Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Late afternoon had turned the sun from a blinding bright star to a heavy orange ember as the world rotated towards dusk. Leaving behind the shining pillars of downtown San Diego, the two travelers had been enjoying one of the more stunning benefits of oceanside travel. Only a handful of times had the endless water disappeared from sight behind the occasional rocky cliffs or trees. For the most part, they had been treated to an ongoing vista of azure waves.

 

One hand clamped on the battered hat covering what remained of his dwindling hairline, Rick Simon kept his attention fixed on the scenery. Fully abusing his “driver picks the tunes” rule, his younger brother, AJ, had cranked up his elevator musak and was happily humming along to the oboes and cannon fire. Even with the top down, there wasn't enough atmosphere beyond the car to drown out the noise.

 

“AJ!”

 

Pleasant humming continued, annoyingly on pitch. Rick leaned across the center console to flick his brother in the cheek. Batting the hand away, AJ frowned and glanced back – the full weight of his stare blocked by his sunglasses.

 

“What?”

 

Rick tipped his head with a look before leaning forward, himself, to flip off Beethoven. Literally and metaphorically. At least they wouldn't need to keep screaming.

 

“I need to pee.”

 

The rumpled look on AJ's face rumpled further at the comment.

 

“We're only forty-five miles from Santa Barbara; you can't hold it until we reach the hotel?”

 

Technically? “Well it will take at least another hour between finding a parking space, checking in, and flirting with the pretty lady receptionist.”

 

AJ frowned. “Who says the receptionist will be pretty? Or even a lady?”

 

“Just pull over, AJ.”

 

Unwilling to simply ease to the shoulder, AJ drove another two miles before selecting one of three gas stations dotting the next town. Admitting he could use another latte himself, he followed Rick into the station and hung left towards the cappuccino machine while Rick made for the restrooms at the back.

 

Minutes later, they both exited with coffee and a small bag of pretzels – though AJ had protested any messy snack foods littering the pristine interior of his Corvette. That little rule had lasted only about a mile into the trip anyhow as Rick had brought along a backpack stuffed to the zippers with treats.

 

“I don't see why you had to buy those, you've got nearly forty dollars worth of junk food already.” Grousing as he slid back behind the wheel, AJ sipped his coffee only to hiss at the burn.

 

Rick plopped in on his side and yanked the belt across his shoulders before popping the bag and grabbing a messy handful.

 

“Those are for the marathon. So I don't starve waiting for you to make it to the next checkpoint.”

 

AJ shot him an unamused glare. “I told you, they'll have all sorts of artery clogging food there. There'll be hotdog and churro vendors on practically every corner.”

 

Rick nodded. “Yup. I intend to hit them too.”

 

Knowing where to pick his battles, AJ didn't bother to reply. Instead, dialing up the music once more, he found contentment with the stunning tones flourishing from the speakers.

 

Rick, lips open to remark with something snide, pushed his brows together instead as he considered the tune. “Huh... that's weird...”

 

He didn't want to know his brother's perspective on the composer; he really didn't, but AJ rubbed one hand over his scalp before letting out a long sigh.

 

“Yeah? What?”

 

Rick shrugged, tossing back a handful of pretzels and responding through a dry spray of snack fragments.

 

“Doesn't that sorta sound like Jaws? You know, the main theme? Dun, dun, dun, dun...”

 

“Allegro con fuoco is a definitive work and one of Antonín Dvorák's most popular symphonies. Just because John Williams pirated the first few chords doesn't alter the fact that the original composer was an artist who deserved better than a loose association with a cheesy horror flick.”

 

“Huh.” Rick scratched his nose. “Old Steve sure knew how to pick his monster music, didn't he.”

 

Sometimes there just weren't words.

 

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

Shawn Spencer spun slowly in his father's chair – maintaining just enough speed to make a full revolution before kicking himself into another circuit. Typically he enjoyed his time at the station, provided he wasn't behind bars or being subjected to an interrogation. Okay, scratch that. He did enjoy an interrogation provided his hot pants girlfriend with a personal pair of handcuffs was the one dressing him down. He leered. He didn't even have to try to make that sound dirty.

 

Right. Back on the subject at hand. Naughty cop Jules would, sadly, have to wait until they could have some private time.

 

If they could have some private time. Of course, the way things were going lately...

 

And that brought him back full circle to his original beef.

 

Dad was being cagey. Like, Nick Cagey complete with diminished mane and sneaky covertness. Sure, he pretended he wasn't being covert but his dad sucked almost as bad as Lassie when he tried to fake acting casual. He was way too sour in the shorts to pull off that level of none chalice.

 

Like now, the old man was going for coffee. Like anybody with half a badge couldn't see right through that act. Shawn pulled together a mild sneer as his dad returned to his desk.

 

“Really? You put sugar in that too?”

 

His dad didn't look at him as he set his coffee on the desk. “Stop glaring at me. And get the hell out of my chair!”

 

Shawn didn't budge. “I am on to you.” He enunciated with immaculate exaggeration.

 

“The only thing you're on is my chair. And too many Pop Rocks; I thought Gus had cut you back to one pack a day.”

 

“I'm allowed two packs on the weekend.”

 

“It's Wednesday, kiddo. Maybe it's time you invested in a calendar.”

 

“Well maybe it's time you invested in hair plugs!” Shawn paused as his father crossed his arms. The pointing hand dropping back to his lap. “Too Terence Stamp? Sorry, I was caught up in the moment.”

 

“What do you want, Shawn?” Giving up on patience, Henry opted for shoving his son until he toppled out of the chair. Ignoring the yelp when Shawn flopped to the tile, he scooted closer to the desk so he could pull up the report he'd been working on. Fingers just coming to rest on his keyboard, he scowled at the active game of Pitfall taking up his screen. He tapped a key but rather than taking him back to the SBPD mainframe, it caused the character to jump into the green shapes he assumed were meant to be alligators. Behind him, Shawn gasped.

 

“You just killed my last guy!”

 

“Be grateful that's all I've killed.” Slapping a few more keys he finally found the right combination to get back to his report.

 

Still sitting on the floor, Shawn drew his knees up and propped his chin on both fists. Not even managing to type a single word, Henry sighed and swiveled towards his moping son.

 

“What, Shawn?”

 

Now that he had the desired attention, Shawn pushed his lower lip out the tiniest bit. “Jules is busy and she said I can't help with the stakeout cause it's “super stupid important, Shawn” and Gus won't let me borrow the blueberry so I can follow her cause deep down inside I know she wants me to help cause, please, like I don't always make a stakeout better – I mean, who else is going to remember to bring an extra container of cheese dip for the nachos because one cup is just never enough and believe you me you do not want to to short cheese a guy packing tear gas...”

 

Henry held up a hand to cut off the ramble that could easily go on another five minutes. With his other hand he rubbed at his aching eyes. Of course Shawn would find out about the sting. However, Chief Vick had been adamant about keeping him out of it. Henry had actually lobbied for including his son on the details – the memory of the last big operation that had temporarily cost him his job was not an easily healing wound. Rather than even attempt reconstructing the word barrage of bitching, Henry latched on to the least pointless detail.

 

“Where is Gus anyhow? I thought you two left an hour ago for dinner.”

 

Shawn shrugged. “I don't know for certain... I mean, by now he could be anywhere. He's always expressed an interest in touring with Alicia Keys...”

 

“Shawn.”

 

“We went to Taco Louie's and he insisted on the deep fried beef and bean mini burrito...”

 

Henry raised his hand again. Enough said.

 

“Well whatever you were thinking, I'm still not talking the Chief out of her decision. You're bored? How about you work on the burglary case I gave you.”

 

“Daaaad... the Redbox robberies?” Groaning, Shawn flopped on his back and sprawled dramatically. Officers passing back and forth shot glances at the display and Henry rubbed his face in embarrassment.

 

“Dammit, Shawn, get off the floor! You look like an idiot!”

 

Shawn sat up but didn't stand. Nor was he ready to let go of his latest complaint.

 

“Come on! Dad, Redbox? That is so... not sexy!”

 

Henry was ready to resume ignoring his son. Before he could swivel his chair, though, someone standing over his shoulder spoke up.

 

“I wish we all had the pleasure of only pursuing crimes that we think are fun, Mr. Spencer. But police work doesn't allow us the luxury to cherry pick cases based on whether or not they're sexy.”

 

Henry looked up into the stern face of Chief Vick. One of the few people Shawn willingly treated with respect, his son gripped the edge of the desk to awkwardly stumble upright.

 

“Chief! Just hashing things out with pops here... Chewing the sticky, gooey, coagulated pig fat...”

 

Lips thinning down in disgust, Vick shook her head to cast out that visceral mental image. “Right... Well, while you're busy... chewing... I'd appreciate if you made an effort to be productive. As I recall, we're paying you for a job and so far I'm not seeing any progress.”

 

Shawn smiled. “Chief, there are so many ways one can define progress. Right now, as I speak... eloquently and with great versitude, the spirits are gathering whispers and murmurs...”

 

“Shawn...”

 

Vick smiled back, though it wasn't with amusement. “They had better do more than whisper. And I don't need you distracting your father while he's on the clock unless it directly relates to the case you were given.”

 

Shawn watched as Vick returned to her office, his head tipped to the side. “Did she just give me the “if you can lean, you can clean” lecture?”

 

Henry picked at the keyboard with one hand while straightening his desk with the other. Leaving Shawn without a caretaker inevitably resulted in chaos wherever the kid came to rest. He still had no idea what had happened to his good pen or why he now had a hula dancer next to his inbox.

 

“Sounds like she did, pal. If I were you? I'd grab a broom.”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

“Rick, you wouldn't happen to have my running shorts in your bag, would you?”

 

A mouthful of toothpaste hit the basin of this sink. Wiping his mouth with one of the hand towels provided by the hotel, Rick turned off the tap and gave his mustache a considering look before deciding it could go another day before needing a trim. “Why, in the hell, would I have your running shorts in my bag?” He asked as he left the bathroom.

 

Throwing his balled up socks into the top drawer, AJ didn't glance at his brother as he brushed by; slapping off the fan and light left on in the bathroom. Returning to the dresser, he resumed transferring the rest of his clothes to the narrow row of drawers next to the TV.

 

Rick, meanwhile, snatched the remote and dropped onto his bed, enjoying the bounce of springs as he searched through the channels for a game. “I don't know why you bother unpacking; we're only gonna be here a couple days.”

 

AJ didn't bother with a response to that. How to argue civility to a guy wearing dirty cowboy boots in bed. Instead, he returned to his earlier point of contention.

 

“I know I put them in my bag last night before bed. I rolled them and placed them alongside my T shirt and running shoes...”

 

On the bed, Rick stuffed another pillow behind his head and sprawled a bit more – if possible.

 

AJ still had his hand in the bag. Rick had the game turned up loud, as per usual, and was celebrating along with the crowd as someone made a great play. But AJ wasn't listening. Instead, he was staring at the holstered .44 nestled among his undershorts and long sleeved shirts.

 

“Rick...”

 

Another holler from the other side of the room, drowning out the controlled address.

 

“Rick.” Slightly louder – enough to reach through the lull in play and catch his brother's attention.

 

“Yeah, what is it? Oh! Dammit Shorty! Who the hell is calling this thing?”

 

AJ turned just a bit, holstered weapon in hand. “Rick, why is your gun in my bag?”

 

Hardly a glance before Rick's eyed pivoted back to the screen in time to yell, again, at the unfair call. Taking one more second to groan about refs on the take, he looked back towards his brother with a shrug.

 

“What? In case we needed it. Like you didn't bring yours.”

 

Shoving the gun back in the bag, AJ crossed his arms. “I most certainly did not! This is a vacation, not a job! Why? Did you think that...” His face flushed at the familiar shifty look on Rick's face. “No... Rick, NO! Dammit, I can't believe...”

 

Rick rolled his eyes. “Oh, calm down, AJ! Look, it's just a little favor for Carlos.”

 

“A favor for Carlos? Really? And, of course, that has never been a recipe for disaster.”

 

Unbothered by the sarcasm, Rick just settled himself more comfortably.

 

“Look, it's no big deal, alright? I can do this on my own. Carlos just wants me to go pick up something for him at Lou's Emporium...”

 

“And you need a gun to do it? And why couldn't he just have had FedEx deliver it?”

 

“Well, first of all...” Rick cleared his throat. “I mean, this is Carlos...”

 

AJ raised a hand in exasperation. “Exactly my point! This is Carlos! You'll be lucky if you don't end up in a holding cell getting acquainted with a three hundred pound axe murderer named Mavis the Mangler!”

 

Rick couldn't help smirking before he scrambled back towards the sinking ship, el Placate. “Now come on, Carlos is a good guy. And he insisted it was no big deal! Just that it's sorta fragile and...”

 

“And he trusts you to pick it up for him?”

 

Rick shot AJ a withering look but refused to rise to the dangled bait. Besides, AJ may have sorta had a point. A very tiny point, granted. His eyes rolled back to the television but by now it had gone to commercial. “Well it's not like you have to come with.”

 

AJ's snort of a response was somewhat over the top and probably did some damage to his well trimmed nasal passages but at least he'd stopped henpecking. Instead, he resumed cleaning out the bag after dropping the .44 on the end of the bed.

 

Without even needing to look at his younger brother, Rick could tell every time AJ came across another smuggled item by the clipped off huff of breath. Extra box of rounds. Buck knife. “A skin mag? Are you kidding me?”

 

“Woah, hey!” Rick scurried off the bed to snatch the issue before it hit the garbage can next to the mini fridge. “Be careful with that! That's Miss April on the cover!”

 

AJ quirked an eyebrow. “This is the September issue.”

 

“I know. Miss April is her name.”

 

The Rick induced headache throbbed behind his eyes as AJ rubbed his forehead. “Of course it is. Look, are you absolutely certain you didn't see my running shorts in the bag when you hijacked it? Black with a dark blue stripe on the seam?”

 

Rick started to shrug again when his eyes widened just slightly; indicating the rare glow of dawning realization. AJ tensed; knowing... just knowing he wasn't going to like what was coming next.

 

“Marlowe...”

 

He blinked. “Marlowe? Marlowe what, Rick?”

 

Worse than the dawning realization was the sickly sort of smile Rick gave him next. “Well Marlowe, see... he kept sticking his head in the bag. I suppose he smelled the beef jerky I was packing and he sorta dove in and...”

 

AJ looked in the bag and spotted the package of Jack Link's Jalapeño Carne Seca half unearthed from beneath his jeans. Lifting the bag by one corner, AJ burned a look towards his suddenly evasive older brother. “And what, pray tell, does this have to do with my running shorts?”

 

Rick winced.

 

“Rick, the marathon is this Saturday!”

 

As typical when feeling as though he or his destructive canine were under the heat lamp of interrogation, Rick created distance under the fabrication of fetching a glass of water.

 

“It's just a flimsy pair of fancy boxers. I'll pick up a new pair for you at Walmart.”

 

AJ tossed the package of jerky to the dresser where they landed with an appropriately meaty THUNK. “These were not just some run of the mill off brand cotton shorts, Rick.” Jaw tight, his words barely edged out through his teeth as he tightened the screws down on the frequent need to flay his brother with a tension relieving scream fest. “Those were fifty dollar Pearl Izumi Maver... what?” Rick had started grinning at him halfway through his outburst.

 

“Geez, AJ, you'd think those things came with Wifi.”

 

“Not funny.” Just once he wished his brother could give the same consideration for the personal belongings of others as he did his own possessions. Of course, given the condition of Rick's “Classic Power Wagon” aka “outdated rusty garbage skow”...

 

“You're paying for them.” He said stiffly as he reached for the last of his garments in the bag. Not much more than a grunt in return, Rick returned to the bed where he dropped down so hard he likely dislodged springs.

 

Frozen with his hand in the same place where he's been gripping a brand new pair of jockeys, AJ closed his eyes in a full body shudder of disgust before turning back towards his brother. Slowly lifting his hand, he revealed his fingers coated in a thick layer of dog slobber.

 

Rick let out a very loud cackle.

 

Shaking the ribbons of foam from his hand, AJ turned heel and made for the bathroom.

 

“You're buying me new underwear too!”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

It was that cool, hazy sort of morning that Carlton Lassiter truly appreciated. Not for anything insipid like aesthetic beauty. Not for the temperature, which leaned a degree towards chilly for his tastes. Not, even, for any ridiculous childhood nostalgia of sipping a mug of cocoa with Hank before the rabble rolled in for the first show of the day. No, what truly made this a banner morning was that it was eight minutes past seven, and Spencer wouldn't even consider crawling from his nest before lunch. He had it on his partner's good authority, barring any repugnant details about their “conjugals”, as well as the Chief's assertions, that Spencer wouldn't be making an appearance if he wanted to maintain his position with the SBPD.

 

Something flickered across the parking lot and he tensed; checking his weapon automatically. Next to him, O'Hara and the rest of the team shifted enough to show they were also paying attention. Lassiter turned his face towards the radio clipped to his collar, keeping his voice soft.

 

“I've got movement on the North-East corner. Nichols, you got a visual?” But before Nichols replied, the figure stepped around the stack of pallets half blocking it from sight.

 

Lassiter blinked; for barely a second taken aback by the narrow character sauntering towards the loading dock. It was just... weird. It was as though thinking about Old Senora just moments earlier had suddenly manifested in the cowboy standing just a few yards away.

 

Like magic

 

Lassiter shook his head in a violent jerk. Good God, Spencer's idiotic prattle did not just invade his thoughts!

 

The man was still headed towards the loading bay and Lassiter stretched his legs in preparation. “Okay people, stay focused. We want to be sure this is our bad guy and not just some lost tourist.” Like last time, but no reason to bring up that humiliation again...

 

But this guy didn't look lost. Okay, granted, he was sporting a Hawaiian shirt under his jacket that was a hue searing enough to make even Henry Spencer's eyes bleed, but he was also...

 

“Everybody on your toes, this lowlife is armed. I repeat, the target is carrying a weapon. Looks like a .44 Magnum; left side shoulder holster. Be aware he may have other weapons. Do not engage until I give the signal; copy!”

 

The team copied back as Lassiter took a few steps closer.

 

The suspect had reached the open loading bay now. Raising one hand, he let loose an ear ringing whistle to catch the attention of someone inside. A few moments later, another man came to the back door. The two of them spoke for about thirty seconds before cowboy hat produced an envelope and passed it to the other man.

 

Lassiter hefted his weapon. “Alright, this is it. Alpha team will go in first on my mark, followed by beta team.”

 

Within a few minutes, the second man had returned, carrying a large crate. He set it down on the end of the loading bay. The moment it made contact with the concrete lip, Lassiter gave his signal.

 

In a flood of windbreakers and tactical vests, the officers stormed the site.

 

“SBPD! SBPD! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

 

Cowboy looked shocked but quickly complied. Lassiter ignored whatever blather he was spouting about his innocence to immediately draw down on the second man trying to sneak his heavy form back into the shadows.

 

“Last warning you fat bastard! Down on the ground, NOW!”

 

Maybe the jellyroll had seen the desire Lassiter had to shoot out some kneecaps before his afternoon coffee break. In any event, he complied as speedily as his jiggles would allow. A few feet away, the cowboy was busy pleading his case. On his stomach and cuffed by this point, he'd been relieved of his weapon and whatever was littering his pockets.

 

“...ook guys, my name is Rick Simon; I'm a private detective from San Diego...”

 

Lassiter moved close enough to stand over the man who at least had the wisdom not to struggle. Not that the morning couldn't benefit from from the added spark that only a tasing could bring. “You have any identification, Mr. Simon?”

 

“It's in my wallet. Back, right pocket.” His wrists flexed within the circle of his cuffs, but otherwise he didn't move. “My license is in there too along with my permit for conceal and carry. Look, guys, we're on the same team here.”

 

Lassiter glanced towards an officer nearby. The young cop held up the collection of Rick Simon's personal possessions which included his battered cowboy hat and what looked like some sort of hand drawn flyer for a place called “Surplus Sammy's”. He nodded, waving the officer away before looking down at the so-called PI.

 

“I don't know who you think you're pretending to be right now, pal, but the only thing my officers found in your back pocket was lint. Now... you wanna try again?”

 

“What?” Simon rolled enough that Lassiter could see his mustache hike up in confusion. Seconds later he dropped he forehead against the concrete. “Dammit... I must have laid it on the dresser... Look, just call my brother, Andrew Simon...”

 

Stepping back as two officers helped Simon to his feet, Lassiter snorted. “Your brother can corroborate your story? And who is he really, your contact?”

 

Agitated, Simon glared back. “Bagged, tagged, and hung on a wall, is that how it is? Fine, how's this for a reference? Lieutenant Brown with the SDPD. You want his badge number?”

 

A lot of perps claimed they knew cops or actually were cops but something in Simon's demeanor made Lassiter hesitate... until O'Hara got his attention with a yell.

 

“Lassiter, we've got something!” She approached, holding up a large clear package with one gloved hand. At least a pound of pure white powder.

 

Turning back towards his suspect, who had gone from righteously indignant to sickly pale, Lassiter grinned.

 

“Mr. Simon, you have the right to remain silent...”

Chapter Text

“...looking like it will be some wonderful weather for the annual Pier to Peak Half Marathon this Labor Day weekend. Expect mid to high seventies Friday through Saturday with a high all the way up to eighty-six Sunday afternoon. Monday we'll be dropping back down to sixty-seven with a chance of rain showers towards evening so keep those umbrellas close by!”

 

Gus knuckled the button on the radio as he pulled into the Psych parking lot. No sign of Shawn this early; it was before noon after all. Granted, the boy had started arriving to work earlier on the nights he spent with Juliet. Gus shuddered. That was information he really wished he wasn't privy to.

 

Inside the office, he pitched the mail to his desk to go through later and proceeded to the kitchen to give the new coffee maker a whirl. The unit was a gift from Juliet after she'd heard about the repeated mishaps regarding her boyfriend's ineptitude with various office equipment. She had also brought up the question of why they had coffee grounds if they didn't own a coffee maker. Gus had been more than happy to reveal his pal's obsession with couponing which, up till then, he'd managed to keep secret from Juliet.

 

While the Columbian blend started to brew, Gus headed for the bathroom to check on the status of the scented plug-ins. This week he was trying out the Tropical Breeze variety. For whatever reason, Shawn insisted that Hyacinth Garden gave him allergies. Explaining how pollen actually worked had led to a blank stare and the suggestion that Gus spent too much time watching Beyond Belief on SyFy. Thankfully the throne room still carried the sweet scent of mango and jasmine so Gus gave the sink a wipe down and gathered the small stack of old magazines to replace with the more current volumes he'd bought the day before.

 

“GOOD coffee!”

 

Gus lurched, dropping the magazines at the figure standing right behind the bathroom door and slurping from a giant mug. Seriously, what sort of butthole did that anyway??

 

“Shawn! What... I thought you weren't here! Where's your bike?”

 

“Jules dropped me off. Bout time you got here, buddy! Now let's go!” Shawn slapping him in the chest before swigging the rest of his coffee in a series of gulps. Immediately afterward he made a strained sort of choking sputter and furball hacked in a way that had Gus fearing for the rug.

 

Seconds later, Shawn savagely coughed, swallowed, and cleared his nose in a thickish snerk.

 

Gus peeled up his lip. “Dude? That was gross.”

 

Recovered from the pulmonary aspiration, Shawn wheezed out a “Let's go!” as he jogged to the door. Gus followed. He always followed. Even if it was against his will, screaming, bleeding, weeping (in a completely involuntary way as he'd explained repeatedly to Shawn). He was the wingman. The guardian. And if he couldn't guard, then he was the record keeper. He knew, very well, that he'd be the one to deliver Shawn's tragic fate to his father. The keeper of those final words. The scribe that could change those words in case the only thing Shawn managed to gurgle had to do with surfing alpacas.

 

Already through the front door, Shawn was bouncing on his toes next to the car.

 

“Gus! Come on! I'll let you stop at Yogurtland. I'll even buy!”

 

“With what card?”

 

Shawn snorted. “Yours of course! But I'll let you pick the toppings this time.”

 

Gus locked the office. “Damn right you will.”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

Winning the coin toss had been the only reason AJ had held off choking his brother that morning. Within a single evening, Rick had managed to do more damage to their hotel room than Charlie Sheen with an entire weekend and a herd of miniature ponies at his disposal. Calling heads had won him the rights to the car, forcing Rick to call a cab to whatever den of iniquity housed the “favor” he'd promised Carlos.

 

Meanwhile, AJ was free to drive to the site of the marathon. It was a short course comparatively, but he wouldn't dream of tackling it without giving the terrain a once over. This trip had started disastrously so he wanted to take every precaution to assure that streak ended with the loss of his running shorts.

 

The cold front had already begun to move in when AJ had left the hotel at six that morning. Rick had still been passed out and snoring having stayed up late watching Pay Per View. In spite of the demand that Rick pay back the charges to his card, AJ knew the likelihood of that event happening was on par with the chance that he'd meet the Secretary of the Treasury while out on his jog.

 

Parking on the street in front of the Harbor View Inn, AJ zipped his windbreaker. He was glad he'd grabbed his jacket on the way out, given the chill, and spent a few moments warming up before heading back down the sidewalk towards State Street.

 

Already quite a few people out and about, even at that early hour. AJ smiled at a few women walking towards the beach, then did another small stretch, before starting his jog.

 

It was a couple of miles of easy travel at first. The neighborhoods reminded him of the suburbs outside of San Diego. Similar architecture with its heavy Spanish influence. Miles passed easily beneath his sneakers even as the terrain slowly began to climb. Ranch style houses gave way to large parks. The ocean was far behind him now and hidden by thick trees. By the time he reached Mountain Drive, he'd left behind most of the traffic. And the buildings. Stone walls shored up patchy spans of grass and raw earth while the occasional attempt at beautification popped up in the midst of the disrepair. Granted, a handful of anemone does not a garden make.

 

AJ chose his next rest point just before the intimidating upward climb of Gibraltar. He was quite pleased by his time thus far. Some of the best runners managed the course in about and hour and a half. Given his time so far, he wouldn't be surprised if he clocked in at just under two hours. Popping the cap on his water bottle, AJ took a few swallows before returning it to his belt. It was getting warmer now, with activity, and he was beginning to regret the jacket. At least the sun wasn't beating on the top of his head. And with all the cloud cover, he'd cool down quickly enough.

 

Cracking the joints in his toes, he'd just taken the first step towards the massive hill when his cell chirped. Leaning back against the wall after sighing at who had called, AJ turned to take in how much ground he'd covered as he lifted the device to his ear.

 

“Good morning, sunshine. You get that package for Carlos?” His smile, just starting to form at the sight of all those red rooftops, abruptly dropped from his face.

 

“You're WHERE??”

 

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

“I'm just saying, why is it called bread when clearly it's a cake? It's just like animal crackers which everyone knows are cookies.”

 

“Do not start with the animal crackers again, Shawn. I will not do this with you!”

 

“Frosted animal crackers, Gus!”

 

“Shawn, for three years you insisted that frosting on anything made it cake.”

 

“And I admitted I was wrong! Why won't you back me on this?”

 

Lassiter pushed his thumbs against his sinuses. The two idiots had come to a stop in front of him and had proceeded to carry out yet another inane argument – oblivious to the real police work taking place. Pulling his keyboard closer, he did his best to politely send them on their way.

 

“You two! Heckle and Jeckal! Scram!”

 

Gus frowned. “That's racist.”

 

Shawn took advantage of the discombobulated rumple of the detective's face.

 

“Lassie, we need a ruling. Banana bread. Is it, in fact, a bread or a delicious cake?” He raised one finger to hold off an immediate response, “Also... isn't it true that Keebler purposefully mislabels their product to fool vegans into eating more cookies?”

 

“Shawn!” Gus glared at his friend. “Dude, I told you, that doesn't even make sense!”

 

“Your face doesn't make sense.”

 

The slam of his hand on his desk also helped Lassiter to rise from his chair in order to stare down the two natterers choking up the former rushed peace of the station bullpen.

 

“Vanish.”

 

Why couldn't they, just once, do has he commanded and... Lassiter blinked. Without another word, Spencer had spun about and set off back the way he'd come, so fast that even Guster looked startled. Lassiter turned his glare towards the barely less annoying associate, who immediately waved and scuttled after his friend.

 

Dropping back into his seat, Lassiter resumed his work. Just a few more notes to go. By the time he finished, the booking officer would have finished up with Simon and Lassiter could have a little chat with the man.

 

Simon.

 

Lassiter's chin jerked up and he stared to the right; towards the stairs that led towards the interrogation rooms. The direction Spencer had been heading...

 

“Dammit, Spencer!”

 

“Are you Officer Lassiter?”

 

One hand was snatching his jacket while the other rested naturally near the grip of his weapon when Lassiter spun towards the voice cropping up at his back.

 

“That's Detective!” He snapped while striding off after the Wonder Twins. “Spencer!”

 

“Detective Spencer? My apologies. Can you direct me to an Officer Lassiter?”

 

Heels caught remarkably well on the polished floor as Lassiter powdered his molars before turning back towards the young man standing next to his desk.

 

“I will forget that you said that if you tell me what the hell it is you want in the next two seconds.” His partner would be proud he hadn't outright throttled the guy for that slanderous gaff.

 

Polite to the point of teetering on prissy, the man took on the tone of a lawyer holding sway in a courtroom. If he'd been going for accommodating he'd failed. Shot right past professional and landed on the lowest rung just above dungeon rat.

 

“My name is AJ Simon. My brother, Rick Simon, was arrested this morning and I was told to speak to an Officer Lassiter who is in charge of the case.”

 

“My title is Head Detective Carlton Lassiter...”

 

Simon, clearly junior, smiled and held out his hand. “Oh, well then you're the man I want to see.”

 

He didn't have time for this. And then he looked up; spotting a legitimate excuse to snap. “McNab!”

 

AJ Simon dropped his scorned handshake as the taller officer scrambled to change direction mid-step at the shout of his superior. Stopping a respectful distance away and even giving a polite smile to the other Simon standing nearby, Buzz clasped his hands in front of him as he came to attention.

 

“Sir?”

 

“You let our suspect make a phone call? Would that be before or after he was booked?”

 

The guilty expression didn't help Lassiter's temper. For such a dedicated cop, McNab had all the trust issues of a month old Labrador.

 

“Uh, before?” Buzz swallowed and managed to pull off the look of a small child about to be swatted with a wooden spoon. Well he wasn't far off on that.

 

Lassiter closed one fist – not to swing, in spite of his irritation, but to raise in the air before pointing a finger towards the hall.

 

“Spencer and Guster headed that way about five minutes ago. I want them out of this police station. Now!”

 

Never one to confuse friendship and duty, Buzz smiled at his own reprieve before jogging off to take care of the ongoing infestation.

 

“Happy fellow.”

 

Lassiter turned back towards the hovering pest floating at his shoulder. The young Simon was grinning with his hands tucked in his slacks. God, he was annoying. Like a well dressed Spencer.

 

“Who the hell gave you a visitor's pass?” Simon hooked a thumb and started to turn but Lassiter brushed him off. “Never mind. Look, I'm busy and your brother hasn't even been arraigned yet-”

 

“Arraigned? Are you kidding...?”

 

“-So go back to the Super 8, eat a carton of Moo Shu, and let me do my damn job!”

 

“Wait, detective!”

 

Lassiter ignored the man as he resumed his stride towards the no doubt toilet papered interrogation room. His only pause was to snatch an officer and with tooth grinding politeness, order them to escort the younger Simon to the civilian section of the station.

 

The sniping at his back was soon dispersed by the ambient sounds of the busy station. All too soon, though, fresh sniping replaced it as Spencer and Guster rounded the corner of the stairwell with McNab in tow.

 

“...emand a ruling by a higher court! What did Lassie bribe you with? Was it Gummi Bears? NO! Gummi Worms? Swedish Fish!”

 

Sighing out his disgust, Lassiter chose to cross his arms and wait rather than attempt slipping past the trio. Besides, he couldn't deny he enjoyed seeing Spencer suffering some indignant disarray.

 

“Lassie! Gus, look, it's Lassie! My God, we haven't seen you for nearly twenty minutes yet it's like you haven't aged a day.”

 

Lassiter smiled. “And somehow you still think I'll laugh at your jokes.”

 

Shawn blinked, looking quickly to Gus. “Dude, did you hear?”

 

Gus nodded. “I heard.”

 

“He actually acknowledged my sense of humor. This is truly a banner day!”

 

Lassiter's smile grew. “Spencer, Guster. Being escorted from the building again, I see. Gosh, you must make your father proud.”

 

“My father hasn't been proud of me since I ralphed two pounds of jelly beans after riding the llamas at Pete's Petting Ark.”

 

Buzz winced and even Guster curled up one side of his face in familiar disgust. Then Spencer suddenly laughed. “Oh, you meant Gus's dad. Nah, he hasn't been proud of me either. Ever since we...”

 

“Out!” Lassiter pointed towards the general direction of the exit and waited for McNab to actually hustle the two from his presence before continuing onward – ignoring the distant shout of “Bye, Lassie!” that filtered from somewhere behind him.

 

He was three feet from the door to Interrogation Room A, one hand already lifting towards the handle, when he realized he'd left the file folder for Richard Simon sitting on his desk.

 

“Shit!”

 

“Problems?”

 

He jumped at the voice – what the hell with people sneaking up on him today? As soon as he turned around, however, Lassiter relaxed and nearly smiled.

 

“Thank God.”

 

Juliet grinned at her partner before lifting a folder towards him. “I grabbed this for you while you busy running off my boyfriend.”

 

Abashed, Lassiter took it before looking through the small window of the room. Simon was already inside, divested of his hat and belt. Closer examination of his belt after his arrest had turned up a hidden blade concealed within the buckle. This discovery had led to a dressing down of the officer who'd performed the pat down.

 

O'Hara, standing on the other side of the door, crossed her arms as she shifted against the wall and leaned closer to the window. “Has he been in there long?”

 

Lassiter flipped a couple pages in through the folder, making certain of the facts that had been collected so far. “Five... maybe ten minutes.”

 

Slapping the folder shut once more, he reached for the door handle at the same time as his partner.

 

“I got this.” He stopped her entry with a solid and confident smile. One that was apparently not striking the right chord of authority with his subordinate.

 

“Carlton.” O'Hara moved her hands to her hips. “I thought we agreed you wouldn't monopolize all interrogations!”

 

He rolled his eyes. “I'm not “monopolizing” anything. Look, I know how to deal with his kind. These Rent-A-Cowboys may bark loud but put the right amount of pressure on them and they fold like wet paper.”

 

She didn't let go of the door handle and she didn't stop glaring. Rather, her eyes squinted in a slightly Clint Eastwoody stare down to the point Carlton began to feel the tickle to clear his throat.

 

“I saw him first!” He finally blurted.

 

Juliet's jaw swung down in surprise. “What? Really? Lassiter, it's not like he's the last white chocolate and Macadamia nut cookie at the bridal shower! He's just some skinny perp with a Burt Reynolds mustache and a paper badg...” She broke off as sudden, pathetic understanding flooded her.

 

“Oh... my God. You just want to bust him because he said he was a PI.”

 

Lassiter folded his lips under his teeth and nodded with sparkling eyes. “Oh yeah...”

 

Pulling rank again. Carlton had a bad habit of that when he started eyeing perps like Christmas presents. He could be a greedy Scrooge McDuck when he wanted and arguing with him usually only led to pouting. For both of them. So, in that spirit, Juliet chose to let her partner assume he'd won this little battle. Sure, he may be right. She'd seen him break some real toughs without too much steam and bluster. It was fun to watch him get the upper hand, though she wouldn't deny the satisfaction when she had to step in to provide either the good cop or the worse cop as the situation demanded. And no, she would not let her mind drift to last week's date when Shawn had asked her to...

 

“Go get him, partner!” Maybe too much abrupt enthusiasm, but Carlton was too eager beaver to notice. Glad for the shadows that seemed to adequately hide the sudden blaze across her cheeks, Juliet deep-sixed the naughty imagery for much later perusal as she encouraged her partner to take this particular bull by the horns. Carlton smiled and shot her a thumb's up before entering the room and dismissing the officer inside.

 

As luck would have it, Juliet started fanning her face just as the young cop, aka Muscles McTight-Butt, exited the interrogation room and glancing at her face he... Oh HELL no, he did not just wink!

 

“You want to spend the next two weeks taking a course in Workplace Harassment, then keep it up.”

 

The encroaching leer crumbled – overtaken by a hotter flush of red than had blushed Juliet's face moments earlier. Sudden guilt for snapping, justified as it was, she sent the guy back to his previous duties and headed for the observation room.

 

Her partner hadn't even begun speaking yet – preferring to sit at a slight angle and mock read through the file he'd just examined. It was a ploy that often worked well with the more skittish perps – though Simon didn't seem to be biting. He wasn't, actually, giving away anything; hands folded in front of him as he studied the detective with just the smallest smirk.

 

“Get him partner.” Juliet repeated again, softly.

 

It may have been fifteen years since she'd worn a pleated skirt but if there was one thing she could still manage to do around this place, it was cheerlead.

 

Nope, not bitter. Not bitter at all.

Chapter Text

 

Brilliant, burning, mid-morning sunlight poured down on the front steps of the SBPD. Pale concrete reflected almost white and would have been searing without his sunglasses. AJ was frustrated, yet not really surprised by the bum's rush from “Detective” Lassiter. How many times had Town escorted them from the station with both hands on their shoulders in a false play of politeness? Of course, he'd eased up very slightly after a few years. He should have been equally unsurprised by his brother's impending incarceration. After all, it had only been two years worth of planning; arranging schedules, blocking in the requisite training in-between cases, death threats, and jail time that their profession required in order to finally, finally have these three days out of the year to participate in an event that would require, at best, a couple of hours to complete.

 

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, AJ did his best to find some sort of center as he wiped sweat off his neck with a cotton handkerchief.

 

“Whoa; keep that up and we'll never make it to the hospital before you deliver.”

 

Startled, AJ snapped open his eyes. “Excuse me?”

 

Two men were standing in front of him. One of them, the shabbier one, cocked his head slightly to the side. “Shawn Spencer. This is my helpmate, Waldo Weatherbee; Duke of Riverdale.”

 

Waldo, obviously Duke of nothing, glared at his... “helpmate” before holding out his hand. “Burton Guster; and I'm his business partner.”

 

Shawn nodded. “Yes, we solve crimes. And don't mind Gus. He doesn't like public shows of affection. Although sometimes he'll hold my hand in the dark-OW!”

 

A vicious elbow thrust stopped the prattle. AJ considered shuffling back a step or two from the pair. Curiosity, though, compelled him to pursue an actual conversation.

 

“Solve crimes... but you aren't police officers?” Not truly a question – there was no way a place that employed someone such as Detective Lassiter would likewise take on the two men before him.

 

Shawn sniffed and curled up his lip in an affected sneer. “Yeah, well... my dad sorta runs this place so we get to do whatever we want. All the staples we can eat.” He licked his teeth. “Granted, Gus prefers green push pins but that's because he's lactose intolerant.”

 

“We're private detectives.” Gus clarified.

 

“Psychic... private detectives.” Shawn clarified, again.

 

AJ smiled. “Andrew Simon. And it was very nice to meet you two.” And time to go. Not that he completely discounted psychic ability after having had Sarah Childs as a client. Still, he wasn't ready to commit one hundred percent to the belief, unlike his brother. As it was, there was no way this... gentleman... had a prognosticating bone in his body...

 

“I'm sensing you're here to see someone!”

 

AJ turned back, the smile still on his face as he took in the “act”. Mr. Spencer was holding his fingertips to his temple – appearing to be in a small amount of pain with his eyes tightly shut.

 

“Standing outside a police station with nothing better to do with my time? Who says I'm not here to file a report on stolen property?”

 

The answer, apparently, was another gasp as Mr. Spencer stumbled back a step. “Oh! I'm feeling... seeing... tasting?” He smacked his lips. “Beans... And,” he sniffed deeply, “whew, old, dusty leather and,” another sniff, “Stetson? Gus, why am I smelling Stetson? Have you been using my dad's aftershave?”

 

Amused, though clearly Gus wasn't, AJ crossed his arms; waiting to see how this all played out.

 

“No, Shawn, I think what you're smelling is an old, dusty cowboy!”

 

Shawn's eyes opened wide, in an exaggerated affect. “My God, Gus, you're right!” He turned to AJ, fingers still near his temple. “You're here to see a cowboy! It's weird, though. I mean, why would you be visiting a cowboy? A gang of pirates, sure. Who wouldn't want to visit pirates?” He turned back to his partner. “Pirates travel in gangs, right?”

 

Gus shrugged. “I think a group of pirates is actually called a crew.”

 

Shawn wrinkled his nose. “I thought that's what you called a field of crows.”

 

“That would be a murder.”

 

“Yes!” Shawn clapped his hands together in a hard slap. “Murder! I'm sensing murder most foul! Wait...” he held up one finger. “Scratch that, I'm sensing... drugs? Well, as we all know, drugs are the gateway to murder.”

 

Gus nodded. “That's true.”

 

The guy had all the right words – timing. He sold a decent show and seemed to be enjoying his schtick. But AJ already had enough on his mind and he really wasn't in a buying mood. “Good deductive reasoning, I'll give you that, but you haven't sold me on the supernatural.” And he needed to go. He'd yet to call his mother about all of this and, much as he really didn't want to involve her, he had a feeling he'd be needing more bail money than was currently available in his account.

 

“He's right, Gus. We shouldn't bother him. After all, he wasn't able to finish his little jog this morning so I'm sure he wants to go do some crunches and whatnot. I mean, we all know you have to be healthy as a hornet to run in the marathon.”

 

Gus shook his head. “I think you mean horse.”

 

Shawn snorted back. “I've heard it both-”

 

“Wait.” The two men stopped their distinctly loud conversation as well as their distinctly slow walk as AJ approached them again. This was stupid. He knew it was stupid and yet, here he was, wading back into this conversation. Curiosity, really. He may differ from his brother in almost every possible, imaginable, demographic way, but one thing that was an indelible Simon trait was curiosity.

 

The sigh allowed him to get past the last hurdle of actually resuming discourse with these two clowns. And then, realizing how much he'd been internally channeling Town just then, he was able to smile at the complete lunacy of being on this side of the proverbial police desk.

 

“Okay. Fine. I'll bite.”

 

Spencer grinned but whatever he was about to respond with was cut off at another smack from his 'helpmate/business partner/other'. “I told you, Shawn. No puns!”

 

“Gus, don't be Sandy Duncan's left eye. Of course I wasn't going pun! I had planned to riff on the whole “bite” analogy but clearly, because of your rudeness, the moment it gone.”

 

Gus snapped his lips after the obvious dismissal and kept a miffed glare on Spencer while the man gave full attention back to AJ.

 

“This isn't your usual stomping grounds. In fact, I'm betting Santa Barbara is a long way from home, am I right? I'm also sensing there's more to this visit than catching up with old friends. Even dusty old cowboy friends. No, no, not just a friend... no, it's more than that...” his fingers hovered near his temple and his eyes squinted just a bit. “In fact... he's your brother.” Less joking, now, Spencer's face took on an oddly serious look.

 

“The cops got his dead to rights. But here's the thing...” he inhaled deeply, “my psychic vibes are telling me your brother is innocent. What's more, I'm sensing you could use our help.”

 

“Shawn-!”

 

AJ nodded, ignoring the startled look on Guster's face. “You could be right about that. I really, really appreciate that.” He shook both their hands while pulling the widest, most crowd pleasing smile he could manage. “Now, if you'll excuse me...” Turned, AJ resumed his long neglected journey towards the parking lot.

 

Left standing by his unhelpful best buddy, Shawn sputtered at the retreating form. “Wait, are you ab-libbing now? That was totally off book! This wasn't how this was supposed to go!”

 

AJ, however, only gave them a backhanded wave before dropping out of sight beyond the corner of the building.

 

Gus immediately glared at his friend. “You sense the brother is innocent? Really? Another bombshell you forgot to share with me earlier?”

 

The two of them made their own way towards the little blue car parked in the side lot alongside Lassiter's sedan.

 

Shawn snuffed. “Okay, first of all, my psychic vibes sensed it. And second of all, I'm not sure I like your judging tone. I need you to back my play, man, not go all Colin Sullivan.”

 

The slight subject shift didn't quite cover the fact that Gus was offended by that comparison. “How did you know about the marathon?”

 

“Really, Gus? That thing you've only been talking about for the past month but can't participate in because they don't allow people who are tragically out of shape?”

 

“I'm not out of shape, I have a torn iliotibial band. And you didn't answer my question.”

 

Shawn ventured awfully close to a skull slap with the condescending “pity” expression until Gus eyed him into submission.

 

“Fine! You remember when he bent down to pick up my Mars bar wrapper?”

 

Gus nodded while stashing away the conversation about littering and the impact on critical species for a later time.

 

“Well his shirt tugged up and I saw that he had on a pair of running shorts under his slacks. He was probably out running the course this morning when he got a call about his brother. He didn't take the time for a shower when he rushed back to his hotel and only bothered with the suit pants – look, do I have to point all this out? I mean, you couldn't have missed his hair.”

 

Gus gave him that. Simon's hair had been terrible – sweaty and clumped and tossed around his head like he'd skipped the blow dryer after taking a swim in the ocean.

 

Shawn shook his head. “Seriously, who would run a marathon before you run a marathon? I mean, I question running a marathon in the first place...”

 

“Obviously,” Gus snatched back some dignity after the earlier insult by pinching a hunk of back fat.

 

“OW! Really?” Twisting away from the claws, Shawn rubbed furiously at his manhandled flesh. He made pinchy fingers in return, prepared to grab some tallow. Gus crossed his arms as he came to a dead stop. A second of looking his buddy over, Shawn's hand dropped to his side.

 

“Huh, you make a solid argument.” Snatching keys instead, Shawn resumed his stride towards the car. “Frosties?”

 

Gus returned the offered fist bump. “You know that's right.”

 

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

Rick had been interrogated by his share of officers. He'd crossed paths with everything from the town sheriff to MPs. There were few things that could rattle the private detective and the snide prick sitting across from him wasn't anywhere on the list.

 

Elbows on the table, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, everything about Rick's appearance screamed casual and relaxed. On the other side of the table, Detective Lassiter was making a decent effort to do the same as he leaned back in his chair and used a finger to flip back a page of the folder in front of him.

 

“Hm.”

 

Wishing he had a toothpick to roll across his teeth, Rick settled for hiking up his mustache on one side and picking at his gum line with his thumbnail. Ole' Carlton hadn't even gotten to the thumbscrews yet so the little delay game wasn't going to cut the mustard as an intimidation tactic. Having been on the receiving end of a water-boarding and torture session, Rick wasn't prone to knocking his knees over whatever his file might contain. Doubtful it contained the really juicy stuff but he didn't mind sharing if Hondo eased up on the bare lightbulb routine.

 

Another page flip. Another minute of silent perusal. Rick moved his finger to the other side of his mouth. He wouldn't mind a beer if they were going to be spending a lot of time together. He wondered how many degrees they'd hiked the temperature for the room. 80... 82 maybe, by the feel of it. Bush league.

 

“Do you have a drug problem, Mr. Simon?”

 

If Rick had been drinking he'd have just given the detective a spit bath. “Excuse me?” What the hell was in that file anyhow?

 

“You used to ride with the Devils.”

 

Rick said nothing. Lassiter traced his finger partway down the current file page before giving it a tap.

 

“Couple of your old buddies got picked up for possession with intent back in 92'. Heavy stuff; some meth, not to mention nearly a kilo of cocaine.”

 

Lip curling up in a tight smile, Rick shrugged. “Yeah, and? To start with, they were never “my gang”. I knew those guys but that was as far as it went. I lost touch with most of them when I joined the Marines in 88'.” Which he knew very well would be in that file along with his length of service, even if a lot of details were redacted.

 

Lassiter nodded. “Most of them? So you're saying you still kept in touch with some of them.”

 

More silence. Rick could have kicked himself if he hadn't been sitting down. Instead, he leaned back in his chair while Lassiter flipped a few more pages.

 

“You remember a Felipe Ruiz?”

 

“Wasn't that the drummer for Aerosmith?”

 

All he got was a pinched lip curl.

 

“How about Diego Vargas?”

 

Rick shrugged again and shook his head. They wanted to hang him for anything, he wasn't about to tie the noose.

 

“Both of these guys were members of your old 'gang',” the bastard actually used air quotes, “and are currently serving back to back life terms for the murder of a store clerk and his wife. Thing is, the cops always suspected there was another accomplice but those two never sang.”

 

As if this wasn't already ridiculous. “Never sang? Who are you supposed to be, Gig Young?”

 

Lassiter's odd smile pulled a little tighter – his eyes gleaming a little brighter. “Mr. Simon, now is the time that I usually suggest you cooperate. But you know what? I have more fun when you don't.” He flipped the file folder shut with an abrupt snap before clasping his hands together and leaning across the table.

 

“See, it makes it that much sweeter when I bust you.”

 

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the marathon. Thousands of people were gathered at Stearns Wharf – crowding the boardwalk and enjoying the huge mass party. Kids and adults alike snacked on cotton candy, churros, hot dogs, and deep fried empanadas. Racers were just getting ready to line up at the start – the heart pounding rush of muscles toned for the thrilling dash as they approached the mark. It was the perfect day for the race. Everyone was out there, enjoying the sun and mild weather – unhealthy treats and the camaraderie brought out by a shared and hugely anticipated event.

 

Everyone, of course, save for AJ Simon. No, AJ wouldn't be running the race that year. AJ, in fact, was spending that beautiful morning indoors. In a police station. In linen slacks and a pressed shirt. Thanks to his brother. The station itself was quieter than his last visit as so many officers were working crowd duty down at the pier.

 

“AJ, dear, don't slouch.”

 

Did he mention his mother was there?

 

“Sorry, mom.” His mother patted his knee as he pressed his spine against the thin slats of the bench. He'd have been perfectly happy to leave his brother here all weekend. The bail hearing wasn't even set until Monday so it wasn't as though his presence would make a difference. However, Cecilia Simon had insisted on flying into Santa Barbara early that morning in spite of assurances from both of her sons that everything was just fine. Perhaps she'd heard such assurances one too many times. All things being equal, a Simon claiming that everything was just fine was more alarming than Castro announcing an alliance with Kim Jong-un.

 

“I wonder what's taking them so long?” His mother held her purse across her lap as she leaned forward to catch the attention of a tall officer walking past. “Excuse me, young man...?”

 

“McNab – Officer, ma'am.” The cop smiled. AJ recognized him as the officer who'd briefly spoken to Offic-Detective Lassiter during the fishing expedition regarding Rick's whereabouts. Apparently McNab recognized him as well. “Oh, hey, you must be here to see... uh... Mr. Simon? Wasn't it?”

 

AJ nodded. “Richard Simon, my brother. This is our mother, Cecilia Simon.” They both stood and McNab shook their hands.

 

“Office McNab, we've been here for quite a long time and I'd really like to see my son.”

 

The cheerfully polite expression shifted instantly into concerned understanding. AJ would love to give all of the credit towards his mother's charm but he remembered how eager to please McNab had been before and knew it was just the man's personality. Lucky for them.

 

“Oh, man, I'm so sorry about that. Don't worry Mrs. Simon, I'll find out what's taking so long. Just wait right here, I'll be right back!”

 

Cecilia smiled as McNab darted off. “Happy fellow.”

 

Standing at her side, AJ nodded. “That he is.”

 

Placing a hand on his mother's elbow, AJ moved them back to the bench to sit. However, Cecilia shook her head. “That's alright, I'd rather stand for a bit. That bench is awfully hard.”

 

AJ couldn't argue that, so instead he stood next to her, the two of them near the wall to stay out of the flow of traffic – minimal though it was.

 

After the uncomfortable call to his mother the day before, AJ had spent the next four hours dialing up all of Rick's various pals, cronies, and a few of the less vindictive girlfriends all in an attempt to find anyone who might have had Carlos's current number. Apparently the man had a new cell since the last time AJ had had the displeasure of speaking to the man. Lost, most likely; which, given how frequently Rick was known to go through the expensive little devices, it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think his even less reliable buddy would have mislaid his phone. Needless to say, he hadn't been able to track the man down, which meant he hadn't made any noteworthy progress in pursuing the source of this “item” that Rick had been too easily coerced into picking up. Not even knowing what the item was supposed to have been in the first place was an issue in and of itself. Maybe a better track would be to go after the other end of this exchange; the delivery man. But given the struggle just to see his own brother, what were the chances that the police would simply let him have a few minutes alone with the guy who'd been carrying the drugs in the first place?

 

“Mr. Simon? Mrs. Simon?”

 

They both turned as McNab reappeared from down the hall. He was carrying two paper cups which he passed to them as he approached. “I thought you could use some coffee. Cream and sugar okay?”

 

Cecilia nodded. “That's fine, dear.” In fact, AJ knew she preferred black but she was too polite to refuse the cup offered. “Did you find out anything about my son?”

 

McNab gestured with his hand. “Right this way. You'll have an hour to visit with him. I'm sorry, I wish we could give you more time...”

 

Cecilia only smiled, however. “Thank you. I appreciate all you've done for us.”

 

Beaming, even blushing a little, McNab led them down the hall and towards a short flight of stairs that opened into a row of interrogation rooms. Gray concrete and thick walls added chill to the space. No doubt a place of escape on the rare muggy day, with the weather as nice as it was that morning, it felt more like an icy tomb.

 

The officer stopped in front of the second door on the left; pushing through the door to check the interior before allowing them inside. Metal table, grilled window, and a giant mirror were the highlights inside.

 

“Mr. Simon will be here in a few minutes if you wouldn't mind waiting.”

 

AJ breathed out a sigh through his nose, but his mother just smiled and found a chair that looked slightly more stable than the others.

 

With McNab back out the door, AJ pushed his hands in his pockets and settled into a stiff pace – wall to door to wall. His mother allowed him exactly three passes before frowning.

 

“AJ, please sit down before you give me a dizzy spell.”

 

“Sorry, mom.” Not that the chair stopped the fidgets, his leg jogging up and down and his arms crossed over his pressed blue shirt. Cool as it was, he wanted to shuck his jacket to get some air. A moment later, though, the door pivoted on aged hinges.

 

Boots leading the way, skinny legs carried the tall figure of Rick Simon into the room – hands held together with cuffs and a wide grin beneath a mustache that had clearly missed its yearly grooming.

 

“Hey mom!”

 

Cecilia had been on her feet the moment her eldest had appeared – waiting for the officers to remove the handcuffs and step from the room before standing on tiptoes to hug her son.

 

“Hello, darling. How are you holding up?”

 

Rick hefted a shoulder once his mother released him – cocking up a corner of his mustache in a familiar nonchalance.

 

“Oh, just fine, just fine. Bread and water but at least I'm being fed. Did I mention I'm innocent?” He turned towards the glass, raising his voice. “You get all that, Stretch? I'm innocent!”

 

“Richard...”

 

AJ, also on his feet the moment his mother had stood, chose to keep his arms crossed over his chest.

 

“Six months, Rick. Six months I worked my a...” eyes flicked left, “butt off, in the gym, on my own free time between cases, between you demanding to borrow my car to take Cheryl out to the Palm or dropping off Marlowe for the weekend so you could take Tammi up to Mendocino.”

 

“Actually I took Tammi to the Palm and Cheryl to Mendocino.” Rick's smug leer lasted about as long as it took to glance at the disapproval on his mother's face. Scratching his ear, he sighed and looked down at his boots. “Look, AJ, I'm sorry, alright? But , man, how was any of this my fault?”

 

“How was any of this your fault!?”

 

Immediately, a pair of small hands rose up between the two boys as their mother demanded an end to the hostilities.

 

“If you two are finished, I was hoping we could talk about what we're going to do.” Rubbing the knuckles of her ring hand, Cecilia moved back towards the table with her boys following. All three of them sat and Cecilia immediately took Rick's hand and squeezed.

 

“How are you doing, really?”

 

Rick scrubbed his fingertips against the metal table surface. His shoulders heaved up and sank again. “I'm fine, mom.”

 

Cecelia tipped her head as his words muttered free the same moment he turned his eyes to hers. It was cold in the room. She should have worn a shawl but, then, she tended to avoid garments that screamed “elderly”. She most certainly wasn't. But sometimes, she got cold.

 

“I called.” When AJ spoke, it wasn't his brother that Rick eyed – but the long mirror on the wall to his left.

 

“Oh? Called... who?” His chin jutted out as he dragged his attention towards his brother's face. The teeny, tight, constipated smile he got back was enough of a reply to everything he wasn't asking.

 

“Everyone.”

 

A nod. Everyone literally meant everyone. And if AJ had had to call everyone that meant he really hadn't called everyone cause he should have only had to call just one someone and he'd clearly have tried that someone before calling everyone and since he'd called everyone, that meant that someone...

 

“Because, someone's, number didn't go through.”

 

AJ nodded. “Yup.”

 

Calloused hands rubbed over his tired face. “Dammit,” he winced. “sorry, mom.”

 

Her fingers rubbed his back. “Oh, this time, I'm with you in that sentiment.” She looked between her boys; eyebrows digging into creases. “So what do we do? What's our next move?”

 

AJ's fingers were the next to connect with the table; tips dancing over the surface like piano play. “Talk to the middleman.”

 

Rick huffed and slouched in the stiff chair; one arm slinging over the back. “Yeah? And, exactly, how do you plan on doing that?”

 

AJ winced.

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

In spite of the cool morning, the late afternoon air had thickened with heat. The store fronts and office space facing the ocean were a mecca of comfort in green and white – flowers and green plants neatly clustered in planters and hanging pots.

 

The bubbly green font of the last office at the end of the row was the antithesis of the services being offered. Granted, though, having met the man offering the services it was oddly fitting.

 

The knock went unanswered. Too sticky to stand there doing everything but cooling his heels, AJ pushed past the wooden door. The air conditioning was working. Apparently they made enough to pay the electric bill.

 

The smell of cinnamon hit him next and with it, the mutter of voices in the room beyond. Barely creaking the floor, AJ shifted some papers on the small table in what looked like a waiting area. Several business cards, flyer for a Tony Blair's Pub offering a deal on Geronimo sliders (whatever those were), and a cluster of candy wrappers.

 

“...know why they call her Smurfette.”

 

AJ gave in and moved closer to the inner office. He wasn't given to fidgeting but his lip worked its way between his teeth.

 

“Well, sometimes words that end with the suffix, ette, imply a female gender.”

 

Doug. No, Gus. Burton Guster but he'd obviously preferred the nickname over his given name the last time they'd met.

 

“So, like, omelette, towelette, cigarette...”

 

The floorboards gave a muffled pop under his heel but the conversation on the other side of the wall didn't falter one breath.

 

“No, Shawn...”

 

“Excuse me? Hello?” AJ knocked on the door frame as he stepped into the office.

 

Guster sat back in a stiff jerk but Spencer only tipped his head. The smile, already on his face, grew wide and toothy as AJ stepped into their... sanctum. While the room resembled a working space, there couldn't have been a more obvious line of demarcation between the two sides of the office had it been drawn in chalk across the floor. One side reflecting a bureaucratic call to order down to the paperclips lined perfectly in their container, the other side was exploded chaos. Hard to identify the paperclips from the Play-Doh; Spencer nested amidst his hoard like a very contented packrat. Give the guy a mustache and a cowboy hat...

 

“You actually work here?”

 

“We don't just work here. We play here. And we play hard.” Spencer chewed through slice of cinnamon toast, crumbs scattering across the desk in its wake, before licking his buttery fingers and wiping them on his jeans.

 

This was a mistake. He'd known it was a mistake but there was that voice in his head that had cajoled him all the way through the door. That voice in his head with his mother's determined inflection and steel grit. The voice that demanded he try every avenue because giving up was never an option. But that voice hadn't met these two. There was just no way...

 

“My apologies. Apparently I've come to the wrong building.” He'd try Town again. Maybe he had some connections here in Santa Barbara who could grease things with this Chief Vick.

 

Scampering feet behind him as Spencer launched from his seat – leaving it spinning in a squeaky whirl from the force of his dismount.

 

“We get that a lot. Here's the thing. It's never actually the wrong building. Although there was that one guy who was looking for a Chuck E Cheese's...”

 

AJ breathed out, feeling his cheek twitch. He was supposed to have been back at the hotel by now – feet up after a long shower and sipping a glass of self-congratulatory local wine after his run. A gentleman named Ross from Pasadena had come in first. AJ knew he'd never have made the man's time of an hour and forty-four minutes but he was sure he'd have at least placed slightly ahead of mid-pack.

 

He turned towards the main room once more, fingers playing out an agitated rhythm at his sides. This was really, really painful.

 

Finally lifting his head, he looked Spencer full in the face.

 

“I need your help.”

 

Chapter Text

The pre-dinner mini donuts were settling in nicely as Shawn and Gus jogged up the white concrete steps. Officer Allen was exiting through the heavy glass door as the two of them reached the building, smiling the moment she saw the two men.

 

“Mr. Spencer!”

 

Shawn made a little spin; dropping to place at her side. Then he leaned down an inch and cocked his head – meeting the shorter woman eye to eye. “Good morning, Officer. Ooo, I sense somebody had the blueberry special at the Waffle House this morning? Celebrating...” he made a spiraling gesture with his fingers at his temple, “that promotion you'd been hoping for!”

 

A giggle and Allen nodded. “You are now speaking to Senior Patrolman Allen!”

 

“Congratulations!” Gus dipped his head and Shawn made a rapid series of baby claps before offering a hug. Allen squeezed the young man, giggling again.

 

“You, me, Gus – Kettle Kitchen for lunch – Gus is buying.”

 

Gus snapped his lips but Allen shook her head. “Oh, I'd love to, that's so sweet! But I have a presentation I'm giving at Leland Bosseigh High School in about twenty minutes and I gotta jet!”

 

Shawn's eyebrows perked. “Hey, Leland Bosseigh, that's,” he gestured back and forth, “that's me and Gus's alma mater!”

 

Allen grinned. “Is that so? Any teachers you'd like me to say hey to for you?”

 

Gus smoothed a hand over his scalp. “Actually, if you wouldn't mind,”

 

“-Gus and I would both like to send hugs and kisses to Dolores Fent.”

 

Allen nodded. “Will do! Now, I really gotta go. You boys be good!” Sending them a little wave, she continued on towards the parking lot.

 

Gus slugged Shawn in the hip. “Crazy Dolores Fent? The lunch lady? The same lunch lady that insisted on serving cold beans and weenies because she thought hot beans would scald our intestines?”

 

Shawn turned them both back towards the station while rubbing the fresh bruise building on his side. “She also made sure to stock up on soy milk and even got the chocolate kind.”

 

Gus had to concede that – hating himself for forgetting and feeling some guilt for slugging his buddy. He was also touched that Shawn had said what he had. To most people, Shawn came off as an inconsiderate yet moderately adorable absent-minded goofball. They'd give him a pass for his charm but never assumed there was anything beyond the persona. Being Shawn's best friend for over thirty years, however, meant that Gus had a far deeper understanding of his friend. He was kind, loving, and lived a life creed that included making others happier than himself as well as getting the biggest slice of pie. It was a complex life creed and often ended with the pie more in his face than in his mouth but he never lost sight of his lofty goals of self sacrificing indulgence.

 

“So have you thought about how you're going to get in to see this guy?”

 

Shawn prodded his tongue along his teeth as he leaned against the wall. “Yup. Officer Campolo.”

 

“What about him?” Gus rested his backside against the metal rail dividing the concrete staircase. What was he just thinking about Shawn and self sacrifice? And yet this buster couldn't be troubled to share his plans with his best friend, business partner, and power of attorney?

 

“Well, Gus, I happen to have it, on good authority, that Officer Campolo is suffering through the late stages of an IBM flare-up.”

 

“You mean IBS, and I was there when your dad complained to you about it last night. Not exactly revealing.”

 

Shawn shook his head. “Never thought the day would come when dad was the victim of a bathroom bomber.”

 

They both gave up their loitering to continue on towards the station entrance. “I know. Usually he's the bombardier.”

 

Shawn stopped with his hand on the door. “You know, I'm not actually comfortable continuing this conversation.”

 

Wrinkling his nose, Gus nodded. “I hear that.”

 

In a rare moment of conversational continuity, Shawn picked up the delayed thread of his original point.

 

“The thing is, Officer Campolo will be spending quite a bit of time away from his post – allowing us to glide in below the radar.” Emphasizing by example, Shawn crouched – tugging Gus down with him, and began stealthy movements towards the wide hall leading towards the stair case leading to the inner bowels of the station, which, in turn, would lead to the interrogation rooms and the holding area for suspects awaiting arraignment.

 

In theory, a reasonable idea, but, “Why couldn't we just sneak in the way we normally do?”

 

Shawn eeled around a potted plant. “Look, you know as well as I do that I never repeat myself. Every day is a new day, Gus. Every sunrise is a rebirth. A chance to start out with a brand new skin. A new life's story.”

 

“This, coming from the guy who ate S'Mores Pop Tarts every morning for six months straight?”

 

“Besides, the last time we tried the open approach, Nabby hauled us out of here by our collars.”

 

Gus tugged at said collar as he adjusted his shirt. “He hauled you out by your collar. I, on the other hand, walked out cool and smooth like a grown ass man.”

 

Past the main hall – freezing at every footstep and wiping sweat when the few curious glances drew little more than passing confusion, the two of them made it to the top of the stairs. The danger zone. No cover once they left their too small cubby – bodies compressed together in a space barely large enough for half a child.

 

“Dude, your elbow is jabbing my rib bone!”

 

“That isn't my elbow.”

 

Shawn wilted. “Oh, God, I'd managed to make it this long without a Planes, Trains, and Automobiles moment.”

 

Gus shoved, nearly sending the both of them sprawling. “It's my phone!”

 

Shawn shoved back. “Your cell phone is surprisingly sharp! Gimme some space here!”

 

“Get your own space!” Gus brought his knee into play in a clear foul.

 

“This is my own space, you're just hogging it!”

 

Maybe they didn't hear the next set of footsteps approaching. Maybe the were both so accustomed to that particular walk that it didn't register. Maybe Shawn was too busy trying to avoid an Indian burn while trying to give the mother of all purple nurples. Either way, the presence of a third person didn't sink in until they both heard the rough throat clearing that had brought an end to most of their spats from the time they were barely four cells.

 

“Uh... hey, dad.”

 

“What the hell are you two doing?”

 

Shawn pulled his fingers away from Gus's nips. “Well...”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

Back on the sidewalk, again. Shawn rotated his shoulder where his father had clamped his hand. Nowhere near as grippy as Lassiter but dad knew more about pressure points than a Vulcan.

 

“Okay, this sucks.”

 

Gus hadn't bothered with the pause and reflect moment but, rather, had continued towards the Blueberry – keys out and pressing the button to unlock his car with a zippy chirp.

 

“I told you, Shawn.”

 

Pinching his face towards the sky, Shawn had to cram fists in his pockets to fight off the need for a full on stomp fest. Most days he could put up with his dad's job blocking, but going on 0-for-2, he was starting to walk the fine line of prepubescent temper tantrum.

 

When life hands you lemons, eat pineapple instead, cause lemons make your lips puckery.

 

“Okay! Change of plans!” Hands slapped together as he wiped out the rest of his aggravation in a jaunty trot down the steps. Gus, used to the quick flips of mood and objective, waited by his open door for Shawn to come to a landing on the passenger's side.

 

Cheetos stained fingertips tapped out a fast paced rendition of Donna Summer's 'She Works Hard For the Money' on the hood of the car. “We check the murder scene.”

 

Gus huffed and dropped down into his seat, forcing Shawn to follow if he wanted to continue to be heard.

 

“Nobody was murdered, Shawn.”

 

“Yet. Please, Gus. Out of all of out cases that started out without a murder, how many of them ended with one?”

 

Only a second of thought before Gus tipped his head. “Fine, I'll grant you that. However,” he turned – his hard stare enough for Shawn to press against the side door, “if I end up the murdered one, I'm going to kill you.”

 

And Shawn actually chose to argue logistics. “Dude, you can't kill me if you're dead.”

 

“Oh really? You and I have both seen all six Nightmare on Elm Street movies as well as Wes Craven's New Nightmare, Freddy Versus Jason, and the 2010 remake.” Gus started the car and responsibly began backing out of his perfect parking spot.

 

“Shawn rubbed his chin. “So you're saying you'll come back with knife hands and stab me through my mattress while I'm sleeping.”

 

Gus nodded. “Yup.”

 

Shawn sucked some leftover Cheetos dust off his knuckle. “That's fair.”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

It was only a little past two in the afternoon. The sun was still brilliant above, the air cool but not cold. There were seabirds nearby – some clustered in groups on the vast pavement of the warehouse district. Two hundred yards further on, the district ended with water – small waves lapping against the docks. And yet, compounded by previous visits to this hotbed of criminal activity, Gus felt that low hum of stress building up in the base of his spine. Just a delicate vibration, for now. But soon enough, the memory of all the horror he'd experienced, at this end of town, would line up in his head and begin its terrifying play by play. Yin's sick game, Candyman and his undercover drug deal, watching Mary bleed out while Shawn broke down...

 

“Dude, pass me the Skittles.”

 

It was jarring – going between those spine clenching memories to Shawn's untroubled snacking. But, then, maybe that was the point of being friends with Shawn. He had a way of making horror... kinda fun.

 

“You can't just eat the green ones.”

 

Shawn snatched the bag and shoveled a gargantuan quantity into his wide maw. “Ofay.”

 

“Shawn!” Gus grabbed back the candy, scowling at the tiny remainder. He scowled harder when Shawn grinned at him with rainbow teeth.

 

Then both of them caught the movement near the building they'd been watching – a large warehouse about thirty feet from where Rick Simon had met his messy end, aka, had been arrested. Long shot. Total wild pitch. The truck that had delivered the drugs could have come from anywhere. The driver wasn't talking, at least according to Juliet, and had lawyered up with some old pressed suit grandfatherly attorney with a five hundred dollars an hour price tag hanging off his sleeve.

 

But all that meant nothing when they spotted the shadowy skulker dart between several crates on his way to the warehouse. Gus immediately started slapping Shawn in the arm – feeling his blood pound at the upcoming hunt and possible life risking.

 

“Ow, ow, ow! Yes, geez, I see him!” The candy was shoved in the console between the seats and both of them snuck out their respective sides. They both stopped near the front of the car – crouched down next to the wheel wells. They'd considered their ninja gear but had come to the consensus that the all black with hoodies look only worked after midnight.

 

Gus swallowed as his spine started to clench once more. “On three?”

 

Shawn's eyebrows plowed together as he hissed out a rough whisper. “Man, we aren't diffusing a bomb! Let's just go!”

 

Oh, right. Gus breathed a few breaths of calming zen. “Okay, yeah.”

 

Gus wasn't as cat-like on his feet as Shawn, though “cat-like” was subjective to the situation. Shawn was easily the clumsiest cat that Gus had ever seen. Maybe kitten footed was a better description. Well the boy couldn't navigate lasers the way Gus could at any rate. As it was, Shawn moved towards the warehouse on the balls of his feet – winding around the same crates their suspect had crept between seconds earlier.

 

Gus angled left while Shawn headed mostly right – popping up like a groundhog to attempt peering over the shortest crate stack. No luck, apparently, and Shawn soon joined Gus up against the wall and inches from the door.

 

This time Shawn was the one to tip his chin in a gesture towards the knob. “On three?”

 

Gus snapped his lips.

 

Letting Shawn be the door opener, Gus busied himself with searching for a decent weapon. Nothing. Not even a rock.

 

“We should call Lassiter.” Gus offered this as Shawn's fingers were just starting to tug at the door.

 

“Yeah? And tell him what? That we saw a creepy shadow walking into a warehouse?

 

Gus shrugged. “Well, he was creepy.”

 

Shawn nodded back. “That's a good point, but, oh no...” He opened the door – grabbed a handful of Gus sleeve to drag his friend into the warehouse with him.

 

Dark. Super dark. At least until the flashlight app on Shawn's phone cut through the black. Gus slapped arm meat. Keeping his terrified response as whispery urgent as possible.

 

“Dude, what are you doing?”

 

Shawn took the time to illuminate whilst the arrow of light from the open door slowly narrowed as the door lumbered shut. “Well, Gus, until my 'eye of the tiger' request goes through with my HMO, I'm forced to supplement with my weak 'not able to see in the dark' human eyes with additional light sources.”

 

“First of all, you don't have an HMO. And secondly, you're letting every thug in this warehouse know exactly where we are!”

 

This was an argument that could have gone to a higher court, but instead, Shawn showed a sudden sense of self-preservation and doused the screen. In another second, Gus realized why as he was, again, dragged towards a corner. The two of them crouched – presumably behind more crates given the splinters brushing against Gus's nose. Across the enormous room, there was a scrape. Shawn nudged Gus in the shoulder.

 

“Good call about the light.” He whispered.

 

Now that the bluish cell phone light was gone, their eyes were slowly beginning to adjust to the ambient light filtering in from high windows lining the upper half of the building. Though crates obscured much of the glass, they couldn't completely block the afternoon sun from creeping between the slats in the wood. They saw their suspect almost immediately.

 

The guy was on the far end of the warehouse. He was poking through one of the crates. And he was armed.

 

Gus tugged his phone from its holster. “Okay, now we're calling Lassiter.”

 

Shawn covered the screen with his hand. “No.” He sighed, standing up and ignoring Gus's flapping hands. “No, we're not.” Then, to Gus's even greater horror, Shawn shouted.

 

“Yo! We're over here!”

Chapter Text

He was dead. This was it. Today was the day he died. He'd always suspected it would be at Shawn's side and there was a fifty-fifty chance he'd go down cursing his friend's name. He'd even factored in that there was a very high probability he'd die during an investigation (now that he'd cut back on his butter intake thus reducing his chance of cardiac arrest). But of all the scenarios where Shawn's idiocy led to his untimely and bloody demise, he'd never calculated that Shawn would kill them by waving their murderer over with a grin and pointing fingers.

 

Never one to keep his fears and anxieties to himself, Gus did the prudent thing and swung the blade side of an open hand against Shawn's thigh.

 

“Ow!” Buckling at the point of impact, Stupid McYelly crumpled to the filth strewn concrete and gripped his dented flesh. With his best friend as convenient bait for the approaching threat, Gus lined up his feet with the exit for his best Jesse Owens impersonation. Which was about the time Shawn wrapped a meat hook around his right sneaker.

 

“Shawn! Let go of my foot!”

 

Still locked up from the well deserved karate chop, Shawn pinched his monkey fingers tighter, face crunched into a wrinkle of injured betrayal. “Are you serious? You're ditching me??”

 

Even with the little, actually significant, bubble of shame, Gus continued yanking his leg while eyeing his buddy's hand while contemplating the best place to stomp. Maybe he could kill two birds by just dragging Shawn out with him...

 

“What the hell are you two idiots doing here?”

 

Said idiots unleashed sudden screams at the sudden voice speaking suddenly in their ears.

 

“Shh! Be quiet!” Of course, the order didn't have effectiveness until a cold hand slapped over Gus's mouth. Shawn continued screaming solo an additional three seconds until it clicked in that he wasn't harmonizing any longer and the long note wavered to nothing.

 

Wait, Gus recognized those smooth fingers mashed across his lips! Of course, the last time he'd felt them, they'd been grasped in a handshake. What could he say, he was a hand man.

 

“Ay'hay 'iwon?”

 

AJ dropped his hand only to use it to haul Shawn back to his feet.

 

Gus shared a look with his friend; the latter both wincing and glaring. Contrite, Gus rumpled up his brow and tipped his head in a few nodding jerks. Shawn pushed out his lip and bit the inside of his cheeks. In reply, Gus stuck out his jaw and cupped his own lips between his teeth. Nodding, Shawn sighed and held out a fist. Relieved and forgiven, Gus bumped it back.

 

Fully outside the loop, AJ could have had crickets crawling out of his mouth with the expression he was mailing across the four feet of space separating him from the round of secret sign language. Whatever was on his mind, though, what he finally spit out was on par with a Henry Spencer dressing down. If Henry was seventy years younger, had hair, and leaned towards prissy pronunciation.

 

“Typically one does not bellow like an elk in rut when one is in the midst of an investigation.” Stilted, heavily punctuated delivery. Gus was impressed with the perfect blend of whisper and verbal slap.

 

Shawn, never one to accept a dressing down on face value, initiated his volley back with a snort.

 

“Dude, we've been here like, half an hour. The only 'one' we've seen is you. And you have no idea how Gus and me work. I'll have you know, we've solved most of our best cases by bellowing.”

 

Gus nodded. “It's true.”

 

Next, channeling Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD's Irish division, AJ tried to bore a hole between his eyebrows with the pad of his thumb. Debatable that it triggered any sort of conversational inspiration, but whatever elocution was bubbling across his cerebellum, it fizzled out in favor of, yet another, movement of sudden suddeness as he snatched the collars of the two men sharing his inner circle and yanked them floor-ward yet again.

 

“Wha-” - “Hey-” - “Shh!”

 

Gus, perhaps discomforted by the layer of dirt, grease, and bug carcasses strewn liberally and unevenly across the cement, resisted the downward yank with a stubborn bracing of knees and hips. Not one to ever single himself out for suffering, Shawn plunged two knuckles into the soft flesh backing his buddy's leg joint – careening the resistant fellow hard South.

 

“Shaw-!” Manicured fingers slapped back into place while AJ's other hand made the classic shush gesture before he turned his head back towards the way he'd come.

 

Shawn, meanwhile, contemplated biting his own arm to reduce the pain of his other limb, crushed under Gus's boisterous ass after the sneak attack had backfired so splendidly. He reconsidered his pain management, however, given that he'd never bought into introducing pain somewhere else to make it vacate the initial injury – no matter what old Sheriff Hank claimed. Now, introducing alcohol – that one he could support. In a series of hard jerks – not helped by the way Gus ground his hip further into the trapped extremity in a vindictive move of wickedness – finally managed to rip free.

 

“Dude, reall-!?” AJ's other hand slapped, in a very audible and crack-y snap, across Shawn's lips before his indignation could do more than merely indig.

 

And with the three of them, finally, making no more noise than a mute hyena, the sounds that had only been falling upon AJ's ultra sensitive ears finally struck them all.

 

It was a scrip scrape. Hollow and scrimmed over with distance. The regular series of beeps were easier to identify. A truck backing up. Possibly a forklift. The area was littered with them as delivery trucks moved in and out of the area. Nothing, really, to twist one's undergarments into a flying crane. Shawn grabbed the hand mashing his lips against his teeth. A sharp tug pulled the fleshy gag to the side, but actual complaint fizzled as a door, somewhere at the back of the cavernous space, scraped open.

 

“Carlos, date prisa! Necesitamos que el producto se movió antes de que llegue el equipo de limpieza! Sólo tenemos hasta esta tarde así que mueve el culo!”

 

Wriggling out from beneath Monsieur Grabby Hands, Shawn pushed up against the wall behind their shared pallet. “I got this,” he whispered as AJ finally released Gus as well – the three of them gathered together. Shawn tipped his head a touch to the right – one hand cupping around his ear. Then he nodded. “Okay, it sounds like their boy, Carlos, got drunk with two Polynesian dancers last night and seems to have acquired a very regrettable tattoo of a segway riding porpoise in a very regrettable place.”

 

Gus flicked a glare sideways. “Man, you know that isn't what he said!” He hissed.

 

AJ lifted an eyebrow. “Well my Spanish is terrible but it's certainly better than yours. I heard something about needing to move product before this afternoon.”

 

Shawn wriggled and grunted until he could wrestle a position between AJ and Gus where the three of them peered over the stack of crates hiding them from the rest of the warehouse. Most of the crates in their immediate eye line were stamped “Vino Noir Imports” beneath a simple design of a black eagle. Not much of a wine drinker himself, Shawn could remember his father, on very rare occasions, shelling out the extra cash for a higher end label. Vino Noir wasn't a favorite but it had showed up in the fridge at least twice. Shawn nodded towards Gus as he tapped a knuckle against the crate.

 

“Buddy, I'll give you five bucks to drink whatever's in this box.”

 

A crinkle marred the smooth velvet of Gus's nose. “Please. Like you have five dollars.”

 

Shoving his hands in both pockets, Shawn dug around for several seconds before nodding. “Okay, make that one Tic Tac and three rubber bands.”

 

Gus snorted and waved a hand at the offer as though it smelled like bad cheese. “How about two Tic Tacs?”

 

Shawn rocked side to side. “Dude, I can't! I had leftover Carbonara for breakfast and you know how Jules can get about my breath. It's the garlic...”

 

“Would you two shut up!?” AJ's fingers had curled so tightly around the edge of the wooden crate that a thin strip had actually started to splinter. His whispered demand silenced the hisses between the other two; though both of them pulled their lips down in mock distress at the command.

 

On the other side of the warehouse, unaware of the hidden group, the two workers had increased by five. A couple of them hefted some smaller boxes and carried them outside. The men remaining behind cleared floor space; tossing, apparently worthless, items aside before hauling open the double doors. More shouting back and forth and then a forklift rumbled through the wide opening.

 

Shawn's fingers tapped his bit of crate. Plenty of guys working but there were also quite a few just standing around looking menacing behind their sunglasses. Experience had established that if a guy, or lady, dressed menacing and acted menacing then they probably were menacing. That and the shape of menacing handguns he could make out beneath their mobsterwear.

 

“I think we need a closer look.”

 

Gus, of course, gently advised against that suggestion with a delicate “You must be out of your damn mind, sucka!!” Okay, so he hadn't phrased it exactly like that but he had made his feelings known with an emphasized forehead ripple.

 

“I think you're right.”

 

AJ's agreement snapped the attention of both friends, seconds into a muted spat. Pulling from his buddy's pinchy grip, Shawn swept the grunge from the seat of his jeans.

 

“Unexpected. But I must say, I am delighted. Gus, aren't you delighted?”

 

“No, I am not, Shawn.”

 

“See? Gus is delighted too. You take left, we take right?” No real reason to wait for reply, Shawn dragged Gus towards the next closest stack of crates – nearly colliding with AJ, who gave them a very Lassitarian glare, before skulking off in the opposite direction.

 

Ripping from his fingers, Gus checked his shirt for tears before swiping a cruel slap against Shawn's unprotected bicep. “I thought you said we were going right!”

 

Rubbing the new dent in his flesh, Shawn tried to see past the pain to take in more details. “Emergency change of plans. I'm pretty sure there was a gargantuan spider to the right.” Or a threatening hunk of packing material, but either way it got him back into Gus's good graces. A shared nod and all was well. Well, “well” being relative.

 

The packing up of crates had moved deeper into the warehouse – meaning closer. Shawn flicked his attention right, across, and back – finally picking up a crouched shadow about fifteen feet from the center of activity. Simon was in a good position, for the moment. Time to do the same on their end.

 

At least there were no shortage of crates, pallets, and machinery to duck around, crawl beneath, and weave between. Finding a good crawl space behind the detached bucket of a backhoe, Shawn and Gus, quietly, nudged and shoved and wriggled until they'd found a way that the both of them could cram together in the tiny spot. Shawn wriggled an additional five seconds when Gus apparently developed thirteen new elbows with which to ram through his delicate hide.

 

The stirred up dust and bug carcasses from their nudging and flailing found a new perch along sensitive mucus membranes. “Pug puppies-wet kittens-old people-”

 

Gus nudged again, hard, at the sputtered hissing whisper. “Dude, what are you doing?”

 

Shawn squeezed his eyes tight and hitched his shoulders. “Trying to h-hold back a sn-sn-sneEE-”

 

A brutal knuckle jammed into his nose holes. “SckNEW!” Stifled and wet, less loud than a 747 landing. Unnoticed and under the attentive radar of the crew loudly hauling merchandise out to the waiting trucks. Gus pulled his hand away just as fast – face warping at the sneeze spatter on his hand.

 

Shawn's sleeve took care of the residual mucking up the fine hairs across his knuckles – what need was there for a hanky when shirts worked so effectively?

 

“¿Diablos fue eso?” One boulder sized head pivoted on a sweaty meaty neck to squint towards the shadows that had just sneezed.

 

Oh crap. So apparently not so inattentive.

 

“Tapia, ir a verla. El resto, sigue cargando! Vámonos!”

 

“Shawn...” Gus latched onto his arm as the two of them shuffled backward, knees bent up to their chests and arms spread out on either side for balance. It took all of two seconds to trip over their own feet and fall backward in a limb flailing pile.

 

“¡Oye!” Footsteps pounded and the two men detangled themselves – Shawn shoving Gus's elbow out of his eye and bolting back towards the exit just as the shouts rose loud with discovery.

 

“Gus, run!”

 

“You run!”

 

“I am running!”

 

“Run faster!”

 

“You run faster!”

 

A chest wall in his path was too close to dodge and Shawn collided, nose first, between a massive set of solid pecs. Eight inches away, Gus was clotheslined by a muscle ripped arm the same mass and circumference as a young sequoia.

 

Both of them bounced off the unexpectedly fleet of foot man tree and crashed to the floor.

 

Shawn tried to remember the trick behind breathing while he lie, turtled on his back, with his legs bent above him. He lowered his poor, jarred limbs, noticing Gus doing the same with his face crunched up in a bared teeth grimace.

 

“Ow...”

 

Two baseball mitt sized meat paws lowered to snatch the collars of their shirts and haul them up at a blinding speed. Shawn clutched at the wrist just to keep his balance as he recouped his equilibrium.

 

“Dude, careful, you nearly gave us the bends!”

 

“¡Muévete!” The large man wall shoved them both towards the cluster of very large and menacing thug-like figures.

 

On his side of the behemoth, Gus tugged at the manhandled collar of his shirt where the rough treatment had ripped free one button. Shawn had yet to even look at him and that made him very, very nervous. He knew his buddy was plotting something. Some way for them to escape this. But without a meeting of the eyes he had no way to evaluate how crazy the plan would actually be. They were getting closer to the main group of threatening looking men.

 

They were about ten feet from the cleared area of the warehouse where Shawn suddenly yelped – feet tangling together and dropping him to his knees. Gus heard a muffled chime before something bright green flashed past his feet and tumbled into some loose packing straw.

 

“¡Torpe idiota!” The behemoth grabbed Shawn by the collar, again, and yanked him to his feet, again, before pushing them both the remaining few feet.

 

Shawn, on the other hand, was taking this all in stride. Sure, it seemed scary and intimidating and whatnot, but, as of yet, nobody had actually pulled a gun or anything.

 

The man whom Shawn determined to be the leader of the little party, given the spotless leather jacket and elegantly slicked back hair, jerked his chin while making a very effective cougar snarl with his lip.

 

“¡El infierno aquí antes de que puse una bala a través de rodillas!

 

Shawn blinked. “Gus, I think that man just called you a dirty rat who wears his father's suspenders.”

 

The man in black leather proceeded to pull an enormous pistol from a shoulder holster. However, even with the clear and present threat of danger, Gus took a moment to slug his buddy in the side boob.

 

“Ow, ow, OW that freaking stings!”

 

Unimpressed by the friendly fire, their menacing captor unnecessarily pulled back the hammer of his very large gun. “I said, get the hell over here before I put a bullet through your knees!”

 

Both of them raised their hands as three more sets of weapons pointed at various vital areas. The men still moving crates out of the building seemed disturbingly unimpressed by the smidge of hostage taking taking place. Meeting Gus in the eyes, Shawn gave a tiny nod before licking his lips.

 

“Okay, guys, this is the thing. You think we're here alone? Huh? Buddy, I will have you know, we've got some serious back-up to back us up so back off!” Counting his fingers he gave Gus another glance. “Too many backs?”

 

Gus tipped his head. “Maybe a couple.”

 

Ignoring the side conference, Black Leather did his own nodding towards some bulky figures standing in the shadows.

 

“You mean this guy?”

 

Shawn's arms dropped back to his sides as AJ was shoved into their little group. “Really?”

 

“Search them!”

 

AJ shrugged but was quickly pushed against a crate as two more large forms approached Shawn and Gus.

 

They would have backed up except the original man wall was standing directly behind them. The both of them were uncomfortably searched – hands roaming up and down clothing in a too close for comfort way that had Shawn yearning for a bar of Irish Spring and a firehose.

 

Both of Shawn's Tic Tacs as well as his rubber band stash and a crumpled ten dollar bill ended up on the floor along with Gus's wallet, car keys, and cell phone.

 

“Dude, you told me you didn't have any money!” Too far away to cause physical damage, Gus got a lot of mileage with his death glare.

 

Shawn squinted. “Is this really the time to call me on the carpet? Especially given that there isn't any carpet in here?”

 

“¡Cállate!” Leather jacket flicked the muzzle of his very large gun towards the tiny mound of contraband. “One phone? And what abouthis phone, eh?” The very large gun pointed at Shawn – somewhere in the area of his vulnerable sternum.

 

Shawn chuckled. “Are you SERIous right now? “Don't you think if I had my phone I'd CALL LASSITER?”

 

“You know, you have a very dangerous habit of speaking out of turn!”

 

Shawn, though, wasn't quite ready to take any hints. “Dude, who needs a phone when we got SWAT converging on this building right as we speak? Yeah, that's right, jack! So maybe you wanna back off with all your huge guns cause I am the Head Psychic Police Consultant at the SBPD and I am very valuable!”

 

Said gun was shoved into his neck. “Oh yeah? How valuable?”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

“...cause I am the Head Psychic Police Consultant at the SBPD and I am very valuable!”

 

Lassiter closed his eyes to keep from rolling them for the sixth time. Cell phone still in hand, he caught his partner's attention as he walked towards the Chief's office. With O'Hara on his heels, he rapped on Vick's door before pushing his head into the smaller space.

 

“Chief, we may have a problem.”

Chapter Text

Not the first bail hearing he'd attended and/or participated in. His lawyer had the same overeager underachiever look about him as every other pencil pusher who'd ever made him sign on the dotted line. Granted, though, this kid seemed slightly more qualified than he was used to from the court appointed flunkies he typically was assigned. Rick Simon was not above self representation – more than capable of speaking his mind in his own defense, he'd been incapable of speech at all for nearly a minute when this baby cheeked suit had walked up to his cell, held out his hand, and said he'd been retained on Rick's behalf. “As a long overdue favor.”

 

“Retained by who?” AJ, or possibly his mother. At least until the kid tossed out a name not listed amongst the hundreds of names in Rick's mental address book.

 

His new lawyer, one Adam Hornstock of Hornstock, Hornstock, Biederman, and Hornstock, didn't elaborate on who or why beyond “friend” and “favor” but as long as “pro bono” was attached, Rick could give it a pass.

 

Nine o' clock, Monday morning, Rick sat next to his attorney. His mother sat in the first row behind him. But it was the empty seat beside her that held more attention grabbing focus than the back and forth regarding his freedom. The no show from AJ was more Rick's style than his little brother's. And while he could have brushed it off with the assumption the AJ was investigating, his mother had shot down that hope by confirming that AJ hadn't answered his cell all morning.

 

He barely registered the bail amount. High but manageable. More or less. Over a five year period with no greater than a three percent APR.

 

“I'll pay it back, mom, I promise.”

 

“Of course, dear.” His mother had him in a tight hug before the sound of the gavel had stopped echoing in the courtroom. Her fingers pulled wrinkles in his shirt and Rick rubbed her back.

 

“Don't worry. I'll find him.”

 

The curl topped head nodded against him as Cecelia finally stepped away. “I know you will, sweetheart.” Her hands brushed at the wrinkles she'd made. Around them, the room was emptying out as the handful of observers left. Rick had expected that tight ass, Lassiter, to be there – possibly to contest his bail. But there was no sign of the detective.

 

Edging around his shoulder, Hornstock held out one soft palm. “It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Simon. And you as well, Ma'am.” The young man delicately grasped Cecelia's fingers and she gave him a courteous smile back.

 

Bending a bit, the man collected his briefcase before smiling again. “I'll call you in a few days so we can discuss the ongoing investigation. Keep your chin up!”

 

Rick managed to keep his smile civil, if stretched a bit tight. “Yeah, it's up,” he muttered as Hornstock made for the double doors, “right along with my middle-”

 

“Richard Simon!”

 

Hot flush flared across his neck and lit his ears. “Sorry, mom.”

 

She sighed rather than continue chastising him. “Just find your brother. Please, Rick...”

 

He hugged her again – feeling the child-like shame vanish with a resurging worry. “I promise you I will.” He took her elbow and led her back towards the exit.

 

Handling his bail payment took longer than Rick was entirely comfortable with. Growling at the back of the line until his mother pinched his elbow transitioned to pacing once he had his phone back – repeated calls to his brother going to voicemail. That bit of business finally over, Rick bit down on the urge to run from the building – instead keeping pace with his mother as she politely parted the irritated down and outs waiting to give blood to the system.

 

Rick rubbed a finger across his mustache. “When was the last time you spoke to AJ?”

 

Cecelia dug a tissue from her purse and blotted her hands before pitching it into the trash near the door. “It was about noon yesterday. I remember it was right before I went down to the hotel restaurant for lunch.”

 

Back outside, they both shivered at the wind blast that met them – rain sprinkling down and more to come from the look of the clouds. Hunching in his jacket, Rick placed an arm across his mother's shoulders on the way back to her rental car.

 

Starting the car, Cecelia glanced at her eldest. “Speaking of lunch, you must be famished. We can stop and pick up something...”

 

Shaking his head, Rick pulled free his phone again. “It's okay, mom, I'll grab something later. Just drop me off outside my hotel. I need to pick up a few things.”

 

Cecelia was aware of what those “few things” likely included. The police were holding on to Rick's weapon but she had no doubt that he had a spare. Not for the first time she wished she could do... something. Knowing one or both of her children faced danger on a somewhat regular basis was something she'd had to make peace with long ago. Very long ago, in fact. That first time being when Rick had joined the Marines – serving two years before being sent overseas to fight in the Gulf War. It still made her limbs go cold, remembering that phone call. There'd been a skirmish but they hadn't provided many details suffice to say that Rick had been badly injured. She wouldn't find out until later how close he'd come to death.

 

Pulling up in front of Rick's hotel, Cecelia gripped his wrist as he was opening the door. “Call me later, if you can, honey.”

 

That bright smile, almost washing away the concern tightening around those baby blue eyes. “I will, mom, I promise.” He leaned close to give her a tickly kiss on the cheek. “Gotta go.”

 

Rick slid from the car – keeping his face cheerful in spite of his mother's anxiety. Cecelia watched until he entered the lobby. Then, letting out a small rush of breath, she continued back to her own hotel, alone.

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

“Shawn?”

 

“Yes, Gus.”

 

“Your elbow is digging into my kidney.”

 

“Oh, sorry, buddy. How's that?”

 

“Better.”

 

A minute or two of silence. Certainly no more than five.

 

“Hey, AJ?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Spencer?”

 

“Please, we've been abducted together and crammed into a tiny room. I think we're obligated to use our front names, don't you?”

 

“Fine, Shawn. What do you want?”

 

“You wouldn't happen to have any granola bars or fruit roll-ups by chance, would you? It's way past dinner and Gus has a weak uterus.”

 

“It's called a fundus, Shawn.”

 

“I've heard it both ways.”

 

“No, I don't have a granola bar, a fruit roll-up, a platter of steak tartare, or grilled sea bass on a bed of arugula. I have no food, no water, no means to cut our bindings, and no more patience to answer your inane questions.”

 

“Fair enough. One more question, though. Why is Christina Aguilera sleeping with the fishies?”

 

“Arugula is...”

 

Gus nudged Shawn hard in the shoulder while cutting AJ off before he could get going.

 

“Ignore him. Shawn's just being an ass because he missed the premiere of Big Shrimpin'.”

 

Shawn wriggled, again. “Dude, do you realize how many dishes you can makes from shrimp? Like...”

 

“You quote Forrest Gump to me and I will sock you in the sacrum.”

 

“Woah...! That's a little personal, isn't it?”

 

“Will you two, shut up!?” Not quite the murderous level of a prodded Lassie but it would do. Shawn walked his numbed fingers through the dirt at his back. A few loops through the grit brushed him against what he assumed were another set of fingers. No complaint meant Gus. He'd have nodded towards his buddy if he could see him. He couldn't see the tips of his shoes or the tip of his nose no matter how many ways he rolled his eyes. How long they'd been there was totally a guess. Shawn was leaning towards three weeks but Gus insisted his stomach and bladder could tell time better and had it pegged at thirteen hours. Presumably the sun had set and started to rise again – though Shawn was certainly no expert on geology and, without windows, that assumption could possibly forever remain a theory. He'd initiated a conversation on the subject, earlier, only for both AJ and Gus to start rambling about Schroeder's cat and boxes and, seriously, what the piano playing kid from Peanuts had to do with them being tied up in a dungeon, he had no clue.

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

Lassiter crouched next to one toppled crate. Small numbered cones dotted the floor all around him. CSU had been through the entire warehouse. Because of the vast space and thousands of crates and machinery scattered and stacked everywhere, the process had taken about thirteen hours. In fact, the group of exhausted investigators had only wrapped up their work about fifteen minutes prior.

 

Outside the warehouse, Lassiter could hear the uproar of jilted deliverymen denied access to their cargo. So a random mom and pop in Idaho had to wait a day for their order of lightbulbs – big ass whoop. A crime scene took precedence over incandescent 60 watt soft glow. Even a crime scene involving Spencer.

 

Finely packed dirt drifted up from the shuffling step of his partner's heels. O'Hara was still holding the evidence bag enclosing the thin green iPhone and no matter how well she wore her professionalism, it couldn't eliminate the wrinkle between her eyebrows. He stood as she neared him.

 

Pulling off the thin latex gloves, he stashed them in his pockets and nodded towards the phone. “You get anything off that?”

 

O'Hara moved the phone back and forth in her hands – smoothing the plastic of the bag away from the dark screen. “I'm not sure. There were a number of calls you'd expect to find; Gus, the station, Henry Spencer...” Her forehead crinkled further, “But then there was also a call to that attorney we met during the Panitch trial; Adam Hornstock?”

 

Lassiter pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Hornstock? Wait, wasn't he that smarmy kid with the Michael Nesmith haircut?”

 

Juliet blinked. “Wow, really?”

 

Crossing his arms, Lassiter glared at his partner. “What, I'm not allowed to know music?”

 

Shrugging back, Juliet tucked the phone into her suitcoat pocket. “Hank Williams, sure, but I wouldn't have pegged you as a Monkees fan.”

 

Letting the jab pass by with an internal promise of verbal payback later, Lassiter pulled free his own cell and made a quick search – quickly finding the number he was after. Patience wicked away with every second on hold, every tedious moment navigating the various secretaries, junior partners, and other associates who felt the need to weigh in on his call. Finally, a good ten minutes after his dial, a familiar voice cheerfully picked up after, yet another, five minutes on hold being entertained by the Prince George Symphony Orchestra.

 

“About damn time...” Lassiter had made a wider and wider circuit of the space during his wait; finally reaching the back loading area where oil from idling forklifts had pooled on the concrete.

 

“Detective Lassiter! It's been a long time! How are you and the lovely Detective O'Hara faring? Well, I hope?”

 

“Spencer called you on Saturday evening. What did he talk with you about?” Lassiter felt his pockets for his notebook; scowling when he came up empty until O'Hara passed him her pad and pen. Cell phone wedged between his shoulder and cheek, he was prepared to begin jotting details when he heard a light clucking on the other end of the call.

 

“Come now, Detective, revealing details of a confidential phone call with my business partner? You know better than that.”

 

Oh sweet mercy, there was that pressure headache he'd thought he'd dodged this morning by pure grace. “Spencer, is not, your business partner.” Managing not to shout, he ground the obvious out between clenched molars.

 

Though, given the smarmy reply back, Hornstock was clearly in collusion with the SBPD's lost idiot.

 

“Now you listen to me you little pimple...!”

 

“Carlton...” O'Hara voice and the light pressure of her fingers against his sleeve cut off further expressive adjectives. A raised eyebrow and a gentle “gimme” flick of her fingers and he rolled his eyes before passing over the phone.

 

A second later, O'Hara was snapping her fingers for her notepad and pen. Eyebrows heavy, Lassiter passed back the items and she immediately started taking information.

 

“Okay, great. Thank you so much, Adam.”

 

“Adam? Really?” Juliet shushing him didn't do great things for his mood.

 

“Yes, I will. Okay, you too!” O'Hara disconnected the call and passed back the cell. Tucking it back in its belt holder, Lassiter jerked his chin towards the pad of paper.

 

“He share anything meaningful or you two just making plans to get together for crumpets?”

 

“Carlton, don't be sour. And yes, he did have something to share.” She tipped her head to the side. “Though, I don't think you're going to like it.”

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

Gun, knife, hat... Rick had his hand on the door handle when he stopped, made a slight rotation on one heel, and leaned at an extreme angle to snag his wallet from the dresser. Cell phone. “Dammit.” Letting the door clack mostly shut again, he scanned the dresser for the missing device. Not there. Well, great.

 

He was flat on his belly and digging beneath his bed when someone knocked. No doubt the maid with fresh towels. Fingertips an inch from his misplaced cell, Rick lifted his face from the carpet just enough to yell.

 

“Come on in, darlin! I'll be out of your hair in a minute!”

 

The door pushed open and feet moved across the carpet. Rick stretched; his index finger barely hooking across the black screen. His head smacked into the underside of the bed – concurrent with a shoe kicking into his heel.

 

“OW!”

 

Hand wrapped over his, thankfully not bleeding scalp, and phone finally gripped in his other hand, Rick wriggled and swore his way back out into the open.

 

“What!?”

 

A skinny, asshole looking shape stared down at him with arms crossed and a scowl. “Richard Simon?”

 

Slinging an arm over the edge of his mattress, Rick snagged his hat and slapped it back over his thinning hairline. “Officer Bojangles, right?,” he pulled himself upright – nose to nose with the detective, “look, unless you're here with a bottle of Wild Turkey, I'm afraid I don't have time to chit-chat. So, if you don't mind...” He tipped his hat towards the younger and far prettier detective before making towards the door.

 

“Spencer got you out – didn't he.”

 

Rick tipped back his head, still facing away and fingers tapping at his sides. Another moment, lip twitching up one side of his mustache, he turned around. “Sorry, don't know him. All I know is he hooked me up with a court weasel so I probably owe him a beer at some point.”

 

Lassiter pushed his hands into his pockets – classic move to flare his jacket and display his gun and badge. Rick wasn't impressed. He'd been flared by worse.

 

“You talk to Spencer?”

 

Feet twitching to leave, Rick kept his molars from grinding with a patience he'd found while hunched in a humvee and waiting out a three day haboob.

 

“No. No, I didn't talk to Spencer. Oh, and for the record? I wasn't smuggling drugs either!”

 

“Yeah? Well, what were you smuggling?” Smug – good word for that bastard smirk. Lassiter played like he already had the winning hand. Behind him, his partner stood – attentive and evaluating.

 

Rick grinned. “This how you catch all your perps? Just pin the crime on the first guy you slap eyeballs on?”

 

Smirk dropped. Good. “You really gonna insist you're innocent? I've seen your type before.”

 

“And what type is that? Oh please do share.” Almost chest to chest – close enough that Rick could see the interesting little pulse in Lassiter's eyelid.

 

“Boys, enough. Carlton, this isn't why we're here.” O'Hara, Rick remembered her name now, stood closer as well and had actually smacked her senior partner in the bicep. And, interesting... though Lassiter peeved an even darker red, he actually backed down. Reluctant, though, like a poorly trained doberman just waiting for another opportunity to lunge.

 

Taking over, O'Hara pushed the hair from her eyes as she moved up alongside her moody partner. “Listen, we have to know if you spoke with Shawn Spencer recently...”

 

Hands itching to yank open the door – take his chances with being tackled, cuffed, and slapped in a cruiser, Rick puffed out a hard breath instead. “Why are you asking me about this Spencer kid? Why not just call him up and ask him yourse...” And it all clicked, then. And the low level worry he'd been pushing down for the past six hours suddenly roared to unfiltered panic. “Oh my God, he's missing too.”

 

O'Hara and Lassiter straightened – every move matched down to their spoken shock. “Too?”

 

Rick slid back his hat to rub a hand across his scalp. “My brother was supposed to be at my bail hearing. He didn't show.”

 

Hard to read Lassiter's face on that but O'Hara looked... stricken. Guarded, of course, but no matter how schooled her cop face, Rick could see the tightness beneath her eyes.

 

Hat pushed back straight, Rick grabbed his windbreaker from the open closet next to the door. “Look, you can think what you like about me – I don't give a hot, holy damn. But my only priority right now is my brother. And I've already wasted enough time here.”

 

Fingers on the handle and about to slip free when O'Hara's voice at his back stopped him one more time.

 

“Wait...”

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

Shawn's legs were wobbly weak disconnected limbs that carried him from the pitch black dungeon to the pitch black... van? Truck? Gus had lobbied for van and Shawn hadn't had reason to refute that assertion. Maybe once they were divested of their head sacks they could revisit that subject. AJ hadn't offered an opinion one way or the other and that left the question of whether abstaining meant his vote counted in either of their favors or if he was simply uncounted. Granted, they were in need of a tie breaker should an issue arise...

 

In any event, the discussion was thoroughly moot what with the suggestion, from one of a plethora of lingering goons, that Shawn might not enjoy the rest of the journey, quite so much, if he were sans kneecaps. Not that he couldn't continue the debate within his own brain – and possibly Gus's too should they ever fully click on that mind reading thing. Though, maybe they had as Shawn found himself daydreaming about German pancakes layered in butter and strawberry sauce.

 

They rattled and thumped and shuddered for maybe two hours... three? Gus had been praying to the holy saint of bladders for most of it, not that Shawn could blame him. His own delicate interior felt seriously close to bursting. This merry band of thugs was gonna be really sorry with the next pothole they slammed into, no joke.

 

Of course, that was when the van... truck... vehicle rumbled to a stop.

 

The three of them were hauled from the back – okay, it was definitely a van – and seconds afterward, their head sacks were ripped free and, “Really? A UPS truck? Man, you guys couldn't have just told us that? What can brown do for you; apparently get you kidnapped, am I right?”

 

Gus's lips made a very frowny bow. “Shut up, Shawn. This is not my fault!”

 

A scrinched frown back and Shawn made a small head shake. “Dude, no, that's their tagline, not...”

 

“How about both of you shut up! See how nicely your friend is behaving?” The leader of the crew stepped down from the passenger's side of the cab. Not their original captor, this guy had a generous dose of silver in his hair and a slightly more cultured accent. Almost Ricardo Montalbanian. The boss of the little abduction enterprise pointed out the teacher's pet silently looking over their new surroundings. For all there was to see with the trees, scrub brush and sandy soil. Playground of bitey things and inclement weather – no thanks.

 

“So, all that for some sight-seeing?”

 

“Shawn...” AJ, finally speaking up, was enough of a novelty to pull in even Shawn's wandering attention. A tiny whimper from Gus underscored the bristle of knives sprouting up among their captors.

 

Shawn managed a single back step before fists clenched in his shirt. Tongue swipe across his teeth was a dry rasp in the desert of his mouth.

 

“Wait! But why – why drive all this way out here just to knife us? Why would you – dude, that makes no sense! At least be creative, yeah? You could chuck us off a cliff or feed us to bears or...”

 

“Are you insane?!” “You must be out of your damn mind, Shawn!”

 

Better – at least his companions weren't sporting that gray, dead for three days already pallor. Granted, they were about to sport that fresh dead and actively bleeding pallor. The knives rose again.

 

“What about leather jacket guy? We kinda bonded the other day-hey, HEY!” Flinch thwarted as another set of hands clamped on his shoulders, Shawn sucked in a giant breath to scream – loud enough to shatter trees – as the knife slashed behind his back. And he felt his arms drop free from his bindings.

 

In the same moment, the other two were also released and all three of them stood, rubbing at aching red wrists. Shawn had something to say about all of this, he did. Something to postpone the bad guy monologue as well as something to bolster his pal who was developing an alarming shine to his chocolate lab eyeballs. If delivered properly, it could well be the deciding factor between death and a ride back to town, complete with a pitstop at Jamba Juice. It would have been legendary. If only he'd managed to speak before AJ spouted out the obvious in one, devastating, verbal blow.

 

“You're going to leave us out here, aren't you.”

 

The Ricardo wannabe wove his hands in a loose fist around his stomach as his thug troop made their way back to the truck – tossing the cut bindings inside.

 

“My employer doesn't care for messes. He was forced to make one last night but... examples must be set, at times, and the greatest impact often requires...” he puffed out an awkward smile, “well at any rate, your leather jacketed friend made a mistake in taking you hostage. I regret that we must part ways in this manner. I have been told to extend our apologies for this error.”

 

He waved – a single flip of his hand before walking back to the cab and climbing inside. As the engine roared up once more, he leaned out the window on his elbow and smiled back at the trio.

 

“Gentlemen, I would advise you to be cautious tonight. They're predicting heavy rains this evening. I would avoid any low lying areas... if I were you.”

 

Leaning inside, he slapped his hand against the door. The truck slowly pulled away – making its way back along the overgrown dirt path.

 

As the engine sounds started to fade, Shawn heard the first rumblings echoing through the foothills. Looking up, he took in the slate gray clouds sliding together. A single raindrop patted against his cheekbone.

 

“Well this is going to suck.”

Chapter Text

 

They'd been back on the road for three minutes when Lassiter got the call about a body dump off of Highway 192 – just outside of Mission Canyon. A string of unworded fear circled through the car as Lassiter responded. A little under fifteen minutes to read the location; an order for Simon to stay in the vehicle; and Lassiter and O'Hara headed towards the gathered officers.

 

McNab, thank God, was the first to meet them. Maybe not the brightest badge, but he was honest and... well, he was honest.

 

“Any ID?” Not exactly remote – they were surrounded by high end homes and cultivated landscapes. Not the prime location for leaving a body. If, in fact, this was a murder. Maybe just some guy had a heart attack while out jogging.

 

“Nothing on him. No wallet or cards. Not even a gas receipt. Oh, and he's missing his face.”

 

Okay, so, not a heart attack, then.

 

The body was curled up in a median – mostly hidden behind some artfully arranged boulders and a cluster of small palm trees.

 

Gravel crunch behind him was followed with a whoosh of disgust. “Ooush. That looks like it hurt.”

 

Lassiter rolled his neck. “Spenc...” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Simon... what did I tell you?”

 

Rick nudged closer to the body – lip lifting back from his teeth. “Something about locking up if I was the last one out.”

 

“Not even close.” Lassiter snapped his fingers and pointed at the patch of ground Rick currently occupied. “Stay!” Two fingers gestured towards Buzz. “Watch him!”

 

With McNab guarding the lanky aggravation, Lassiter ducked through the scruffy palms and braced the heel of his palm against a boulder to crouch next to the body. O'Hara knelt down on his right side.

 

The body was face up – figuratively. CSU had moved fast – grabbing photos and evidence with their eyes on the thickening clouds. There was nothing noteworthy beyond the obvious. Dusty jeans, hiking boots, leather jacket... The man looked as though he'd been dropped from the sky.

 

Lassiter stood once more.

 

“Okay people, let's pack this in!”

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

“Stop!”

 

Gus felt his feet catch at he stuttered to a fast halt. A bit more graceful, AJ sighed and rested his hands against his hips – shoulders going up and down, before turning to the third member of their party.

 

“...Yes?”

 

Shawn plopped in the dirt. “Sorry – I have another rock in my shoe.”

 

“Of course you do. Thus far, you've managed to collect every rock, dirt clod, and chunk of vulcanized glass for fifteen square miles. One wonders how you manage to...” AJ breathed out and hung his head. After a moment, he snorted, and then chuckled.

 

Eyebrows hovering low over his eyes, Shawn dug free the tiny stone and chucked it into the yellowed grass. “My lameness is hilarious to you?”

 

“Damn right you're lame.” Gus muttered. Not quiet silently enough to go unheard.

 

Shawn scratched his nose. “Okay, forget I said that.”

 

Giving in and also dropping down on a fallen tree truck, AJ ran his hand over his forehead. “I'm sorry – no.” He smiled. “I just... I'm talking to you the same way I talk to my brother.”

 

Gus wrinkled his nose. “Really? Dude, you must hate your brother.”

 

Rather than feeling offense, AJ only smiled. “Actually I...” Glancing up, he saw that both other men had leaned forward – Shawn with his head tilted a little to the side. Swallowing, AJ stood. “You know, we should get moving if we're going to get off this mountain before nightfall.”

 

To add weight to his words, the mist of rain that had been slowly soaking into their cloths began to thicken with larger drops. A bright flash and rapidly following thunder made all of their hearts pound a bit faster.

 

Shawn wedged his shoe back over his damp sock. “Well I'm convinced.”

 

It wasn't much longer, though, before the already slippery travel was becoming treacherous. About half an hour earlier they'd all stopped dead at the heart racing rumble of a rockslide somewhere beyond the trees. The words of their kidnapper were proving good advice and further downward travel would only put them at further risk. Of course, staying put in a lightening storm at their current elevation was also a risk. AJ hugged his arms around his soaked body. “Damned if you do...”

 

Shawn and Gus trudged up beside him – both of them with their shirt collars pulled up over their heads and looking like drenched tortoises.

 

Rather than comment and open himself up to a torrent of nonsensical gibberish, AJ pointed towards a cluster of rocks about twenty feet further down – just visible in the fast failing light.

 

“We need to find cover!” The wind was roaring through the pines, now, forcing him to shout to be heard. Shawn and Gus nodded like a synchronized swim team – their response also twinishly in unison.

 

“You know that's right!”

 

Fingertips tapped against his thigh before AJ nodded. “Right. Okay, well...” He led them towards a gentler slope – making an angle down the slick grass. Several times his heels skidded and, trying to catch himself, he scraped his palms bloody on a rough boulder. The going was no easier for Shawn and Gus. Whimpers and small yelps tumbled ahead of them like tiny, whining, stones.

 

The trees were thicker near the pile of smooth rocks. Roots were pushed up from the surrounding earth and wove around some of the larger boulders. Shawn had managed to detach from Gus's side and was hunched near an outcropping.

 

“Hey, we may need to hug like tiny baby bears, but I think we might fit in here!”

 

Gus frowned. “Dude, uh uh. I am not cramming in some cave on the side of a mountain! Especially not with bears!”

 

Huffing, Shawn yanked his soggy shirt tight to his shivering body. “I said we were the bears!”

 

“Nope!” Lip stuck out, Gus planted his feet as the pounding rain drizzled down his cheeks.

 

And then a blast of lightening lit up the world.

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

Dark clouds surging down the foothills cut short the on scene investigation. A couple of Woody's morgue assistants showed up in record time to bag the corpse. Still, before they'd managed to load up the body, the light patters of rain became a deluge.

 

Lassiter's suit was a total loss, Juliet's elegant hair twist unraveled into a rat's nest, and Rick Simon's straw cowboy hat warped down around his ears like a bonnet. Requisite griping blustered through the sedan as Lassiter insisted on laying down plastic before anyone found cover in his sedan. Sure, slipping back and forth on the slick layer while puddles build up under his ass was no picnic. Still, he'd suffer if it meant keeping his baby as pristine as a newly minted silver dollar.

 

The drive to the station was a crawl – many of the low lying areas already vanishing under newly minted lakes and rumbling rivers several inches deep. Full blast heat lasted about three minutes – right up until the windows began to fog over. The remaining twenty-five minutes were a stirring thrill of chattering teeth and rattling limbs.

 

No rest, or warmth, for the wicked – the immediate next stop was Woody's Cooler and Funhouse.

 

Lassiter swore the body on the table had more heat than his own wet and frozen frame. On top of that, he'd had to put up with O'Hara's not remotely under her breath waspy commentary about valuing his “stupid car more than a healthy relationship with his partner who, by the way, had saved his ass more times than she can count on both hands, thank you very much you selfish asshat”.

 

Okay, so he'd buy her a hot chocolate later.

 

Chief Vick was the last person to crowd into the morgue – eyes traveled up and down the ratty forms surrounding her.

 

“Dear God, I hardly dare ask.” Her hand went up as Lassiter opened his mouth, “Actually, you know what – no. Just... change your clothes before you reenter civilized society.” Her deep breath afterward encompassed the entire drippy group.

 

“Mr. Strode, if you wouldn't mind?”

 

Woody clapped his hands together. “Of course, Chief! I always keep some extra blankets on hand in case I need to sle-hee-hee... uh... in... case there's ever an earthquake and I become buried for a week before rescuers can...”

 

“Okay, Strode, enough!” Karen placed both hands on her forehead. Long seconds ticked out before she settled everything with another breath. “The body. What can you tell us about the body?”

 

“Of course! The body!” Woody chuckled and tapped his knuckles on the edge of the metal table. “Well, obviously there hasn't been time for an autopsy yet. But just from the gross examination, it's obvious, the defacement wasn't what killed him.”

 

Lassiter rolled his eyes but kept his lips tight rather than give an opportunity for more side tracking. Meanwhile, Woody pulled the sheet away from the body's right side.

 

“Single stab wound. From the clean edges of the wound and the depth, it looks like a double-sided knife. Probably a small dagger or switchblade. Punctured the kidney – death would have been within a couple of minutes.” Woody moved back to the head – more than one observer wincing at the massive damage on display.

 

“That was when the fun began! Whoever did this was a real artist! Here, you can see the way the incision perfectly separated the skin from the fatty tissue-”

 

Karen held up a hand. “Thank you, Woody.”

 

Though his wet boxers had reached the clingy crawly stage, Lassiter was still able to look past his intense discomfort to notice something that pulled his head into a tilt. “Why the hell bother cutting off this guy's face just to leave his fingerprints intact?”

 

Rick nudged closer. “This guy happen to have a tattoo?”

 

Woody pulled the guy's right arm out from under the sheet. Spread across the pale inner arm was what appeared to be two cobras wound around a sword. Woody rested the arm back to the table. “You know, I've got some ink. Boy, never let it be said a grown man can't cry! But there is no shame in that – none at all.” He nudged Lassiter; who glared. “Word of advice? Make sure to wax beforehand because nobody wants a stranger shaving their scrotum.”

 

“Dear God, Strode! What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

Woody shook his head. “My wife asked the same thing. She told me to get a simple set of calipers but, God help me, I've always had a thing for cranial saws...”

 

“Okay, Woody, we'll let you get back to work. Let me know once you've finished the autopsy.” Karen nearly shoved her way from the morgue – the rest of the miserable group shuffling in her wake. One detour towards the lockers – a spare set of sweats grudgingly shared - and they were gathered together in Vick's office before she spoke again.

 

“I can see why my first chief always kept a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon in his middle drawer.” Said under her breath as she worked her way around her desk, Vick grabbed her coffee cup and downed whatever remained at the bottom before sitting. Pointing with her free hand, she gestured the rest of the group towards the row of chairs facing her.

 

Rick grabbed a seat on the opposite side of Detective O'Hara and busied himself remoulding his drying hat back into shape. He was just getting the brim smoothed out when it sank in that the room had been silent for nearly a minute.

 

His eyebrows rose up as he took in the study of three faces. “Uh... hey.”

 

Chief Vick knotted her hands together on her desk. “Mr. Simon? You were recently released on bail after my detectives arrested you during the commission of a crime. A drug exchange, I believe? So explain to me why you're sitting in my office. Or why you attended a crime scene with my detectives? Or,” she leaned forward, “why you asked our coroner about that tattoo?”

 

Setting his hat on the seat next to him, Rick scratched the side of his nose before dropping both hands to his lap.

 

“Because I've seen someone, killed like that, before.”

 

 

 

`'`'`'`'`

 

 

The cave – such as it was – was tiny. Free of wild beasts, thank providence for that, at least. Marginally better than the open air; at least they were out of the rain. And the slope of the mountainside carried the runoff away from the entrance so no fear of being overcome by a sudden river. But it was cold. And without some way of building a fire, their sopping wet clothes made them even colder.

 

AJ stood near the entrance – eyes out for any sort of light that would indicate a rescue. Not a lot of high hopes for that, but, knowing Rick, his brother would already be looking for them. Assuming he'd been able to post bail, of course.

 

Shivering together on the only bit of floor not covered in wet moss and sharp stones, Shawn and Gus made a pathetic pair.

 

Giving up his post when the rain and darkness eliminated all visibility, AJ felt his way towards the other two men and wrapped his arms around himself. Other than rain, the only sounds were chattering teeth and an explosive sneeze from one of them.

 

“Dude, turn your head! I just got your nose cooties all over my arm, Shawn! I don't need to catch whatever virus you're harboring!”

 

“Mph. Gus, please. Everyone knows you can't catch viruses from a sneeze.”

 

It was going to be a very long night. The last thing AJ wanted was to spend it listening to the endless bickering of the other two.

 

“So, tell me about your case work. What was your most interesting case?”

 

Shuffling and a few slaps before the other two settled again. “I unearthed a dinosaur.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Excuse me?” Echoed by Guster, “Who discovered it? How many times do we need to whip that pony, Shawn?”

 

A soft scrape was followed by a sneaker bumping against AJ's leg – the cramped cave not allowing for much personal space.

 

“Gus, now you know how I feel about animal abuse.”

 

“What about idiot abuse?”

 

Dear God, not again. Of course, this time it was Shawn to switch topics.

 

“Hey, Abercrombie,”

 

“AJ.”

 

“You ever take a bullet?”

 

His fingers moved to his left bicep – rubbing the old wound. “Uh, yeah. In the arm.”

 

“Ooo, let's see it!” More shuffling and a sharper kick to his shin as one, or both of them, shuffled position.

 

AJ pushed back while wishing desperately that their captors had been kind enough to just shove them off of a cliff. “Aside from the logistical complication of showing an injury in the dark, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with playing a game of “who has the bigger scar.”

 

Shawn snorted. “What, you got a little baby pucker, don't you. Here, check this out.” What followed was a great deal of puffing and whining and a great deal more kicking. “Dammit! Gus, use your teeth to pull off my shirt.”

 

Groaning, AJ dropped his forehead to his knees. They always said morning came early in the mountains. Surely he could survive until then. Surely.