Chapter 1

Santa Barbara, 1990

Shawn and Gus sat on the cool linoleum floor, huddled up against the painted wood of the kitchen cupboards. Shawn gripped a baseball bat in his sweaty fists and Gus held a hacksaw. Both had their eyes glued on the door to the living room.

“I really have to question your choice of the hacksaw,” Shawn whispered. “It’s going to get us killed. At the very least, grab a knife. There’s a drawer full of them.”

“Don’t even get me started,” Gus complained. “This whole thing is your fault. And for the record, between the two of us, I’d say that I have a better chance of surviving.”

“Oh please!” Shawn scoffed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “How long would it take to decapitate someone with a hacksaw? Ten, fifteen minutes?”

Gus countered by going on the offensive. “A baseball bat’s not even a cutting weapon, Shawn. And it takes at least 32 pounds of pressure per square inch to—” He stopped, and his eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”

“Probably not,” Shawn said. “It’s hard to hear above all those cats sounds.”

“Cat sounds?” Gus’s young forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Yes,” Shawn said. “‘Fraidy cat to be precise. I think there’s a ‘fraidy cat somewhere in this kitchen,” Shawn made soft mewing noises under his breath. “Here kitty kitty,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I’m serious,” Gus said, gripping his hacksaw tighter. “I think there’s someone in the living room.”

Shawn laughed. “Kind of ironic, don’t you think? The undead, in the living room?”

“Shawn, this is not the time to be making jokes about—” Gus stopped speaking as a floorboard in the other room creaked loudly, dispelling all doubt and leaving only cold sweaty fear in its place.

“I take it all back,” Shawn said hurriedly. Holding the baseball bat in one hand, he opened a drawer and grabbed a butter knife and brandished it anxiously. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Gus.”

“That’s okay,” Gus said. Shawn was his best friend, and best friends forgave each other, even—perhaps especially—when faced with their imminent demise.

As the kitchen door creaked slowly open both Shawn and Gus shrieked in the high-pitched squeal that would stay with them into their adult years. Henry Spencer walked into the kitchen and surveyed the two frightened boys sternly. He crossed his arms and Shawn noticed that he held the copy of Dawn of the Dead that they’d rented under one arm.

“I suppose the two of you are holed up in here waiting to fend off a zombie attack,” he said, disappointment permeating his tone.

Both boys relaxed, now more frightened of Henry than they were of the shambling hoards of the living dead.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Gus said defensively, hiding the hacksaw behind his back. “I didn’t want to watch it in the first place.” He looked pointedly at Shawn. “It’s unrated. That means it’s too scary to be rated.”

“It was a legitimate mistake,” Shawn argued. “I figured we were old hands at this zombie thing. We’d watched My Boyfriend’s Back and Weekend at Bernies II. Besides, that movie is twelve years old. I figured, how scary can it be?”

“Pretty scary.” Gus said. “I may have to do all my shopping by mail from now on, because I am never going to the mall again.”

“Shawn,” Henry shook his head sadly and set the VHS tape on the counter. “I thought I taught you better than this.” He gestured at the windows. “This is a terrible place for a standoff. The windows give away your every move. And how many entry points do you have to defend here?” He pointed to the back door. “One.” He pointed to the living room. “Two. Three if we count the windows.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and his limbs went limp with the defeat he always felt during one of his dad’s lectures.

Henry slapped a heavy hand on each of their shoulders. “The next time I catch the two of you hiding from zombies you’d better be in the basement,” he said. “It’s defendable, it’s got food and water, and if you have to make a run for it there’s a wire mesh-reinforced fire window that locks from the inside.” He looked at the VHS tape on the counter and grimaced. “If you’d watched Night of the Living Dead instead of this lousy sequel you’d have realized that.”

Shawn and Gus replaced the weapons and went into the living room to watch re-runs of Star Trek. Captain Kirk never got attacked by zombies.

***

Santa Barbara, Present Day

Why were bad days always the longest? Lassiter wondered as he poured himself his third coffee of the day. He’d awaken at 4:00 a.m. with another one of his Shawn Spencer nightmares. In the dream it had been his seventh birthday, but his family was giving his plastic Sheriff’s badge, toy gun and holster to Spencer instead. The dream had ended just as the psychic blew out the candles on what should have been young Carlton’s birthday cake. Unable to trust himself to sleep after that, Lassiter had sat up reviewing cold cases until he could justify going in to work.

Even his job seemed to be conspiring against him. O’Hara was spending the day at UC Santa Barbara, inspiring women to consider a career in the police force, so he was working alone. His dark mood endowed everything around him with a threatening air, so when Chief Vick called him into her office he knew something foul was in store for him.

“We’ve had a report of a dead body on North Alisos Street,” Vick said. “I need you to check it out.”

Dead bodies were one of Lassiter’s favourite things. Not that he wished people harm—he certainly didn’t want anyone to die—but he always felt more alive when he was investigating a homicide. He remembered the first time he’d encountered something dead—it had been a raccoon at his grandparent’s place up north. He’d kept a journal detailing its decomposition, from when it only appeared to be sleeping, through the first signs of insect activity, until the carcass was bloated, and teeming with maggots. While it had been a purely scientific document, it had still earned him a heavy cuff across the back of his head from his grandmother, and a week of sessions with a child psychologist when she told his mother. Still, good times. So Lassiter directed the Crown Vic to the crime scene with a sense of cautious optimism, looking forward to the mental stimulation that only came from an active homicide investigation.

Uniformed officers were already there, securing the scene. He brushed past Officer McNab, oblivious to the big man’s friendly greeting. As he crossed the threshold into the hall he was immediately gripped by an eerie sense of deja-vu. Something felt very wrong. He pulled his Glock and moved slowly forward, hugging the walls for cover. Sure, uniforms had already declared the house clear, but even cops made mistakes. And given the feeling creeping up his spine, why take chances? He’d learned the hard way to always trust his gut.

The SBPD computer records indicated that the house had been vacant for four months while the owners negotiated with a developer over the sale of the property. Yet the house Lassiter entered was furnished—or at least the first two rooms of it were. He ran his eyes over the little side table in the hall, which held a series of photographs and an old-fashioned candlestick telephone. Next to the table, a red and white umbrella stood in a metal tub. The hairs on his neck stiffened and he sensed that something unpleasant awaited him, and he thought briefly of the dead raccoon from his childhood again. He glanced into the room on the right and saw heavily stuffed couches and chairs, a large Persian carpet, potted plants, and bookshelves. And, of course, the dead woman in a paisley house dress, lying sprawled on the rug.

“Why do I feel like there should be a dog with Gene Simmon’s tongue in the corner of this room?” The familiar voice cut through Lassiter’s focus and he turned to see Shawn Spencer, clad in a red t-shirt and jeans, peering around curiously, unimpeded by the police officers who were supposed to be guarding the site. “What?” Shawn asked innocently. “Don’t try to tell me you weren’t a member of the KISS Army.”

Lassiter didn’t drop his guard. Now, more than ever, he sensed menace in the small homey room. He studied Shawn through narrowed eyes, mulling over his comment about the dog. As usual with Spencer, what he said was ridiculous, but it wasn’t wrong.

Despite the evidence of his eyes, Lassiter also felt as if something ominous was lurking in the corner.

There’s nothing there, he assured himself.

He glanced apprehensively at the body in front of him. Part of him, perhaps delirious from lack of sleep, could easily imagine it leaping up, like some creature from Night of The Living Dead, and trying to eat his university-educated brains.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chided. This feeling is just the effect of a very bad nights sleep.

“What are you doing here, Spencer?” He swallowed and tried to keep his face from showing how nervous he felt.

“I heard the call on the scanner,” Shawn said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and see if I could offer any assistance.”

“I don’t need your assistance.” Lassiter put as much sarcasm into the last word as he could muster. Keeping Spencer out of his cases wasn’t easy, but if it was the only way for him to get a descent eight hours of rest every night then the effort would be worth it. Considering how many guns he carried on a daily basis, a good night’s sleep was practically a public safely issue.

Shawn moved further into the room, ignoring Lassiter’s rebuff. “I figured with Jules off to convert co-eds to crime-solving you might need some back-up.”

Lassiter glanced at the psychic, then back at the corner. That was surprisingly considerate of Spencer, provided of course that he was telling the truth.

“You hardly qualify as back-up,” he said, putting less venom into his words.

“I know,” Shawn said, unfazed by the insult. “That’s why I also brought Gus.” He jabbed a thumb back, toward Burton Guster, who was standing in the hall pretending to be interested in the wallpaper so he wouldn’t have to look at the dead body on the carpet.

“Get behind me, Spencer, and stay there,” Lassiter hissed. If there was anything dangerous in the room the last thing he wanted was to have a civilian injured on his watch. Even if that civilian was Spencer.

“Behind you?” Shawn said, as he stepped around the detective, a little too closely. “I’d always imagined this the other way around.”

Like most of the things Spencer said, it sounded like a sexual innuendo. Yet Lassiter found it impossible to pin him down—was he joking or was he serious? He never knew for sure, and the ambiguity of it irked him. Without certainty, there was no way to quash Spencer’s flirtatious antics. Few things were more embarrassing than having the “I’m flattered, but,” conversation with someone who’s just been pulling your chain—a lesson he’d learned in a painfully public way during his junior year at college. So despite the fact that Spencer was leaning so close against his back that he could feel his body heat, Lassiter said nothing.

Holding his Glock in front of him, he moved forward slowly, trying to fight off the images of zombies filling his mind. Then he thought about Spencer’s remark about a dog, and suddenly the memory fell into place. All his anxieties vanished and he lowered his gun.

“It’s the Resident Evil video game.” He smiled and nodded his head with certainty. “This is the spitting image of the house where the Rabbitson family used to live.” He pointed to the corner, now devoid of any sense of menace. “I killed their zombie dog right over there.” He smiled briefly, remembering the triumph, and then his face became serious again as he remembered Shawn and Gus’ love of animals. “It was attacking me,” he added. “And in all fairness, it was technically dead already.”

***

While Lassiter had been pondering the ominous corner, Shawn had caught Gus’s attention and begun rolling his eyes and tongue, making zombie faces. He dropped the expressions whenever Lassiter looked toward him, resuming when he turned away. Gus realized that once again, Shawn had spotted the clues first, but had allowed Lassiter to figure it out on his own. As far as Gus was concerned, this was a bad business move. But he suspected that business wasn’t where Shawn’s head was at lately where Lassiter was concerned.

“Dude!” Shawn exclaimed in response to Lassiter’s announcement. “It totally is.” He slapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder. “Nice one, Lassie!”

Gus wasn’t psychic, but if Shawn’s behaviour continued, he could foresee the lost revenue numbering in the hundreds, maybe even thousands of dollars.

He crossed his arms, stared petulantly at Shawn, and spoke up. “How do you know it’s not the Resident Evil movie?” Shawn, he noticed, had not removed his hand from Lassiter’s shoulder, and for some reason the detective hadn’t shrugged it off. This did not bode well for the future of Psych.

Lassiter holstered his Glock. “It’s Resident Evil: Rejuvenation. I’ve been playing it for the past month.” When Gus continued to glare at him and Shawn, Lassiter added, “To keep my reflexes sharp,” he added, as if he needed an excuse.

“I only ask,” Gus said, “because they’re shooting parts of the new movie here in Santa Barbara.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said, “but I hear it’s doubling for Vancouver.”

“Really?” Lassiter asked, intrigued. “Maybe we should check it out. Question a few cast members.” Images of himself talking with Milla Jojovich filled his mind’s eye. Although it had been panned by the critics, he had particularly enjoyed her role in Ultraviolet.

“According to Ain’t It Cool News,” Gus said, “it’s going to be a total reboot with unknown actors.”

“Maybe we should forget about the movie and focus on the dead man,” Lassiter said, giving up any thoughts of basking in the glow of the lovely Milla. Despite what movies like Kuffs wanted him to believe, women like her weren’t interested in cops. Not in real life.

“Wait!” Shawn stepped in front of Lassiter, impeding his movement. “I sense the two are connected.” He slapped both hands onto Lassiter’s chest and slowly slid down the front of his body, collapsing in a kneeling position that was more than a little suggestive. Gus, who thought of himself as suave in the romance department, found Shawn’s moves entirely too obvious.

Shawn threw his head back as if he were in pain. “I’m seeing gaunt human bodies shuffling around,” he said, “and minds devoid of thought, driven only by the most base appetites.”

“Zombies?” Lassiter asked, his skepticism evident in his dry tone.

“Actors,” Shawn corrected. He looked up at Lassiter from under his lashes. “But they’re made-up to look like zombies.”

Lassiter grabbed him by the arm and pulled him roughly to his feet.

“Fine, Spencer. We’ll stop by the set, just to check it out.”

Chapter 2

As Lassiter walked along State Street he tried to convince himself that he was following a lead rather than abusing his power as an officer of the law to see a movie set. Being so close to the glamour of a feature film was exciting, but if Catholic school had taught him anything, it was that fun was a sinful time-waster. Still, given that someone had made up the empty property on North Alisos to look like the Rabbitson house, it made sense to rule out any connection with the film. Then they could start looking for the video-game crazed lunatic who was likely their actual perp.

Lassiter flashed his badge at a large muscular man wearing a windbreaker that read “Security,” and was directed to a boxy white trailer. Shawn and Gus tagged along behind him, rubbernecking at the klieg lights, reflectors, and props set up on the brick sidewalk in front of a building with graceful roman arches.

“You know,” Shawn said eagerly, “If you need anyone to go undercover on set, I have some pretty extensive acting experience.”

“We don’t need anyone to go undercover,” Lassiter objected. “And if we did we certainly wouldn’t pick you.”

“You had one brief stint on a telenovella,” Gus objected. “That hardly counts as extensive experience.” Although Gus supposed Shawn could probably count the five years he’d spent pretending to be a psychic as acting, it wasn’t exactly experience he could share with Lassiter.

“My character’s just on hiatus,” Shawn said defensively.

“Your character was murdered and dumped down a well,” Gus pointed out. As far as he was concerned, the only future Chad the UPS man had was in fanfiction. Gus had stumbled onto a site dedicated to stories based on Explosion Gigantesca de Romance while looking for spoilers for the upcoming season after the cliffhanger had left Quintessa driving over a cliff with a trunk full of ransom money as she raced to save her sister from a drug cartel. He didn’t have the heart to tell Shawn that stories about Chad and Jorge (a pairing which the fans called Chorge) outnumbered Chintessa stories by a two-to-one ratio.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t return,” Shawn said. “They filmed me swimming out.

“Which, they revealed later was all Serena's dream," Gus said.

“I have it on good authority that they’re considering having me come back as my own evil twin.”

Gus made a mental note to stop visiting the fanfiction site if that ever happened.

Inside a trailer, Lassiter flashed his badge at a harried looking assistant and was led past wardrobes full of costumes, through a door and into a tiny office space. Creighton Morris, a lanky man with sleepless circles under his eyes, sat on a leather sofa, pouring over sheets of a shooting script. He took a gulp of Redbull and shouted into this headset.

“I don’t care,” he yelled. “Have the accountants take the money from somewhere else. Or go back to the producers. That’s what they’re for.”

“That’s Creighton Morris, the assistant director,” Gus whispered. “He directed that movie about drug addicts who rob Vegas.”

Morris had raised his voice another octave. “My ATM probably doesn’t like shelling out money either, but do you think I give a crap?”

“If he’s directed a movie already, why is he playing second banana on this one?” Lassiter asked.

“Word on the movie forums is that he had a conflict with his producers about money.”

“Really?” Shawn said, watching the angry man sitting before them. “It’s hard to imagine. He seems so reasonable.”

Morris ended the call with a series of expletives and then noticed the three men in front of him for the first time. Shawn stepped forward and smiled broadly.

“Hello,” Shawn said. “My name is Mike, and these are my mechanics.” He motioned to Lassiter and Gus.

Lassiter flashed his badge. “SBPD. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Traffic issues go through our city liaison,” the man said, waving them away with his hand and turning back to his papers.

“How about your homicides?” Lassiter asked, unintimidated. “Who’s handling those?” He dropped a photo of the dead woman on top of the papers. “Do you recognize her?” he asked sharply.

Morris removed his headset and turned his full attention to the picture. He picked it up and stared intently at it.

“Is she dead?” he asked finally.

“No,” Lassiter said sarcastically, “she’s just been holding her breath for a couple of hours. Of course she’s dead. Do you recognize her?”

“It’s Marla Robarts, our director. She didn’t show up this morning, and wasn’t answering her cell, but I thought she’d had a family emergency.”

“I guess being dead is a pretty big emergency,” Gus whispered to Shawn.

“What kind of family emergency?” Lassiter asked Morris. The assistant director chewed his lip for a moment then sucked in a hissing breath of air.

“See, she’s got this brother, Jeffrey” he looked around the tiny trailer as if searching for an exit. “And he’s kind of…well he’s not right in the head.”

“How so?” Lassiter’s voice was light, inquisitive, and hopeful. If the brother was a psychotic killer he might be able to wrap the whole case up by the end of the day.

“He’s schizoid.”

“Split personality?” Lassiter frowned. He hated claims of split personality. Part of him thought the whole concept was the product of scheming defense lawyers trying to manipulate an insanity plea. Yet another part of him could only imagine how awful it would be if his body were host to a second personality with no respect for the law, especially given his access to handguns.

“I think Mr. Morris means that Jeffrey has schizophrenia,” Gus interjected. “And it’s not at all the same as multiple personality disorder.” He thought about pointing out that mental illnesses were things people had, not things they were, but he didn’t think the others would appreciate the distinction.

“Where can I find this brother?” Lassiter pulled out his notebook and held his pen poised above it.

“He lives with Marla. You can get her address from my assistant.” Morris grabbed the headset. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

“Just a few more questions,” Lassiter’s tone eliminated any hope Morris might have had of brushing him off.

“Did Miss Robarts have problems with anyone on set?” Lassiter asked.

Morris rolled his eyes. “She’s the director. Our job is nothing but problems.”

Shawn closed his eyes and gripped Lassiter’s forearm as his knees buckled. “I’m seeing the two of you, in this very trailer,” he pulled himself upright on Lassiter’s arm, shook his head and opened his eyes, “arguing about money.”

Panic flashed briefly across Morris’s face, replaced almost immediately by a sour expression of resentment. “Marla was cheap,” Morris admitted. “That’s why the producers picked her. They felt she could help rein in my so-called extravagant impulses.” He squinted at Shawn. “What, are you some kind of mind-reader?”

Shawn motioned to the messy office space. “I read spaces, and objects,” he rummaged through the items on the desk and picked up a small gold-plated tub of popcorn. “Is this an MTV Movie Award?” he asked.

“Yes.” Miller said. “It was Marla’s.”

“Does the award come with any real popcorn?” Shawn asked.

“Who will direct the picture now that Ms. Robarts is dead?” Gus asked. He felt that at least one member of Psych ought to be trying to question the suspect about the murder.

“Are you a psychic too?” Morris asked.

“No,” Gus said pleasantly. “I’m a pharmaceutical sales rep. I’m also a big fan. I loved your movie about the drug addicts robbing casinos in Vegas. You got all the pharmaceutical details correct.”

“Thanks.” Morris brightened. “I spent three weeks researching drug use in Vegas for that. Can you believe that the producers didn’t want to pay for it? They called it ‘a month-long binge.’ Philistines.”

“I’m getting an image of you,” Shawn said, “sitting in the director’s chair.” Gus frowned. Shawn was always telling people he couldn’t read the future, but that didn’t stop him from pretending to when it suited him. Personally, Gus would have been happier if they could come up with a firm set of rules for Shawn’s supposed gift and stick to them.

Lassiter looked at Morris with suspicion in his eyes. “So with Miss Robarts dead, you’re the most likely candidate to replace her?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Morris threw his hands up in frustration. “Who knows what producers will do. If I were you,” he leaned forward and spoke to Lassiter in a low voice, “I’d take a hard look at that crazy brother of hers.” He swirled a finger next to his head and silently mouthed the word “loco.”

Lassiter thanked Mr. Morris for his time and left the trailer, pausing to get the deceased’s address from Morris’s assistant. Shawn and Gus followed behind.

“I’m going to swing by the Robarts apartment and see if I can find this brother,” Lassiter said, not sure why he was bothering to inform them of his plans, but feeling obligated to explain himself anyway. Usually he bounced ideas off O’Hara, and with her gone it felt natural to talk things out with whomever was handy. It wasn’t, he assured himself, as if he wanted or needed Spencer’s opinion. Maybe, he thought absently, he should get an O’Hara substitute for times like this—an inflatable doll he could keep rolled up in the trunk. Of course that could raise all kind of awkward questions. People had such filthy minds these days.

“So what, you're going after him just because he's schizophrenic?" Shawn was incredulous. "You haven’t even looked at other suspects,” he argued, hurrying to keep pace with Lassiter’s long stride.

“What other suspects?” Lassiter stopped, squinted, and put on the mirrored sunglasses that always put Shawn in mind of Top Gun.

Shawn spread his arms and slowly rotated 360 degrees. “This place is chock full of suspects.”

“How about that guy?” Shawn jabbed a thumb back in the direction of Creighton Morris’s trailer. “Why isn’t he a suspect? He could have killed Marla Roberts.”

“Why would he?”

“Arguments over the cinematography? I don’t know. Investigate!”

“Maybe they were secret lovers,” Gus offered, “and the house was their love nest where they engaged in sexual scenarios while dressed as characters from the Resident Evil series.” Shawn and Lassiter both looked at him with curiosity. “What?” he asked defensively. “People do that sort of thing all the time. I’ve read about it online. They even make zombie porn.”

Lassiter tilted his head, as if to let the image of zombie porn run out his ear, and turned back to Shawn.

“How about one of these actors?” Shawn said. “Maybe Marla turned them down for a part and they killed her out of revenge.”

“Actors can be pretty crazy,” Gus acknowledged.

“Truer words were never spoken, Guster,” Lassiter said, smiling slightly and thinking of a woman he had dated in University. “But what kind of psycho would want a part in a movie bad enough to kill for it?” Several extras within hearing range put their heads down and pretended to be busy looking at their shooting scripts. Shawn and Gus looked at each other for a moment then back at Lassiter.

“Not kill for it,” Shawn said. “Under extreme circumstances I could see myself going a little Tonya Harding.”

“I might be willing to use a non-lethal chokehold until they slipped into unconsciousness,” Gus admitted. “Depending on the part.”

Shawn turned back to Gus. “With all your drug access, couldn’t you just dose them with something to make them so sick they’d have to drop out?”

Gus looked thoughtful for a moment then looked up at Lassiter. “I’d like to revise my answer,” he said solemnly.

***

Back at the Psych office that evening, Gus arranged the snacks and chairs for their Star Trek movie marathon, in which they watched the first seven movies over two days. Shawn had balked at including Generations, but Gus had argued firmly that since it included original series cast members it got in on a technicality.

“I know it’s Star Trek night,” Shawn said, bringing a large bowl of popcorn in from the kitchenette, but I feel like we should be doing a Resident Evil marathon. You know, as research. We could probably even write off the rentals and snacks as a business expense.”

“The rentals, certainly,” Gus agreed. “Not the snacks.” He arranged a bowl of gummy enterprises that he’d bought at CVS and set out the Kirk and Spock Pez containers from Sugar Mountain. Gus hoped that someday candy arranging would have the same legitimacy that flower arranging did. “Personally I think it’s great that we have a zombie case,” he added as he poured Pop Rocks into a tiny bowl. “We’ve already done werewolves and vampires. Zombies were inevitable.”

“Hey Gus.”

“Yes?” Gus looked up from his candy.

“It’s close to midnight,” Shawn said, a smile curving his mouth, “and something evil’s lurking in the dark.”

“Under the moonlight,” Gus said softly, setting down the package of pop rocks and snapping his fingers, “you see a sight that almost stops your heart…”

“You try to scream,” Shawn grabbed a pink highlighter from his desk and used it as a microphone, “but terror takes the sound before you make it.”

“You start to freeze,” Gus sang, “as horror looks you right between the eyes…You're paralyzed!”

“'Cause this is thriller, thriller night…” Shawn and Gus launched into the chorus together, their voices pitched high. Gus broke out some Michael Jackson dance moves and Shawn countered with his zombie dance.

“Darkness falls across the land,” Shawn said in a whispering croak.

Gus fell heavily on to the sofa and waved a hand. “No man,” he said. “Don’t do the Vincent Price monologue. It’s too much.”

“You’re right,” Shawn said.

“You have to respect John Landis,” Gus pointed out. “Thriller was pretty amazing for its time.”

“But it wasn’t the only zombie piece he’s done,” Shawn said. “He also directed Blues Brothers 2000, and I’m pretty sure at least one of those guys was dead already.”

Shawn and Gus watched the bald-headed catastrophe that was The Motion Picture and then relaxed into the cut Montalbanian chest of Wrath of Khan.

“If I ever get the T-virus and turn into a zombie,” Shawn said while nuking more popcorn, “I know you’ll do the right thing and take me out. Unless you can safely keep me in the shed playing video games, Shaun of the Dead style.”

“In the event of zombie apocalypse I’m planning to be the brother who gets away in a helicopter,” Gus remarked. “I’ve been taking lessons online.”

“Dude! We live like, half an hour from an actual flight school.”

“I’m more comfortable with the simulator, thank you,” Gus said. As far as he was concerned, only the actual emergency of a zombie apocalypse could force him to risk plunging to his death in a helicopter.

The microwave dinged and Shawn poured the popcorn into a bowl. “Funny how it’s always a virus that makes zombies,” he remarked.

“Actually,” Gus noted, “traditional Haitian zombies are created with drugs, such as tertodotoxin, and in Night of The Living Dead the zombies were caused by radiation from a space probe.”

“Radiation usually makes giant bugs,” Shawn said. “Ooh! I’d love to see a film where the zombies fight a big preying mantis.”

“Of course, Gus added, “if you get the rage virus like in 28 Days Later I’d have to kill you from a safe distance. Those things could really move.”

“In the event of a zombie apocalypse I'm holing up with Lassie. The man’s got more guns than Ted Nugent.”

Lassiter again. Shawn had been mentioning him more and more lately. A less secure friend might have gotten jealous, Gus thought. And given the way Shawn had allowed the detective to figure out the Resident Evil connection on his own that day, his attitude toward Lassiter was starting to affect their work as well. Gus decided that the time had come for The Talk. It was something he’d been dreading for several months now, but as time went on it had become increasingly clear that the conversation was inevitable. At least this way, if it went horribly awry they could smooth it over with The Final Frontier

“Shawn, tell me honestly,” he said. “You have a man-crush on Lassiter don’t you?”

“What? No. Noooooo.” Shawn said, but neither his wide smile nor his blush was very convincing. When Gus remained skeptical he added, “Maybe. Why? Was I too obvious? Was it the teasing? I tease everyone.”

“It wasn’t the teasing.” The teasing, Gus reflected, had actually been the least obvious manifestation of Shawn’s crush.

“Was it the groping?”

Gus nodded. There was no ignoring the groping. He’d had to bite his tongue on numerous occasions to avoid suggesting the two of them get a room.

Shawn sighed and threw himself into a pleather armchair. “Yeah, I figured it was the groping. Okay, yes. Maybe, just maybe, I have a man-crush on Lassiter. But it’s not going to interfere with you and me.” Shawn moved his hands back and forth between himself and Gus. “Dude, we’re brothers in arms. We’re Starsky and Hutch. Inigo Montoya and Fezzik. Martin Lawrence and Will Smith.”

“Smith and Lawrence are real guys,” Gus pointed out.

“Yes, and they kicked ass in the Bad Boys franchise.” Shawn looked up at the lamp next to the chair and traced a finger along its shade, avoiding meeting Gus’s gaze. “My point is that this thing with Lassiter is totally different. My dynamic with him is hate-hate, but with love-hate underneath. Like an open-faced love-hate sandwich. We’re like Claire and Bender, or Patrick and Kat in Ten Things I Hate About You.”

“You know those examples are both couples, right?” Gus asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m fine with that.” Shawn’s voice was calm, but Gus noticed that he chewed nervously on his lower lip.

“Shawn,” Gus said using his most serious tone of voice, usually reserved for discussions of their tax returns or potential felony arrests, “are you just messing around, or are you trying to have a real conversation here?”

“Explain the difference to me again?” Shawn tilted his head, reminding Gus of a parakeet his mother used to have.

Gus nodded to himself. Shawn hadn’t let a joke go on this long since junior high, when he’d claimed that the plot to Home Alone was based on his own life. If Shawn was being this coy it could only mean one thing—his suspicions about Shawn’s feelings for Lassiter were right on the money. Shawn was attracted to him.

Gus snapped his fingers. “This explains that time I walked in on you and Ricky Chambers in the changing room at Camp Tikihama.”

Shawn laughed. “I can’t believe you bought that ‘checking for leeches’ story. Dude, I stole that directly from Stand By Me!”

“Well now it all makes sense.” Gus was suddenly no longer jealous that Shawn has once said his ideal vacation was to be trapped on a deserted island with the cast of Young Guns. Although at the time he’d said it, Gus had felt rejected as a friend.

“You’re not gonna go all Kobe Bryant on me are you?” Shawn asked hesitantly.

Gus looked offended. “I don’t think of you that way, Shawn.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “I meant the homophobia not the…other thing. Should I have gone with T.R. Knight?”

“It would have been a clearer reference,” Gus admitted. “But you could just have easily picked Mel Gibson or Tom Cruise.” He crossed his arms. “Not every famous homophobe is black, you know.”

“No, you’re right.” Shawn sighed. “Sadly, it’s usually just the hot homophobes that are black. So, we’re cool then?”

“Please!” Gus huffed, still offended. “Between the two of us, you’re the one more likely to be homophobic” he jabbed a thumb toward his chest, “I watched Angels in America on HBO. I played ‘Man with lighter’ in our college production of Torch Song Trilogy. I voted against Proposition 8.” His mouth hardened and he glared at Shawn reproachfully. “You didn’t even vote.”

Shawn shrugged. “It was cloudy out. I didn’t want to risk getting caught in the rain on the way to the polls.” When Gus continued to glare at him, Shawn added, “I was wearing a suede jacket. Besides, if we’re going to play ‘who’s gayest’ I’ll warn you right now that I’m holding some very explicit trump cards.”

“Fine.” Gus returned to his paperwork. “You can have the title. Just as long as I don’t have to hear any details.”

“But they’re juicy details,” Shawn protested. “Juicy like a velour tracksuit.” When Gus ignored him Shawn went on, “Juicy like a ripe pineapple.”

“I get it,” Gus said finally. “They’re juicy. Enough said.”

Chapter 3

The next day, encased safely within the Blueberry Echo, Shawn and Gus headed for the SBPD, stopping for Jamaican patties at the 7-11 on their way to the Santa Barbara police station.

“Mmmmmm, something smells good,” Juliet O’Hara said, looking up as they approached her desk.

“That would be my new cologne,” Shawn said, “essence of roti.” He sniffed at the yellow patty inside the little white envelope. “Mmmmm,” he said in a bad accent, “Jamaica me hungry!” he took a bite of the warm patty and chewed appreciatively.

Gus looked at Shawn and furrowed his brow. “You did not just pull that Jamaica-me pun,” he said, disbelievingly.

“Uh-huh.” Shawn chewed and nodded, unapologetic.

“We’ve talked about this. And your accent is horrible.” Gus was quite proud of his own Jamaican accent, honed to perfection during several vacations spent with his mother’s relatives. He turned to O’Hara. “Please, Juliet, back me up on this.”

O’Hara wrinkled her nose and nodded regretfully. “Yeah Shawn, it’s pretty bad. You sound like Miss Cleo.”

Shawn shook his head until he’d swallowed his mouthful of patty. “No way,” he objected. “It was great. I sounded just like the 7-up guy.”

“If you mean Geoffrey Holder,” Gus said, “he’s from Trinidad, and no you didn't. In fact, the only 7-up guy you actually sound like is Fido Dido.”

“What? No way!”

“Oh, I remember him,” O’Hara said, frowning thoughtfully. “Did he even talk?”

Gus turned to Shawn. “Juliet makes a good point. If you want the impression to work you’ll have to talk less. A lot less.”

“In your dreams.” Shawn stuffed the remainder of the patty into his mouth. While Gus talked to Juliet about her trip to UC Santa Barbara, Shawn sat in Lassiter’s chair, put his feet up on the detective’s desk, and picked up the scene-of-crime report on Marla Roberts.

A few minutes later a shadow loomed over the report Shawn was reading, blocking out the fluorescent light.

“You know,” Gus warned, “Lassiter will have a conniption if he catches you sitting there again, let alone reading his files.”

“Do people even have conniptions anymore? Shawn asked. “I like to think that Lassiter might appreciate me checking these reports before he files them—you know, for spelling errors and such.”

“You have the spelling skills of a ninth grader,” Gus pointed out. “You misspelled spell.”

“Gus, Gus Gus,” Shawn chided, flipping through the report without any attempt to conceal himself. “Ninth grade was a long time ago.” Shawn flipped a page in the report and noted that Marla had suffered a blow to the head and was likely unconscious before being stabbed.

“I’m talking about last week,” Gus said. “Spell doesn’t have an e at the end.”

“It does when it’s Ye Olde Spelle, such as Harry Potter and his ilk might cast.” He noted that the weapon was missing and a search of the house hadn’t turned it up. Why would the killer keep the knife? Shawn wondered. No one needed to hang onto an incriminating knife…unless he planned to use it to incriminate someone.

“You haven’t read any of the Harry Potter books,” Gus objected.

“I tried to,” Shawn admitted, “but they kept getting bigger. It was like trying to mule heroin. The first book they show you is small and goes down easily, and the next thing you know you’re in the bathroom trying to pass an eight pound brick.”

“Well Lassiter won’t like it. I’m just saying.”

“Are you sure?” Shawn closed the report and smiled. Wherever the knife turned up, he was pretty sure that whomever it pointed to would be innocent.

“As sure as I am that every reptilian race on television turns out to be evil.”

“That’s not true.”

Gus began to count out on his fingers, “The Gorn, the Cardassians, the Xindi….”

“That’s just on Star Trek,” Shawn cut in. “Gene Roddenberry obviously has a violent dislike of lizards.”

“The aliens on V were evil too,” Gus offered.

“Except for Willie and Donovan.”

“True that,” Gus admitted. “And the Starchild.”

“Does she count?” Shawn asked, “since she’s only half—”

“Spencer!” Lassiter’s testy voice rang out across the bullpen. “Get the hell out of my chair!” The lanky detective strode in, accompanied by a man in his mid-twenties with light brown hair, wearing beige army fatigues.

“That must be Marla Robarts’ brother,” Gus said as Lassiter led him into an interview room. “Army fatigues are never a good sign.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said, getting to his feet. “They’re practically the official uniform for crazy.”

“Actually,” Gus said, “they’re the official uniform for the United States Army.”

“Exactly.” Shawn walked casually across the bullpen and stepped into the observation room where he could watch Lassiter’s interrogation through the two-way mirror.

Jeffrey Robarts was hunched low in his chair, avoiding Lassiter’s stare. “I didn’t do it,” he said, his voice panicked, “and you can’t prove I did.”

Lassiter leaned against the wall by the door and smiled. “Just watch me.” He picked up a file folder and flipped through some papers in it. “I see here that you’re being treated for schizophrenia. And,” he raised an eyebrow, “that you have a history of violence.” He smiled a twisted and derisive grin. “Smashed up the television sets in your former workplace because, you claimed, they were…talking about you.”

“Those were paid for,” Jeffrey said.

“Yes they were. By the murder victim, your sister Marla, who also admitted you to a mental hospital after that, and then let you live with her when they released you.” He looked down at Jeffrey and put his arms on his hips—a move that Shawn always found adorably effeminate. “So when you knocked her unconscious, dragged her to the murder site and then stabbed her, what was that? Some kind of payback?”

“I didn’t do that,” Jeffrey insisted.

“Maybe the voices in your head did it, huh?” He set a sheet of paper and a tiny nub of a pencil in front of Jeffrey. “Just write down what they told you to do, sign it, and we can all go home.”

“I don’t get voices. I’m on medication for all that.”

Lasssiter loomed over his suspect. “Are ya taking it?” he asked menacingly.

“I get injections every two weeks,” Jeffrey said, looking at the tiles on the floor instead of at Lassiter. “It’s a slow release thing.”

Behind the mirror, Shawn looked thoughtful. It was a face Gus knew usually led to trouble.

***

“That’s your suspect?” Shawn asked, unimpressed, as Jeffrey was led down to the holding cells.

“What’s wrong with him?” As far as Lassiter was concerned, the brother was an excellent suspect. Although he might cop an insanity plea and wind up in some cushy psychiatric hospital, the newspapers would definitely give the case some play. Maybe even print a picture of the arresting officer. The Courier loved stories where mentally deranged people killed the loved ones that had tried to shield them. It was like a public service announcement against keeping dangerous animals as pets.

“Sure he's got some problems, but I don’t buy him as a deranged killer,” Shawn objected. “Tony Danza did a more convincing job in Deadly Whispers.”

Lassiter, who had actually watched Deadly Whispers one rainy afternoon, glowered.

“And just who would you suggest we question?” he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Marla’s co-workers?” Shawn offered. “How about that assistant director? Or her business partner, Patricia Kayne?”

Lassiter narrowed his eyes at Shawn. “How do you know about Patricia Kayne?” He’d only learned that Marla Roberts had a business partner that morning. Shawn must have read the case file on his desk. The only other explanation was...irrational. And like Mr. Spock, Lassiter preferred everything he dealt with to be rational.

Shawn deflected the question. “What about professional jealousy? Has anyone questioned George Romero?”

“Why would we question George Romero?” Lassiter asked. “The man is over seventy.”

“I know he looks frail” Shawn said, “but he’s surprisingly strong and wiry. There’s a good reason he doesn’t have bodyguards, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lassiter muttered. “In the meantime, if you psychically glean any evidence that connects the brother,” he said the words painfully, “let me know. We can only hold him for 24 hours. We’ve got Dr. Erlich coming in to assess him, and we’re searching his apartment, but without hard evidence all I’ve got is a nutbar with a dead sister.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shawn said, sarcastically. “Is having a mental illness no longer a crime? Can’t you just lock people up without a trial?”

“Only when we invoke the patriot act,” Lassiter smiled grimly.

Later, walking back to the Psych office with cones of frozen yogurt, Shawn thought about Jeffrey Robarts.

“You’ve got that look again,” Gus warned. Then, in response to Shawn’s expression of injured innocence he added, “That look you get when you’re planning something. I’ve learned that look never ends well, Shawn. It’s called negative reinforcement.”

“I was just thinking about poor Jeffrey Robarts and the raw deal he’s going to get from Lassie. He’s just itching to put him away.”

“I don’t recall us being hired on that case,” Gus pointed out. “And frankly, I’m sick of you doing work for free just to impress Lassiter. You’re going to put us out of business.”

“Oh, like you don’t do things to impress Jules,” Shawn countered.

“I impress Juliet with my sophisticated dress sense, my punctuality, and my broad knowledge of pharmacology.” He glared at Shawn. “You try to impress Lassiter by doing our job for free. Which isn’t working, by the way. I’m just saying.”

“It’s working.” Shawn smiled, and Gus was alarmed to note that Shawn was making his lovestruck face. “You just can’t distinguish his impressed face from his please-curl-up-and-die face. But there’s a subtle difference. I think it’s around the eyes.”

“I think you’re headed for a world of pain,” Gus said. “Emotional and possibly physical.”

“He's been rebuffing my advances for four years now,” Shawn pointed out. “It's only a matter of time until he goes into Pon Farr, and then it's mattress olympics.”

As they finished their yogurts and strolled along the boardwalk, Gus’s own face took on a thoughtful look. If Shawn had been paying more attention, he might have been worried.

***

Detective Carlton Lassiter was working late, hunched over a stack of reports and a styrofoam container of beef fried rice.

“Hello Lassiter.”

The detective looked up to see Gus, looking stylishly subdued in a dark purple dress shirt and black slacks, looming over his desk. It was an hour past his regular quitting time and Lassiter had no desire to spend another hour debating the appropriateness of Jeffrey Robarts as his prime suspect. Dr. Erlich’s visit hadn’t been very helpful. According to him Jeffrey had his schizophrenia under control. Lassiter supposed it might look that way, if you didn’t count his murdering people.

His eyes flickered across the bullpen, looking for Spencer. Where Guster was, Spencer couldn’t be far behind.

“Shawn’s not here,” Gus said, as if reading his mind. “I was hoping we could talk. He glanced around the bullpen himself, then back at Lassiter. “Alone.”

Lassiter sighed. This had better not be some scheme on Spencer’s part to try to convince him to stop investigating Jeffrey Robarts. The man had a clear mental illness and a history of violence. Lassiter would need his own head examined if he didn’t investigate a suspect like that.

“Fine.” Lassiter stood and stalked off down the hall and slipped into an interview room. He turned and crossed his arms. “What’s so important?”

Gus took a calming breath and pressed his lips together. Lassiter’s curiosity was piqued. Guster wasn’t usually shy about speaking his mind.

“Shawn is my best friend,” Gus began, “and I’ve known him longer than anyone. So I’d hate to see him get hurt.”

Lassiter frowned, unsure where this was going. It didn’t sound like Guster was working up to trying to change his mind about Jeffrey Robarts. Did he think Spencer was in danger? Lassiter was torn between his view that Spencer probably deserved whatever danger he had attracted and his instinct to defend the innocent—even people like Spencer.

“What are you getting at?” Lassiter snapped.

“Shawn likes you,” Gus said.

Lassiter shook his head. “Look, if Spencer sent you here to soft soap me on the Robarts case, he can forget about it.”

“This isn’t about the case,” Gus’s voice took on a sharp tone that made Lassiter’s spine straighten and his ears perk up. “This is about Shawn. The man has a crush on you.” Before Lassiter could process the import of Gus’s words he continued on, “I know it’s hopeless. You’re straight, you’re a cop, and you hate his guts. But there it is. All I ask is that you cut him some slack and let him down gently. Please.” Gus sighed. “It would make my life a lot easier.”

As the words sunk into Lassiter’s mind his face went red and his throat dried out. He hoped this was a joke, but that didn’t seem like Guster’s style. If what he was saying was true, then all the sexual innuendos, touches, and jokes had been expressions of interest. Shawn Spencer had been coming on to him for years. He felt the room spin.

“Are we done?” Lassiter asked, hoping the panic he was feeling didn’t show on his face.

“I guess so.”

“Then I need to get back to work. I’ve got to find something solid on Robarts before the time I can hold him runs out.” He had hoped the apartment search would turn up something, but his officers had run into a snag in the form of Marla's partner, Patricia Kayne and her lawyers, who were refusing to let anyone inside. Gus left, looking more dejected than when he’d arrived.

Lassiter sat at his desk, holding the autopsy report in his hands, but not really seeing it. He shook his head as if to dislodge the confusion he was feeling.

Shawn Spencer was young, good-looking, and in decent shape. He was probably beating the women off with a stick. Men too, maybe. He ignored the double entendre that that phrase evoked in his mind. In a way, it was flattering to be the object of Spencer’s crush. It was impossible of course, but flattering nonetheless.

Like Guster had said, he was a cop, he hated Spencer, and he was straight. He was straighter than straight. He loved women. The fact that none of his relationships with them had worked out was just the natural result of having a job that required long erratic hours and a dedication to moral absolutes. It certainly wasn’t evidence of anything. It wasn’t as if a relationship with a man would be any different. There would still be the missed dinners, birthdays, and anniversaries to contend with. Of course in his experience men didn’t care as much about those things. But a same-sex relationship probably came with its own problems, not least of which was how people around him would respond. But that, he reminded himself, wasn’t his problem. Because he was straight. Very very straight. He turned back to his autopsy report, assuring himself that the mild tingling he felt in his boxer shorts at the thought of Spencer liking him was merely a physiological response to flattery.

***

The morning dawned bright and sunny with a warm wind blowing in from the east. It was a day that felt optimistic, and full of promise. Shawn walked into the bullpen and strolled up to Lassiter’s desk. All around him people had that air of purposeful action that could only mean they’d gotten their teeth into something.

“Looks like things are jumping in here, Lassie. What’s up?” he asked.

Lassiter felt his heart race as he approached. Since his talk with Guster he’d been dreading running into Shawn. Normally he ignored the psychic’s touchy-feely ways, but if his lack of personal space was actually a preamble to something more serious, like asking him out on a date, he’d prefer to nip it in the bud before it bloomed into a big embarrassingly gay flower.

“We’ve issued a warrant for Jeffrey Robarts,” Lassiter said, trying to keep his tone from sounding overly friendly. “Remember how Marla Robarts was wearing that weird house dress, like Mrs. Rabbitson?”

Shawn nodded, and sat on the edge of the desk, his leg touching Lassiter’s. Lassiter wheeled his chair back slightly, out of contact.

“Our guys finally got a warrant to search the apartment and found the clothes she was wearing when she was attacked, wadded into a ball in the brother’s closet, with a knife inside. I just have to match it to the wounds on the body and Bob’s your uncle.”

“Actually, Jack’s my uncle. But I see where you’re going with this. I thought you already had Jeffrey Robarts locked up in here.”

“I did.” Lassiter’s face took on a scowl. “But we had to let him loose. If only we’d been allowed to search the apartment sooner,” he complained. “But that Kayne woman and her lawyers have blocked us every step of the way.”

“Yeah, those pesky civil rights,” Shawn nodded.

“Damn straight.” Lassiter agreed, missing any sense of irony. “Now I have to track Robarts down. The men I had tailing him lost him when he went into the hospital for his shots.”

“Those hospitals have so many exits, don’t they?” Shawn knew this because he’d recently been to the hospital himself, picking up a friend as he emerged from an employees-only door.

Lassiter stood and straightened his tie. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Spencer, I have a manhunt to run.”

“Have you tried OKCupid?” Spencer winked at him and headed out the door.

Lassiter was lost for words.

Chapter 4

Gus arrived at the Psych office to find Shawn sitting on a bench by the front door, pretending to admire the view of the harbour.

“Thank God you’re here, Gus. I need your help.” Shawn leaped to his feet and led the way inside. “Something has come up that requires your special skills.”

“Lockpicking?” Gus asked as he followed him through the foyer of the Psych office. Then, more hopefully, “The Super Smeller?”

“Nope.” Shawn walked further into the office to reveal Jeffrey Robarts, sitting on the sofa playing Resident Evil: Rejuvenation on their Wii. He looked up briefly, greeted Gus, then turned back to the game.

“We’ve got to hide Jeffrey somewhere Lassie can’t find him,” Shawn said. “And since my Romulan cloaking device isn’t working we’ll have to go old school. And to be fair, you were always better at hide and go seek.”

“Hide him where, Shawn? He’s wanted for a felony.” Gus walked briskly around the office closing the blinds and peering out to see if the office was about to be swarmed by police officers.

“Just a few days,” Shawn assured him. “Until I’ve cleared up all these false charges.”

“If they are false charges.” Gus looked suspiciously at Jeffrey. “Lassiter seems pretty sure that Jeffrey did it.”

“Yes, but like his decision to wear sock garters, it’s all kinds of wrong,” Shawn said. “Jeffrey's innocent. This is like the episode of Star Trek The Next Generation where Riker thinks he's in a mental hospital.”

You're thinking Frame of Mind," Gus said. "And this is nothing like that. If anything, it's more like episode 91 of Deep Space Nine, where Chief O'Brien is falsely accused of spying and given the traumatic memory of a twenty year jail sentence." Gus lowered his voice. "And we haven't actually established that Jeffrey isn't guilty."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Jeffrey's the fall guy. And not in a cool, stunt-man-moonlighting-as-a-bounty-hunter kind of way. I mean he's being set up."

“They found his sister's bloody clothes and the murder weapon in his closet,” Gus countered.

“Okay, but the real killer could have used Marla’s keys and planted the evidence there. Jeffrey was close to his sister and had no motive to kill her. Right, Jeffrey?”

“I wouldn't hurt anybody, least of all Marla.” Jeffrey cut the head off a zombie with a machete, jumped onto a burned out car and then began scaling a fire escape, as hoards of the undead closed in on his avatar.

“Or,” Gus countered, lowering his voice and watching Jeffrey carefully, “He’s like Tom Hank’s character in Mazes and Monsters. Obsessed with bringing the game to life. Or in this case, the movie based on the game.”

“Lassie’s way off base with Jeffrey,” Shawn said. “We’ll need to gently steer him toward a better suspect. Like that assistant director. I kind of want it to be him on general principles. And there’s still Marla’s partner, Patricia Kayne. The file on Lassie’s desk says Kayne inherits Marla’s half of their business. That’s worth killing for. And she could have put the evidence in Jeffrey’s closet while she was holding Lassie off with her lawyers. I’m sure if I nudge him a little Lassie will see the light.”

“I’ve seen how you interact with Lassiter,” Gus said. “You do more than nudge.”

“I just need to keep Jeffrey out of jail long enough to ID the real killer.”

Gus crossed his arms and tried to look immovable. “I will not break the law for you, Shawn. We should just call Lassiter and hand him over.”

“Oh please!” Shawn scoffed. “You’ve broken the law with me plenty of times.”

“In the past,” Gus admitted, “sometimes laws were bent in the interests of justice. But this is a new day and a new Burton Guster. And my new rule is that I don’t hide fugitives from the law.”

“Come on,” Shawn cajoled. “Be bad. Break some rules. Grow a goatee and become evil Gus.”

“You wouldn’t like me evil, Shawn.” Gus looked meaningfully at his friend.

“Gus, all I’m saying is that what if Jeffrey is innocent? And what if he’s being framed?” Shawn knew that Gus had always had a soft spot for the wrongly accused. Although most people assumed that it stemmed from having his parents suspected of murdering their neighbour, Shawn knew that it had originated much earlier, when a young Gus had watched the Court Martial episode of Star Trek.

“What do you need me to do?” Gus was hesitant.

“Just be yourself.”

***

“Hello,” Shawn greeted the woman behind the plexiglass window in the pale green waiting room of a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of the city. “My name is Shawn Spencer and this is my associate, Dr. Melvin Potts.” He motioned to Gus. “We’d like to speak to you about Mr. Nicholson here. No relation to Jack.”

The nurse looked at Jeffrey and then at Shawn, displaying no indication as to whether she was buying their story or not.

“Mr. Nicholson is a method actor,” Shawn explained. He once spent a week living in a cornfield when he did Wizard of Oz off-Broadway. He’s got a part in an upcoming film where he plays a patient with schizophrenia, and he’d like to be admitted for a few days to get a feel for the experience.”

“I’d have to run that by Doctor Sampson.” She handed Shawn a form. “Fill this out.”

“Gladly,” Shawn picked up a pen, discovered it was attached to the counter by a short chain, tugged ineffectually at it for a few moments, and then moved the clipboard close enough to write in a crabby scrawl. He passed the nurse the forms, a driving license, and an insurance card.

The nurse went into a back office and a few moments later returned with Dr. Sampson, who looked like a well-fed Bob Newhart in a sweater vest.

“Allow me,” Gus said to Shawn and Jeffrey. He ran his thumb down his nose, and smiling, sauntered over to the doctor. They chatted in hushed tones, the doctor nodding his head at Gus’s words. Shawn had total confidence that Gus would be successful. Was selling pharmaceuticals so different from committing a wanted man under an assumed name? He hoped not.

Finally Gus and Dr. Sampson approached them.

“Okay Mr. Nicholson,” Gus said to Jeffrey. “You’ll stay here under Dr. Sampson’s care and we’ll be back for you in a few days.”

“I'm sure you'll find our facility the perfect venue for exploring how it feels to access mental health treatment,” Dr. Sampson said. “I've done some acting myself, you know.” He smiled humbly. “Just community theatre, but we did get a lovely write-up in The Courier. They said my MacBeth was refreshingly amusing.”

“Are you really going to find out who killed Marla?” Jeffrey asked, ignoring Dr. Sampson.

“You bet.” Shawn turned to the doctor. “There are still some issues to be worked out in the script. It’s a whole who-shot-JR, who-killed-Laura-Palmer thing. We promised to let him know as soon as they sorted it.” Shawn and Gus shook hands with the doctor and left.

Back in the little blue Echo, headed toward the police department, Gus sighed.

“I hope you have a plan for how you’ll keep Lassiter from finding Jeffrey as soon as he routinely checks all the mental hospitals in the area.”

Shawn leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself. “Of course I do. I checked him in under the name Creighton Morris.”

The Echo swerved slightly as Gus turned to look at Shawn. “The director?”

“Assistant director,” Shawn corrected. “He was the only person whose driver’s license and insurance card I happened to have on me at the time.”

“How did you just happen to have those?” Gus asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

Shawn pulled a black wallet from his pants pocket. “I found his wallet.”

“Where did you find it?”

“In his trailer. I keep meaning to return it to him, but I’m so rarely in that part of town.”

***

Lassiter poured himself a coffee and glared at it. The search for Jeffrey Robarts was turning up nothing. How difficult could it be for an entire police department to trace one man? It wasn’t as if he was some criminal genius with a score of associates willing to hide him. He was a mentally ill guy who, until recently, lived with his sister. He hadn't even had a job in four years.

Lassiter looked up to see Shawn Spencer chatting flirtatiously with O’Hara and McNab. Not that he was jealous, he assured himself. Spencer could flirt with half the station for all he cared. If Guster was right, and Spencer had some sort of crush on him, it was probably just one of many. For all he knew he could be at the bottom of Spencer’s dance card. Still, it would be better to set some boundaries now, before things got out of hand. Like Guster had suggested, he ought to let Spencer down gently.

The psychic strolled into the break room and helped himself to a cherry danish from a box on the counter.

“Why the long face, Lassie? Lose a game of three dimensional chess?”

“No.” Normally Lassiter would have been flattered by being compared to a Vulcan, but at the moment he didn’t feel very logical. “I’m combing the city for a suspect, as if you didn’t know.”

“I thought you loved a good manhunt. You’ve got your whole Tommy Lee Jones thing going on.” He noticed that Lassiter had removed his suit jacket and actually rolled up the sleeves on his dress shirt, a sign that he’d been working hard for at least six hours. Lassiter rarely uncuffed unless he was really concentrating.

“Thanks, Spencer.” Lassiter smiled wryly. He did love a manhunt. He just loved it more when they were successful. “But the trail's pretty cold,” he admitted. “Robarts disappeared at the hospital and hasn't been seen since. We've had our guys go over his usual haunts with a fine tooth comb, but he's dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Maybe an alien being has drained him of his water and he's being used as a paperweight.”

“Well he certainly isn’t at his apartment or the hospital or any of the dozen other places we’ve looked.” Lassiter sighed.

“Don't beat yourself up about it,” Shawn said, patting Lassiter energetically on the back, feeling the holster straps against his crisp white shirt. “I'm sure he'll turn up when you least expect it.” The patting turned to rubbing, and Lassiter steeled himself for that talk.

“Listen, Spencer,” he looked around to make sure no one was within hearing range. “We need to talk.” His ex wife used to say that all the time. It was like telling someone there’d been an accident. It prepared them for bad news.

“Okay.” Shawn looked apprehensively up at him. “Talk. I'm all yours.”

“Not here. Somewhere private.” Lassiter strode across to the file room, checked that it was deserted and then motioned Shawn over.

“In here.” Once inside he locked the door and turned to face Shawn, hoping he didn’t look as anxious as he felt.

Shawn raised his hands, defensively. “Look, if this is about the melted cheese in your toaster, I swear, that was an accident. Blame Jamie Kennedy—the chef, not the comedian-slash-actor. It was his grilled cheese recipe. I was just following instructions.”

“My toaster?” Lassiter’s brow wrinkled. “This isn’t about my toaster.”

“Is it about those pictures of you from highschool? I didn’t think you’d even miss them. They were doubles. And you looked adorable in that basketball uniform.”

“Listen, Spencer—Shawn. Lassiter put a hand on Shawn’s shoulder in what he hoped was a fatherly way, then thought better of the gesture and removed it. “It’s natural to be curious. But sometimes curiosity leads you astray,” he said. “Maybe you develop a schoolboy crush on Harry Callahan or Frank Serpico. You engage in some innocent experimentation with a willing college roommate, maybe you even date for a new weeks until his sister finds out and threatens to tell your mother. Long story short, eventually those things have to be set aside in favour of more mature relationships and responsibilities.”

“Did my dad ask you to do this?” Shawn asked, puzzled. “I’m surprised he’s started outsourcing these little grow-the-hell-up talks.”

“Henry? God no.” Lassiter looked panicked for a moment. As far as he was concerned, this was an issue that Henry must never catch wind of. He could think of few situations more awkward. And would Henry believe that he hadn’t done anything to lead Shawn on? He didn’t want to take that chance. “Let’s leave Henry out of this,” he suggested.

“Fine by me.” Shawn crossed his legs and leaned casually against a filing cabinet.

Lassiter took a deep breath. “Guster told me,” he felt the words catching in his throat, “that you uh, liked me.” God! This feels like junior high, he thought painfully, which had not been one of the more self-confident periods of his development. He wondered if having this conversation was really as necessary as it had seemed last night, when he’d formulated the plan.

“Gus is over-protective.” Shawn waved a hand. “He gets all wired if he eats more than a few Coffee Crisps. Ignore him.”

“Coffee Crisps?”

“What? They’re a nice light snack.”

“So he made it up?” Lassiter found himself both desperately hoping this was true yet feeling disappointed that it might be.

“Not exactly. Gus doesn’t lie,” Shawn said. “Well, not the way normal people do. Not like you and I do.”

Lassiter questioned whether Shawn could really be considered ‘normal people,’ but let it pass. He laced his hands, in unconscious imitation of holding a Glock, and peered at Shawn over his raised index fingers. “I just wanted to make it clear that while I’m flattered, I’m not a…that is, I’m not like….”

“I get it,” Shawn cut in, his face reddening. “I’m like a piece of furniture to you. It’s fine.”

“It’s not personal.” Lassiter felt he was doing exactly what Guster had asked him not to do. He tried to backtrack. “I mean, you’re not hideous. You’re actually quite attractive. If I were gay I’d be on you like oil on guns.”

“You mean that?” Shawn looked at Lassiter and his eyes seemed to be searching his face for evidence of insincerity.

Lassiter smiled, glad their talk seemed to be coming to an amiable conclusion.

“Absolutely,” he said, patting Shawn reassuringly on the shoulder.

Shawn slipped his hands up, placed them on either side of Lassiter’s jaw and, pushing forward onto his toes, pressed his lips briefly against the detective’s. As kisses go it was dry and quick, tasting vaguely of cherry danish. But from Lassiter’s perspective it was one of the most obscenely sexual things that had ever happened to him in public—well, almost public. And while Shawn’s lips had barely touched him before he pulled away again, Lassiter experienced it all in slow motion, like a car crash.

Shawn stepped back, just out of easy punching range, and stood there, his skin flushed, breathing short gulps of air and looking expectantly at Lassiter, whose eyes were still widened in surprise.

“Okaaay,” Lassiter said warily. Shawn could almost see the gears turning behind his cold blue eyes as he tried to make some sense of what had just happened. “What was that?”

“That was about one second of paradise,” Shawn joked. “If you’re up for going the whole seven minutes, let me know.”

Seven minutes of paradise? Lassiter vaguely remembered the term from some of his first mixed-sex birthday parties—some kind of a game where your friends stuffed you into a closet with your childhood crush.

“What are we, fourteen?” he asked.

Shawn turned and headed out the door. “That feels about right to me,” he called over his shoulder.

Chapter 5

Why did bad days always start so early? Lassiter wondered as he poured himself his first coffee of the day. Once again, he’d awoken at 4:00 a.m., his mind already racing.

He couldn’t stop replaying the kiss in the file room. Shawn’s lips had been surprisingly soft. And although Lassiter didn’t have a photographic memory, when he recalled the incident what he remembered most, apart from the intensity of Spencer’s gaze, was the charge between them that gave him a warm feeling below the belt.

He likes me.

The memory of that kiss was causing him to question things that he suspected were better left unexamined. Like wondering how far Shawn was willing to take this supposed crush. Shawn’s remarks at the Rabbitson house would seem to suggest that he was willing to go, as the kids used to say, all the way. Not that I would ever go there with Spencer, he assured himself. It was just interesting to wonder about. Especially at 4 a.m., as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

And even if he could see himself succumbing, perhaps while drunk, to the allure of Shawn’s body, where would such a thing be headed? Surely he couldn’t see them dating. He couldn’t even imagine how stressful bringing a boyfriend to a SBPD social would be. Did Shawn’s interest in him have any future that didn’t end with his career in tatters?

Nobody would need to know. The thought broke into his consciousness like a whispered secret. He spent ten minutes listing all the ways that such a deception would be doomed from the start. Not least among these was that both he and Shawn worked with some of the best detectives in California, who were trained to notice things. Discovery would be inevitable.

Despite this certainty he found himself wondering if such a scenario might not be impossible after all. With enough careful planning he might be able to keep it between the two of them, especially if you expanded that notion to include Guster, who he assumed Shawn would inevitably tell. People see what they expect to see, Lassiter reasoned. He had one of the most masculine jobs there was; nobody would think he was…anything other than 100% straight. And while he was touchy feely, Shawn wasn’t exactly Paul Lynde. If they kept to the status quo, no one would even suspect.

He’d feel bad about keeping O’Hara in the dark, of course. Partners were supposed to share things. It was how they maintained the bond that their lives sometimes depended on. Still, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t as if any—entirely theoretical at this point—hook-up with Shawn changed anything about him. It’s not like he was, God forbid, coming out.

Of course there was one other issue to consider. Guster had been worried about Shawn’s feelings getting hurt. In Lassiter’s experience, feelings were unpredictable and messy. And few things could blow a secret wide open like Shawn crying openly about some relationship issue on the SBPD steps. Whatever his decision, he’d have to be careful. Very careful.

***

Shawn collapsed onto his chair in the Psych office and spun in a circle, gloating.

“You’re in a good mood,” Gus observed. “Please tell me it’s because you’ve broken the case wide open and we’re no longer aiding and abetting a wanted felon.”

“Afraid not. But I spoke with Dr. Sampson and Jeffrey’s getting along well with the other patients. He’s organized an improve class as part of his cover.”

“Considering his cover is that he’s an actor pretending not to be an actor, doesn’t that actually blow his cover?”

“Only the first layer. Nobody suspects that he’s in hiding. Our plan is still solid on that front.”

“Then what's got you so happy?”

“I kissed Lassie.” Shawn smiled and his eyes looked into the distance as he replayed the memory in his mind.

Gus looked up from his laptop, his expression grave. “Please tell me that’s a joke. Or some kind of metaphor, in which ‘Lassie’ stands for some annoying but necessary task such as flossing your teeth and ‘kiss’ means came to embrace.”

Shawn laughed. “I tell you I kissed Lassie and you want it to mean I’ve found joy in flossing?”

Gus shrugged. “Flossing is important. It removes bacteria that can cause tooth decay and bone degeneration.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll floss. But in this case kiss means kiss, and Lassie means a tall masculine detective whose aggression and control issues have an intriguing erotic potential. Would it help you if we came up with a code for describing future encounters? I could say, I’ve been sampling the Romulan ale, or making an entry in the Captain’s log.”

“I have to hand it to you,” Gus said. “Of all the things I thought you might do to Lassiter that would ultimately end our business and cause me to have to move to another city, kissing didn’t even make the list.”

“I know. I didn’t expect it either. But he was standing there telling me how attractive he'd find me if he was gay, and it just happened. Before I knew it I had penetrated his deflector shields and we were at red alert.”

“Did he kiss you back?”

“No,” Shawn admitted. But he didn't not kiss me back either, which for him is practically a flat-out pass.”

“Two negatives don't make a positive, Shawn. In fact, they actually make a bigger negative.”

Shawn shook his head. “The negatives cancel each other out, like matter and antimatter in Star Trek.”

“That’s not how they work, Shawn,” Gus said sternly. “Matter and anti-matter meeting create an explosion of energy that has to be contained by a magnetic field. It’s how they power the ship. Without the plasma coolant the heat they produce breaches the warp core. It destroyed the USS Enterprise D in Generations.”

Shawn grinned and gave his chair another rotation. “Once I breach Lassie’s warped core things will be just fine, I assure you. It's science. Sexy, sexy science.”

Gus rolled his eyes. He was pretty certain that Shawn’s interest in Lassiter would end in tears, charges of criminal conspiracy, or a bodycount. He feared that, in Star Trek terms, Shawn was the one wearing the red shirt.

***

Lassiter and O’Hara sat in the Crown Vic and waited for Patricia Kayne to leave her apartment. With Marla Roberts dead, Lassiter figured that Kayne was the most likely person to be hiding Jeffrey. She probably had him holed up somewhere and it was only a matter of time before she would lead them right to him. Or so he hoped. Thus far, she’d only gone to her office, to the film set and back to her apartment. There was a brief moment of hope when she’d bought some food at a Vons grocery, but she’d taken it directly home.

Maybe, Lassiter reflected bitterly, Jeffrey, wherever he was, was ordering takeout.

“So, O’Hara,” he asked, resting an arm on the open car window, “what's going on with you lately? Seeing anyone?” Of all the people he worked with, O’Hara might possibly get the difficulties involved in trying to fit a love life in around their work hours. She was a detective. She was single. And her attempts at dating hadn’t exactly been a rousing success. They just seemed more successful in comparison with his.

“No, why?” She paused for a moment. “You’re not trying to set me up with someone, are you? Because I am not that desperate yet.”

“I’m not your cruise director. I was just making conversation.”

“Oh.” She relaxed again. “Well, there is someone I’m kind of interested in. But I’m not sure if I should take it to the next level.” She bit her lip. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to interfere with our friendship, not to mention our working relationship.”

Lassiter’s face went paler than usual. “Please tell me it’s not Spencer.”

“It’s not Shawn.” She glared at him. Her job was tough enough. She didn’t want her personal life to be as chaotic. “Things are going really smoothly now, and don’t know if I want to risk that trying for something more.” She sighed. “But is that the kind of hesitation that’s going to hold me back from finding something really special? What do you think, Carlton?”

“Huh?” Lassiter, who had been lost in his own Spencer-related daydream again, realized she’d been talking, and that he was now expected to offer an opinion. He equivocated. “There’s a lot to consider.”

O’Hara nodded, chewing her lip again. “There sure is. How about you? Seeing anyone?”

“No.” He paused then asked, “Do you think it’s the job?”

“It’s definitely the job.” She agreed. “People think it’s sexy, until they experience it firsthand. Sure, the gun and the handcuffs are hot, but running out to a crime scene in the middle of a date? Not so hot.”

Lassiter nodded thoughtfully. “Missing birthdays and anniversaries.” That had particularly bothered his wife—ex wife, now. But when you were tracking down a killer you sometimes forgot the little things like that. And a box of candy bought at Walgreens on the way home didn’t seem to convey love as he had hoped it would.

Juliet bobbed her head in agreement. “Calling to say you’ll be late. Again.”

“Tacking crime scene photos up on the fridge.”

Juliet looked at Lassiter, her face twisted in disgust. “Ew! Who does that?”

“Nobody,” he said defensively.

“Still,” she said, “some people manage it. Look at Vick. And Buzz. They both found love.”

“Yeah,” Lassiter agreed, “but it takes a special sort of person to date a cop and not mind the hassles.”

O’Hara laughed a humourless chuckle. “Tell me about it. But if you think you’ve found the guy who could handle it,” she said, thinking again of her own situation, “shouldn’t you grab at that chance with both hands?”

Lassiter found himself wondering if Shawn would mind the hassles. His dad had been a cop, and he seemed to enjoy crime solving. Truth be told, Shawn was a great detective, once all the silly bells and whistles of his psychic act were stripped away. Maybe he wouldn’t mind crime scene photos on the fridge.

Hell, Lassiter thought, he’d probably solve the damn crime while pouring milk on his Rice Krispies.

***

Chapter 6

Lassiter flashed his badge at the security guard, took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked purposely past a hive of cubicles to Marla Roberts' corner office.

There’s something creepy about an office at night, he thought. Maybe it was the quiet, dark, and empty workstations, or the lack of noise coming from the air vents. Whoever owned the building certainly didn’t want to waste any money lighting or cooling the place when it wasn’t in use. He guessed that hadn’t been Creighton Morris’ decision. Maybe it had been the penny-pinching Marla.

Despite her reputation for budgetary restraint, Marla Robarts’ office was plush. With its deep carpet and its leather club chairs it was more like an executive’s office than the trailer where he’d interviewed Creighton Morris. He started with the desk, a wide expanse of mahogany, spotless save for a desk set and a telephone. He opened the top drawer and sorted through the papers inside.

Suddenly icy tendrils crawled up Lassiter’s spine and he became aware of a noise coming from the outer offices: a slow shuffling accompanied by an intermittent sound between a groan and a wheeze. His head raised and his eyes widened as he identified it as the sound the zombies made as they approached you in the Umbrella Corporation’s office tower. He quickly determined that the sound was coming closer. Where most people’s instinct might tell them to run away, Carlton Lassiter had always found that he had more fight than flight. He padded silently around the desk and glanced into the hall, his hand on the butt of his Glock. He saw nothing save for the warren of grey padded cubicle walls. Overhead a fluorescent light buzzed, flickered to life briefly and went out again.

There’s nothing out there, he assured himself. Especially not a zombie. Or zombies.

He turned back to the office and resumed his search. The sound started again, closer this time. He pulled his gun and stood with his back to the wall, peering into the hallway. He half expected to see the freshly undead body of the security guard who’d let him in shambling toward him. But as before, the office looked deserted. He tried not to imagine office drones suddenly rising into view from the cubicles like Nazis rising from the water in Zombie Lake.

“This place is kinda creepy.”

Lassiter’s head jerked to the right to find Shawn, standing next to him, peering across the labyrinth of dark cubicles. Lassiter exhaled a long breath of relief.

“Jesus, Spencer. I thought you were—”

“What?” Shawn asked innocently. “One of the shambling undead? No, just in need of sleep. I’m much prettier in the morning.”

“You can’t be in here, Spencer.” Lassiter tried to sound as stern as possible. “This is an official police search.”

“Which would be so much easier with a psychic.” When Lassiter failed to look convinced, Shawn added, “Or just a second pair of eyes. Come on. Two heads are better than one. You can be Ray Milland and I’ll be Rosey Grier.”

“Where’s Guster?” Lassiter asked.

“He wouldn’t come,” Shawn said. “He’s got qualms about entering buildings that strictly speaking we’re not supposed to be in. And he has a fear of cubicles. Or is that cuticles? I can’t recall. He also refuses to join me for mani-pedi Mondays, so it’s hard to be sure.”

Lassiter smiled. “But you have no problem with illegal entry, I see.”

“Surprised?” Shawn asked.

“That you’ve shown up where you’re least wanted again?” Lassiter turned away and resumed his inspection of Marla Robarts' office, trying not to think of all the places he’d thought about wanting Shawn lately. “No,” he added. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“It could be worse,” Shawn said. “You could be on a planet surrounded by hundreds of my android clones.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Although I hear that they're all fully functional, physically speaking.”

Lassiter allowed his mind to dwell on that scenario for a moment. When he didn’t reply Shawn shifted gears.

“So what are we looking for? Weapons, threatening letters, a script we can post to the internet?”

“I’m looking for anything that might lead me to Jeffrey Robarts.” Lassiter rolled his eyes. Two head would be better than one. “Since you’re here, you may as well help.”

Shawn moved to a filing cabinet and opened the uppermost drawer, which bulged with thick files. As he flipped through the folders he reflected that never once during his many hours spent in darkened theatres had he imagined the reams of paperwork that accompanied a film production. It was times like this that he wished he there really was a magical force leading him to the evidence. He let out a pained groan and rolled his head in a wide circle.

“Aug!” he complained. “This is so boring. Don’t you have someone to do this stuff while we grab dinner and a movie?”

“I am that guy we have for doing this stuff,” Lassiter said evenly, ignoring the fact that Shawn had just invited him on a date.

“Can't you call for backup?”

“We're not in danger.”

“Sure we are. In danger of papercuts.” Lassiter ignored him and continued his search. “Fine,” Shawn added, “but if a hologram of a creepy British girl pops up and tells us we're going to die I vote that we barricade the door and call Jules and Buzz.”

“Sure,” Lassiter said. “In the event that we receive death threats, I'll call backup. Until then, how about making yourself useful?”

Shawn glared at the filing cabinet. There were three more enormous drawers of boring to go. If Henry had been there he would have had something to say about character building. Shawn took a step back and brought all his powers to bear on the issue at hand. One: people were lazy. They preferred to file things where they could get at them easily. Logically, the more immediate things would be easiest to access. He closed the uppermost drawer, opened one at waist level, and began to flip through the files. Then, as if the words were illuminated by a glowing light, he spotted the document he’d been waiting for. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure himself that Lassiter was engrossed in the contents of a desk drawer, Shawn slipped the paper from the file, folded it quickly and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

As he sorted through Marla Robarts’ desk, Lassiter thought back to O’Hara’s words from the stakeout: If you think you’ve found that guy who could handle it, shouldn’t you grab that chance with both hands? He wondered if Shawn’s ability to handle the hassles of his job could possibly outweight all the hassles that having a secret relationship would entail. Then, in the midst of his daydreaming, he saw an envelope marked Personal Financials and his smile widened as he pulled a stack of bank statements from it. He sat in the comfortable leather swivel chair and began to flip through them.

“Wow,” Shawn said, leaning over his right shoulder, “The last time I saw that many zeros on the left side of the decimal point it was my all time high score on Asteroids.”

Lassiter, whose bank balance wasn’t exactly overflowing either, licked his lips. Robarts had a lot of large payroll deposits, but she also had a lot of withdraws. He flipped back through the statements.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he mused to Spencer. Regular payouts of this size could mean blackmail. He slipped the envelope into an evidence bag. Blackmail would be a new angle. He was tired of making no headway on their current suspect. The forensic accountants could find out where that cash was going.

“What time is it?” he asked, forty minutes later, as he sorted through the last of the documents in the desk.

Shawn, sprawled in a padded chair, didn’t even glance at the large clock on the wall. “Will you look at that,” he exclaimed. “It’s go-home o’clock!”

“You're probably right,” he conceded. “I don’t think there’s anything else here anyway.” He looked at Shawn through narrowed eyes. “Unless you found something.”

“Me?” Shawn put a hand to his chest. “No. I’m afraid not. It’s been a total bust.” He stood, feeling the pressure of the wadded letter in his pocket. “I may as well have been digging holes in Texas with Shia Labeouf. Let’s call it a night.”

As they left the building, Shawn followed Lassiter across the parking lot to his car.

“Can I help you, Spencer?” Lassiter asked. He didn’t think Shawn was expecting to grab a few more seconds of paradise, but he was half-hoping he might try.

Shawn smiled. “I need a lift home. Gus is using the psychmobile to visit a friend in the hospital.” He didn’t elaborate. Some subjects—such as hiding a fugitive from justice—were, he felt, better not discussed until their relationship was on a more solid footing.

“Get in.” Lassiter tried to sound more annoyed than he felt. Once inside the Crown Vic he turned to Shawn. “Where to?”

“Go west on Mission and then take a right onto State,” Shawn directed. After a few blocks he pointed to the parking lot of a storage company. “Pull in here.”

Lassiter complied, but eyed Shawn suspiciously. He certainly didn’t intend to defile the Crown Vic’s upholstery to satisfy some sordid sexual curiosity. Hell, he didn’t even let people eat in his car.

“Listen,” Shawn said, making no move to exit the vehicle, “I feel like I’m supposed to apologize or something for the other day.”

“No, it’s fine.” If by fine we mean that it’s been haunting me and ruining my sleep.

“So you’re not freaked out by the kiss?”

“We didn’t kiss.”

“Didn’t we? I seem to remember a kiss. Maybe I dreamed it, like that time I imagined I was Val Kilmer’s masseur for six weeks.” Shawn looked thoughtful. “Although that still leaves the question of where those paycheques came from.”

“It takes two to kiss. You just,” he looked for the words, “assaulted me with your mouth.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to charge me, detective?”

“No. Provided you understand that nothing’s going to happen between us.” At least not right now, and certainly not in this car.

“Of course, Lassie. We’re just good friends who work together. Like Batman and Robin.

Or, Lassiter found himself thinking, like Clyde Tolson and J. Edgar Hoover.

“You can let me out here,” Shawn suggested, not looking him in the eye.

“I’ll drive you home. It’s no problem.”

Shawn spread his arms wide. “We’re already there.”

Lassiter looked around but saw only the long concrete building belonging to Budget Self-Storage. “You live at a storage depot?” His suspicions were in high gear. If Shawn wanted to be dropped off here it couldn’t be for any legitimate reason.

Shawn shrugged. “I’m in between apartments right now. Don’t tell Gus. He’ll make me live at his place, and we both know that would a worse idea than Teen Wolf II: Hirsute Boogaloo.”

“This I have to see.” Lassiter shut the engine off and followed Shawn into the brightly lit storage facility. They cast dark shadows across the concrete. Shawn pulled out a key, unlocked storage locker 24B and rolled up the garage-style door. Ducking his head slightly, Lassiter stepped inside and frowned at the tiny bunker where Shawn’s possessions were currently arranged.

Shawn was keeping up a running commentary about the advantages of storage facility living, but Lassiter barely heard him. While the unit was relatively clean, he’d seen jail cells that were larger, and that boasted more amenities. At least jail cells had a bathroom.

“…and I shower at the gym,” Shawn was explaining, “so it’s fine. And temporary. Did I mention it’s only temporary? I’ll be out of here faster than The Hasslehoffs got booted off A&E.”

Lassiter cleared his throat and spoke with his Voice of Authority. “Grab your things. We’re going to my place.” He didn’t have a plan. He only knew he had to get both of them out of that dismal cell.

It’ll only be for a few days, he assured himself as he watched Shawn pack a bag. Just until he gets himself properly situated somewhere.

They drove to Lassiter’s in relative silence—or at least what passed for silence when Shawn Spencer was involved.

Forty minutes later the two of them were sitting on Lassiter’s couch, eating pizza and watching NCIS. Before they were halfway through the episode Shawn had insinuated himself under his arm, and was reclining against him in a position that strongly resembled cuddling.

Lassiter took a deep breath and relaxed, daring to enjoy the weight and heat of Shawn’s body against him. This is what it might be like, he thought wistfully, if this actually went anywhere. Which of course it wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“So,” he asked, nodding toward the screen, “who do you think the killer is?”

“There is no killer. It’s suicide.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“No. But the position of the,” Shawn paused, “the uh, aura of the dead man tells me it was suicide.”

“The position of his aura?” Lassiter sighed. “You know the dead guy’s being played by an actor, right?”

“Yes,” Shawn agreed. “And it’s some of the most impressive aura acting I’ve seen. Very realistic.”

When the episode ended, and Shawn’s suicide theory was proved correct, Lassiter pulled himself reluctantly to his feet, crossed to the kitchen and poured himself a nightcap of Jack Daniels.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. “You can have the couch. I’ve got some sheets and blankets in the hall closet.” He watched as Shawn walked casually across to him, running a hand languidly across the counter.

“Lassie?” Shawn was standing alarmingly close now, but his voice was hesitant.

“Yeah?” Lassiter felt his stomach tighten. Shawn's fingers grazed over his own as he took the glass from his hand and gulped a mouthful of whiskey, grimacing as he swallowed. Passing the drink back to him, Shawn leaned in close and whispered, “I hate the thought of sleeping on your couch.” He leaned back and met his gaze. “I’d prefer the bed.”

“Would you now?” Lassiter swallowed the remains of his drink, set the tumbler down, and grasped Shawn by the shoulders. He told himself that his intent was to push him back, and away, followed by some stern words about boundaries and how Shawn should count himself lucky to sleep on the couch. But even as he moved he knew he was lying to himself. As he crushed Shawn to him and tasted the whiskey on his lips he knew that this had been what he’d intended since he’d offered to drive him home. Now, giving in to the lust he’d suppressed so hard for so long, the moment felt inevitable, and he knew where it was heading as surely as the hammer hits the primer, igniting the propellant.

“This is a bad idea, Spencer,” Lassiter mumbled into Shawn’s neck. But in that moment, with Shawn’s hands wandering over his body, it felt like the best idea he’d had in a long time.

“Call me Shawn.” He yanked Lassiter’s dress shirt free of his trousers and began to fumble with the buttons. With the front open he tried to push the stiff dress shirt off, but it stuck at the cuffs. “Damn, Lassie,” he complained, “how many buttons do these things have?” He retraced his steps and released the shirt cuffs.

“This is a bad idea, Shawn,” Lassiter repeated, hoping that somehow Shawn would be the one to apply the breaks, since his own self-control seemed to have dissipated.

“I know. It’s bad,” Shawn whispered against his ear. “It’s very bad.” He began to kiss his way down Lassiter’s neck, across his collarbone, to his chest.

Lassiter reflected that he wasn’t bad very often—in fact, he’d spent most of his life being painfully good, even when it cost him. He was sick of being the good guy who never got what he wanted. He slipped a hand under Shawn’s jaw and tilted his head up to meet his gaze, his heart pounding in his ears.

“If we’re going to do this, we do it my way,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Under no circumstances will you tell anyone about this.” Even as he spoke it felt more like pleading than insisting.

“I can keep my mouth shut,” Shawn assured him, and then busied his tongue with Lassiter’s nipple.

Lassiter groaned. “Bite me,” he asked tentatively. Shawn complied, and Lassiter swore and pushed against him.

“Sorry. Too hard?”

“No. Perfect.” He turned and pushed Shawn against the counter, kissing him deeply and squeezing his erection through his jeans. Shawn, open-mouthed and gasping, clung to him as his legs went weak.

Lassiter hadn’t expected the pleasurable rush he got from having Shawn panting and desperate. This wasn’t the cocky Spencer who breezed through his crime scene, took outrageous shortcuts and then hogged all the glory when the killer was unmasked. This was an open, compliant, Shawn, begging for his attentions. It sent a warm thrill through him that was better than whiskey.

“Bedroom. Move it.” Before I change my mind.

Shawn’s eyes widened but he complied almost immediately. Lassiter smiled as he watched him race down the hall. He’d seen escaping felons move slower. He steeled his nerve and followed after him.

As Lassiter slammed the bedroom door closed with his foot, it occurred to him that this was just possibly the most dangerous thing he’d done since he started wearing a badge.

Chapter 7

The next morning Lassiter watched as Shawn padded into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his Joe Boxers. As his eyes wandered over Shawn’s exposed body his mind wandered over the events of the previous night. He’d gone into the bedroom having a very narrow idea of what he might be willing to do. Now, looking back, he’d crossed some of those lines, but he wasn’t sorry. He wondered if Shawn would be.

“There’s coffee,” he offered, indicating the machine on the countertop. Maybe, he hoped, the next few days would tell him whether or not Shawn could handle being with a cop. It was like the free trial period for those higher stations he’d got when he bought his cable package. If it didn’t work out, he wasn’t risking anything. Provided he quit before the bill came due, of course.

“Thanks.” Shawn smiled at him as if having made extra coffee was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for him.

Lassiter had feared that Shawn might be upset at waking to an empty bed. Some women he’d slept with had been resentful when they hadn’t awoken to cuddles and breakfast in bed. But Lassiter was an early riser, and he liked his morning alone time. If today was any indication, Shawn was not an early riser, and he didn’t seem to expect a smorgasbord of breakfast as proof he hadn’t been used. That, at least, was promising.

“Is that the Carrillo Plaza robbery homicide on the fridge?” Shawn asked, returning to the couch with a mug of coffee.

“Yes it is.” Lassiter steeled himself for the avalanche of teasing criticism he was sure was about to pour over him.

“I never noticed how odd those shots to the torso were before,” Shawn said. “It almost looks as if there was a second shooter.” Shawn didn’t bother to wrap the observation in a psychic guise, but Lassiter was too elated to notice.

Of course! If there was a second shooter then the bag boy had to have been lying about how the robbery had gone down.

“I knew something didn’t feel right about that eyewitness account. Thanks Spencer.”

“Shawn. After last night, you’re calling me Shawn.”

“Thanks Shawn.”

“No problemo.”

“I’m leaving for work in about twenty minutes,” Lassiter said. “I can drop you off at the Psych office if you like.” He certainly couldn’t show up at the station with him in tow. It would raise too many questions, and he didn’t want to have to deflect the good-natured jokes that his coworkers would make, never realizing they were right on the money.

“That’d be great.” That smile again.

Lassiter relaxed a little more. Of course maybe Spencer—Shawn—had reasons of his own for keeping things private. They finished their breakfast and Shawn showered and dressed. Finally he emerged from the bedroom, carrying his duffle bag.

“Leave your stuff.” Lassiter grabbed his briefcase and keys.

“Really?” There was hope in Shawn’s voice. Lassiter felt his chest swell. Shawn wasn’t sorry about last night.

“Like I said, you can stay here until you get yourself situated.” The thought of Shawn sleeping in that storage locker was intolerable. Providing him with a descent place to crash for a few days was the least he could do. And if that meant that they had a few more repeats of last night, he wasn’t exactly going to complain.

***

Lassiter paced in front of the tiny storefront that was Burt’s Boots, holding his key in his increasingly sweaty palm. In addition to being Lassiter’s go-to guy for shoe repair, Burt also cut keys.

It’s not like there’s a relationship going on here. Lassiter assured himself. Giving Spencer a key is just…practical. It was like when his sister visited, even if she had moved into a hotel room after the second day. The simple fact was that his schedule didn’t permit him to be on hand all the time, and he certainly didn’t want Shawn camped out on his steps for everyone to see and wonder about.

It’s not like I’m asking him to move in with me. It’s a few nights, and having his own key will help keep things discreet.

But as he handed the key over to Burt and watched the sparks fly as he ground out a copy, he realized that it wouldn’t hurt to take a few precautions anyway. Just enough to give him the heads up if Shawn turned out to be as indiscreet as…well, as he usually was.

***

“The mustard is on the hotdog,” Shawn said, when Gus entered the Psych office that afternoon. “I repeat: the mustard is on the hotdog.”

Gus stared at Shawn, his face grave. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.” He handed Shawn a pineapple smoothy and set his own blueberry explosion on a coaster on his desk.

Too obvious?” Shawn asked, around sips of pineapple goodness. “Shall I return to space metaphors? How about if I said Lassie was ‘engaged in maneuvers in the Alpha Quadrant.’ Or that his starship had entered a wormhole?” He sucked deeply on the straw.

“Well, I guess I should say congratulations,” Gus said, sitting at his desk. “Was there a date involved or did you go right into awkward metaphors?”

“We seem to have jumped past the whole ‘dating’ stage to the ‘living together’ stage,” Shawn admitted. “It’s as if there’s a warp in the space time continuum located in his pants.”

“Living together?” Gus’s hand paused half way to his slurpee. He leaned back, and grasped the edge of his desk. “That’s a pretty big leap. What happened to taking things slow? You usually take months to work up to giving someone a drawer.”

“Things are different with Lassie,” Shawn admitted. “He’s a member of a proud warrior race, and I like that. From the sweet glow he gets when he’s having impure thoughts to the cold steel of his Glock 17, he’s hard to resist.” He set the slurpee down on his desk. There was no way he could tell Gus about the storage locker situation. He sighed. “But you’re right. It is moving fast.”

“You’re moving at warp factor six,” Gus commented. “In the original series that was as fast as the ship could safely go.” He began to open the mail, not looking a Shawn. “You might want to think about scaling it back a notch. If you want to the relationship to work, that is.”

Shawn returned to his slurpee. He’d never lived with someone like this before, and despite the risks, he was hoping to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

***

Back at the station, the report Lassiter was reading filled him with both annoyance and a strange sense of inevitability. He prided himself on always following the evidence, and as usual, the evidence was starting to support Shawn’s crazy theories.

The house on North Alisos where they’d found the body of Marla Roberts had been furnished with prop items stolen from the film set. According to the props master, the producers had ordered all the items used in the film to be stored for auction. Although he sometimes visited his sister on set, Jeffrey Robarts would not have the kind of free access that would have been required to get at those props. They had to be looking at a film set insider with a knowledge of procedures. Someone like Creighton Morris. Or, Lassiter thought sourly, any of the numerous personal assistants, gophers or actors they had running around the place.

“Here’s some news that might cheer you up,” O'Hara said, smiling and rocking lightly on her heels. “Guess who’s just been appointed director on the Resident Evil reboot?” she asked.

“How about if you tell me before I have to read about it in the checkout line,” Lassiter grumbled.

“Patricia Teresa Kayne, Marla Robart’s business partner. We got word from the studio just now.”

“You don’t say?” Lassiter brightened. Given the prestige and financial perks of directing, Kayne had just moved to the top of his suspect list. “Very well, O’Hara. Let’s bring her in for an interview.” He hoped they had better luck finding Kayne than they were having tracking down Jeffrey Robarts. There’d been no sign of him for days now. Lassiter was beginning to wonder if they should be looking for a body instead of a suspect.

Forty minutes later O’Hara approached his desk with that determined smile he’d come to think of as her game face.

“Kayne’s in interview room 2.”

“Great.” Lassiter slapped the report down on his desk. “I’ll run point. You take observation. If I get a sense that we need a softer approach we’ll switch off.”

O’Hara grimaced. “Oh, I don’t think the soft touch is going to work on her. Good luck in there.”

Lassiter was halfway across the bullpen when he heard Shawn Spencer’s voice ring out.

“Lassie! Fancy meeting you here.”

Lassiter paused mid-step. He finally had a chance to make some headway on the Robarts case and he was not going to allow Shawn to ruin that, regardless of how much he might enjoy that thing he did with his tongue.

“The spirit world is abuzz with the news that you’ve brought Patricia Kayne in for questioning.” Shawn made movements with his fingers that Lassiter assumed was meant to represent spiritual buzzing.

“How do you know that?” He narrowed his eyes at Shawn. In answer, Shawn put his middle and index finger to his temple, vaguely reminding him of the Cub Scout salute. He grabbed Shawn by the arm and dragged him into an alcove by the stairs.

“Nothing about last night gives you free rein over this station, Spencer.” He kept his voice low. Hopefully this would look like any other day in which he had to tell off the annoying psychic.

“You’re calling me Shawn now, remember?”

“Not at work I’m not.”

“Come on,” Shawn wheedled. “I just want to sit in on the interview. You’re in charge. You’re in the captain’s chair. Think of me as watching through that Viewmaster thing at Mr. Spock’s desk. What is that thing anyway?”

Lassiter looked at Shawn’s quizzical expression. It was getting more difficult to say no to him—a problem he had not anticipated.

“You can sit in the observation room with O’Hara,” he offered. But no banging on the glass and no shouting suggestions.”

“You know how my process works,” Shawn complained, following Lassiter as he turned and walked toward the interview room. “I need to be there, see people, feel things, touch things, taste, bite if need be.”

Lassiter blushed.

“I need all six senses working overtime.”

Lassiter paused and turned on Shawn. “We have five senses.” In no way did anything he’d done last night mean that he was going to support Shawn’s pretence of having psychic powers.

“Maybe regular people do.” Shawn put his fingers to his temple, implying that he was reading the world through some additional sense, akin to picking up radio waves. “But I also have my sense of style and my sense of humour, so I guess I have eight. Maybe more. But I think eight is enough, don’t you?”

Lassiter looked at Shawn’s pouting lips, remembered how nice they’d been to him last night, and caved.

“Fine, you can sit in. But keep your mouth shut.”

“That’s not what you said last—” Shawn began to say, but was silenced by a glare from Lassiter as he led the way down the hall.

Patricia Kayne was a tall, thin woman with a severe bob of dark hair. She wore an expensive wool suit and looked entirely unimpressed by Lassiter’s attempt at an intimidating stare. She sat with her chair turned, and rested an arm casually on the long oak table.

“I’m head detective Carlton Lassiter, and this is our consultant, Shawn Spencer.” He pointed his pen at Shawn, who had seated himself on the table, despite the fact that there were two free chairs in the room. “So Patricia Teresa Kayne,” Lassiter leafed through a file. “It says here you’ve been Marla Robarts’ business partner for six years now.” He liked having a file to use as a prop in an interrogation. It implied that he knew a lot about the suspect already.

“I go by P.T., like P.T. Barnum.”

Makes sense, Lassiter thought, considering what a circus this case was turning into.

“Fine. P.T.”

“Yes. Marla and I direct pictures.” A brief glimmer of something that might have been guilt or regret washed across her face and was quickly gone again. “We did. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. I just wrapped a rom-com with Emma Roberts. It’s slotted for a Christmas release.” She looked at Lassiter evenly. “You look like an Emma Roberts fan, detective.”

Lassiter, who had enjoyed Roberts in Nancy Drew, but not so much in Scream 4, leaned back, crossed his arms and looked down his nose at the suspect before him.

“And now you’ve been chosen to take over directing the Resident Evil movie.”

“Well done, Detective.” Kayne dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Even variety doesn’t have that yet.”

“Kayne Careens from Rom Com to Zom Bomb.” Shawn said. Then, at a glare from Kayne and Lassiter, he added, “Not that I think your picture will bomb. I meant it like Bombshell. Sounded better in my head.”

“Did you and Marla ever discuss the film she was directing?” Lassiter asked, trying to pull the interview back on track.

“Of course.” Kayne glanced at Shawn, who was now leaning on his side, propped up on an elbow, seemingly ignoring her. “It’s damn lucky we did. Now I’m able to take up where she left off without losing time in the shooting schedule.”

“Creighton Morris seemed to think he’d get the job,” Shawn said.

Kayne laughed, a short sharp sound like a bark. “If Creighton directed this picture, within a week they’d be so deep in a financial hole they’d never crawl out. The producers know that. Everyone knows that but him. He never had a chance.” She laughed again. “Creighton has an over-inflated sense of his own importance.”

Lassiter sighed and tried not to look at Shawn.

“And as Marla’s business partner you had access to the film set?” he asked, consulting the file again.

“Of course. Where are you going with this?” Kayne crossed her arms.

Lassiter closed the file and tucked it under his arm. “We have proof that the killer had access to Robart’s office and was intimately familiar with the procedures involved on set.”

Kayne smiled. “Someone like me, in fact?”

“Are you a lesbian, Ms. Kayne?” Lassiter asked.

“What’s that got to do with Marla’s murder?” Kayne seemed genuinely confused, and slightly annoyed.

“Since you asked,” He slowly circled Kayne in what he hoped was an ominous, shark-like manner—an effect he realized was seriously undercut by the fact that Shawn seemed to be sprawled over half the table. “Maybe it had everything to do with it. Maybe Marla was planning to tell people about your affair, so you killed her.” He jabbed the air in front of Kayne with a finger. “You had access to the film set, you stole those props, and you planted the knife and the bloody clothing in her brother’s closet.”

Kayne laughed and shook her head. “You’re off the rails. Marla and I were partners in business only. But even if we were more than that, why would I have a motive for killing her?”

“Because being unmasked would have destroyed your career,” Lassiter said, feeling the words stick in his throat as he spoke them.

Kayne barked again. “Detective, I work in the film industry. All they care about is how much money the last project made so they can get the next one greenlit. My sex life doesn’t even come into it. I could be sleeping with half the Laker Girls for all they care.”

Shawn, lying almost boneless on the table, cut in. “The murderous lesbian thing has been done to death. It’s totally 1985.”

“I don’t know,” Lassiter said. “It sounds pretty reasonable to me.”

“No, Mr. Green, lesbianism is just a red herring.” Shawn sat up, hopped off the table and waved a hand dismissively. “We’re looking for something less Single White Female.” He leaned against the stucco wall and smiled at Lassiter. “Something more Columbo.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Lassiter said sarcastically. “But this is police work, not some ABC movie of the week. In police work, we follow the evidence.” Although even he had to admit that the evidence against Kayne wasn’t particularly strong. Yet.

“Columbo was on NBC,” Shawn said, smiling. “They’re the one with the peacock.” He spread his fingers on both hands to suggest the colourful tail of the NBC logo. “They also had Rockford Files and Police Woman.”

P.T. Kayne looked at Shawn and Lassiter with narrowed eyes and a smirk on her crimson lips. “So is it a rule now that the gay cops interview the lesbians?”

“What?” Lassiter stood frozen in place, thinking of O’Hara behind the mirror and wondering what she must be thinking.

Kayne indicated Shawn with a toss of her head. “I see the way he looks at you. You’re a couple, right?”

“No.” he said defensively. Oh God, he thought. Could people somehow tell what they’d done? “What could possibly make you think—” Then he smiled and wagged a finger at her. “Oh, I see. You’re trying misdirection.”

Kayne shook her head curtly. “My gaydar is never wrong.”

“Oh really?” Lassiter put his hands on his hips and smiled his most menacing smile.

Kayne nodded, unfazed. “Yep. Let’s just say I don’t get invited to the Scientology barbeques anymore.”

Lassiter turned to Shawn. “Shawn—I mean Spencer. Tell her there’s nothing going on.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Shawn said. Lassiter was pretty sure that his look of injured innocence wasn’t convincing Kayne. He hoped it was more convincing to O’Hara.

“Well boys, don’t think you can push me around by playing the rainbow family card. I had nothing to do with Marla’s death. I loved Marla.” She smiled icily at Lassiter. “In a totally non-lesbo way. I hope whoever killed her gets the chair.”

“Actually,” Lassiter said, “in the state of California you get to choose between lethal injection or cyanide gas. If you want my advice, take the injection. Gas is nasty.”

“Your threats don’t mean anything to me, detective.” Kayne stood. “Unless you have something relevant to ask me, this interview is over. You can talk to my lawyers.”

“Nothing says ‘innocent’ like lawyering up,” Lassiter said petulantly.

“Detective, I work in a cut-throat multibillion dollar industry,” Kayne said. “I lawyer up when I get out of bed in the morning.” She walked coolly out of the room.

Shawn clapped his hands together. “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?”

Lassiter hung his head. “Get out, Spencer.”

Chapter 8

Lassiter and O'Hara stood on State Street, watching zombies shamble into a coffee bar whose iconic logo was carefully blocked by a potted plant. O'Hara hadn't mentioned the interview with Kayne, and Lassiter wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. If she’d found Kayne's suggestion that he was dating Shaun laughable, surely she'd have said something—made some kind of joke. But she wasn't laughing. If anything, she seemed to look worried. Of course he wasn't the only one with relationship issues. She was obviously hung up on some man at the station. Lassiter wondered if it was the new guy from booking. He'd seen him using the photocopier a lot lately, maybe as an excuse to hang around O'Hara. Lassiter made a mental note to check him out. You couldn't be too careful when it came to a partner's significant other.

Morris called cut and reset, and the coffee patrons and zombies chatted amiably as they returned to their first positions and a swarm of crew members moved in to adjust props and clothing.

Morris turned to Lassiter. “I can give you two minutes. Go.”

“Tell me about P.T. Kayne,” he said. “I understand she’s been hired to replace Marla Roberts.”

“Those bean counters wouldn’t know good directing if it bit them in the ass,” Morris grumbled.

O'Hara smiled slightly and then quashed it. “So it’s safe to say that you disagree with their choice of replacement?”

“Damn right I do.” Morris touched his lips thoughtfully. “In fact, now that you mention it, Kayne might have killed Marla to get the job. She knows her Emma Roberts movie is going to tank and she wanted to step into a sure hit to keep her name afloat.”

Lassiter wished that Morris’ suggestion were true. He’d love to slap the cuffs on that self-satisfied—but he brought his focus back to the matter at hand.

“No sign of that crazy brother?” Morris asked.

“If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts,” O'Hara began, but was interrupted.

“If I knew where Jeffrey was,” Morris snapped, “I’d be the first to say so. That guy’s a total wackjob. I think Marla realized that, too. I overheard her on the phone once, taking about putting him in a home.” Lassiter jotted this down in his notebook as the crew cleared out of the camera’s line of sight. As O'Hara began to thank Morris for his time he raised a finger to silence her and shouted “Action.”

Incensed by the disrespect, Lassiter made a move toward the assistant director but was intercepted by O'Hara who pulled firmly on his arm and through gritted teeth directed him to “walk it off.” She led him quickly away from the filming and toward the trailers. As they passed a group of bloodied zombies, one of them shot her a flirtatious smile. She smiled noncommittally, not sure whether to be flattered or grossed out.

Lassiter flipped his notebook closed. “Were you able to make anything of those bank records?” he asked. Large withdraws of money smelled like blackmail. Juries loved blackmail.

“Yes,” she said. “But it's a dead end. Marla's been putting money away in a trust to take care of her brother. She met with a real estate agent last month. I think what Morris overheard was her talking about buying him a home, not putting him in one.”

Lassiter brightened. “Maybe that's not such a dead end. It certainly gives him a motive for murder.”

O'Hara lowered her eyebrows and scowled. “I thought the motive you were going with was 'he's crazy.' Cause you know, that sort of bias when investigating a crime can really—"

Lassiter looked offended. "I don't have a bias!"

O'Hara cocked her head and crossed her arms. "And what would you call it when a detective zeros in on one suspect to the exclusion of all others because that suspect has an illness?"

"Oh come on!" Lassiter protested. "It's not like the guy has diabetes."

"Isn't it? Jeffrey Morris has no history of violence against a person, yet he was your prime suspect." She flung out an arm, and Lassiter realized she was actually bothered by this. "And what did he actually ever do? He smashed some televisions when he was a teenager, got treatment, and has been on meds ever since. And they're working."

Lassiter stood, shocked at O'Hara's anger toward him. Was she right, he wondered? Had be been overly zealous about pursuing Jeffrey Robarts? Would he have done the same thing if it wasn't for the schizophrenia? Probably not. He swallowed and looked at the sidewalk. If what she said was right, no wonder they hadn't gotten anywhere on this case.

Lassiter scratched his ear with his pencil and squinted around the film set. “Well Ehrlich seems to agree with you," he said, "so maybe he wanted to get his hands on the trust, and Marla was in the way.”

O'Hara searched his face with her sharp grey-blue eyes. "So he's a suspect now because he has a motive, and not because he has schizophrenia and you're a big—"

"Yes," Lassiter cut in before she could finish the insult. "I'm following the money. Are we good now?"

O'Hara nodded curtly. "Yes. Provided we're pursuing a lead, we are good."

Lassiter smiled ominously. "Then let's follow the money until we find our killer."

As they approached Creighton Morris' trailer they saw Burton Guster, sweating into a striped plum dress shirt and black slacks, peering around anxiously.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Lassiter mused aloud. If Guster was standing watch outside the trailer, that meant that Shawn was inside, engaged in an illegal search. “Keep Guster busy,” he ordered. “I'm going inside.”

“You can't search Morris' trailer with a warrant,” O'Hara cautioned.

“I'm not.” He smiled. “I have probable cause to believe there's a crime being committed, which it is my sworn duty to investigate.” Since the night he'd brought Shawn home, the idea of exposing his secrets, which previously had been a cherished and motivating fantasy, had taken on an element of sexual conquest that he found invigorating.

“You're not going to charge him,” O'Hara argued, “so what's the point?”

“The point,” he said gleefully, “is to prove that cop beats psychic just as surely as rock smashes scissors.”

“Well keep in mind all the paperwork that might ensue from your little game.”

Lassiter frowned. “Yes. Paper covers rock, doesn't it?” Given Shawn's working—and now personal—relationship with members of the department, it was difficult to imagine a scenario where he got his comeuppance through legal channels that didn't involve an avalanche of paperwork and possibly even a visit from Internal Affairs.

O'Hara glared at him. “And keep Gus out of it. Or Spock will vaporize rock.”

Lassiter wasn't sure what she meant by that last line, but it sounded vaguely threatening.

As they approached, Gus's nervousness was joined by an unconvincing smile. “Hello Lassiter, Juliet” he said, putting more warmth into Juliet's name. “What a nice surprise.” He leaned against the trailer door. “What brings you here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Lassiter said, since you haven’t actually been hired to work on this case.”

Guster looked weary. “Shawn sometimes has trouble seeing the distinction between hired and not hired,” he admitted.

“Perhaps the lack of a cheque when I solve this case will help clarify it for him,” Lassiter said pleasantly. He advanced on Gus. “Now stand aside, Guster.” He pointed at the trailer door. “I'm going in there.”

“Really?” Gus’s voice was high with tension and he plastered himself against the door more forcefully. “You don't think you'd rather grab a bite to eat? Maybe something sweet, dipped in chocolate sauce?”

“What?” Lassiter looked at Gus, wondering if this were a delaying tactic or simply evidence that exposure to Shawn's nonsense had finally broken Guster's mind.

“I know I could sure go for a churro right about now!” Gus shouted.

***

Shawn’s keen eyes scanned over the interior of Creighton Morris’s trailer, looking for anything incriminating. The place was messier than Henry had ever allowed Shawn’s room to get, but after relaxing his eyes and drinking it all in, Shawn realized that the mess had a certain kind of logic to it. He could see the evolution of the mess in his mind's eye. He took the letter from Marla Roberts office out of his jeans pocket and slipped it into one of the older piles, near the bottom. Then he set the director’s wallet down on the desk and pushed some papers over top of it. He spotted the MTV award and hid it behind a pair of oddly incongruent ski boots near an overflowing shelf. The scene was set.

Then, from outside he heard Gus shout their warning signal, “I sure could go for a churro right about now!”

Damn!

He looked around for a second exit, wasted a few precious moments trying to squeeze through a window that was far too small, and as the door opened finally dived into the closet and frantically pulled costumes around him for cover. As the door flung open he huddled behind a summer dress, a ski jacket and a sombrero. The creak and bang of the door was followed by the sound of footsteps and then Lassiter’s voice cut through the tension.

“I know you’re in here, Shawn. Next time pick a lookout that doesn't sweat bullets as soon as a question is put to him. You can come out of the—” Don’t say closet. Don’t say closet. “—the wardrobe now.”

“Oh, hey.” Shawn emerged, trying to look as if he'd just happened to spend the day wearing a sombrero and sitting in a closet. He laughed. “I was waiting for Morris. I've got a great idea for a movie I want to pitch. It's like Tango and Cash, but with dancing penguins.” He stepped in close to Lassiter and ran a hand around his waist. “But now that you're here...” He let the sentence hang, pulled the sombrero off and flung it across the room.

“Quiche me, you fool,” He said in one of the worst Mexican accent Lassiter had ever heard.

Lassiter glanced at the door and regarded Shawn from beneath heavy lids. His libido argued that a quick tryst in a trailer they weren't even supposed to enter was a reasonable decision. But Lassiter had spent a lot of years learning how to handle his libido. His usual tactics had been repression and denial, but duty worked pretty well, too.

“I can't. I'm working.”

“So am I.” Shawn grazed a hand across Lassiter's waistband, smoothing a thumb over the badge clipped to his belt then ran the point of his tongue across his lower lip. “Wanna work together?”

“How about if we talk about why you’re engaged in an illegal search?” Lassiter stared into those green eyes that seemed as if they were memorizing everything about him. As was becoming usual lately, his dedication to exposing Shawn seemed to shift in an entirely non-legal direction.

“Much less fun.” Shawn began to slowly slide the zipper on Lassiter's trousers down.

“Hey!” Lassiter pulled back, smiling despite himself. Shawn had certainly learned how to push his buttons, but knowing what Shawn liked was a kind of power too. He ran his hand around the back of Shawn's neck and up into his hair, pulling his head back with just a touch of roughness, and fastened his mouth to Shawn's pulse point, sucking the blood to the skin. Shawn mumbled his name and clung to his shoulders, rocking his hips against him in that pleading way he had. It wasn't professional, but at least it kept Shawn's hands out of his pants.

Lassiter's internal battle between duty and libido was decided for him as Gus and Juliet's voices, sounded in unison from outside. “I could sure go for a churro!” Lassiter released Shawn, who stumbled back and grabbed the door for support.

“Listen,” Shawn said, his voice slightly breathless, “I’ve got some stuff to do.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the many places he had to be. “See you later?”

Lassiter nodded curtly and pulled up his zipper. “I may be late.” He took the freshly cut key from his pocket and held it out. “I know you probably don’t need a key to get into my place, but here’s one anyway.” He sighed. He’d gone from letting Shawn down easy to living with him in the span of a few days. Still, he’d taken as many precautions as he could. He just hoped they would be enough. “It’s just until you—”

“—get myself settled.” Shawn finished. “I know.” He smiled broadly, and Lassiter flashed his own crooked smile in return.

If his mind hadn't been dwelling on Shawn when he left the trailer, he might have noticed that Guster and O'Hara stepped away from each other rather quickly.

***

When Lassiter stepped through the door at seven that evening his house smelled of warm cheese and garlic bread. He inhaled hungrily, enjoying the delicious aroma, and then realized that he hadn’t come home to the smell of cooked food since he’d been married.

“There’s pasta,” Shawn called by way of a greeting.

Lassiter swallowed. The dining table was set for two. Shawn was in the kitchen, hurriedly wiping tomato sauce from the counter, as if covering up a crime. As he dropped his briefcase onto a chair he noted the steaming bowls of linguini, the slices of baguette, and the bottle of Merlot breathing on the table. Shawn had obviously found the wine glasses, which were kept in the back of the top cupboard.

“You didn't have to make dinner,” he said as he removed his suit jacket. “You're not my wife.” He realized that his statement, which he’d intended to be reassuring, didn’t sound it. But saying the wrong thing to people he cared about was practically his speciality.

Shawn reached for the steaming bowl of linguini. “If you don’t want it—”

“I didn’t say that.” Lassiter pulled off his tie and sat, admiring the meal. Most of his dinners started off frozen and got eaten in front of the television. Anxiously, he tasted a forkful of noodles. They were perfect. “This is really good,” he mumbled between chews, his surprise evident in his tone.

“Thanks,” Shawn said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “I worked at a pasta place in Fresno for a week.”

“Why only a week?”

“They’re surprisingly strict about arrival time in the pasta business,” Shawn said. “Plus, the shifts were cutting into my puppetry classes.” He poured the wine.

“So,” Lassiter asked, “find anything interesting when you searched Creighton Morris’ trailer?”

Shawn laughed. “Dude, that was more embarrassing than Clint Eastwood singing 'I talk to The Trees' in Paint Your Wagon. You should have gone for a churro.”

“I didn't hear you complaining.” Lassiter thought back to their moment in the trailer. Now that they were safely ensconced in his house, maybe they could pick up where they’d left off. After dinner, of course.

“The whole thing was totally innocent,” Shawn protested. “I was looking at apartments online, but they all want rent upfront and references and some such. So I’ve been thinking of getting a trailer and living on the beach, Rockford-style. I wanted to take some measurements and I thought, Hey, who do I know with a trailer?”

Despite the transparency of Shawn’s lie, the part that was most alarming was the bit about searching for apartments. Sure, he’d known that having Shawn stay over was temporary. They’d both said so. But he balked at the thought of Shawn actually leaving. The house would feel emptier than it had before he’d arrived.

As they loaded the dishwasher Lassiter leaned in toward Shawn. “Thank-you. For dinner, I mean.”

Shawn turned his head, moving his lips next to Lassiter’s and waited hopefully, his mouth open, eyes closed, and skin flushed. “S’no problem,” he said, his voice breathy and distracted.

An hour later, they reclined on the couch, watching television and basking in the glow of another round of intense and exhausting sex. Shawn’s head rested against Lassiter's thigh and Lassiter’s arm draped around Shawn's shoulder. Lassiter was torn between enjoying the moment and wondering what he would do when Shawn did find a place to live. It was easy to feel comfortable with him. Shawn didn’t mind the crime scene photos on the fridge, or the case board in the living room, or complain when he shouted suggestions at the detectives on The First 48.

“Oh come on!” Lassiter yelled at the actor portraying the lead investigator. “At least bring the superintendent in for questioning!”

“Totally,” Shawn agreed. “He had to have been involved, otherwise how did the body get into the garbage incinerator?”

“The incinerator?” Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

“Well, obviously the body was burned on site,” Shawn said. “That's why his car was still in the parking lot. And it explains why the frosting melted off that birthday cake in the apartment next door. It was right under that forced air vent.”

Lassiter looked down at Shawn's face, illuminated in the glow of the television, and felt his chest swell with a mixture of admiration and pride. Here, he realized, wasn’t just someone he could tolerate. This was someone he could—

The moment was interrupted by the buzzing of Shawn’s phone. Shawn leaned forward and pulled it from the tangle of his jeans on the floor and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Shawn Spencer?” The voice was muffled, but he thought it was a man.

“That's me,” Shawn said brightly. “Psychic detective. Available for crime scenes, birthdays and bar mitzvahs.”

“I have information for you about the Marla Roberts murder.”

“Great!” Shawn said. “I was hoping someone would.” He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Sorry Lassie. I have to take this call.” He rose from the couch and hurried from the room. If he hadn’t been so anxious to catch a break that would keep him a few steps ahead of Lassiter he might have wondered why the lanky detective seemed so unfazed at his sudden secrecy, and why he’d pulled out a cellphone of his own as soon as Shawn was out of sight.

***

“So where’s this guy we’re supposed to meet?” Gus asked, looking anxiously around at the run-down neighbourhood Shawn had directed them to.

“He said he’d wait for us in the alley behind the abandoned tire warehouse.

“What kind of a person wants to meet in a deserted alley?” Gus asked. “What’s wrong with meeting at the library, or Tom Blair’s Pub, or that little café in the bookstore?”

“The one with the mango tarts?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“You’re right,” Shawn admitted. “That would have been much better.” He caught sight of a dead rat among the refuse. “From now on, you set all our meetings with anonymous callers.”

There was a crunching sound as a large dark blue sedan with tinted windows drove into the alley.

“Is that the guy?” Gus asked, trying to see through the windows.

“Yes, and no,” Shawn said, his spine tingling. “Yes, I think it’s the guy who called us, but no, I don’t think he’s here to help us.” He looked up at the brick walls on either side, searching for a fire escape or some other way out of the alley. “In fact,” he added, “I think that’s our killer.”

The dark blue sedan seemed to growl as the motor accelerated and the heavy square front bulleted toward them, crushing garbage beneath its wheels as it came.

Shawn and Gus shrieked like schoolgirls then ran, with the sound of the heavy engine growing in their ears. Shawn’s muscles burned, but he scarcely noticed with all the adrenaline running through his system. Leaping and dodging around the garbage littering the alley, they sprinted as fast as they could go, fearful that any second the dark sedan would overtake them.

Ahead, the alley ended at a wall with side streets splitting off to the right and left. Shawn heard what he was pretty sure was a gunshot, and a wave of guilt at having dragged Gus to his certain death in a decrepit alley overwhelmed him.

Gus shouldn’t die in a place like this, Shawn thought. He should die peacefully, on a beach like the one at the end Trading Places, after having both the cracked crab and the lobster with his champagne.

“Split up!” Shawn managed to shout between gasping breaths. Gus nodded, and staggering and slipping on the garbage, took a sharp right while Shawn stood his ground for a second, making sure the driver got him in his sights, before darting down the left alley. The car followed Shawn, slowing momentarily as it skidded into the turn.

Shawn heard two more gunshots, loud and echoing off the alley walls, and ran serpentine, hoping to be a harder target. He spotted a recessed delivery door and dived into the cover it offered. Just as he leaped the blue sedan’s engine gunned behind him and its front grill clipped him, sending him rolling up and over the corner of the hood.

The pain was reminiscent of a time Shawn had belly-flopped off a roof into an inflatable wading pool. It had been a low roof, but the full-body impact had knocked the wind from him and left him checking for broken bones. Now, plastered against the delivery door, his breathing ragged and painful, he was just glad to see the sedan disappear into traffic instead of coming back for another try. His right thigh was bleeding, but he didn’t see any protruding bone. He crumpled to the floor of the alley and pressed his hands against his leg, crying out from the pain.

Suddenly a dark shadow loomed over him, gun in hand.

***

Chapter 9

On the flat roof of a pizzeria, Lassiter felt no guilt at having cloned Shawn’s cell phone. This has enabled him to hear the mysterious caller who, in a suspiciously muffled voice, had arranged to meet Shawn and Gus in the alley below, which looked filthy, even from this height. Lassiter shook his head in disbelief.

If this is the kind of trap Spencer walks into, he thought, the fact that he’s still alive is mind-boggling.

As the blue sedan pulled into the alley Lassiter caught it in the sights of his binoculars and jotted down the plate number. He had just pulled out his phone to check the registration when the sedan gunned its engine and drove toward Shawn and Gus.

Shit! He hurriedly crammed the phone into his pocket with his left hand and pulled his Glock with his right.

Their fearful shrieks carrying up to him, Shawn and Gus ran haphazardly down the alley. Lassiter trained his sights on the engine block and squeezed off a shot, but it didn’t slow the sedan. At the juncture of the alley Shawn and Gus split up and Lassiter was alarmed to see Shawn stand frozen for a moment, almost daring the car to hit him before running left. As the sedan turned to follow, Lassiter fired off three more shots. One took out the right rear tire, and two more penetrated the sedan roof. He saw Shawn roll over the front of the vehicle and crawl into a recess in the wall, and felt his heart plummet into his guts.

As he ran down the fire escape one thought dominated his mind: That bastard has killed Shawn. He was surprised at how angry the thought made him, and at how angry he felt at himself for having let it happen. He should have picked up Shawn and Guster as soon as he intercepted the call and put his own men in their place. But he hadn’t expected this. O"Hara was right. All this time he’d been pretty sure the schizophrenic brother was their guy, but this bit with the phone call and the clandestine meeting wasn’t the work of a disturbed mind. This was the work of a cold calculating mind, albeit one an overactive sense of the dramatic.

Please please please, he thought as he dropped the last five feet to the ground, let him be okay.

Shawn was sitting on the ground in a loading bay, applying compression to an injury. Lassiter could tell right away that he was still breathing and felt a wave of relief sweep through him.

Shawn didn’t look up. “Before you shoot me,” he said, his voice ragged from the pain and the running, “at least let me call a friend so I can say goodbye.”

“Save your phone call, Spencer,” Lassiter said. Maybe for when I’ve arrested you for interfering with a police investigation.

Shawn looked up and smiled, despite the pain. He pointed down the alley. “There was a car. Blue sedan. Shot at me and tried to run us down.”

Lassiter holstered his gun. “I was doing the shooting, Spencer. I only managed to get one of the tires.” He helped Shawn to his feet and the psychic gripped him in a crushing hug. He tensed, then returned the embrace. It took all his self-control to step back again.

He pulled out his phone. “O’Hara, we’re going to need an ambulance and I need a make on a vehicle.”

***

At the hospital, Shawn sat on the edge of a bed in a blue cotton smock and traded glares with Gus.

“I don’t need a doctor,” Shawn said for the third time, trying to keep his voice low and failing. “I need an outfit that isn’t backless, and I need it stat!”

“Stop saying stat.” Gus crossed his arms. “You were hit by a car, Shawn. You need to get checked out. You could have a concussion, fractures, bruised bones, torn ligaments—”

“Don’t be Rayne Ocampo’s unfair death.” Shawn shifted on the bed and winced as his injured leg moved. “I need my clothes. I can’t let Lassie see me in this.” He gripped the blue smock in his clenched hands and glanced at the open back. “Whatever happened to leaving a little mystery?”

“It’s not about appearances,” Gus said sternly. “Hospital gowns are to make treatment quick and easy. They’ve been in use since the early 1900s.”

“Well it looks like a grandma dress and it has no back in it. I’m sorry if I’m not as enthusiastic about buttless clothing as you want me to be.”

Gus’ brow wrinkled in disbelief. “I distinctly recall you owning a pair of chaps,” he said. “You tried to get me to wear them when we went to that Halloween dance two years ago.”

“Over jeans.” Shawn rolled his eyes. “I needed a leather man, or my Native American costume would have looked insensitive.”

“I don’t see why I couldn’t have been the cop,” Gus protested. “He was the only member of the group who was actually black.”

“You’re forgetting the army guy. Now if you’d been willing to wear a sailor suit we could have worked something out.”

“You can’t have a Village People group with only two guys in it,” Gus argued. “That was my position then and it’s my position now.”

“It’s attitudes like yours that keep my one-man Abba tribute band from really taking off.”

“Mr. Spencer?” The doctor, a tall woman in her thirties entered the room, looking at a clipboard.

“Yes,I'm Shawn Spencer,” Shawn motioned to Gus. “And this is my zombie, Rob.”

Gus smiled and spoke in the lowered voice he always used when speaking to attractive women. “It's Burton Guster, actually. What's the prognosis, doctor?”

“Mr. Spencer's leg injuries are superficial.”

“Yeah?” Shawn said defensively. “Well so is Lana Del Ray and she’s doing just fine.”

“She means you're going to be okay,” Gus said, relieved.

“I still want to wait for the CT results before I sign off on releasing you,” she said. “There's a police officer in the hall who wants to take your statement. I can put him off if you prefer.”

“Don’t be the lovelorn Yeoman Rand,” Shawn chided her. “Any chance I could change out of this dress first?”

The doctor shook her head. “No chance. In fact, looking at your record, I’m surprised they didn’t make you wear the cone of shame. It says here you stole another patient’s pudding the last time you were here.”

Gus gave Shawn that look which said, 'I can't take you anywhere.'

“I simply traded puddings,” Shawn said. “In my defense, they had given me vanilla, and he had chocolate. I ask you, is that right?”

***

In the hallway of the Santa Barbara Hospital, Lassiter gripped a cup of vending machine coffee in a sweaty hand and paced nervously. He struggled see the pattern in the evidence that would tell him who had tried to kill Shawn. And Guster, or course. He wasn’t forgetting him. But no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn't decide from among the three people—Kayne, Morris, and the missing Jeffrey—who had solid means, motive and opportunity.

However, thinking about the cast of suspects associated with the zombie picture had made one thing very clear: since his marriage had ended he’d been like a zombie himself, going through the motions without putting himself on the line, emotionally. The time he’d spent with Shawn had made him feel alive again. Could that be the reason he was falling so hard and so fast now? If so, was slowing things down the only way to protect what they had? Or should he just throw caution to the wind and—

The ring of his cellphone startled him. He swore, brushed spilled coffee from his pant leg, and answered the call.

“Lassiter.”

“Hey.” It was O’Hara, using her concerned voice. “How’s Shawn doing?”

“No idea.” He certainly didn’t want to get into a whole discussion about how responsible he felt for Shawn getting hurt in the first place. Guilt sat in the pit of his stomach like curdled milk. He’d used his badge to demand details on Shawn’s condition, but everyone he’d cornered had claimed ignorance. “The doctor’s still in with him. Tell me something good, O’Hara.”

“We found the car that hit Shawn.” It was news, but he could tell from her tone of voice that he wasn't going to like it.

***

Lassiter entered Shawn’s room as the doctor left.

“Lassie!” Shawn pulled the thin hospital blanket over him to cover the hated gown. “Any word on the errant Knight Rider that tried to Christine me?”

“Oh you’re going to love this,” Lassiter said dryly. “The car was stolen from the Resident Evil film set.” He looked at Gus and for a moment the two understood their shared concern for Shawn without having to voice it. In that moment Lassiter knew that not only had Shawn told Gus about them, but he’d told him everything. “How’s he doing?”

Gus nodded. “If his CT scan comes back fine he can go home.”

“That’s good news at least.” Lassiter put his hands on his hips. “I’ve got people going over the car, but anyone with access to the set could have taken that vehicle.”

Shawn and Gus exchanged looks, and it seemed as if they had communicated telepathically—which Lassiter knew must just be the effect of their long friendship.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Gus said. He bumped fists with Shawn as a goodbye. “I’ve got to put in some time at the job that doesn’t almost get me killed.”

“I can take Spencer home,” Lassiter offered. He didn’t mention that he’d be taking him to his home, but he figured Guster probably knew that already too.

***

Four hours later, they were in the bedroom, having a fight. Lassiter had to admit that he'd probably started it when he'd criticized Shawn for almost getting himself run down meeting strangers in alleys.

“And you, Mr. Snoopypants, you cloned my phone, didn’t you?” Shawn, naked except for a pair of briefs, glared at him like a surly teenager. It was obnoxiously adorable.

Lassiter crossed his arms. “You read my scene of crime report on the Roberts case.” When Shawn looked as if he was about to deny it he added, “I had the pages checked for prints.”

Shawn grabbed his jeans and pulled them on. “I can't have you hovering protectively over me, Dude. You're cramping my style.”

“I'm not concerned about your style.” Lassiter stared down at the rumbled sheets where they’d just had achingly desperate sex. He’d needed to possess Shawn as if he holding him close enough could somehow keep him safe from every threat. “I'm more concerned about you getting killed.”

“Look,” Shawn said, “I have a job, and sometimes I have to do it even if it's dangerous.”

Damn. Lassiter was pretty sure he'd said that exact thing to Victoria at least twice. He wondered if this was what karma felt like.

“As long as you’re living under my roof,” Lassiter said, speaking words his mother had used on him dozens of times in his teens, “I have an investment in your safety.”

“You’re right,” Shawn said, his face serious. “This whole…situation,” he gestured broadly with his hands, “is all moving really fast. Gus was right. Our Enterprise is going to shake apart.”

“Yes. It is.” Lassiter said, meaning that things were moving fast, not whatever Shawn was getting at about the Enterprise. He'd become too comfortable, too attached, too hopeful. He'd been right when he said it was a bad idea. But then he was the only one of them who knew how attached he could get when he let his guard down. And he'd definitely let his guard down with Shawn.

He also knew the trajectory of this argument. He'd had it before, and it ended with divorce papers. He cut to the chase.

“Don't go back to the storage locker. Please.”

“But you know that I have to go somewhere,” Shawn said.

Lassiter nodded, willing his eyes not to water. “Don't go yet.”

And as if some miracle had replaced Lassiter's usual luck with some that actually worked, Shawn stayed.

***

“Good Morning,” O’Hara greeted him. Lassiter, engrossed in his own problems, failed to notice the happy glow about her, or the fact that she was wearing the same skirt and blazer she’d worn yesterday.

O’Hara watched as he added another sugar to his coffee. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked.

“What?” Lassiter looked at her with a furrowed brow. Had Shawn said something to her? Had Guster?

“You look like you had a rough night,” she said, pouring herself a coffee.

As usual, her observations were correct. He'd grabbed only a few good hours of sleep. The rest of his night had been spent staring at Shawn's sleeping form and arguing with himself. The free trial period was coming to a close. It was time to pay up or give up.

“I've got a lot on my mind.” he said, hoping the vague remark would be sufficient. “You know what it's like.”

O’Hara rolled her eyes. “Well duh,” she whispered. “But I’m not the one dating another man.”

Lassiter felt his denial on the tip of his tongue. She was fishing. Except she was his partner, and he was supposed to tell her the truth. Always. He licked his lips, which suddenly felt dry enough to crack, and looked around the empty break room.

“He's not a man,” he said, feeling the weight lift slightly as he confided in her. “He’s a…guy.” She smirked at him. “And we’re not dating.” He hoped the denial didn’t sound as much like an afterthought to her as it did to him.

“Well if that’s because you haven’t officially asked him out, you might want to get on that,” she said. “Especially since he’s been living at your house.”

Lassiter looked at her with something close to awe. “How on earth do you know that?”

O’Hara smirked. “His breath has smelled like cinnamon since Tuesday.”

“That doesn't prove anything. Lots of things smell like cinnamon.” Including cinnamon toothpaste, which was a great alternative for people like him, who were allergic to mint.

She laid down her trump card. “And the day before yesterday he wore your cancer fundraiser shirt to the station.”

“Lots of people have those shirts,” Lassiter said. Although he acknowledged that his point was probably moot since he’d basically admitted to her that he and Shawn were together.

She shook her head and took a sip of coffee. “It still has the bloodstain on the sleeve from where the mayor’s Pekingese bit you in ‘09.”

Lassiter stared down into her eager, happy face. “You could at least pretend that you’re surprised.”

“Surprised? Oh please! Nobody who knows Grease as well as you do is 100% straight.” She smiled, conspiratorially. “So what’s living with Shawn like?”

Lassiter grimaced. “He's like a tribble. He eats everything in the house and then lies around looking adorable and speaking nonsense.” He caught O’Hara staring at him with her big blue eyes and his resolve melted. “But it’s been great.”

“Gus and I thought you two would make a cute couple.” She patted him on the back and headed to her desk.

It took only a moment for the penny to drop.

Guster! She’s been seeing Guster!

All the little things he’d witnessed between them suddenly made sense. He smiled. He’d run a background check on Guster years ago, when Vick had first hired him and Shawn on the McCallum kidnapping. He had a solid employment record, no felonies, and excellent credit. Provided he didn’t break his partner’s heart, he fully approved of the match. If only his own romantic choices were as appropriate.

Lassiter sat at his desk reviewing his case notes. He liked work. It filled the hours between his personal failings and gave him something to focus on. And sometimes, when things started to come together, work gave him a feeling close to perfect. His phone rang and he grabbed it, muttering his name into the receiver. It was Buzz McNabb, and he had the kind of news Lassiter had been waiting for since this case had started. Things were finally happening.

“Grab your coat, O’Hara,” he shouted as he dropped his desk phone back in its cradle. “Someone just attacked J.P. Kayne at the filmset.”

O’Hara followed behind him, matching his stride. “Is she hurt?”

“God no!” Lassiter muttered as they got into the Crown Vic and set the flasher on the dash. “The woman’s indestructible. She’s like a klingon.”

Kayne sat on her desk in the director’s trailer, pressing a bag of frozen peas to the left side of her face. Much like their office, the director’s trailer was large, clean and comfortable.

“Ms. Kayne, I understand this is a difficult time for you,” O’Hara said, a textbook case of respectful concern. “What can you tell us about the attack?”

“I gave as good as I got,” she bragged. “I didn’t take five years of boxercise to have some creep take me out on my own set.”

“Did you get a look at the assailant?” O’Hara asked.

“Just enough to know he was male, about my height, and not very skilled at boxing.”

“You punched him in the face but you didn’t get a good look at him?” Lassiter asked, suspicious. Maybe, he hoped, Kayne had clocked herself in the face to divert suspicion onto some fictitious assailant.

From outside a voice rose in a groan. “Braaaaains....” The trailer door opened and Shawn, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, lurched into the trailer. “Braaaains,” he wheezed again. Gus, content to not be the centre of attention, slipped inside and maneuvered himself next to O'Hara.

“Can the zombie act, Spencer,” Lassiter snapped, acutely aware of Kayne and O'Hara's eyes on them. “If you have something productive to contribute, spit it out. If not, there's the door.”

“Oh please,” Shawn objected. “Don’t be Captain Janeway’s lack of a worthy opponent. Loosen up that collar and have a little fun.” He made a reach for Lassiter’s collar and was smacked back.

“I liked the Hirogen,” Kayne said, referring to the warrior race the Voyager crew had fought.

“You would,” Lassiter muttered.

“Oh please,” Shawn said, “The Hirogen were just knock-offs of the Predator.” He turned to Gus. “Predator 2.”

“Danny Glover,” Gus added.

“What!” They cried in unison.

Gus added. “Although in all fairness, Captain Janeway also fought the Borg.”

“Yeah,” Shawn acknowledged, “but her Borg was all sexy and blonde, whereas everyone else’s were like cenobites.”

“Spencer!” Lassiter interrupted. “Unless you have anything to contribute to the case at hand, shut it.” He turned to Kayne. “How about explaining your inability to provide a description of the suspect you say attacked you?”

“I see a man!” Shawn slammed a palm onto Kayne’s desk. “A man in a ski mask!” Lassiter felt that mix of powerlessness and inevitability that he often had when Shawn started one of his case closing round-ups. Although he didn’t seem to mind it as much this time around.

“Yes.” Kayne snapped her fingers and pointed at Shawn. “Well done.” She turned to Lassiter. “Your boyfriend’s pretty good.”

Don’t I know it, he thought miserably.

Out loud he said, “He’s not my boyfriend,” and immediately regretted having given the statement the credence of a denial. His cell rang and he took the call. It was McNab, who had been leading uniformed officers in a canvas of the area for any sign of the attacker. Lassiter ended the call and pocketed his phone.

“We’ve got another one,” he said triumphantly. “Creighton Morris has been attacked in his office. By Jeffrey Robarts.” Shawn had been building up to one of his case-ending reveals, he was sure of it. Now is seemed as if Shawn had been wrong after all. Jeffrey Robarts had emerged from hiding and was on a rampage. The possibility of getting to say ‘I told you so,’ was exhilarating. He led the way toward Morris’ trailer. With any luck he’d have Robarts in cuffs before the day was out.

Shawn pulled out his phone and made a call, trailing behind the detectives as they approached Morris’s trailer. Gus shot his own 'I told you so' looks at his partner.

Large round blood drops scattered the floor near the door of the trailer. O’Hara took some photos while Lassiter stepped carefully inside. The assistant director had a bloodied nose and a swollen eye that was just beginning to bruise.

“Uh Oh!” Shawn put both index and middle fingers to his temples in a double psychic salute. “The ghost of Muhammad Ali tells me that the killer of Marla Roberts was here,” he said.

Gus bumped Shawn roughly with his arm. “Dude,” he whispered. “Muhammad Ali is still alive. Not cool.”

Shawn shrugged defensively. “I wish someone would tell me these things,” he complained under his breath.

“There’s no reason to mention that someone is still alive,” Gus pointed out.

“I mean I sense his spiritual fingerprints,” Shawn said, loudly.

“You’re a bit late on that!” Creighton Morris barked at him. He gestured angrily at his swollen features.

Lassiter’s eyes gleamed with the anticipation of triumph. “So what you’re saying is that Jeffrey Robarts, obsessed with the Resident Evil game, lost touch with reality and started acting it out on set.”

“Like Mazes and Monsters,” Gus offered.

“Exactly.” Lassiter snapped his fingers. “Maybe to him you all seem like zombies.” He beamed at Gus. “Nice work, Guster.”

“No!” Shawn stepped in, waving an arm. “It’s not Mazes and Monsters. It’s the Klingon Empire—” Shawn grimaced, as if overwhelmed by the images he was receiving. “No, it’s not. But it’s close. It’s the doppleganger universe from Star Trek.”

“You’re referring to the Terran Empire,” Gus said helpfully.

“Yes!” Juliet jumped in, her voice high with enthusiasm. “The Mirror Mirror episode.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Thank you, super-geeks.”

“You’re welcome,” Gus said, ignoring Shawn’s sarcasm. “That episode was nominated for a Hugo Award for best dramatic presentation.” He and Juliet shared a smile.

“Well here on planet Earth, Creighton Morris was getting frustrated by always being second banana.” Shawn paused and looked thoughtful. “Isn’t it odd how we use the term ‘second banana,’ but you never hear ‘first banana.’ You could totally use that. It could mean something like ‘big cheese.’”

“Cut to the chase, Spencer,” Lassiter muttered.

“Yes sir, Lassie.” Shawn winked at him. “You’re the first banana.” He looked at Gus. “See? We could popularize that.”

“I’m not calling people ‘first banana,’ Shawn.”

“Fine,” Shawn huffed. He grabbed a stripped umbrella and pointed it dramatically to the angry director. “It’s the understudy, Creighton Morris! He’s your killer.”

“I’m not an understudy,” Creighton roared. “I’m the director.”

“Technically, you’re second director,” Shawn said. “And you were never going to be a headliner unless Marla was out of the way. But you might never have done it if you hadn’t found out that Marla was planning to have you replaced.”

Morris laughed, wheezy and unconvincing. “She wouldn’t replace me.”

“She considered it,” Kayne said, watching him intently. “She said so.”

“She did more than consider it,” Shawn said. Suddenly his right arm flew up and he looked surprised as it fluttered and shook, pulling him first to the left, then to the right. Seemingly operating of its own accord, the hand dove into the mess of papers on the desk and came out grasping a letter. If Lassiter had searched Marla Robarts’s office on his own he might have recognized it as having originated in her filing cabinet.

“What’s this?” Shawn slapped the letter to his forehead, as if reading it psychically. “It’s a copy of a memo asking the contracts office to look into what it would take to fire Creighton Morris.”

“Give me that.” Lassiter strode forward and grabbed the letter, scanning it quickly. He turned to Morris. “Care to explain how this got into your office?” Lassiter was pretty sure he knew.

“I have no idea,” Morris folded his arms and glared at Shawn. “All I know is that Jeffrey Robarts attacked me and if I hadn’t fought him off I’d be as dead as his sister.”

Gus’s phone rang and he glanced down at the screen, nodded to Shawn, and quickly left the trailer.

“You sir, are a liar, a murderer, and a very bad director!” Shawn held up the MTV Movie award. “You knocked Marla Roberts unconscious with this,” he tossed it to Lassiter who quickly slipped it into an evidence bag. Their prints would be all over it, but they might actually find trace evidence on it. Those crevices would probably trap a lot of blood and skin cells.

“And once she was unconscious,” Shawn declared, “you took her to the Rabbitson house and made sure all the signs pointed to her brother.” Shawn’s voice took on a more serious tone. “But the studio still didn’t want you.” He pointed dramatically to Kayne, who was glaring at Morris and clenching her fists, the knuckles of which bore the bloody marks of her recent skirmish. “They wanted her. So you tried to take care of the competition…again. You attacked her in her office.”

“But you didn’t expect she’d kick your ass,” O’Hara smiled derisively at Morris, standing there with his swollen purple eye.

Shawn glanced at his phone as a text message from Gus arrived.

“I didn’t do it,” Creighton Morris insisted. “Jeffrey Robarts killed Marla, he attacked P.T., and he tried to kill me.”

“Oh really?” Shawn said, striding to the door. He turned, surveying the assembled group of suspects and detectives. “I think we have someone here who disagrees.” He opened the door, and Gus ushered Dr. Sampson and Jeffrey Robarts inside the trailer which was now packed to maximum capacity.

“Dr. Sampson, would you kindly tell everyone where this man was this afternoon?” Shawn asked, slapping a hand on Jeffrey Robart’s shoulder.

“Mr. Nicholson has been in group therapy,” Dr. Sampson said. “We have footage that’s date and time stamped if you want to check it.”

O’Hara turned to Dr. Sampson. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Sampson.” The chubby man smiled proudly and tugged on his sweater vest.

“He’s the head of the mental health facility where Jeffrey Robarts has been staying since his sister’s death,” Gus explained.

“So Jeffrey couldn’t have attacked you,” Shawn said to Morris. “Ergo, you are a liar-slash-murderer. Case closed.” He mimicked throwing a punch at Morris. “Booya!” he bumped fists with Gus triumphantly, and then offered a fist to Lassiter who joined in the bumping, albeit reluctantly.

Jeffrey looked at Lassiter, annoyed. "I told you I didn't do it, but you wouldn't believe me."

Lassiter nodded. "I believe you now."

O'Hara pulled her handcuffs from her belt and began to read Morris his rights. PT Kayne, who had been watching the scene with her arms crossed and a frozen look on her face, suddenly lunged forward. Lassiter moved to block her, thinking she was about to land another punch on Morris. Instead Kayne clasped Shawn in a bear hug.

“Thank-you,” she whispered, her voice thick with relief. “Thank you.”

Shawn placed an arm awkwardly around the director and patted her reassuringly on the back. His eyes looked up at Lassiter plaintively, clearly asking, 'what do I do here?' Lassiter shrugged, unsure what to suggest. Then he thought of Kayne's deep friendship with her partner, and of how Morris had almost killed Shawn and Guster.

He grabbed the cuffed Morris by the arms and the back of the shirt and pushed him roughly toward the door of the trailer. “Let's go, scumbag.” As they exited, Morris' head bounced off the doorjamb and the assistant director let out a howl of pain.

“Oooooh,” Lassiter said, his voice filled with sarcasm. “That looked like it hurt. You've got to be careful in these cramped little trailers.” He turned back to see a smile on Kayne's face. She looked pretty when she smiled.

Chapter 10

Lassiter leaned against the Crown Vic and watched as Creighton Morris, swearing angrily about police brutality and demanding his lawyer, was loaded into a squad car and taken away for booking. Shawn and Gus used their phones to take photos of Morris's perp walk.

They probably keep a scrapbook, Lassiter thought. Either that, or this will all be on Facebook tomorrow.

“I’m heading home,” he said as Shawn approached. “Need a lift?”

“Cool,” Shawn said. “I have to go to your place to pick my stuff up anyway.”

“Right.” They slid into the car and Lassiter directed the vehicle homeward. “So you’ve found a place then.” He took a deep breath through his nose and steeled himself for the moment he'd always known was coming, but that he'd begun to hope would never arrive.

“Not exactly.”

“You’re not going back to that storage locker?” Lassiter glanced at Shawn and then returned his gaze to the street ahead.

My God, he thought, am I so horrible to be with that he’d rather sleep in a concrete box?

Shawn shrugged. “I figured now that the case is over, you probably didn’t want me hanging around all the time. It’s pretty clear from our argument last night that I’m driving you crazy.”

“Wow,” Lassiter said, surprised. This was Shawn’s attempt at being considerate. “You’re definitely driving me crazy,” he admitted. “But I can handle it. That is, if you can.”

“Dude, I lived with Henry for seventeen years. My tolerance level for crazy is pretty high.”

***

The crack of Lassiter's Glock 17 discharging echoed off the concrete barriers and filled the small firing range. He felt the comforting sense of accomplishment and competence that he always got when his shots went exactly where he aimed them. It was a welcome change from the inept feeling that overwhelmed him whenever he thought about the situation with Shawn. Sometimes he wondered how he could ever maintain a healthy relationship if he didn't have the ability to fire guns on a regular basis.

“I thought I might find you down here.”

The ear coverings that had muffled the reports from his gun had also blocked the sound of O'Hara's footsteps, so he started when she spoke, unexpectedly close to him.

“Why's that?” He took two more shots at the target, catching the perp outline just below the left collarbone.

“It's where you go to think.” She recalled the time she'd come across him blowing up porcelain figurines over his separation from his wife.

Lassiter reloaded and holstered his weapon, then removed the ear muffs.

“No,” he said calmly, “it's where I go to shoot. I can think anywhere.”

“Well I've noticed that you often come down here when things get stressful. So what's going on?” She gave him that direct no-nonsense look that he thought of as her 'cop face.' When he didn't respond she asked, “Are you and Shawn breaking up?”

Lassiter looked away. “I guess so.” He looked at the ceiling and the floor, lost for direction, then back at O'Hara. “I don't know.”

“It’s okay to feel…however it is you feel.” She put a hand on his back and sighed with frustration. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this. What can I do to help?”

“I appreciate the thought, O'Hara, but there's nothing to be done.” Lassiter leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “I knew it was temporary. The way I see it, I was just trying out the channels until they stopped being free.”

“He’s not a cable package Carlton, he’s a person. Have you tried talking to him?”

Lassiter looked thoughtful. “Well, I have considered dosing him with sodium pentathol and interrogating him for a few hours, if that counts.” He looked at the floor again. “I may have drafted a set of questions.”

“Just talk to him.”

Lassiter shook his head. “If years of marriage and couples counseling have taught me anything, it’s that talking never works.” As he led the way up the stairs it occurred to him that perhaps in this case actions might speak louder than words.

***

Lassiter came home early to find Shawn playing Resident Evil Rejuvenation on his game system.

“You busy?”

“At the moment I'm saving civilization from the T-virus, so yes. But I'm always available to get busy if that's what you had in mind.” He smiled and wiggled an eyebrow, even as he shot two enormous mutated raccoons.

“I want to show you something.”

“Does it involve putting on pants?”

“Afraid so.”

Lassiter drove him six blocks west, and pulled into the parking lot of a three-level Spanish Colonial apartment building. He unlocked a black iron gate and led the way into the courtyard. With undisguised curiosity, Shawn followed and they took the elevator to the third floor. Lassiter unlocked the door to apartment 302 and motioned for Shawn to enter.

The apartment was 400 square feet, with broad bay windows and a brightly tiled kitchenette. “It's not great,” Lassiter admitted, “but it’s clean and affordable, and it has a bathroom.”

Shawn ran a hand along the broad windowsill. “Well, it lacks the rustic charm of a self-storage unit, but I could definitely get used to this view.”

“If you like it, it's yours.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I got Vick to cut you a cheque for the Robarts case. You earned it.”

Shawn took the envelope and glanced inside at the figure. It was enough to get him set up in a new place, even if he gave Gus his share. He pocketed the cheque.

He smiled. “Finally got sick of me, huh?”

Lassiter shook his head. “No actually. Quite the opposite.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Having you around,” Lassiter looked at his shoes, “made me less sick of me.”

The next morning they loaded Shawn's belongings from the storage locker into Henry's pickup and drove them to the apartment.

“Explain to me again why Henry and Gus aren't helping with this?” Lassiter asked as he pushed the bureau into place. It had taken six trips, but Shawn's meagre furnishings were now settled in the new space. Lassiter was sweaty and exhausted, and craving beer and pizza.

Shawn opened a drawer and threw in an armload of socks.

“Call me crazy,” he said, “but I figured it might be harder to hide the whole 'living in a storage locker' thing from Gus if he helped me move out of one.” He stuffed a pair of jeans in next to the socks. “And Henry has a rule about only helping me move three times a year, which I maxed out back in August.”

“You moved three times by August?” Lassiter pulled an armful of shirts from a garbage bag and started to hang them in the closet.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” Shawn began stuffing his underwear in amidst his jeans and socks.

“Don't cram everything in there. You've still got another drawer,” Lassiter pointed out.

Shawn shook his head. “I thought that'd be your drawer.”

“My drawer?”

“For when you stay over.” Shawn's eyes smoldered up at him.

Lassiter thought his smile might break his face.

***

Gus put the finishing touches on a plate of vegetables and dip. “This is a very nice place,” he said for the third time. Shawn's furniture was sparse, but they'd completed the paint job and added some drapes and rugs. It was looking almost homey.

“Thanks,” Shawn said. “Lassie found it. Turns out the last tenant went to jail on outstanding warrants and the landlord was anxious to rent it in a hurry.”

Gus looked seriously at the plate of vegetables. “How many guests are you expecting for this housewarming?”

Shawn counted off on his fingers. “Twelve max. But don't worry about the food. Lassie's picking up some stuff on his way. Can you say Kingstons? Delicious jerk chicken? Oh yeah!”

“I have to say, I'm impressed that the two of you are still together.” Gus set the vegetable plate next to a bowl of chips. “I didn't see it lasting this long.”

“I felt the same way when I first started watching The Walking Dead,” Shawn said. “Given my track record with Arrested Development and Pushing Daisies, I'm kind of used to things I like getting axed.”

Gus poured himself glass of wine and passed Shawn a can of beer. “Well, may your relationship run even longer than Law and Order did.” He raised his glass and then sipped his wine. “If it works out, can we still have our houses next to each other?”

Shawn nodded and bumped his can against Gus's glass. “With a pool connecting our backyards. For sure!”

Gus smiled, thinking of how well things had been going with Juliet. “My kids play with your kids.”

Shawn laughed. “They might have to. Especially if our kids get shunned for having two dads.”

“Three dads, actually,” Gus corrected. “I'd see myself as a father of sorts.” In fact, if that scenario actually came to pass, Gus saw himself as the reasonable dad out of the three, with Shawn being the fun dad and Lassiter being the stern dad.

Shawn laughed again. “Three dads? I pity our girls.”

Gus huffed and took a drink of wine. “I pity the guys our girls try to date. It's bad enough meeting one over-protective father.”

***

Shawn arrived at Lassiter's place to find him wearing his dark blue suit and a light blue tie that Shawn had bought him for their two-month anniversary. It clashed with his own camouflage pants and khaki t-shirt in every way imaginable.

“You look great,” Shawn said, pausing to enjoy the view. He clapped his hands together twice. “Now go put on something else. Tonight's date is paintball. You're driving, I call shotgun.”

Lassiter looked confused. “I thought we were going to Georgio's.”

“We were. But that was before PT Kayne gave us a seasons pass to Paint Wars.” Shawn held up the coveted tickets. “You, me, and a hail of paint. I warn you, I can make you look like a Jackson Pollock painting from two hundred yards.”

Lassiter frowned, his interest in paintball warring with his sense of responsibility as a police officer. “I can’t accept that. It could be construed as a bribe.”

“Technically, it's a thank-you gift,” Shawn countered. “And you didn’t accept it. Psych did. Now suit up. You’re on the blue team and I’m on red.”

“We’re not on the same team?” Lassiter cocked his head at Shawn.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Shawn's grin had the same lascivious look it did when he'd suggested that they sexually christen every room in his new apartment.

Lassiter exhaled through his nose, long and slow. It was a technique O'Hara had taught him for dealing with stress, and it had become invaluable for times when Shawn surprised him with something bizarre or infuriating.

“Fine.” He pulled off his tie and walked into the bedroom to change, Shawn trailing behind him. “But I warn you, I'm an excellent shot. And I won't take it easy on you just because of that thing you do with your mouth.”

Shawn smiled and watched him as he stripped off the suit. “I like your marksmanship. If we ever find ourselves preparing for a zombie apocalypse. I’m hiding with you in your basement.”

Lassiter rummaged in a drawer and pulled out his wilderness camouflage suits, trying to decide between the green and the brown.

“The basement?” he snorted his disapproval. “That’s a terrible place to hide in the event of zombies. I’ve seen Shaun of the Dead. Zombies can easily penetrate a fortified basement. You want to go to high ground.” He selected the green.

“So you don’t have a basement full of survival gear?” Shawn's hopes of play-acting some hot zombie apocalypse scenarios was dissipating fast.

“No.” Lassiter pulled on a sweat-wicking green camo t-shirt and smiled. “But you should see my attic.”