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To say Patrick Jane is a difficult man to find would be an understatement.
You wouldn’t think so, at first— a minor celebrity, a highly publicized death, an even more highly publicized breakdown. But there’s nothing to find after that. The trail goes cold, with one cruel, conspiratorial gossip magazine sitting unceremoniously at its end. The last mention of Patrick Jane in the media.
Even for Lisbon, his story ends without a conclusion. There are precious few interviews with Jane, each more difficult to watch than the last. The CBI stopped knocking on the widow’s door long before he disappeared into a hospital for a year, and long before the dusty house in Malibu stopped being his door.
She’s had to take this one up the chain, and after pulling more favors than she’d like to admit, she’s arrived in the bullpen with a file she strictly shouldn’t have.
She holds it out, but before handing it over, she asks Frye, “Don’t you already know where he is?”
Frye doesn’t blink at the challenge. She’s a self-assured type, like every other psychic. Confident in themselves, in their gift, even if they can’t win everybody over. She gives Lisbon a look, and a little smile, like she knows what she’s up to. “Come on, you know that’s not how it works.”
Lisbon holds onto the file, and her team looks at Frye expectantly. Except Van Pelt— she doesn’t want, or need, any proof. She’d come to Frye’s defense, if Frye could resist showing off.
“Fine. I can tell you that he’s,” Frye pauses, thoughtfully, and closes her eyes. She gives the impression, in these moments, that she really is somewhere else. “Somewhere quiet. Near a neighborhood, maybe, but— just far enough away that his neighbors don’t know him, and that he doesn’t know his neighbors.”
“The widow, getting some peace and quiet? Who could’ve guessed?”
Van Pelt hushes Rigsby. Frye, though, just smiles patiently.
“It’s not just that. It’s— oh, I shouldn’t say. Lisbon?”
Lisbon sets the file down, open this time. The address, and the picture of an unassuming house on a hill, point to a neighborhood in Sacramento. Spacious, with no real neighbors.
…
Frye tells them- a few times, on the car ride- that he’s not going to answer the door. She pokes around his driveway instead, standing a safe distance away, while Lisbon handles the knocking. Van Pelt is assigned to keep an eye on her.
“I’m just saying,” Rigsby’s telling Cho, behind Lisbon, “She could pick a shtick— either ghosts, or reading minds.”
“Why not both?”
“Because that’s— that’s too much.”
“Hm.” Cho pauses, as Lisbon knocks again louder and with an added CBI! “I knew somebody once who could figure skate and put together model cars.”
“What does that have to do with— wait, like, at the same time?”
The blinds twitch and a note slides out from under the door, handwritten and reading, “Come back with a warrant.”
“Dammit,” Lisbon knocks again, “Mr. Jane! Mr. Jane, please we just want to talk—”
The door cracks open, and a man peers out at them, over the chain keeping the door locked. He certainly looks like Patrick Jane— older, though, and less… just less. Lisbon doesn’t think she’s seen a picture of him that wasn’t in a suit. Even the interview ones, each in the same increasingly rumpled outfit. He’s just wearing a sweater now, and jeans.
“Will you keep your voices down, please? I have neighbors,” he glances over them— fast, then back to Lisbon, like he’s sized them up that quickly, “They’re nosy.”
“I imagine they might be confused, since no Mr. Jane lives here?”
Lisbon’s already considering putting a bell on Frye. She appears behind them, a harried Van Pelt in tow, with the same charismatic smile she used to talk her way onto this case. She holds out a hand to Patrick, who just stands frozen and confused behind the door.
Frye lets her hand drop, undeterred. “I’m Kristina Frye, the CBI’s new consultant, and I was really hoping to get a word in with you while I get familiar with the case. Ah, Mr. Baker, isn’t it?”
Patrick looks at Lisbon, instead of Frye, “Consultant?”
“Mr. Jane, if we could talk inside—”
“You’re bringing on a psychic?”
Van Pelt raises her eyebrows. “How did you know?” which is not the diplomatic response Lisbon would’ve gone with.
Patrick’s expression closes off, from wary to blank, and he moves to pull the door shut— Lisbon pushes forward, shoving her shoulder in to keep it from closing, and immediately regrets it. She does not want to be the detective that gets complaints for harassing a grieving widow and father, but here she is, staring up at him. He looks surprised, actually, and then he just looks furious.
“I don’t want the CBI knocking on my door, and I don’t want anything to do with this case, and,” he glares, over Lisbon, at Frye, “I don’t want her anywhere near me.”
“Please, Mr. Jane, I won’t say anything. You’ll barely notice me.” Frye shifts, glancing over her shoulder— she’s making a show of looking uncomfortable, but Lisbon knows better, even in the short time she’s worked with her. “Your neighbors, though, might start to notice us standing out here.”
He doesn’t flinch at the mild threat, just sighs. “You need to work on your pitch.” He looks at Lisbon, who hasn’t gotten a chance to remove herself from the doorway yet. She realizes he’s waiting for her to say something, or for her to move.
“This is the last time, Mr. Jane, I promise. I’ll put a note in the file, that you shouldn’t be bothered—” She stops, because he doesn’t look like he’s buying it, and eases her shoulder out of the way. “It’ll be short. Please.”
He waits, at least, for her to be out the way before closing the door in her face.
Frye frowns, staring blankly at the door. “I might’ve been wrong.”
“Yeah,” Cho says, “He did answer the door. Technically.”
There’s a sharp clunking sound, of locks being unlatched. Frye steps back, in anticipation, and the door creaks open once more. There’s Patrick Jane, looking even more tired than he was when he answered the first time, and opening the door enough for them to step in.
“In. I’ve put some tea on, but with any luck, you’ll be gone before it’s ready.”
Lisbon barely beats Frye to the punch, stepping in first and giving her a warning look. Please do not bother the victim’s family, it says. Please do not get me in trouble before your first paycheck, it says. Please have my bad feeling about this be wrong, it says.
Frye smiles, like she isn’t getting any of that, and wanders off to snoop around the living room.
The rest of them filter in, sitting around the couch Patrick gestures them towards. The living room is a cozy space, filled with natural light from a large bay window that faces away from the other houses down the hill.
If not for the couch and coffee table, Lisbon would’ve guessed it was a study. Two of its walls are lined with shelves of books— a lot of them are mysteries, from children’s books with colorful characters on the spine, to sleek covers of serialized detective novels. A desk sits in one corner, taking advantage of the light. On it, there’s an open laptop, a stack of notebooks, and a small board covered in sticky notes.
Patrick closes the laptop, sweeps the notebooks into a drawer, and stows the board out of sight, just before Frye can get to it. She gives him a sheepish smile that he doesn’t return, and he excuses himself to get tea. There’s no learning a lesson with Frye, so she turns to look through his bookshelf as soon as he turns his back.
The room opens into a dining area and small kitchen, which doesn’t look nearly as lived in. The only decoration there is a painting of violets above the table, as plain and innocuous as a hotel room. Patrick does, however, bring them all tea. In mismatched cups, clearly unprepared for company. Even Frye gets one; although, if Lisbon was her, she wouldn’t be drinking it.
“Mr. Jane, the reason we wanted to speak to you is that the, uh,” Lisbon pauses, then feels foolish for hesitating— as if the name alone would be too much, “Red John case is changing hands to my team. We’re going over details, and we wanted to speak with the families, to get an idea—"
“I’m sorry,” Frye interrupts, holding up her hands, as if in surrender. She puts them down in her lap, looking at the bookshelf instead of any of the stares in her direction. “I’m sorry, I know what I said about not talking but— are you J. Ruskin? I’ve really enjoyed your books, for the longest time, and it’s very exciting—"
“Yes,” Patrick cuts her off. He puts his tea down— not hard, but the firm click against saucer has Lisbon sitting up straighter. “Ruskin is my pen name. I’m also known as Mr. Baker to my neighbors, which you know because you bothered to read the note they left on my mailbox.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jane,” Lisbon says, trying to get out ahead of whatever Frye will say next, “Mrs. Frye is new to the team and—”
“And apparently a very gifted psychic. I wouldn’t be surprised if she also guessed where I lived. How did it go?” Patrick stares at Frye, who hasn’t flinched yet, and he copies her pretty closely, in the cadence of a psychic, “Somewhere quiet? Isolated— no, too conspicuous. A neighborhood, was that it?”
Van Pelt glances between them, like watching a tennis match. Lisbon is hoping they keep themselves to psychic battles, rather than physical ones. Patrick gathers his tea cup again and looks at Lisbon, accusatory.
“Is this really what you brought her here to do? Show off her powers on an easy target?”
“Mr. Jane—”
“Patrick,” Frye talks over Lisbon, “I understand the gift has caused you some… grief, but I—"
She stops when Patrick stands up. Everyone does; Rigsby winces and Van Pelt looks away.
Patrick looks very calm, not at all like he did at the door. His fingers are tense on the tea cup, but aside from that, he seems perfectly pleasant. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
Frye, thankfully, says nothing.
…
Lisbon would have loved to never come back.
She would’ve liked to leave Patrick to his living room, to the sunlight and what little peace he’s got to himself. Let him write another book— she did look those up. Charming series of children’s mystery books, all under increasingly unlikely pen names. If you’d asked her what she’d wish for, in Patrick’s place, it’d be that: peace, comfort, work that makes him happy.
But her job isn’t to find peace, it’s to get justice— and there’s one too many files with Patrick’s name on it, the foundation for a case that never really goes cold.
When she knocks on the door this time, it’s unlocked and opened without argument. Maybe that’s just because his nearest neighbor is out mowing the lawn and pretending not to stare at her. She tried to take an inconspicuous car, but it seems that this house getting any visitors at all is abnormal. Patrick hides in the shadow of his door, as she steps in.
“Thank you,” Lisbon says, and means it, “I know this is just— unacceptable, but it’s a huge help.”
He hums. This time, he’s already got a cup of tea in his hands. She half-expects there to be another cup for her, having seen her coming, but no. He’s just a man, without any prophetic gifts to tell him he’d have company. She’d thought about calling ahead, but she was afraid he would flee the country to avoid her.
“A huge help, towards keeping your consultant on board?”
“Kristina Frye has been,” Lisbon tries to choose her words carefully, although nothing sounds careful enough, in this situation, “insightful, so far.”
Patrick stares at her. He’s guarded, most of the time, but sometimes he’s caught surprised, big eyes and, in this case, incredulity. “You can’t honestly believe she’s psychic.”
She doesn’t— not really, but there are some things that are… difficult to explain. “She knew about your books.”
“One of the books on the wall has an unreleased cover.”
“You think it’s more likely that she’s happened to memorize each and every cover of a popular children’s author, that she didn’t know she’d be visiting, than that she’s psychic.”
“Usually, I go for explanations that fit within the bounds of reality.” He waves for her to follow him into the kitchen, “She could’ve picked anything she recognized. If she had a knack for art history, she might say, ‘I see you haven’t made yourself at home in this house, since you’ve left the fake Monet on the wall from its previous owner.’ That’s how I would’ve done it.”
“That’s a fake Monet?”
“She’s observant,” he admits, instead of answering that, “Maybe that will be useful to you.”
Surrounding herself with psychics hasn’t helped her, but Lisbon is a detective, and she’s not so bad at this herself. “But not as observant as you?”
“I’m out of practice.” He gives her a thin smile. Very thin. She’d hesitate to call it a smile, on anyone else. “Appeals to my ego aren’t going to get you anywhere.”
“Well, you’re also a crime writer—”
“I write mysteries about stolen rabbits for children. This isn’t a police drama, you’re not in the market for quirky civilians to add to your team.” He pauses, looking back over her. Realizing he’s missing a detail. “Why are you so determined to keep her around?”
“Maybe I just believe her.”
He turns away, to the tea kettle, and pours a second cup. There’s a clean cup and saucer sitting out on the counter, disproving her theory about his ordinariness. If she was Frye, she’d say he must’ve seen her coming in a dream. If she was Jane, she’d say he heard her car coming up the long driveway.
He passes it to her and, with a look almost like pity, says, “No. You’re just desperate.”
“That’s not—”
“You haven’t had any leads in years, and he’s active again. The cases are going to pile up and the victims’ families are going to put on more pressure, until the CBI is forced to admit defeat.”
Lisbon wishes the tea was more bitter. There’s no bite to it at all, as simple and quiet as everything else out here. The quiet house, the quiet street, are starting to grate on her now. She’s not supposed to have a temper, but she does, as Red John backs them further and further into a corner. “Is that what all this is? Admitting defeat?”
It’s mean, and she hears it right away. Is horrified by it, not because of the complaints she’ll get, but because she’ll remember the way Patrick’s face falls when she tries to sleep tonight. “Mr. Jane, I’m so—”
“No,” he shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. This isn’t a game. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, I—” she almost huffs, frustrated, “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I’m just—”
“Tired.” Patrick sits down at the little table, under the fake Monet. It’s pretty, even if it’s not real— she wouldn’t have gotten rid of it either. “Why does she want me, anyway?”
It takes Lisbon a second to remember who they’re talking about, the psychic that’s plagued her paperwork for weeks now. Not even in the field yet- unless you count Patrick’s house- and already a headache.
“She thinks you know something,” at his raised eyebrow, she tries to think of some way to say this that doesn’t make her look stupid, “… subconsciously. That you picked up something, from—”
She stops, embarrassed, and Patrick smiles.
“Of course, I’ll just narrow it down by the color of his aura. Ask the stars for help. Have a chat with some—” he waves a hand, vaguely, “ghosts.”
He falters, almost imperceptibly, on the last one, but she’s got the point. “You were a successful psychic for years,” Lisbon puts a hand up to stop him, before he can interrupt, “It’s obvious you’re just as good at this as Frye. I only want to know if you can tell us anything. Just from reading his— actions.”
She winces, realizing what that includes, but Patrick’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at her, almost curiously, and she thinks this might be the first time in a long time that he hasn’t been underestimated. In her experience, people have a habit of ruling out those left behind in a tragedy— considering their story done, expecting them to just sit by while someone else handles the rest.
“I think the same thing I did back then. He's an ugly, tormented little man." Patrick’s voice turns dull, monotone, "A lonely soul. Sad, very sad.”
It’s hard to believe they’re the same words, the way he says them now. In his shoes, Lisbon’s not sure she could do it— saying it out loud, like tempting fate. Patrick, though, doesn’t look scared. Maybe it’s the years of mysticism, making him understand that the power of words is not magic.
Or maybe it’s that he figures the worst is behind him.
“I know you and Frye expect me to have— obsessed over this case, the last few years,” he says, “You expect me to know all the details, be watching the media coverage like a hawk, waiting for someone to—”
He stops, and when she doesn’t say anything, he takes a breath and starts again, “You know, my wife always told me that I didn’t know how to quit. I try— not to start, sometimes. Knowing that.”
She wishes she knew him better— she thinks that a lot, on these cases. That it might sound less hollow of her to say that his wife would be happy to see him living, starting something new. She swallows that down, and she’s sorry, sincerely, that she came here but she had to know, “Thank you, anyway.”
The silence grows almost comfortable, just them and the tea and the violets. Patrick watches her, and she’s aware she’s being observed, but it doesn’t worry her.
He leans forward a little, giving himself away, and stirs his tea, as if to look more casual. “Why is she doing this?”
“Frye?” Lisbon shrugs. There’s not a lot to say that would be at all comforting to anyone connected to this case. She’s a civilian and a psychic, however talented. “She means well. She wants to help, she’s just— overzealous.”
“That’s more than I could say for myself.” Patrick looks down at his tea, eyebrows pulled together as he thinks, “She’s putting herself at risk.”
Lisbon would tell anyone, privately, that civilians in her bullpen make her nervous, but she has a job to do and part of that is instilling confidence in her team. “We’re all putting ourselves—”
“If I was the warning,” Patrick says, not listening to her, “Then Frye is strike two.”
He looks so calm. She wonders how that happened, how he got here from where he started. How anyone can call that crime scene a warning— it makes her stomach turn. Selfishly, she wishes he was too distraught to talk about this. That she didn’t have to think about the reality of overconfident civilians and temperamental serial killers.
She can’t help but picture Frye a year from now, consultant badge clipped to her blouse, happily smiling for the press and giving a statement about all the progress they’ve made. She can almost see her confidence carrying her away, telling them how close they are to catching the ugly, tormented little man. She doesn’t want to imagine what another warning might look like, but she’s been doing this a long time— she has a few ideas.
“Aren’t you ever afraid he’ll come after you?”
She hears the words after she’s said them. She almost takes it back- realizes that’s not something a professional should say, or anyone should say, really- but Patrick just laughs.
“He knows where I am by now. If he wanted to kill me, he would.”
He doesn’t sound upset. For Lisbon, that’s upsetting. For Patrick, it almost sounds like a relief.
“That’s not going to happen,” she says, impulsively— that’s not really a promise she can make, and they both know it, but she makes an exception this time. It’s on her, now, to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. “Nobody’s going to be strike two. Not you, not Frye.”
He gives her a tight smile. “I’m sure your team will do their best. Good luck, Lisbon.”
She makes a note of the brand of tea, before she leaves. The least she can do is mail a gift basket, with a little apology card. And she’ll sign it in Frye’s name, for good measure. One thing she is sure about: this won’t be the last time she’ll have to apologize on her consultant’s behalf.
She just hopes the next person Frye offends isn’t also a psychic— after this meeting, Lisbon has reached her lifetime quota.