of game of vulnerability chicken with him and
Spencer had blinked first.
Shawn came into the
bathroom carrying a folded stack of clothes, which he sat on the counter by the
sink.
"Okay, I've got you
a lovely dark suit and a blue tie, to compliment the hair and the eyes" he
said. "Frankly I'm surprised a guy like you has boxers. I expected
Superman Underoos."
Lassiter shut off the
water and stood there, dripping behind the frosted glass of the shower door.
After a few seconds he realized that he was afraid to come out of the shower.
Of course! It's
not enough that I'm having drug-induced paranoia, my brain needs to dredge up
some heterosexual panic just to spice things up.
"Can you pass me
some towels, please?" he asked, motioning to a stack on a silver metal
shelf.
"Sure." Shawn
passed two towels over the shower door but didn't make eye contact.
Lassiter wrapped one
towel tightly around his waist and opened the shower door. He stepped out onto
the bath mat and used the second towel to dry his hair.
Shawn stepped toward him,
but kept out of kissing distance.
"Listen Lassie, I
want to acknowledge this thing going
on here," he moved his hands back and forth between them.
"Spencer, I—
"
"You know what I'm
talking about," Shawn cut him off. "But I'm not going to try to jump
you, so you can just relax, okay?"
"I didn't think
that," Lassiter said. He avoided looking at Shawn, instead focussing on
towelling off his arms and chest. Obviously Spencer was trying to diffuse
things by pretending that what had happened was just their usual competitive
roughhousing taken to its extreme. It was a relief in a way. It was definitely
better than having the 'I like you as a friend' talk. He was tired of those.
Shawn laughed. "Give
me a call when you're no longer stoned and we'll do paintball or something. But
I warn you, I only put out on the third date. Or on special occasions, like
birthdays. Or if it gets dark at all."
Lassiter froze
momentarily. His heart was pounding and he thought he could hear the blood in
his veins. A new thought came to him with alarming certainty. Spencer
had been coming on to him. Not just now, but since the beginning. He
could see all their interactions in an entirely new light. Spencer, constantly
remarking on his physical appearance�offering him hugs...touching his legs, his
arms, his head...slapping his ass at the Monarch Lodge...sitting in his lap.
"You...really mean
that, don't you?" he asked. His guts clenched anxiously as he waited for
the answer.
Shawn smiled, wide and
relaxed, and looked up at him, with no trace of guile discernable in his hazel
eyes. "I do. I really do." He laughed and shrugged expressively.
"I'd like nothing better than to play the Bender to your Claire and give
you the hot beef injection past eleven on a school night. You're tall, pale and
handsome in a Hill Street Blues kind of way. But you've ingested an intoxicating
substance, Lassie. I wouldn't want to break California Penal Code 261A3. So
let's put this whole sexual tension thing on the back burner and get you to the
station."
The station! He
was supposed to be working on a case and he had no idea how long he'd been standing
in his bathroom.
He walked over to the
stack of clothes. One of his kitchen chairs stood nearby.
"I thought the chair
might make it easier for you to dress," Shawn said. Lassiter sat and
dressed as swiftly as he could, relying on muscle memory for most of it.
"I don't feel good
about carrying a gun in this condition, Spencer."
"Come on
Lassie," Shawn said. "If you left your gun at home everyone would
think you were high or something."
Shawn held the suit
jacket for him then walked around to the front and looked at him critically.
"Does this look right?" Lassiter asked, motioning to the clothes.
"Yes. Perfectly
normal. In no way do these clothes say 'I'm tripping.' Now if you went to work
wearing an aviators helmet and footy pajamas that'd be a different story."
He stepped in close and
adjusted his tie and picked a few pieces of lint off the sleeve.
"There. Now you look
just as great as you always do." Shawn ran his hands lightly down the
lapels and looking up at Lassiter from under his lashes. "You know what
I'd like to do with you right now?"
"Uh, no. I
don't." Although I can think of a few things that are
suddenly on my list.
"What I'd really
like to do right now...is put you in a competitive eating contest."
Lassiter looked down at
him with his serious face.
"Come on,"
Shawn said, laughing. "Pot is like the steroids of competitive eating.
Just consider it. For next time, maybe."
"Funny,"
Lassiter said seriously. "Let's get to the station."
"I call shotgun! Oh
wait. I call...what's the drivers seat called? Stagecoach?"
"Shut up,
Spencer."
On the way to the station
Shawn pulled into the parking lot of the Las Pamas Quick Stop.
"Why are we stopping
here?" Lassiter asked. If the clock on the dashboard was to be believed,
they'd already spent half an hour at his apartment.
"Stay in the
car," Shawn said. "I'm just got to grab something. You'll thank me
later."
Shawn returned to the car
with a plastic bag bulging at the seams.
"Here." He
pulled a bag of French Onion flavoured Sunchips out of the bag and passed them
to Lassiter. "Enjoy."
Although sceptical,
Lassiter opened the bag and began to eat. It was magical. They were easily the
creamiest most flavourful chips he had ever eaten.
"My God Spencer,
these are incredible."
"I know. Being bad
feels pretty good, huh?"
"What's the fat
content of these things?" Lassiter squinted at the nutritional information
on the back of the bag but had trouble focussing on the small print.
"A bazillion. But
pot makes you immune. Also, if you eat five bags of them you have your total
recommended dosage of potassium."
By the time they had
arrived at the station he had finished the Sunchips and was now enjoying the
smooth milk chocolate and chewy coconutiness of an Almond Joy. Holding the
Quick Stop bag possessively to his chest, Lassiter followed Shawn towards the
room where the AV equipment was set up.
"Oh! That's rough!
Play it again." Buzz's voice and O'Hara's laughter echoed down the hall.
As they entered O'Hara
and Buzz looked up with guilty expressions. O'Hara's hair was wet.
She's been home
to shower and change as well, Lassiter thought. I
bet she didn't take forty minutes and stop off for snacks.
"What in the hell is
going on here?" Lassiter asked. He was still Head Detective, even if he
wasn't very useful at the moment.
"We're sorting
through the footage from the race," Buzz said, trying unsuccessfully to
look serious.
"What's so
funny?" Could they be laughing at me,
Lassiter wondered. Did they know?
"It's the footage of
the woman who was hit by the ice truck." O'Hara said nervously.
"What's funny about
being hit by a truck?" Lassiter asked.
"It's not really a
truck," Buzz said. "It's just a little vehicle that delivers ice.
It's like a golf cart. Maybe it is a golf cart. Or made by the same company
that makes golf carts."
"Oh just watch
it." O'Hara grabbed the remote and pressed the play button.
The scene was a wide shot
of a section of the 10-mile race. Spectators clapped as the runners went by and
water volunteers hurried up to them, passing out cups. Vince Gabriel entered
the shot from screen left, but it was clear that he was already having trouble.
He stumbled, fell, then lay on the ground gasping and panting. People began to
shout and run toward him.
"What's funny about
this?" Lassiter demanded. Even if the guy was a media hound that didn't
mean he wanted to see him poisoned.
"Wait for it..."
Buzz said.
From the left side of the
screen a young blonde woman wearing a grey backpack ran into view. Like the
other spectators she was focussed on the fallen television star.
"Wait for it..."
Buzz and O'Hara both smiled and cringed in anticipation.
Suddenly a golf cart
drove in from screen right. The driver was looking over toward the throng
around Vince Gabriel. The little ice truck and the running woman collided,
hard. She flipped over it in dramatic Johnny Knoxville style.
"Ow!" Lassiter
and Shawn winced and O'Hara and Buzz laughed.
"That's gotta
hurt!" Shawn laughed.
"So help me,"
Lassiter said, pointing his finger menacingly at each of them in turn, "if
one of you posts this to Youtube I will be so pissed. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir."
O'Hara and Buzz looked at one another and stifled their smiles.
"Good."
Lassiter pulled up a chair and sank gratefully into it, opening a bag of Miss
Vickie's Sea Salt and Vinegar chips. "Let's see that again." He
offered the bag to Buzz and O'Hara. "Chip?"
Having had their fill of
slapstick they settled down to watch the earlier footage, looking for signs of
anyone handing Vince Gabriel poisoned water. It was a hopeless task. Dozens of
people were passing out little paper cups of water. More people were pouring
the water into the little cups. Any one of them could have had the opportunity
to poison him.
Spencer swore
we'd find the evidence we needed in this footage. I guess I'm not the only one
who'd going to look a fool today, he thought.
Instead of the warm glow of superiority this normally would have given
him he kind of felt bad for the guy. Well, he can't be right all the
time.
Lassiter cracked the top
on a bottle of water and took a long gulp. Then he began devouring a bag of
Cheetos. Their cheesy crunchiness was like eating sunshine.
O'Hara's cell phone rang
and she answered it anxiously. After a brief conversation she turned to
Lassiter.
"That was the
hospital. Vince Gabriel is awake, but he doesn't remember who passed him water.
He barely even remembers being in the marathon."
"Great!"
Lassiter sighed. "There goes out best witness." He turned back to the
footage. Their only chance now was to find someone suspicious in the footage,
drag them in for questioning, and hope that they broke. He spotted three of the
kids from the dessert table, and the ice truck woman, oblivious to her future
staring role in her own Jackass video. Vince Gabriel's personal assistant was
in several of the shots giving orders to volunteers and yelling into her
Bluetooth headset phone.
I should haul
her in on principle, he thought. Of course Gabriel's assistant wouldn't need an
event like this if she wanted to poison him. But then it was an ideal
opportunity if she wanted to make it look like it had been a member of the
public. Assuming, of course, that we're correct in thinking that Gabriel was
targeted, and that this isn't a random thing. Or that he wasn't poisoned
earlier with some kind of time-release capsule.
Lassiter yawned. This
task was boring and probably hopeless. He crunched his Cheetos and allowed his
mind to wander.
Each person on the screen
was the subject of their own personal drama. It was as if he could see their
intentions stretching out like little vectors into their future. But it didn't
always go as we planned, did it? His vector, for instance, had been deflected
from its path first by dessert licking children and then by laced brownies. He
looked at his watch. He should have been eating crab legs and drinking beer
with Buzz, O'Hara, Dobson and Garcia by now. Spencer's plans for jerk chicken
had been derailed as their two vectors had collided in ways they hadn't
expected. He flashed back briefly to their kiss in the bathroom.
Collided.
Collision. The image of the woman and the ice truck came
vividly back to him. Only this time it wasn't funny. Lassiter sat upright in
his seat and looked at O'Hara.
"We have to go to
the hospital," he stood up and shut off the video.
"Are you feeling
okay?" O'Hara asked, concern furrowing her brow. "You've been a
little...off all day."
"I'm fine. Our
would-be killer is at the hospital. You drive." He tossed her the keys.
Juliet was almost frozen
with surprise. The last time Lassiter had allowed her to drive he'd had his arm
in a sling. She hurried after him.
With O'Hara and Lassiter
in the front of the Crown Vic, Shawn hopped into the back and leaned forward
with his arms around the headrests.
"I usually ride
shotgun," he said to O'Hara. "But the back is nice too. Very roomy
and soft. Hey, do you want me to drive and you can sit in the back?"
"Buzz is following
us in the squad car," O'Hara told him. "You could ride shotgun with
him."
"No thanks. I really
do need to be near Lassie. I've still got some aura scrubbing left to do."
He placed a hand on Lassiter's head and slowly began to mess up his hair.
"My aura is getting
much better, thanks." Lassiter grabbed Shawn's wrist and twisted it as he
pulled it free of his hair. Just because they'd had some kind of a moment
earlier didn't mean he was going to get free rein during working hours.
"Ow. Ow. Okay,"
Shawn was grinning as he rubbed his wrist. "If you don't mind risking an
aura collapse. I've seen it happen and it's not pretty. You know what? I'm glad
I'm sitting back here. Outside the spray zone." He motioned to the front
with his index fingers and leaned back.

Lassiter rushed into the
hospital and flashed his badge at the nurse behind the reception desk.
"You have a woman
brought in from the Cancer Run with a broken leg today. I need to speak with
her. Now."
The patient was lying in
her hospital bed with her leg in a cast suspended from a metal rigging. Gus was
sitting in a chair by the bed, reading to her from a Redbook magazine with
Vince Gabriel's face on the cover.
"Shawn. It's about
time." He motioned to the woman in the bed. "This is Miss Martin. She
was the lady hit by the ice truck at the park today."
"Vince Gabriel is
dead," Lassiter lied. "He died an hour ago from cyanide
poisoning."
"Oh my God. No.
No!" Miss Martin covered her face with her hands and her breath was a
series of gasping sobs.
"Is there something
you want to tell us?" O'Hara asked her gently.
"I think she wants
to tell us about how she put cyanide in Vince Gabriel's water today."
Lassiter said grimly.
"I didn't mean to
kill him," Miss Martin said between sobs.
"What did you think
would happen when you gave him cyanide?" O'Hara asked, all trace of
good-cop gone from her voice.
"She didn't try to kill
him," Lassiter said. "She tried to poison
him."
"Poison him, kill
him. Isn't that just semantics?" O'Hara asked.
"No, it's motive.
She poisoned him so she could save
him."
"It makes sense,
" Gus said. "Vice Gabriel is notorious for rewarding people for their
good deeds. Just imagine how he'd thank someone who saved his life."
O'Hara looked admiringly at him. He and Shawn did an unobtrusive fist bump.
"As plans go,"
Shawn said, "it is pretty solid."
"It still makes her
one sick puppy," Lassiter said.
"Maybe she has
Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy," Gus said.
Shawn looked at her
critically and shook his head. "I don't think so. She looks normal size to
me,"
"You're thinking of
Munchkins, Shawn. I'm talking about the drive to make someone sick so you can
get attention by helping them."
"Like that woman in
Misery," Shawn said, "with the...the....foot...thing." He made
sledgehammer motions with his arms.
"That movie was
messed up."
"Agreed."
Lassiter walked to the
closet and returned with the grey backpack she'd been wearing in the footage
from her collision with the ice truck.
"I bet when we
search this bag we'll find a cyanide antidote kit, won't we?" he asked
her.
"You can't look in
there." Martin struggled to bend far enough to wrestle the backpack out of
Lassiter's hands, but was stymied by the rigging for her leg. "You need a
warrant or something."
"Actually,"
Lassiter said, "your statement that you 'didn't mean to kill him' gives me
probable cause. I can search your bag whenever I like." He unzipped the
bag and pulled out the antidote kit, which was sitting right on top. Buzz
passed him an evidence bag and Lassiter sealed it inside. He turned to O'Hara. "Place
her under arrest. I'll go check this into evidence and get started on the
paperwork."
O'Hara held out the keys
to the Crown Vic.
"You hang onto
them," he said. "I'll grab a cab."
As they walked down the
hall Shawn patted him on the back.
"Nice Job, Detective.
And giving Jules the collar. That's so sweet of you."
Lassiter's smile made a
brief appearance then sank beneath his usual stern expression. "I figured
O'Hara should be the arresting officer...just in case."
"You seem to be
feeling better though. Am I right?" Shawn looked up at him hopefully.
"I'm actually able
to think in past, present and future, so yeah, I must be getting better."
It had been twenty minutes or so without any hallucinations, vibrations or
weird bodily sensations. He was pretty sure it was over now.
"I knew you'd figure
out it was the ice truck girl," Shawn said.
"Thanks."
Lassiter said, smiling again. "Wait." He stopped in the middle of the
hospital corridor and turned to face Shawn. "You knew it was her? Since
when?"
"Do you really want
to know?" Shawn took a step back and raised his hands to chest level in
mock surrender.
Lassiter sighed and
pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Yes. I really want to
know."
"Since O'Hara said
someone had been hit by an ice truck."
"While we were in
the park?" Lassiter shouted. A few nurses looked toward them with
disapproval.
"Yeah. I had a
strong� psychic impression�that she'd been planning something," Shawn
said. "It made sense. You saw the video. She was running with purpose
toward Vince Gabriel. No one wants to kill the Pickle King. It was all a set-up
so she could be the hero. But she didn't get a chance to, because of the ice
truck."
"Why didn't you say
anything?" Lassiter demanded. "We could have solved it then and there
and I could have gone home." I could have been safely at
home, sitting in my boxers, eating pizza and watching Zoolander...whatever that
was.
"But then we would
have missed out on this special bonding time," Shawn said. "And I
think we reached a new level of understanding between us, didn't we?" He
stepped closer to Lassiter and looked up at him expectantly.
"And what if the
killer had escaped while we were�" ...flirting...kissing...making out... "�showering
and eating candy?"
Shawn shrugged. "She
had a broken leg. She wasn't going anywhere. Besides, I put Gus on it. He
wasn't going to let her out of his sight."
Lassiter pushed Shawn up
against the wall and leaned in menacingly. He slammed his hand against the wall
next to Shawn's head and left it there, pinning him in on one side. In the back
of his mind he noticed that these little clashes had taken on a whole new
dimension.
"Let me get this
straight," Lassiter said through gritted teeth. "You dragged me all
over Santa Barbara, feeding me chips, investigating a crime you'd already
solved? I should charge you with obstruction, Spencer."
"You could do
that, " Shawn said, smiling up at him. "And I could suggest that
Chief Vick do a surprise drug screening. I could say I'd had a vision that
someone who carries a gun was trapped inside a giant bong?" Shawn raised
his hands and did his best impression of Marcel Marceau in a glass box.
Lassiter stepped back and
sighed. He didn't think Spencer would do that, especially given their new
'understanding.' But a dose of prevention was worth a pound of cure. He had a
10-30 day window before urine or blood tests would come back negative. Of
course they might do a hair test. Maybe I should shave my head. He'd
always wanted an excuse to go shorter, but Victoria had always been against it.
He had nothing to lose now.
"I'm going back to
work." He turned and walked down the hall.
"Call me."
Shawn made the telephone signal with his hand. "We'll do paintball."

Two hours later Lassiter
looked up from his desk to see a short woman in her 60s glaring down at him.
"Do you work here?
Are you a cop?" she demanded.
"That's right,
ma'am, I'm a police officer." Lassiter looked around. People
weren't supposed to just wander in here. Where was that officer from reception?
"Well I want to report
a theft," the elderly woman said, sitting heavily in the chair by
Lassiter's desk.
"Okay."
Lassiter picked up a pen and grabbed a report sheet. "What's been
stolen?"
"Someone took my pot
brownies out of the catering fridge at the Cancer Marathon. today"
"Your pot
brownies." He put down the pen. Was this a joke? Had Shawn
hired some elderly woman to pull a prank on him?
"For my leukemia.
It's all legal. I've got a licence for it." She began to rummage around in
the large purse she was carrying. Lassiter stayed her search with a light touch
on her arm.
"We'll look into
it," he assured her. He pulled out his wallet. "Uh, what would you
estimate is the monetary value of the stolen item?"
"The whole batch
cost fifty bucks."
"They didn't they
take the whole batch," Lassiter said defensively. "I mean, did
they?"
"No. But I wasn't
about to eat the ones that were left" she said in a shocked voice.
"Not after some stranger had their germy hands all over them."
She had a good
point.
"Look, police
investigations are slow and there's a lot of red tape involved." Lassiter
pulled fifty dollars out of his wallet and passed it to her. "Why don't
you just take this now and we'll call it even?"
"What a sweet young
man you are." She put the money into her purse and stood. "You're
like Vince Gabriel."
Lassiter groaned. He could really use a drink.
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