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 out 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.

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 ers 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.

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."

Thank-you to everyone who stuck with my story during the enormous gap between this chapter and the previous one. Work seems to keep interfering with my slash time. Stupid work.