by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: Psych
Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer
Secondary Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Burton Guster, Buzz McNab, Karen Vick, Henry Spencer
Tags: Adventure, Action, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Warnings: Graphic Violence
Chapter Warnings: Sensory Issues, Blood, Injuries
Author's Notes:
A few minutes of silence passed before Carlton sat up straight. There would be plenty of time to deal with annoying things like guilt and trauma later. Right now, he needed to focus on more important details — like getting them out of this disaster before anything else could go wrong.
The first step would seem to be getting a better assessment of his fellow prisoner’s condition. If they ended up making a run for it, Carlton had no intention of carrying Shawn all the way back to Santa Barbara.
The man hadn’t moved or said a word since... well, all of that had happened. He was still hunched over, head down, and eyes closed tight. Carlton would almost assume he was unconscious if it weren’t for the tense set of his body, and the carefully controlled breaths. He couldn’t believe he was actually wishing for Shawn to crack a joke or make one of his random movie references. Anything that would indicate the psychic was still in there.
He hadn’t even started approaching the chair before the door abruptly swung open again. Shawn flinched as the door hit the wall with a bang, but didn’t otherwise move. One of the criminals walked in with two bottles of water and a sandwich in hand. He set them on the table and began walking out again.
“Wait,” Carlton stopped him. “I need help getting him untied.”
“Miller said to leave him there for now. Wants to make sure you’ll keep up your end of the deal,” came the curt response before the door slammed shut again.
Frowning at that bit of unhelpfulness, Carlton stepped around the chair and squatted down in front of the injured man. “Spencer?” he asked, trying to keep his usual gruffness out of his voice.
Getting no response, he tried again, “Spencer? C’mon, talk to me.”
Having been on the force for almost two decades, Carlton had had to deal with more than a few abuse victims before. He tried to draw on what he could remember from his training, but there was a reason he was usually assigned more sympathetic partners — someone who was better at this touchy-feely stuff. This was so far outside his comfort zone, it wasn’t even on the map. How was he supposed to comfort Spencer of all people, when he couldn’t even hold a polite conversation with the man on a good day?
He knew touching was probably a bad idea. There didn’t seem to be an uninjured body part to touch, anyway. Which left speech as the only way to get through to him.
“Spencer, I know you like being stubborn, but we’re on a severe time-crunch here. So I need you to suck it up and talk to me.” He knew Juliet would have hit him for that seemingly callous speech, but he was hoping that injecting a sense of normalcy into the conversation would help.
Shawn drew in a ragged breath, letting it out in a huff that could have passed for amusement if it wasn’t so far from his usual carefree laugh. “N-never thought I’d hear you... ask me to t-talk,” he rasped. “That’s gotta... that's gotta be a first.”
Carlton heaved a sigh of relief. Stuttered and broken though it might be, at least the man was talking.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We need to get out of here at the first available opportunity. When I see an opening, I’m going for it. There might not be time to clue you in beforehand, so I need us both on our toes and ready to run at a moment’s notice. Which means, I need you to be completely honest with me about your condition.”
There was a brief pause before Shawn nodded in agreement.
“Okay, hold on a moment.” Carlton rose and crossed to the table, grabbing one of the water bottles and half of the sandwich. He returned to his spot in front of the chair. “I need you to look up a moment.”
Shawn’s response to that was to hunch even farther over. “I’d really... r-rather not, Lassie.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
With a sigh, Shawn finally uncurled and raised his head. Carlton tried not to grimace at the sight of the gash across his face. It stretched diagonally across his left cheek, over the bridge of his nose, and ended above his right eye. Nausea washed over him at the realization that if Nick had aimed only a couple centimeters lower, Shawn would have lost an eye for sure.
Unscrewing the bottle, Carlton held it up to let him drink from it. When half the bottle was gone, he set it back down. He knew they were both likely dehydrated by now. It wouldn’t do them any good to rehydrate too quickly and risk vomiting necessary fluids.
His brow furrowed as he noticed the way Shawn kept trying to angle his head away from the light. It suddenly occurred to him that there might have been a legitimate reason for Shawn wanting to keep his head down. Glancing up, Carlton zeroed in on the single lightbulb and his frown deepened. It didn’t look bright enough to bother anyone, concussion or not.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Too loud,” came the cryptic reply.
“The lightbulb?”
“The light and... everything else. It’s all too loud.”
While he felt encouraged by how much clearer Shawn’s voice sounded now that his throat wasn’t so dry, this new development didn’t seem to bode well for the man’s mental health.
“Please tell me this is a symptom of your concussion, and that you haven’t finally cracked. More than normal, I mean.”
“Your bedside manner sucks, Lassie. And it’s not the concussion,” Shawn said tightly, squeezing his eyes shut again. “That stuff. The drugs. The simulant.”
“Stimulant.”
“Yeah, that. It was bad before, but I’m pretty sure Nickelodeon there used more than the recommended dose.”
Carlton paused to consider that. He didn’t understand much of what the drug was supposed to do, other than the obvious of enhancing pain to an excruciating level. But that didn’t explain this bizarre side effect. “I’m going to need a better explanation than that, Spencer.”
“It messes with my... uh, my abilities.”
He rolled his eyes. “Your psychic abilities?” he asked derisively.
There was a slight hesitation from the other man before he heaved a sigh. “Lassie, I’m not—”
“Don’t,” Carlton snapped angrily. He would have punched the idiot if it wasn’t counterproductive to the whole escape idea. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I am not going to be the one who has to tell O’Hara that you didn’t make it back because you gave up. So stop acting like we've already lost. We're are getting out of here, Spencer.”
Shawn stared at him in surprise for several moments before breaking eye contact. An awkwardness settled between them, filled with too many unspoken words from both sides.
Clearing his throat, Shawn tried again, “My ‘psychic’ abilities can get a bit much sometimes. My dad taught me how to control it when I was growing up, how to focus it. This drug... it’s like it takes everything up to a crazy level and I can’t control it anymore. It’s like trying to drive a car when someone keeps grabbing the steering wheel away from you.”
It took Carlton a minute to process that. He didn’t fully understand what Shawn was trying to say, but could get the gist of it. Whatever it was that made him able to notice things no normal person should be able to, it was being enhanced by the drug they’d injected into him. And then that moron Nick had emptied an entire second syringe into him on top of what was already there.
“Okay, how do we deal with the problem until the drugs wear off?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” (Carlton chose to ignore how dangerously close to a whimper that had sounded.) “Everything’s too loud and bright and... just too much to process.”
Sensing that this situation called for more than his bottle of water and half a sandwich, Carlton pushed himself up from the floor to scan the room. Not that there was much to scan. The room was completely bare other than the few pieces of furniture. Except for... His eyes landed on the blindfold. It had been discarded on the table after they’d first arrived. Retrieving it, Carlton adjusted the size before showing it to Shawn. After receiving a nod of agreement, the detective slid it into place, careful to avoid aggravating his injuries.
“That any better?”
A long breath of relief was sufficient answer for that question.
One problem taken care of, Carlton set to work on the bigger problem. Trying to get an accurate estimation of Shawn’s injuries wasn’t easy when every touch was accompanied by a tensing of muscles, a flinch, or an annoyed whine. He wasn’t sure whether the fear responses or the usual Shawn-being-problematic responses were wearing on his nerves faster. Well, that wasn’t completely true. At least he was used to handling Shawn’s irritating behaviors; he had no clue how to react to a traumatized version of the man.
He finally stepped back, shaking his head.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?”
“Could be better. Could be a lot better.”
“Well, don’t feel the need to sugar coat it for me,” Shawn joked half-heartedly.
“Wasn’t planning on it. You’ve got bruised ribs. Possibly fractured, but it’s hard to tell.”
“Not fractured. I’ve fractured my ribs before — kiting accident, long story — and it felt completely different.”
Deciding to take his word on that, Carlton continued, “You have a definite concussion, severe blood loss, damaged larynx, broken fingers, multiple cuts and bruises, dehydration—”
“I get it,” Shawn cut him off quickly. “Not good. And you can add hypothermia to that list. Don’t these guys have an off switch for the air-conditioner?”
Carlton frowned. The floor was somewhat cool, due to the concrete, but it really wasn’t too bad in here. “Spencer, the air-conditioner isn’t on.”
“It’s not?”
“Okay, I guess we can add ‘beginning stages of shock’ to the list.” He leaned down to fetch the sandwich and water. “Do you want something to eat?”
“That’s probably a bad idea. Pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep it down,” Shawn answered honestly. “Unless you can convince our hosts to make a smoothie run?”
Walking back over to the cot, Carlton sat down to eat the sandwich and drink his own bottle of water. Neither of them had stated the obvious, but there was no way Shawn was going to make it far without medical attention. So much for their plan of escape.
Once he’d been fed and rehydrated, the long day seemed to crash in on him at once. He was exhausted. The cot under him looked far too inviting. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of sleeping when they were so vulnerable to attack, but he’d be completely useless if he let his reaction time suffer due to lack of sleep. At least it didn’t seem likely their captors would cause them trouble tonight. Miller admitted they needed him alive, and Shawn was alive for as long as Carlton played by their rules.
He eased himself down onto the thin mattress and tried to get comfortable. It didn’t feel right, falling asleep without his service weapon stashed under the pillow. Worse, it didn’t feel right falling asleep without Marlowe beside him.
If his estimation was correct about how much time had passed since their abduction, Marlowe would already be home by now. The police would have already contacted her earlier in the day, but she had a long drive to get back from her cousin’s house. She’d always been a nervous flier. He hated the idea of her being home alone, worried sick.
His thoughts drifted to Juliet, who would be worrying about both her partner and the man she had somehow managed to fall in love with. He had complete faith in her ability to work through her stress — he had trained her well — but he wished he could be there to offer the support she would stubbornly deny needing.
The one thought he refused to dwell on was the deal he’d made with their captors. Right now, he was simply biding time until he and Shawn could get out of this nightmare factory, but he couldn’t keep stalling for long. In the morning, he had to either commit to this complete betrayal of everything he stood for, or else go home to Shawn’s family and friends to tell them that he’d killed Shawn out of a misplaced sense of priorities.
His eyes finally drifted shut. A restless sleep settled over him, tainted by images of a distraught wife and the echoes of those horrifying screams of pain.
~~~~~
The lines on the computer screen were starting to blur together again. Juliet shook her head, trying to clear the sleep from her mind. She needed to focus. There had to be an answer in here somewhere.
It was long past nightfall now, but she stopped paying attention to the clock hours ago. It only served as a reminder of how long her friends had been missing.
Around her, other detectives and officers moved about tiredly as they continued to pursue one dead end after another. Besides the usual night crew, there were more than a few people who had refused to go home after their shift ended. Someone had ordered in pizza around dinnertime so no one would have to stop working to eat. Francie had even stopped by briefly to drop off cookies and offer moral support.
“Detective O’Hara,” Chief Vick’s voice startled Juliet back to full awareness.
“Yes, Chief?”
“It’s almost midnight, Detective. Your shift ended hours ago.” The woman’s stern expression melted into something more sympathetic as she took in her detective’s exhausted slump. “You’ve been working this case since two AM, I think you’ve earned a chance to go home and get some rest.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, O’Hara. You’re exhausted, and I need you at your best for this investigation.”
Juliet looked up from her computer, a sense of desperation setting in. She couldn’t go home and sleep while Carlton and Shawn were still missing. How could she relax, safe at home, while they were being held prisoner somewhere with no immediate rescue in sight?
“Chief, please,” she said, lowering her voice so the other officers wouldn’t overhear. “I need to be here. In case anything...” her voice trailed off as she realized she couldn't voice what she'd been fearing for the last twenty hours. “I need to be here.”
Karen watched her for a moment before nodding, a sad smile on her lips. Juliet wondered if she was thinking about how she would be reacting if Richard had been the one taken. “Okay, you can use the cot in the breakroom. But I don’t want to see you back at this desk for at least four hours. Got it?”
“Got it. Thank you.”
She didn’t want to be gone for that long, but knew better than to press her luck. And, deep down, she knew the chief was right. She wouldn’t be of any use in this investigation if she was too sleep deprived to think straight.
Pushing away from her desk, she stood and stretched her stiff muscles. A loud pop in her neck indicated how much her body appreciated the long hours crouched over a computer.
“Dobson,” she called on her way out of the bullpen. “You’re in charge until I get back.”
The break room was almost silent compared to the controlled frenzy of the main station. Stepping out of her shoes, Juliet slipped her jacket off and draped it on the back of a nearby chair. She stretched out on the mattress, one hand snaking up to release her hair from the messy bun it was still partly trapped in.
A tired sigh escaped. She really was exhausted. All the caffeine in the world couldn’t take the place of a few solid hours of sleep.
As she closed her eyes and sank down into the mattress, her thoughts drifted to her missing loved ones. She couldn’t help wondering where they were right now. Worse, she hated to imagine what those kidnappers might be doing to them. They still didn’t know what the motive was behind the abduction. It clearly wasn’t for ransom. She could only hope and pray that their captors needed them alive.
That last argument she'd had with Shawn kept replaying through her head in an endless loop. It haunted her, wondering if those angry words she'd thrown at him in the heat of the moment might be the last thing he ever heard her say. What would she do if something happened to him now, when there was so much left unanswered between them?
She could easily picture how her partner would be rolling his eyes at her if he were here now. If he knew how melodramatic she was being, he'd have a fit. ‘Stop it, O’Hara,’ she could practically hear him snapping at her. ‘Objectivity is key to any good investigator. You need to think of this the same way you’d think of any other kidnapping case. Personal feelings have no place in police work.’
Yeah, right, she thought. Like you’re always so objective when it comes to the rest of us.
She could only hope that, wherever they were, Carlton and Shawn were looking out for each other. They were the two most stubborn men she knew. Together, they had to pull through this okay.
There were too many people depending on it.
~~~~~
Despite being physically and mentally exhausted, Shawn found it impossible to actually sleep. Dozing off and on throughout the night didn’t provide anywhere near enough rest. It didn’t help that the drugs in his system were keeping his mind running at a thousand miles per hour. Or the fact that even breathing seemed to cause indescribable agony. He couldn’t find a position that eased one ache without a million others flaring up in its wake.
A groan from behind had him nearly jumping out of his skin after the hours of silence. Realizing that Lassiter must be waking up, he forced himself to relax again. While the blindfold was helping with the whole sensory overload issue, it was unnerving not being able to see what was happening around him.
The springs in the cot squeaked. A shuffle of feet a moment later let Shawn know that his roommate was up and awake finally.
“Morning,” he croaked, abruptly biting back the rest of his greeting. He hadn’t realized how dehydrated he was until now. His throat was raw.
“Hold on a second,” Lassiter said, apparently guessing what the problem was. There was a slight crinkle of plastic that was probably the water bottle being picked up.
Shawn tensed automatically as footsteps approached his position. Logically, he knew it was only Lassiter, but that message didn’t seem to be getting through to the part of his brain that desperately wanted everyone to stay out of his personal space forever. Just the thought of being touched again made his stomach churn. The footsteps came to an immediate halt and Shawn realized that Lassiter must have seen how stressed he was. It sucked knowing that he'd let the detective see how freaked out he really was. He somehow couldn’t picture Lassie acting the same way if their situations were reversed.
Lassiter continued his approach a bit slower this time and held the bottle for him while he drank from it.
He nodded his thanks. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of getting these ropes off is there?”
“Not without a knife,” Lassiter said.
The grimace in the other man's voice told Shawn that he probably didn’t want to see what his hands looked like right now. Although, he could take a pretty good guess. Judging by how raw and swollen his wrists felt, not all the blood on his hands had dripped there from his arms. He was also fairly sure his broken fingers had swelled up overnight, but they’d gone numb awhile ago so he really didn’t know.
“Any idea what time it is?” he asked, not sure why that detail was suddenly important to him.
“Early morning, around dawn,” Lassiter said without hesitation.
“You have a watch?”
“No, I’ve trained myself to wake up at the same time every morning. Keeps me from being late to work.”
Somehow, that wasn’t all that surprising. The man really needed a hobby outside of work. If they ever got back home, Shawn would have to remember to buy him some jigsaw puzzles for Christmas.
“In that case,” he said, getting back to his original question, “I think we should register a complaint with room service for the lack of breakfast. Not that this place is getting a good yelp review as it is. The decor alone is so out of style for modern torture chambers.”
“Spencer, do you have to joke about everything?”
“That wasn’t a joke. The single dim bulb thing? Have you ever seen that in any of the trendy serial killers’ houses?”
A frustrated sigh signaled that the conversation was probably over. Shawn deflated, wishing for the thousandth time that Gus was here. His friend understood — or at least accepted — his need for sarcasm as a form of stress-release. No matter what the situation, Gus was always ready with a quick retort or a stern criticism of his vocabulary. Anything to keep the banter going, and keep Shawn from getting trapped in his own thoughts for too long.
A sharp click at the door froze Shawn’s breath in his throat. He was so not ready for another round.
On second thought, he was very glad Gus wasn’t here. There was no way he would wish this experience on his squeamish friend.
The door swung open and footsteps entered. A single pair of feet. Light footfalls, spaced not too far apart. This was definitely a short, thin person. Also, they were wearing some form of casual shoe instead of combat boots. It wasn’t Nick.
Shawn relaxed minutely as their visitor bypassed him and walked up to Lassiter instead.
“They’re waiting for you upstairs,” the newcomer said. Based off his memories of the day before, Shawn was positive the voice belonged to the henchman named John. He hadn’t been down to the cellar much, but his few interactions with the other men led Shawn to believe he was some kind of right-hand man to Miller.
There was a hesitation in Lassiter’s footsteps as he started for the door and then paused.
“It’s okay, Lassie.” It took considerable effort for Shawn to force the fear out of his voice. He could be a convincing liar under normal circumstances, but his heart wasn’t in this one. “I’m fine. Go see what Mr Big wants.”
That seemed to be enough reassurance because the two men continued to the door. A moment later, there was a metallic click as he was locked in alone.
Shawn sat back in the chair, taking in the complete silence around him. He couldn’t see anything due to the blindfold, and now he would be without auditory input either. Lovely. And he’d thought his situation couldn’t possibly suck more than it already did.
He really hated being wrong.
~~~~~
Juliet leaned over the conference room table, trying to get a better look at the many photographs spread over its surface. To say they were poor quality was an understatement. The ones that weren't grainy or dark were out of focus. Juliet found it hard to care. They were exactly what she needed right now.
“Okay,” Buzz explained, laying out the last of the photos, “I put these in order according to their timestamps.” He pointed at the first several images. “The van was picked up on Garden Street like you suggested. It zigzagged through several cross-streets along the way, but eventually ended up on the 101 heading east. After that, we lost it for several minutes until it got off the highway near Carpinteria to refill at a gas station.”
Juliet’s eyes tracked across the photos until landing on the ones depicting their perps’ vehicle at a gas pump.
“An eyewitness claims to have spotted the van in the Ojai Valley about an hour later.” He pointed to one of the last photos, one that was so grainy and zoomed out it was hard to say for sure if the van depicted in it was even the one they were looking for. “This is from a security camera on the front of a general store. If that is their van, this is where they transferred highways and headed north.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “They’re heading towards the Los Padres.”
“It seems like it,” Buzz agreed. “Dobson and Rodriguez weren’t able to find anything on the van’s logo. Best guess is they painted it themselves.”
He sounded disappointed, so Juliet gave him a reassuring smile. “It was a long shot at best, Buzz. But we couldn’t leave any stone unturned.” She sipped at her coffee as she mulled over the situation. “You said you were able to get a partial plate from the images?”
Buzz nodded and quickly spread out five more photographs. None of them showed a very clear view of the license plate, making the numbers and letters hard to decipher. In the clearest photo, a tree branch blocked most of the plate from view.
Juliet grimaced. “It’s not great, is it?”
“Not very,” he agreed. “But we put together a list of possible plate sequences based off these photos.”
Swallowing the last of her drink, she pushed back from the table. “Okay, put an APB out on this van for the Ojai and Los Padres regions. Make sure to include the possible plate numbers.”
She knew the odds of getting any more sightings of the van had diminished greatly. There was too much wilderness area where they were headed. Still, they needed to pursue every possible chance at finding them, no matter how remote.
Buzz nodded and scribbled the information into his notebook before heading out of the conference room. Juliet watched him leave with a small smile tugging at her lips. Buzz might not be the brightest cop around, but she was proud of how he’d stepped up to help in this investigation. He’d always looked up to both Carlton and Shawn, thinking of the one as a mentor and the other as a good friend. She knew he would do everything he could to find them.
Her eyes fell on the photos again as she munched on a stale donut from the breakroom. There was something about this case that was bothering her. It kept niggling at her, like an itch on the back of her brain, but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Not for the first time since launching this investigation, she wished Shawn was here to contribute his thoughts.
As much as she was still furious with him for lying about being psychic, she had to admit that it didn’t change how impressive his success record was. If anything, it made it more impressive. The man everyone dismissed as basically the station mascot — a lovable idiot who just happened to be blessed with psychic intuition — was actually a brilliant detective. And one who had consistently solved crimes that left the department stumped.
She realized now that she’d never once asked him how he did it. If it wasn’t ‘visions’ how did he always seem to notice things that most people would overlook? How was he able to read people so well? Analyze crime scenes like he was born to do it? Over the last few weeks, he’d tried a couple times to explain it to her, but she had told him point blank that she didn’t care. It had been at least somewhat true at the time. Now, she was overwhelmed with regret that she'd never even tried to learn the real Shawn. Would she get another chance?
Taking a few seconds to gather herself, Juliet stood up from the conference table with new resolve in her step. As much as she wished he was here to point out the details that she couldn’t see, he wasn’t. And wishing wasn’t going to bring back either him or Carlton.
Gathering up her casenotes, Juliet headed back into the bullpen. That annoying something was still niggling at the back of her mind, and she was determined to figure out what it was.
“Detective Henze, gather everyone for a team briefing,” she called to one of the junior detectives as she walked through the room. “And then meet me in the Chief’s office.”
~~~~~
Carlton couldn't ease the guilt in his heart over leaving Shawn alone in that cellar. Those parting words hadn’t been as reassuring as they’d obviously been intended to be. Mostly because Carlton didn’t buy them for a second. He might not be the most sensitive to other people’s feelings, but even he could see how shaken the poor guy was.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. He needed to stay focused if he was going to get them out of here.
They passed a kitchen and pantry area before heading into the main area of the house. This was Carlton’s first look at the place. He had to admit, Shawn was right about this organization’s connections. They had money, and lots of it.
When they reached a large living room, John motioned for him to go ahead inside alone. Knowing that he was finally going to meet the man in charge, he braced himself before entering.
It was a large room, but with a surprisingly comfortable atmosphere. The dark wood flooring, large area rugs, and thick couches made it feel like a place you could sit back and relax. Wood paneling lined one wall, hung intermittently with oil paintings. The opposite wall was comprised almost entirely of large, floor to ceiling windows. Outside was a breathtaking view of the tree-covered mountainside as it swept downward away from the house.
Seated in a comfy easychair was a middle aged man with dark, slightly graying hair and soft brown eyes. He looked about as dangerous as Carlton’s aunt Naomi. Certainly not the sort of man one would expect to be running a drug smuggling operation.
The man smiled pleasantly. “You seem surprised, Detective Lassiter. Not quite what you were picturing, am I?” The man stood up and shook his hand warmly. “I’m Bernard Reynard. Nice to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot about you from the police commissioner. Please, have a seat.”
The comment about the commissioner was obviously intended to make a point — this man had connections and had no reason to worry about consequences. It had its desired effect. Completely thrown off balance by this too-casual conversation, Carlton took a seat in silence. It took a moment, but the name finally clicked in his memory.
“Reynard? As in, Reynard Enterprises?”
“Yes, my business ventures provide a nice, public face to distract from the true source of my wealth,” Reynard said, still smiling amiably. He leaned forward to pour two glasses of some fruity-smelling red drink.
Carlton accepted the drink from the man and leaned back in his chair, hoping his anxiety was at least somewhat disguised. “Doesn’t it concern you to be having this meeting in person?” he couldn’t help pointing out. He hated seeing criminals so smug. And to think, O’Hara acts all offended when I suggest that the police should present a more intimidating presence.
“Not at all.” Reynard shrugged as he took a sip from his own glass. “You already know what will happen if you try to cross me.”
“You’re far from the first criminal to threaten me. It hasn’t stopped me before.”
A young woman entered the room, carrying a tray with two plates. She set them on the coffee table in front of them before slipping back out. Carlton’s stomach rumbled at the smell of the various breakfast foods on the dishes. That one sandwich had been his only meal since the kidnapping over thirty hours ago.
Reynard settled back in his chair, eyeing the detective appraisingly. “You’ve already seen how efficient my men are. Trust me, if they wanted to grab you again, they would succeed. But you should also think about how easy it would be for them to grab any of your other acquaintances. From what I’ve been told, your friend downstairs hasn’t been having a very pleasant time. Imagine if that was your sister, or wife, or anyone else you care about.”
Fingers gripping his glass tightly, Carlton fought to keep from slugging the man. “You can’t hurt them if you’re rotting in prison.”
“I highly doubt you’re that naive, Detective. And, anyway, it’s a moot point. I won’t be going to prison; there’s no evidence against me. Do you think your word would hold weight against that of a respected businessman? Especially a businessman who is close friends with several members of city council and the DA’s office.”
Reynard leaned forward so he could eat his meal, gesturing with one hand that Carlton was free to do the same. It was against his nature to blindly accept food from an enemy — or any stranger for that matter — but he also knew he needed to keep his body’s strength up if he was going to keep a clear head. Besides, it seemed clear by now that Reynard had no interest in actually hurting him. Waiting until Reynard had taken several bites of the food just to be sure, he began working on his own plateful.
“Now, to get down to the purpose for your visit,” Reynard said. “A few months ago, you conducted an investigation into Pacific Sands Pharmaceuticals, correct?”
Carlton frowned. He vaguely remembered that case. Someone had suspected the company of obtaining drugs illegally. The vice squad was actually in charge of that investigation, but he was called in briefly when there was suspicion one of the guards had been killed to cover up evidence. The death was eventually ruled an accident and the vice squad also found no evidence of illegal activity. The whole thing had only lasted two weeks and had been a colossal waste of time. They hadn’t even bothered getting the Psych agency involved in it.
“Yeah, I was briefly attached to that investigation,” he said. “Why?”
“Because it’s important for our endeavor that their security team recognize you.”
“Why is that?”
Reynard leaned back, smiling as he sipped at his drink. “Because you are going to get our men inside that facility. We know they issued you security clearance and passcodes during your investigation. The night guards haven’t changed since you closed that case, so they shouldn’t have any suspicions about you needing inside.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Why me? The vice detectives were crawling all over that place for weeks. I was only there for the homicide case near the end. It would make a lot more sense to use one of them.”
“It would,” Reynard admitted. “But we don’t expand our business without careful consideration. If we were going through all the trouble and risk of getting a cop on our payroll, we wanted it to be someone who could prove useful for more than this one job. All those vice detectives were too low ranking to benefit our organization in any meaningful way. You’re the only ranking official who was working that case. It’s not exactly common for division heads to be out in the field, you know.”
It was true. That was the subject of many debates between himself and the Chief. Most cops have to accept that a promotion into the higher ranks usually means not being able to go out in the field anymore — or, at least, only in a more limited capacity. But Carlton had never been content with the idea of sitting behind a desk and delegating. Maybe someday, if his dream of becoming chief ever came to fruition, he could handle it. For now, though, he wouldn’t trade the thrill of chasing down perps and cuffing them himself for anything.
“So you want me to get your men inside and they steal... I’m guessing a shipment of drugs? Or supplies you need for your own operation.”
“Correct. We had an issue with a recent supply shipment and need to replace it in a hurry. In and out without any trouble. I prefer things to be as uncomplicated as possible.”
“For a so-called criminal mastermind, you’re forgetting something pretty important.”
Reynard’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
“Your plan hinges on those guards recognizing me at the gate. When a shipment of drugs mysteriously vanishes in the morning, don’t you think they’ll report that a homicide detective showed up around the time of the robbery?”
“Ah, but I already planned for that. There will be no report in the morning, because there will be no missing shipment. As far as the guards will know, you showed up for a quick follow up to your previous investigation, and then left without incident. No need to inform the SBPD about that.”
Carlton frowned as he puzzled over the implications of that statement. “You have someone working on the inside?” he guessed.
Reynard smiled. “Your vice squad did a very thorough investigation into Pacific Sands, but they didn’t even think twice about the fact that the company’s accounting department hired its employees from a company that my corporation happens to own. Why should they, after all? As far as anyone knows, Reynard Enterprises is a dependable business founded by one of Santa Barbara’s most prestigious families. Unfortunately, the employees under my control are only office workers. They can doctor the books so the shipment of drugs won’t be missed, but they can’t gain access to the warehouse.”
“Which is where I come in,” Lassiter muttered irritably. He hated to admit how well Reynard planned this out. Trying to prove him guilty afterwards was certainly going to be a challenge. As much as it annoyed him, he knew Shawn’s talents were going to be necessary in bringing Reynard down.
“Exactly,” Reynard said, pushing his empty plate aside. “One simple job, and then you return to your life as if nothing had ever happened... At least, until we require your services again.”
And there it was. The not-so-subtle reminder that a deal with this type of criminal didn’t come with an escape clause.
“Well, Detective?” Reynard asked, extending his hand expectantly.
Carlton stared at the hand as if it were a snake about to bite him. In a way, that wasn’t such a bad analogy.
If he agreed to this, and didn’t manage to capture Reynard’s gang, then he’d be allowing himself to become an accessory to robbery. And if he didn’t agree, he’d be allowing an innocent civilian to be murdered. Either way, it felt like he was turning his back on the responsibilities he swore to uphold.
He was reminded of the famous trolley problem — an old philosophical conundrum in which you are standing at a fork in a track, with the switch in your hand. A speeding trolley is approaching and there are five adults trapped on the track. You can save them by throwing the switch, to divert the trolley onto a side track, but there is a child on the other track who will die instead.
When he was in college, one of Carlton’s teachers had presented him with that problem. And, of course, his response was to begin grilling the man for more details. Were all of the adults in perfect health? How old were they? Were any of them in necessary fields of work? All important details he felt he needed before he could make a fully informed decision.
Several months ago, Shawn and Carlton had taken their girlfriends out to dinner as a celebration for closing a particularly difficult case. When they found themselves alone at the table at one point, Carlton had posed the question to Shawn, curious as to what the psychic’s choice would be.
Shawn hadn’t even paused to consider before stating his answer.
“That’s easy. I’d go with Option C.”
“There is no Option C, Spencer,” Carlton huffed, wondering why no conversation with the consultant could ever be simple. “There are only two choices.”
Shawn waved his hand dismissively. “Of course there’s another option, Lassie. There’s always an Option C. You’ve just gotta look for it.”
Staring at Reynard’s outstretched hand, Carlton wondered what his Option C was in this particular no-win scenario.
Clenching his jaw, he reached out and shook the man’s hand.
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