Chapter Text
He shuffles into the office. There’s a rhythm to the movements now. Cane, lean, step, step. He can maybe walk a few yards before having to sit down, but everyday it gets a little easier than it did before. What doesn’t get easier is having to talk around his intentions. Carlton is blunt. He likes to tell you exactly how he feels and not let it be misconstrued. Now everything he says is sifted through layers of lies and misdirection. It’s horrifying.
He hovers in the office door frame, pressing his weight down onto the handle of his cane until the pressure turns his hand white. “Chief Lassiter, come in.”
“Mr. Mayor,” he says, thankful to finally resign himself to a seat. The distance between the elevator and the Mayor’s office is too long, but he refuses to rely on that wheelchair more than necessary.
“I’m glad to see your condition has improved,” the Mayor says cordially. But Carlton can sense the slice of the words. The Mayor is not happy to see him at all, let alone to see him up and walking.
“Cut the chit chat,” Carlton snaps.
His directness seems to take the Mayor by surprise, but like any other sleazy politician, he quickly covers up any sense of genuine emotion. “It brings me no pleasure, Carlton. But you are simply not cleared for duty and the department needs a Chief. I just don’t see a way forward. Maybe once you’re ready we can get you a desk job.”
“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it. Here’s what you’re gonna do. You are going to request a transfer from the SFPD and have Juliet O’Hara serve as Interim Chief until I recover. You will keep me on retainer in the meantime so I can help her with her duties.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to make such grand requests, Carlton.”
It’s true, he’s not. He’s a washed up, disabled Chief of Police who recently shot his own nurse. He’s a bad PR incident waiting to happen. But he’s not all that worried about it. He’s got his own advantage.
“Considering I solved the 50 year old cold case of your uncle Archie’s murder; I think I’ve proven myself much more capable than you realize.”
The Mayor chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t your so-called ‘psychic’ help with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmpf. Psychics are a bunch of hokum.”
That makes Carlton smile. He leans forward a little, pressing both hands onto the handle of his cane to steady the motion. “Oh, sir. You should have more respect for the psychic profession. They have a way of knowing things. Like how you’ve been using your position to enrich yourself and cut shady business deals. Long before I had my accident, you’ve been itching to put a friend in charge of the police to make sure no one can ever arrest you for fraud.”
That makes the Mayor’s jaw go a little slack. He clears his throat, “I have no clue where you got such an idea.”
“Think of what your uncle Archie would say,” Carlton continues, not giving the Mayor any space to think or speak. It’s exactly like an interrogation. You find something that the perp cares about and you use it to twist the conversation until they collapse under the pressure. “He died seeking the truth and here you are burying it. I think both he and the District Attorney would be disappointed to hear about this. So I am making you a very generous offer. I suggest you take it or I will see to it that my last act as Chief is to have you rot in a cell.”
Turning his head just slightly, Carlton acknowledges the ghost in the corner of the room. Archie Baxter stands, an unseen light reflecting from his dark glasses and his tie ever so slightly loose at his neck. “Tell him about the emails.”
“Lies,” the Mayor replies in a hoarse voice.
“Your emails don’t lie. Speaking of, I recently heard you were given a very lavish yacht by some land developers looking to purchase municipal land.”
The Mayor growls, his eyebrows creating a v-shape between the bridge of his eyes. “What makes you think that?”
Carlton shrugs. “Psychics and other hokum.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“It’s only blackmail if the accusations are true.”
With a grimace of disgust or resignation, the Mayor reaches for his phone. “I will call Chief Vick now,” he says, barely letting the words slip between his teeth.
“I’m glad we could come to a mutual solution,” Carlton says. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he exchanges one more glance with Archie Baxter. The ghost nods, the unattainable light not moving with the reflection of his glasses. You know, despite his prior resistance, talking to ghosts does seem to have its benefits.
He grabs the walkie clipped to the back of his belt. “McNab,” he calls to the detective waiting just outside the building. “I got an anonymous tip. An informant says there is evidence of fraud on the mayor’s computer. Request a warrant for the device and have some officers on stand-by.”
— — —
“I can’t do this.”
It’s the first time in years he’s reminded of the junior detective he once took under his wing. When he looks at Juliet, he may as well see the fragile rookie he met thirteen years ago whose hands shook when she held her gun and wore pantsuits that were still too big. He knows that’s not who she is anymore, but the sight of her pale face reminds him of their first case together when they stormed that little diner just around the corner from the boardwalk.
“Yes you can.” Carlton assures. “Look at me.” Juliet glances up her blue eyes like little half moons under her lashes. “You know SBPD inside and out. You’re tough as nails. You were trained by the finest detective in the country—“
“—Now you’re flattering yourself.”
“—There is no one better suited to do this than you.”
She sucks in a breath, though he can tell her bravery is wavering. “Okay.” Stabilizing him at the elbow they walk through the doors of the SBPD together.
The SBPD is different from when he last left it, and not in a particularly good way. The officer manning the phones and check-in station is currently hidden behind two large stacks of paperwork meant for processing that she clearly can’t handle. A gurnee rests in the middle of the bullpen with a very corpse-shaped lump on top of it. And perhaps worst of all—
“Hey, Scarecrow,” a woman with a hoarse voice and enough gold chains around her neck to make a pimp jealous say, “I heard you were still around here.” As she walks past she spins her department issued weapon around her finger like it’s a child’s yo-yo.
“O’Hara…” he leans over and whispers. “Am I having another stroke or is that Goochberg?”
“If we’re lucky, we’re both having strokes,” she says in a very unassuming voice.
You’ve got to be kidding him. Who’s idea was it to put a woman with a faulty pace maker and a habit of attacking robbery victims back on his force? He made it very clear in her file that she was not allowed to come anywhere close to the SBPD ever again. He has no patience for those who abuse the hand of justice or touch his guns.
Thankfully, there’s one thing that hasn’t changed. “McNab!” he shouts.
McNab lumbers over, seemingly unchanged except for the bandage across his head where Allison Crowley knocked him unconscious. At least someone in this building still has the ability to be so unwittingly loyal they wouldn’t dare fall out of line in his absence. “Chief! Boy am I glad to see you.”
“Cut the formalities, why the hell is Goochberg here?” He points to the desk where Goochberg has taken off her shoes and started to paint her toes.
“Well uhh…” McNab stutters, “the department has had a rough go of it since you’ve been gone. We’ve been through four Interim Chiefs, our softball team lost to the lesbian hairdressers again, then last month Officer Berman accidentally discharged his weapon into Meltregger’s foot. And now with the escaped serial killer thing… Gooch is the only transfer we could get.”
Carlton visibly grimaces at the nickname “Gooch”.
What has he thrown poor Juliet into? It was a mistake to ask her to take over. She already has so much to worry about and now he’s handed her this poor excuse for a police department.
“Listen up!” Her voice booms throughout the SBPD. Juliet stands on top of the receiving desk, amid the stacks of folders and telephone cords, heels and all. Carlton didn’t even realize she had left his side. Everyone stands to look at her, obviously she’s a short blonde woman on a desk. But there’s also something to how she commands the room. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Juliet O’Hara. As the new Interim Chief of the SBPD I am getting this department back in shape. I want detailed reports from every detective about every active case on my desk by the end of the day or I will have your badges. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Chief!” the officers say in a swarm of voices.
Goochberg only swivels slightly in her chair to look over her shoulder at Juliet but not so far that she has to stop painting her toenails. “Yeah, so I can’t really type because I’ve got carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists from the time I had to use a jackhammer to escape a mob boss’s basement after I accidentally drove over the wet cement his boys had just laid in a gas station parking lot. If they didn’t want people parking there then they should have put up a sign. God forbid a woman stop to take a piss.”
Juliet leans slightly forward and speaks through her clenched teeth. “Put the reports on my desk or the only thing on your toes will be a mortuary name tag. Got it?”
Goochberg caps the nail polish and rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
With that, Juliet extends a hand to McNab who helps steady her as she jumps back down to the floor.
Carlton can’t help but crack a smile at her. “Hmm. Not bad.”
“I know! That felt so good!” she squeals, bouncing a little on the front of her shoes before putting on her scary attitude again before anyone can notice. She clears her throat and straightens out her shoulders. “And let’s get that body down to the mortuary! It has more life in it than some of you!”
Actually, he did make the right decision. Juliet’s got this.
— — —
His glasses are a pre-stroke development. What can he say? The eyes are the first thing to go. He just refused to wear them until recently.
“What are you looking for?” Juliet asks.
He peers up over the bifocal line of his lenses at Juliet. “Any clues as to what Allison or Yin may be after. Places they might go.” It’s easier for him to sort through it himself then task it to another detective. He does have McNab’s help with both the fine and gross motor skills that he can’t handle alone, but mostly he sits at the table in the corner of his office and sorts through files one at a time. What he needs is someplace private he can take all of this. Evidence isn’t supposed to leave the SBPD. Not to mention there’s too many prying eyes here. Should someone get suspicious, keeping the evidence boxes at his home would be too obvious. He needs a place no one would think to look. Until then, he’s stuck in his old office. But it does mean that he gets to help Juliet navigate her new role as Chief. Not that she’s needed much help. Over the past few days she found her rhythm quite nicely.
She paces around his (now her) desk, thumbing through reports and occasionally signing her name on the dotted line. “Oh,” she says simply. The hard part is that she can’t help him, not even a little. She can’t read smudged words on an old xerox or lift up a box. Apparently the curse about looking for Allison or Yin applied to any small but direct act. Not that it matters— there’s nothing in these files that prove even remotely helpful. Yin was meticulous in covering up his tracks.
Looking over, he watches Juliet scrunches her nose up at the document in front of her. “Tough case?” he asks.
She nods, but is clearly too wrapped up in the details to say anything more.
“Does it involve a man in a particularly sharp looking suit?”
That makes her head perk up. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“His ghost has been hovering over me for the last 20 minutes.” That’s the other thing. It’s very hard to read when someone is trying to get up in your face and say “it was the gardener” over and over again. You’d think the dead would be more patient. It’s not like they have anywhere to be.
Admittedly, the man’s suit does look distinguished. He hasn’t put on anything more than a polo and slacks in months. He hasn’t had the dexterity in his fingers to do up all the buttons on a shirt or tie a tie. But, yet again, nothing says newly regained confidence like a new suit.
“Alright,” he says, abandoning his attempt to find Yin and twisting his body as much as he can to face the spirit. “Your gardener killed you. I get it. Hopefully you learned a lesson about trying to hit on another man’s wife. The important thing now is telling me who your tailor is.”
— — —
“I’m in between tenants right now. And I think I got most of the cat-smell out. It’s as good a place as any to keep track of evidence.”
The name Psych is in fading green paint on the window. It makes him grimace. But Henry is right. This is the best they can do.
Plugging the key into the lock, Henry allows the door to swing fully open. Before Carlton can even take a step, however, Morrissey scurries into the room, sniffing along the floors with an intensity. For a moment, the dog jerks up, alert with ears pulled back. Carlton thinks he may have found something, that is until Morrissey releases a powerful sneeze that sends a spurt of cat hair into the air. Carlton rolls his eyes but walks into the office anyway.
“Have you found anything yet?” he asks, taking the slow and methodical steps forward.
Henry sighs, grabbing the evidence box from the ground. “I tried reaching out to some old buddies who now teach criminology at UCSB. Nobody at the school really had much contact with Yin while he was working there. Former students didn’t have much to say either. But a couple of the guys owe me a few favors and will keep digging.”
“Nothing new on my end either.”
Using his nose, Morrissey tries to nudge a chair across the tile floor towards Carlton. The legs grind on the ground in a horrible cacophony. Admittedly, having Morrissey around has been helpful. The dog can fetch items so Carlton doesn’t have to stand and chases squirrels away from the petunias. It’s proving to be a mutually beneficial relationship.
He reaches out to pull the chair a little closer before sinking down. “Then we’d better get to work.”
— — —
“O’Hara?”
She’s staring at the wall of the office where Henry had (unfortunately for the drywall) thumb tacked what little bits of useful evidence they could find: the list of hidden artifacts from Yang, the required readings from all of Yin’s classes, all of Allison Cowley’s police write-ups. If he’s being honest with himself, they’ve got nothing. And Juliet knows it too.
She stares blank-faced, unable to comment or correct any of the information she sees. Instead, she squeezes a little evidence baggie hard in her hand. “Oh I’m sorry. I zoned out.”
Carlton knows being back at the Psych office is hard for her. It’s hard for him too. Henry did not manage to get the cat smell out from the prior tenant who was apparently running some sort of animal-infested cafe. The only thing worse than an eating establishment with felines is a food trunk. But he knows it’s hard for her in a different way.
“What do you have?” he asks, commenting on the evidence baggie.
“It was uhm… in with some of the files you requested. The tag says they found it about a mile away from Herschel House.”
The plastic baggie is small, most of the space being taken up by the label. Inside is a gold ring, plain and unassuming with no special detailing. At first he doesn’t get it. It’s just a wedding ring. Oh.
“I know it’s Shawn’s because of this scratch right here,” she points to the side of the ring where an indent catches the light. “He dropped it down the sink and used a tiny pair of tweezers to pull it free. And then he dropped those. And then he stuck a magnet to a string and dropped that too. It was a very expensive plumbing bill.” With a sigh she sets it back on the table. It is technically evidence from an ongoing investigation, taking it would be a felony.
But there’s something else. If the ring was found outside Herschel House, that means Yin ditched it during the escape. The officer who found it might’ve assumed it was lost by a hiker or that maybe it belonged to one of the Norwegian mobsters, and so decided to bag it. The question is why Yin left it. A wedding ring is easy to carry around and would be much faster to pawn than any of the artifacts Yin was hiding. Ditching it was not an act of convenience. It was one of malice: Yin wanted Juliet to know that Shawn was no longer hers.
Taking the bag from her, he peels the seal open and dumps the ring into Juliet’s open palm. “Keep it,” he says. “Delete the digital record back at the SBPD. If anyone asks, say someone reported a missing ring to the Viking’s Den.”
Wrapping her fingers around the ring, Juliet squeezes so tight that her knuckles turn a ghostly white. “I need you to do me a favor, Carlton.” Her voice sounds dry with despair. “If something happens to Shawn, you know that he’d come find you. Right?” It takes him a second to put together what she means. Shawn was taken, she knows that. And if he did escape he’d probably go straight for Gus. Except, when he looks at her and the empty look in her eyes, she doesn’t think Shawn will escape Yin or Allison. She thinks he’s going to die and visit Carlton as a ghost. “If that happens, please, don’t try to hide it from me so I don’t get hurt or whatever. Because that’s something Shawn would ask you to do and I would rather just know the truth.”
Yin’s message must have really gotten to her, because it’s become clear that Juliet thinks Shawn is never coming home again.
“I promise,” he assures. But it’s not a promise he intends on keeping. He’s going to solve this case before it’s too late.