Ty sat curled up in his chair, half-watching some mindless reality TV show instead of reading the book that was in his lap for the next day’s English class.

Somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

His perked up, however, when he heard Mrs. Henderson in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone.

“Of course, Detective,” she was saying, her voice friendly and high-pitched in that way it always got when she talked to Carl. “I’ll let him know you called.”

The fifteen-year-old sat as she walked into the room, clicking the cordless phone off.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Was that Carl?”

She nodded slowly, looking slightly confused herself. “Were you planning on going over there tonight?” she asked. “You didn’t say anything about--”

“No,” he replied, blinking in surprise at the question. “I have homework. I wasn’t going to go over until the weekend. Why?”

“Because,” Mrs. Henderson sighed, finally just shaking her head, deciding she would never understand these two. “He wanted me to tell you not to go breaking into his house tonight. He has a lot of work to do, apparently. He’ll be filling out reports all night, and he won’t have time for--”

“Work?” Ty snorted, dropping his feet to the floor, unfolding his lanky form from the curled-up position it had been in previously. “Since when does Carl care if I bug him while he’s working? I just watch TV, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” she threw her hands up in exasperation, heading back into the kitchen. “I just live here. I’m not supposed to understand anything!”

Ty stood up slowly, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

Sure, Carl told him to go away sometimes…a lot, in fact. But he’d never actually called and told him to stay away before.

Something weird was definitely going on.

Ty made his way to the kitchen slowly, his mind spinning with the possibilities. He paused in the doorway, watching Mrs. Henderson cook dinner. She turned around after a moment, finally feeling his dark eyes on her.

“What?” she asked, knowing that look all too well. “Benji, please tell me you’re not thinking about--”

“I’m not!” Ty assured her instantly, running his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I just remembered that I forgot to get milk after school. Did you need it for the morning?”

Mrs. Henderson sighed knowingly, shaking her head at the grinning teenager in front of her. “Go to the store and come right back,” she told him firmly. “And if I find out you were anywhere near Detective Lassiter’s house--”

“I won’t,” Ty promised insincerely, already on his way out the back door. He didn’t even look over his shoulder once as he let it close loudly behind him.

Carl wasn’t home when he arrived at his front step a few minutes later.

His car wasn’t in the garage, and none of his lights were on. That wasn’t unusual for Carl, as the detective worked long hours, but the front door was locked, too.

That was just plain weird.

Carl never locked his front door.

For a long moment, Ty stood on the front stoop, blinking at the wooden door that for all intents and purposes had just been slammed in his face.

What the hell was going on with Carl?

Since when did he lock his doors?

And since when did he mind having Ty around?

A slow, hollow pit started to form in the center of Ty’s gut.

Was Carl finally sick of him?

He turned around slowly, just in time to see the detective pull into the driveway. He got out of the car, followed closely by a woman, who got out on the passenger’s side.

She was tall and professionally dressed, her long blonde hair reaching close to the center of her back.

Ty froze as they began to approach the front door. Carl was glaring at him, clearly not impressed to see the teenager on his stoop.

“Ty,” he growled when they finally got close enough to talk without shouting, his ears reddening slightly. “What--? I mean, I told Mrs. Henderson--”

Ty’s eyes narrowed at the pair. The woman was standing alongside Carl now, smiling down at him as her fingers gently laced through Carl’s. She looked friendly…and yet, Ty immediately despised her for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on.

“You locked your door, Carl,” he shot back, glaring at the detective as he ignored the woman. “You’re not supposed to lock your door. We had a deal.”

The woman turned her smile to Carl, her eyes dancing playfully as she brushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ears. “You have a deal with a kid?” she laughed, a quizzical eyebrow raising at him.

Carl cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

Clearly, he had never told her about Ty.

“He’s not a kid,” Lassiter explained quickly. “I mean, he’s not my kid—”

He winced at the last remark, not having to see Ty’s dark eyes flash to know it was the wrong thing to say.

“I mean...uh…he doesn’t live here! He just sleeps in the closet sometimes--”

This time, the look on her face was enough to stop that particular line of explanation. Lassiter groaned in defeat, giving it one last try. “Uh--” He hesitated for another moment, his eyes locking with the angry teenager’s as he searched for the right thing to say. Neither of them had ever had to define whatever the hell kind of relationship they had before. Now that it was time, there didn’t seem to be any definition at all. “He’s Ty,” he offered finally, summing it up with a sharp slicing gesture and a sigh.

Oddly enough, the woman seemed to accept this answer. She smiled again and turned back to Ty, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she greeted, seeming genuine.

Ty scowled, refusing to take the offered hand. He crammed his hands into his pockets, the hollow pit in his stomach starting to grow, though he couldn’t figure out why. “My name’s Benji,” he informed her sharply. “Only Carl gets to call me Ty.”

Her smile wavered for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she responded quietly, glancing back at Lassiter. “Is this a bad time, Carlton? Should we do this another night?”

“No!” Lassiter jumped in, grabbing Ty by the sleeve of his jean jacket and pulling him off the step and into the grass. “He was just leaving.”

“I was not!” Ty shouted as Carlton pulled him through the front lawn towards the street. “You lied! You said you were working tonight!”

 “I am!” Lassiter insisted. “Technically…”

They both stopped at the edge of the lawn when Ty yanked free of his grasp, still glaring.

“Technically?” he snorted, pointing back at the woman, who was trying very hard to look like she wasn’t watching the entire bizarre scene unfold.

Lassiter groaned, running one hand down his face tiredly. “Yes. Technically. Her name is Cecilia, and she’s an instructor at the academy.”

Ty gasped, clapping one hand over his mouth as his eyes grew wide in realization. “Oh my God!” he gasped in horror so loud it made Carl cringe. “You’re on a date!”

“I am not!” Lassiter insisted immediately, dropping his arms by his side again. “It’s not a date. She doesn’t date divorced cops. This is a business meeting.”

Ty crossed his arms over his chest dubiously. “Business?” he snorted. “Carl, don’t try to bullshit a--”

“Watch the language,” Lassiter snapped, cutting him off. “And it is a business meeting.”

“What kind of business meeting ends at your house?” Ty demanded, still skeptical about this.

Lassiter just grinned mischievously. “She teaches shooting. She’s got one hell of an eye. No one’ll ever break her record at the range. Not even me.”

Ty just stared at him expectantly, waiting for this mini-biography to somehow become relevant to the question, but it became obviously pretty quickly that wasn’t going to happen when Lassiter’s goofy grin only grew broader and his eyes drifted off, lost in their own little world for a moment.

“Carl,” Ty sighed finally, snapping the detective back out of his reverie. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Huh?” Lassiter murmured, shaking his head and getting back to reality. “Oh. Right. We were meeting to discuss different training techniques,” he pressed on, pausing again to clear his throat. “Uh…we were supposed to meet next week, but she has to go to a conference, so we decided to do it tonight. We met for dinner, and I happened to mention my collection of pictures of Civil War-era firearms, and she wanted to see them--”

“Firearms?” Ty laughed, unable to control it. “Seriously, Carl? Your best pick-up line is…firearms?”

Lassiter scowled. “It wasn’t a pick-up line!” he insisted stubbornly. “She happens to share my interest in history.”

“Yeah, right,” Ty nodded sarcastically. “I bet she spends her weekends re-enacting battles, too.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, turning on his heel and starting to walk away. “Look, it’s really none of your business what--”

“Yes, it is!” Ty shouted back, the ferocity of the statement taking even him by surprise.

Lassiter turned around again slowly, his annoyance fading slightly. “What?”

“It’s my business, Carl,” Ty insisted quietly, looking down at the ground now.

“What the hell makes it your business?”

Ty looked back up, his glare now simply a silent plea.  “You locked your door. You said you wouldn’t. You’re…not supposed to lock your door.”

Lassiter sighed, taking a step back towards Ty. “I forgot to leave it unlocked. I was running late--”

Ty nodded slowly, a lump beginning to form in his throat. “Is that how it works?” he asked. “You get one date, and then you just forget about me?”

“I didn’t forget about you.”

“But you will!” Ty’s eyes narrowed, though Lassiter couldn’t tell if it was from anger or fear. “Won’t you? You’ll get married and have your own kid who doesn’t call you Carl and doesn’t break into your house--”

“Good God!” Lassiter snorted, taking another step towards him. “What the hell is the matter with you? It’s one business dinner! I’m sure as hell not going to get married tonight!”

Ty’s shoulders slumped slightly as he kicked at a rock. “I know,” he mumbled. “But you will eventually.”

Lassiter shrugged, glancing back at Cecelia, who had given up trying to appear impassive and was just watching them intently now.

Lassiter just hoped she couldn’t hear them.

“I’m not going to forget you,” he said finally. “If you promise not to show up on my doorstep every time I have a business dinner.”

Ty nodded in agreement. “Okay.”

Lassiter sighed, glancing back once more. “And I’m not getting married anytime soon,” he added. “It usually helps if the woman will actually admit you’re on a date.”

Ty laughed. “That’s true. Of course, who can blame her when all you have to work with is pictures of guns--”

“There’s nothing wrong with guns!”

Ty pat his shoulder sympathetically. “Of course not, Carl. But I don’t think I have anything to worry about yet.”

There was blood on the doorknob.

Lassiter stopped when he saw it, pulling his hand back before he actually touched the wet smear.

He was 85% sure it wasn’t his.

Which could only mean one thing…

Ty was around somewhere.

He grimaced, kicking the door open without touching the knob. “Ty!” he shouted into the dark interior, marching through the kitchen and living room without stopping. There was no sign of Ty yet, but the scattered red splotches across his floor told him he was on the right track.

He followed the blood trail up the stairs and to the bathroom, where Ty was sitting on the closed toilet seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him as his tipped his head back, resting it on the wall behind him. His eyes were closed as he clutched a bloody washcloth over his nose, but Lassiter could already see one of them was swollen and black.

“Ty!” he growled, stopping at the bathroom door. “What the hell is going on?”

Ty’s eyes shot open and he dropped the cloth in surprise, revealing a swollen nose and split lip, both of which were still bleeding fairly profusely.

The eighteen-year-old, who was only a few inches shy of being taller than Lassiter now, nearly fell off the toilet, but somehow managed to maneuver that faltering into standing up before he hit the floor. He snatched the bloody washcloth off the tile, quickly putting it back over his mouth and nose before Lassiter could get a good look at the wounds.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, his voice swallowed up by the face full of terrycloth. “I’m fine.”

Lassiter grunted, pulling Ty’s hand away from his face, his eyes narrowing at the split lip and bloody nose. “Yeah. You look fine.”

Ty shrugged, dropping the wash cloth into the sink as he sank onto the toilet again. “It’s not big deal, Carl,” he insisted. “It looks worse than it is. I just didn’t want to go home until I got cleaned up a little. Mrs. Henderson freaks out every time I show up--”

He stopped again, groaning when he saw Lassiter’s eyes narrow even further.

“Every time you show up what?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” Ty insisted again, wincing as he exhaled sharply through his throbbing nose. “It just happens sometimes when my dad gets close to town.”

Lassiter sighed, suddenly getting a pretty good mental picture of what had happened. He crossed to the linen closet, snatching a clean cloth off the shelf and tossing it across the room to Ty. The boy caught it, slowly running his fingers over the material before finally standing up again and turning the sink on to wet it.

“Who’d he piss off this time?” Lassiter asked.

“I don’t know,” Ty shook his head, once again burying his bruised face in the soothing, cool dampness. “But I think one of them was wearing a big-ass ring. It sure felt like it.”

“How many were there?”

“Three.” Ty closed his eyes again wearily. “They got me after school. I was walking home…I always cut through the park. They were waiting at the bend in the path. They said something about my dad ripping them off, but I have no clue what they were talking about. I haven’t talked to him in five years.”

He dropped the cloth into the sink on top of the first one, running sleeve under his nose. The blood smeared across his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. Griping the sink in both hands, he glared down at the blood. “I haven’t seen him in five years, Carl,” he almost whispered. “I don’t even know where he is. I just know when he gets close because there’s always someone looking for him, and they usually end up taking it out on me. I wouldn’t mind if I actually got to see him out of the deal…but he’s not coming back. He’s always going to be running. If this keeps up, I’m going to have start running pretty soon, too.”

Lassiter looked up at him. “You’re not running, Ty,” he told him firmly. “Just because your dad’s a stupid ass doesn’t mean--”

“He’s not stupid,” Ty cut in. “He’s smart. He flies under the radar most of the time…he just doesn’t know when to stop. He can never walk away until he makes his one last con. It’s always the last one that gets him caught.”

He sighed, releasing the sink from his grip and standing up, meeting the detective’s eyes evenly. “I don’t want to run, Carl. But I don’t have a choice. There’s always going to be someone after me trying to get to him. What if they go after the Hendersons? Or you?”

“I think I can take on a couple of street punks,” Lassiter snorted. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I know,” Ty nodded, wiping his nose again. “I just want it to be over, Carl. I want to be finished running. But it’s never going to stop, is it?”

“Sure it will,” Lassiter assured him stubbornly, though neither of them believed his stoic confidence. “It has to.”

Ty perched on the edge of the toilet, blinking down at the pink-stained tile floor. “I thought about changing my name,” he murmured. “So they won’t know who I am. It might help…it couldn’t hurt.” He looked back up at Lassiter, clearly wanting affirmation for this plan. “Is that a stupid idea, Carl?”

Lassiter considered for a moment. “You have to petition the court,” he told him. “To legally change it. It’s a lot of paper work and going to court…but yeah. It couldn’t hurt. It might get your dad’s friends off your ass.”

“I don’t want to change my first name,” Ty told him, clearly already haven given this some thought. “My mom used to call me Benji. I like it.”

Lassiter shrugged, tossing a third cloth at the boy. “Then change your last name.”

Ty nodded, turning the sink on again. “Okay. Maybe I will.”

For a moment, the two stood in silence, regarding each other across the room as Ty finished washing the blood off his face. After he turned the sink off and tossed the final rag aside, he wiped his hands off on his pants. “Jones, I guess…” he murmured finally.

“Huh?” Lassiter blinked.

“Benji Jones,” Ty pressed on, clearing his throat, not meeting the detective’s gaze. “It’s simple. I guess that’ll work.”

“Sure,” Lassiter agreed impassively, his features unreadable.

“Or maybe Benji Stein,” he pressed on. “That’s what the dork calls me, anyway.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “It’s your last name. Call yourself whatever you want. You’re the one who has to live with it for the rest of your life.”

“Right,” Ty nodded thoughtfully. He scuffed his shoes over the drying blood spackles on the floor, still trying to avoid the detective’s eyes. “The rest of my life…I guess it has to be good, then.”

“Then, Benji Stein’s out,” Lassiter snorted. “Unless you want to get the crap kicked out of you on a daily basis, even when you get to college.”

The silence returned, settling thickly between them as both their eyes roved the walls and floors, looking anywhere but at each other.

“What about Benji Lassiter?” Ty burst out suddenly, finally looking back up. “Is that a good name? Will it get me beat up? I mean, you’d know. You’ve had to live with it since, like…well, forever.”

Lassiter blinked, leaning back against the wall. Ty’s black eyes were wide and hopeful, gazing up at him as if he were only five feet tall all over again, even though in a few years he would be taller than Lassiter.

Lassiter cleared his throat, forcing the next words to come out. “No,” he shook his head. “It never got me beat up.”

“Good,” Ty nodded in approval, smiling. “Then, it worked out ok for you?”

“Yeah,” Lassiter nodded, returning the smile. “It worked out just fine for me.”

“Okay, Benjistein,” Shawn said seriously, taking a seat across from Ty, who was sitting at Lassiter’s desk waiting for the detective to get done. “I’m going to stop you from making a big mistake.”
“What?” Ty sighed, rolling his eyes at the dork. He spun around once in the chair, letting it slow as it faced Shawn again.

Shawn reached into his back pocket, pulling out a copy of that day’s paper. He flipped through it, finally pointing at a small announcement that declared Benjamin Tyson had applied for a legal name change.

Ty recognized it immediately, of course. Posting the announcement in the paper a few weeks before the court date was part of the requirements for legally changing his name.

“What about it?” he asked, glancing up from the paper, curious.

“You can’t change your name to Lassiter,” Shawn told him. “That would mean I’d have to start calling you Lassie, and I can’t have two Lassies running around here. Do you have any idea what that would do to my psychic mojo?”

“You wouldn’t have to call me Lassie,” Ty retorted. “You could just call me Benji like everyone else. Not Benjistein. Not Lassie. Not Buddy. Just Benji.”

“Just Benji?” Shawn snorted, clearing not seeing this ever happening. “Anyone can call you Benji. It takes a true master of verbal wit to call you Benjistein. But, seriously dude? Benjistein Lassie? It just doesn’t roll of the tongue. There are way too many possibilities…too many jokes…my psychic sensors are going into overdrive, here!”

Ty sighed, leaning across the desk. “What would you recommend, then?” he asked dryly, not in the least bit interested, but he knew he wasn’t getting out of this conversation until the dork had said his piece.

Shawn grinned, pulling up a chair, turning it around so he was sitting in it backwards as he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a piece of white-lined paper. “I’m glad you asked,” he cleared his throat formally. “I happen to have a few ideas. What about…Benji MacGyver? An awesome name, not to mention a fitting tribute to some of the best hair known to man. Plus, I could call you Benji-Mac. How sweet would that be?”

Ty groaned, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “No, way.”

“Okay,” Shawn quickly grabbed a pencil, crossing that one off the list. “No Benji-Mac. Got it. What about Benji Coraopolis? You could be Benjiopolis.”

“Eh!” Ty sounded a fake buzzer, gesturing his hand lazily though the air, bringing on the next suggestion.

Shawn turned the paper over.

“Uh…Benji Graham? I could call you Cracker.”

“Hell no!”

Shawn lowered the paper, raising an eyebrow at Ty. “Does Lassie let you say hell?” he asked.

Ty crossed his arms over his chest, grinning proudly. “I’m eighteen. I can swear if I want, damn it.”

Shawn laughed, nodding in agreement. “Hell no it is, then,” he murmured, looking over the rest of his rapidly shrinking list. “Any chance there’s any leeway on Benji as a first name?” he asked hopefully. “Could we go with Benny? Because if you were Benny Hill—”

Ty shook his head. “Benji stays,” he told him firmly. “It’s what my mom called me.”

Shawn nodded understandingly. “My mom still calls me Goose,” he told him. “I don’t think she realizes I’m not six anymore.”

He crossed off a few more names, presumably those that somehow involved changing his name to Benny.

“So, Benny Andthejets is out,” he mumbled. “And probably Jack Benny, too…”

“Jack Benny?” Ty laughed. “How old are you?”

“It’s still a relevant reference!” Shawn insisted. “And I’m twenty-eight, for your information.”

“Yeah, right,” Ty snorted.

Shawn moved on quickly before they could spend too much time discussing that. “You’re really limiting my creative process here, Benjistein,” he complained.

“Oh, well,” Ty shrugged, spinning the chair around again. “I guess I’ll just have to be Benji Lassiter, then.”

“You won’t even consider Benjamin Franklin?”

“No.”

 “But my mojo!”

Ty stopped spinning, gazing thoughtfully across the desk at Shawn. “My dad didn’t come back to town for my graduation,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t even send him an invitation. I don’t know where he is. But Carl came. And the Hendersons. I love my dad, and I miss him, but he’s not coming back. He’s never going to be here. And I don’t really even want him to be here anymore. I want Carl to be here.”

Shawn nodded slowly, grinning as Ty continued.

“I ran away from the Hendersons a few times,” he pressed on. “When I got pissed off. I always went back, but they still tried to put me in a new foster home just outside Santa Barbara after a couple of them, one with more supervision. Carl wouldn’t let them. He spent hours on the phone keeping me here, just because he knew it’s what I needed. I don’t know what he threatened to do to the social worker if she moved me, but it worked. I got to stay here.”

“He doesn’t have to actually threaten anything specific,” Shawn told him, knowing this from personal experience. “It’s the Lassie Snarl that sells it.”

Ty nodded, leaning back in his chair. “He never gave up on me,” he concluded. “Even when I did my best to make him.”

“Yeah, I have a guy like that,” Shawn grinned knowingly. “They’re called dads.”

“O’Hara,” Lassiter barked, spinning around in his chair so he was facing his junior partner.

“Huh?” She looked up from her work, blinking herself back into reality after being focused intently on her reports.

He hesitated for a moment, a question lingering in the forefront of his mind, but in the end he couldn’t form the words. He just scowled, turning back to his desk. “Nothing.”

She watched him go back to work, but she could already tell his heart wasn’t really in it. He was working on a murder case, after all. He should have been giddy.

Well, as giddy as Carlton Lassiter ever got, that is.

And yet, he was clearly distracted. His eyes kept darting back and forth between his watch and the wall clock on the other side of the precinct, as if he was certain they were somehow conspiring against him.

“Is something on your mind, Carlton?” she asked finally when it became clear he wasn’t going to willingly disclose whatever was bothering him.

He looked up from his watch. “Why would you think there’s something on my mind?” he demanded.

“No reason,” Juliet shrugged breezily, patiently waiting out the initial resistance before he inevitably spilled his guts. “You just keep looking at the clock like you’re going to be late for an appointment or something. Or a date.”

She smiled brightly at the prospect.

She’d been hoping he’d get a date.

Things always went more smoothly for her when he had some kind of social life outside of work.

“Did you get a date?” she asked hopefully. “Is it with Rita in payroll? Because I told you she thought you looked handsome in that gray suit jacket you wore last week. Why didn’t you wear it again?”

“Because you told me Rita in payroll thought I looked handsome in it!” he snorted disdainfully. “Good God, O’Hara. I’d rather date Spencer!”

She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly shut it again when he glared at her sharply.

“If you don’t have a date,” she pressed on. “Why do you keep looking at the clock? Is there somewhere you have to be?”

He hesitated again; a sure sign she was getting closer. “No.”

She tipped back in her chair, leveling her most threatening glare at him.

No way he was getting away with such a flimsy lie.

Not on her watch.

“Carlton,” she growled, her blue eyes narrowing at him.

He sighed, finally admitting defeat, even though they had both known all along it was just a matter of time. “It’s not a big deal, O’Hara,” he insisted, reaching into his desk and pulling out a card. He handed it to her, clearing his throat.

It was an invitation. On the front were colorful balloons and a happy clown. On the inside, it invited Carlton Lassiter to attend Benjamin Tyson’s birthday party.

According to the time and date, the festivities started in approximately three hours.

“Aww,” Juliet smiled, handing the card back to him. “Benji’s having a birthday party.”

“He’s turning twelve,” Lassiter nodded slowly. “The Hendersons are giving him a party since he’s never really had one. At least, not recently.”

“That’s nice of them,” Juliet agreed, still confused. “But, what’s the problem? You’re going, aren’t you?”

Lassiter looked down at his desk. “It’s a damn birthday party, O’Hara. What if there’s a clown?”

“Well, for starters, you don’t shoot it,” Juliet warned him, only semi-joking. “Then, you just smile and enjoy it. It won’t hurt you. I promise.”

“I’m not afraid of clowns!” he snapped, looking back up at her. “They’re just creepy little--”

“He’s twelve,” Juliet interjected. “That’s a little old for clowns, anyway. I think you’re safe.”

“It’s not about the clowns!” Lassiter growled, slamming his pen down.

“Then, why aren’t you going to Benji’s party?”

Lassiter sighed, leaning across the desk, his eyes darting both directions as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I…don’t know what to get him.”

Juliet smiled gently as she leaned forward so their faces were close enough that their whispers didn’t carry beyond the desk. “You didn’t get him a present?”

“My wife always bought the presents when we went to those stupid little kid parties our friends had,” he told her, sitting back up ever so slightly. “And we never actually stayed until the kid opened them, so I don’t even know what she bought. Those parties always ended up with us in a fight and a quiet car ride home…” His eyes grew distant for a moment as he was lost in the memories that were apparently surging back. “I wanted kids, damnit! That wasn’t the point! I just wasn’t going to do it on her timetable! I was trying to make detective! I wanted to wait until--”

He stopped, clearing his throat when he saw his partner watching him intently, almost sympathetically.

“I’ve never bought a birthday present for a kid,” he concluded finally. “I’ve never really even liked a kid. Not enough to want to get him something, at least. Or be in the same room with him for more than three consecutive minutes. Usually, I just want to toss their punk asses in juvvie and be done with it.”

Juliet nodded. “Right. Well, where have you looked for a present?”

“Uh…” Lassiter thought for a moment. “The evidence room…they confiscated some stolen iPods…what’s the policy on birthday presents the kid has to return in seventy-two hours for a court date?”

Juliet rolled her eyes. “Just buy him something, Carlton. You don’t have to spend a lot of money. Benji will like whatever you get him.”

“It’s his first birthday party, O’Hara,” Lassiter groaned. “His first real party…it has to be good.”

He looked up at her, on the verge of asking her something.

Once again, he stopped just short. He inhaled deeply, trying to build up to it.

“You have nephews, don’t you?” he asked finally, getting it out in one breath. “What do you get them?”

She smiled, leaning back as she finally caught up with his train of thought. “Carlton,” she asked, trying not to laugh. “Do you want me to help you find a present for Benji?”

He nodded slowly. “I need help, O’Hara. I’m in over my head, here.”

She stood up, grabbing her keys and cell phone off the desk. He quickly joined her.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him, already mentally plotting out at least four stores in a five block radius that they could try. “We’ll find him a great present. It’ll be the best birthday he ever had.”

It had been a long day, even by Carlton Lassiter’s standards.

He’d blown a deadly case wide open, only to re-blow it open when he almost got shot in the head.

But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that he now actually owed Spencer.

Shawn Spencer.

The annoying pain in his ass had actually saved his life.

How could he ever forgive himself for letting that happen?

How could he forgive himself for any of it?

It was too much to process for one day. He couldn’t even think about it without cringing.

He’d almost been killed, and he couldn’t even hate the son of bitch who wanted to murder him.

Not really.

Not when he could only imagine what had driven him to it.

Dropping his suit jacket on the living room floor, he crossed to the mantle and poured himself a scotch. The best antidote for a crappy day.

After a slow sip, he turned around and crossed the room again, this time collapsing onto the couch, being careful not to spill a drop of scotch in the process. He closed his eyes wearily as he leaned his head against the wall behind him and took another drink. He listened to the echoing silence of the large, empty house around him, which was only punctuated occasionally by the sound of the ice tinking in his glass.

He didn’t have to stop with one drink, he realized dully as he polished off the first scotch.

He could have two.

Or three.

Who the hell would blame him?

Who the hell would even know?

He didn’t move right away, however, despite his defiant thoughts. He just sat still, listening for something that wasn’t there as he waited for the scotch to start taking effect. The dull, comforting numbness had just begun to settle over his head when he heard a small sound above him.

Normally, Carlton Lassiter would’ve pounced on whatever made that sound. Normally, he would’ve been vigilant about a potential assassin…but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to give a damn today.

What was the worst that could happen?

They’d actually shoot him in the head this time?

Would he really be any worse off?

He opened one eye lazily, deciding he should at least take a look. Ty was standing over him, his large black eyes open as wide as Lassiter had ever seen them.

"Are you okay?" Ty asked quietly.

Lassiter blinked.

He tried to remember the last time he’d been asked that question. He’d heard it a dozen times that day, of course. Everyone at the station had asked, not to mention paramedics and the DA and anyone else he happened to see in the precinct.

But this was different.

He’d never been asked if he was okay like this.

He sat up slowly, dropping the empty scotch glass onto the coffee table. "I’m fine," he grunted.

Ty didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He just stared at Lassiter like he was seeing a ghost.

"Carl," he pressed on, his voice still not rising above a whisper. "Are you okay?"

Lassiter returned the stare now.

Hadn’t the little rat heard him the first time?

"Ty, I’m fine," he insisted again, standing up, for a moment debating whether or not he should take that second scotch now or wait until Ty finally left.

Ty, however, didn’t seem even close to ready to leave. "Carl, some psycho tried to blow your brains out!" he informed him, as if Lassiter might have forgotten in the last few hours. "I saw it on the news. They said you screwed up his son’s murder case and he wanted revenge."

"I didn’t screw anything up," Lassiter snapped, his eyes narrowing at the teenager in front of him. Ty was fifteen now, and getting close to being as tall as him, but he was still just a kid. "I didn’t mess up his case."

"I didn’t mean--"

"Ty," Lassiter groaned, cutting him off before the conversation could get too carried away. "He didn’t blow my brains out. I’m fine. Go home. I don’t want to talk about it, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to the Hendersons when they call looking for you. So just go home."

Ty blinked, looking somewhat hurt by the order. His jaw set stubbornly, however, as he dug his feet into the floor. "No."

Lassiter’s shoulders slumped. "What?"

"I don’t want to go home, Carl," Ty told him firmly. "And you can’t make me. The Hendersons know I’m here this time. They said they thought it was a good idea for me to check on you. So, I’m not leaving."

He crossed his arms and fell onto the couch, clearly not intending to move. "And don’t even think about trying to bribe me this time," he warned seriously. "It’s not going to work."

Lassiter sighed, coming back and perching on the arm of the couch on the opposite side from Ty.

He still couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on, but he was going to put a stop to it.

"Ty," he growled. "You’re not staying here tonight. You’re too old to sleep on the closet floor."

Ty stretched out on the couch, folding his arms behind his head, looking quite content. "I’ll sleep right here," he shrugged. "It’s more comfortable than the floor, anyway."

"Just sleep at the Hendersons!" Lassiter almost shouted in exasperation.

"I don’t want to!" Ty countered.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you’re not okay!"

"Yes, I am!"

"You are not!"

"How the hell would you know?"

"Because I know!" Ty looked down at the floor, his fingers picking at the fibers in the couch. "I know you’re not okay, Carl. He said you messed up on the case. He tried to kill you. The dork saved your ass--"

"Don’t say ass."

"Butt," Ty amended quickly, rolling his eyes at the hypocritical correction. "You’re not okay," he concluded with finality, meeting Lassiter’s gaze again. His deep black eyes had clouded over with something Lassiter couldn’t identify until Ty spoke again.

"Do heads bleed as much as chests?" he asked quietly.

That’s when Lassiter understood everything.

Well, just about everything.

At least, he understood why the hell the little rat wouldn’t leave him alone.

Ty’s mom had been shot twice in the chest. He’d been in the closet the whole time, watching.

That wasn’t something you just walked away from, not even after five or so years.

"Ty," he sighed again, all remnants of the peaceful numbness fading into something else entirely; something that pricked under his skin like a thousand pins and needles. "I didn’t get shot. I’m fine."

"I know," Ty nodded. "But he still wants to kill you, right? He’s not just going to give up just because you arrested him. The guys who shot my mom didn’t even know her…they were just hired…what if he--?"

"He didn’t hire anyone," Lassiter assured the boy. "He’s not going to try again."

Ty’s dark eyes hardened as he sat up. "Damn straight he’s not," he snarled almost fiercely.

Lassiter blinked in surprise.

He didn’t even correct the cursing this time.

Ty was determined to protect him. He wasn’t going to leave until he knew Lassiter was safe.

That he wasn’t going to get shot.

He never wanted to know if heads bled as much as chests.

Lassiter had never experienced anything quite like this before.

Suddenly, he was re-thinking that second scotch.

And the third.

Someone would notice, after all.

Ty blinked up at him when he still hadn’t responded after a full three minutes. "Carl?" he asked, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Lassiter nodded slowly. "I’m fine."

"Carl. I need your help."

Lassiter stared at the phone for a minute. Throughout the years, he’d received at least two dozen phone calls that began like that. Most of those, however, had been frantic and pleading. This time, Ty sounded completely calm and even slightly amused.

"What?" Lassiter grunted, leaning back in his desk chair. "What’s going on?"

"Nothing," Ty pressed on breezily. "I just busted some kid trying to lift batteries and Power Aid. Do you want to come down to the store and play the bad cop?"

Lassiter’s ears perked with interest at the offer.

It had been a long time since he’d been the bad cop.

The Department had promoted him out of actual work and into a desk years ago, and while he enjoyed his new rank, he had to admit he did miss the interrogating of suspects. He liked getting his hands dirty. But most of all, he liked The Fear.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, sitting up again, glancing around to make sure there was no one around.

Of course there wasn’t.

It was his office.

"The usual," Ty told him. "Scare the hell out of the little punk so he won’t even think about doing it again, then turn him loose."

Lassiter scowled. "You’re not going to prosecute?"

"He’s just a kid, Carl. I’m not going to give him a record over some batteries. He just needs to get his ass kicked a little."

Lassiter nodded slowly. It made sense. Even though his title was technically Loss Prevention Specialist, Ty had always balked at the term and just called himself a Professional Asskicker.

That was basically his job description, after all: Catch shoplifters and kick their asses so they never did it again. To a more cynical observer, he would have been nothing but a glorified security guard with marginally better surveillance equipment and no authority to actually arrest anyone, but he was a natural at what he did and he loved his job. He knew every scam and palming technique there was. He could spot a shoplifter from a hundred yards without even blinking, and he’d turned into a surprisingly competent interrogator. He’d stumbled into the job almost accidentally after high school when he’d been working at a grocery store, and never looked back.

"He’s a thief," Lassiter insisted. "Ass-kicking isn’t going to change that."

"Oh, I don’t know," Ty countered calmly. "Seems like a good ass-kicking or two kept me out of trouble. Mostly."

Lassiter grunted.

It was hard to argue with that one…except the "mostly" part. Mostly was a relative term.

"Can I at least bring my cuffs?" he demanded, figuring there wouldn’t be any point otherwise. "Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to cuff a perp?"

"Sure," Ty mumbled. "We’ll see how long it takes him to wet his pants and burst into tears."

"Sounds like fun," Lassiter agreed, standing up. "I’ll be there in ten minutes."

He dropped the phone back on the hook and grabbed his keys off the desk. No one would miss him if he was gone for a half hour or so, he told himself, and it was technically police business.

Besides, he knew he could make the kid cry in under three minutes.

Three minutes was his record.

Ty’s was five.

He wasn’t going to let the little rat beat him at his own game.

When he got to the small store, Ty was sitting behind the front counter. He grinned up at Lassiter as the promoted detective walked in.

"Hey, Carl," he greeted, dropping his feet to the floor as he stood up. "You ready to scare this kid straight?"

Lassiter nodded. "Where is he?"

Ty flicked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a large door behind him. "The back room. He made his phone call to his parents. Now he’s just waiting for them to pick him up. And stewing."

Lassiter grinned approvingly. "You sure he’s stewing?"

Ty returned the grin, looking quite pleased with himself. "Oh, he’s stewing."

"Good," Lassiter grunted, pushing past Ty and opening the door to the back room.

It was going to be easy, he told himself.

The little punk was just a thief.

No good.

He’d always be no good.

People just didn’t change.

In all his years in law enforcement, it was the one rule he’d never once seen broken, not even with seemingly innocent kids.

People never changed.

Crooks stayed crooks. Forever.

Killers killed again.

Thieves stole again.

Abusers abused again.

There was no way around it.

As he opened the door and stepped inside, he froze. Ty was right behind him, but the younger man managed to avoid bumping into him.

Lassiter stared at the kid sitting behind the table. It was a small boy, no older than ten or eleven, wearing a torn blue jean jacket. A mop of thick black hair sat on top of his head, and he was scowling at the two adults.

"This is Chief Lassiter," Ty spoke first, walking around the table, nodding at Lassiter. "He’s with the police."

The boy blinked up at him, for a brief moment looking somewhat concerned. His dark eyes flashed with defiance.

Lassiter knew he was supposed to say something right then, but for some reason words escaped him.

Ty glanced over at him curiously. He’d never seen Lassiter speechless before, especially not during an interrogation. "Carl?" he murmured. "Uh…weren’t you going to say something?"

Lassiter nodded, his eyes drifting back to the kid behind the table.

He wasn’t a carbon copy Ty by any stretch of the imagination. His features were sharper and his eyes were angrier than Ty’s had ever been, even back when he was this kid’s age. But he had the same look of a world-weary wisdom far beyond his years that Ty had had. He had the same look of being lost at sea.

Their eyes met across the table, and for that brief moment, Lassiter thought he might break his record. The kid looked ready to cry right then and there.

That’s when Lassiter realized he was wrong.

People never changed…but at least one person in that room had.

Himself.

Because of Ty, that angry little punk who would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down, he couldn’t look at this kid now and see a lifelong criminal.

He couldn’t look at anyone and just know they were completely hopeless.

He hadn’t been able to in years, if he was being honest with himself, but he’d never been able to admit it before that moment.

A cop was supposed to be cynical.

A cop was supposed to be impartial.

A cop was supposed to understand human nature…and human nature didn’t change.

But he was standing there, and he knew he had changed.

Ty had changed, too, sure. He’d gone from a snot-nosed street punk to a competent professional. But looking back, that change was mild compared to the one Lassiter had undergone.

This kid was still no good.

He was still a little punk who needed his ass kicked.

But Lassiter wasn’t ready to write him off as hopeless.

Not yet.

Not anymore.

Ty rolled his eyes when a full minute passed and Lassiter still hadn’t said anything.

"You’re the worst bad cop ever," he complained.

Lassiter nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I guess I am."

Lassiter rolled his eyes, turning back to face the sulking pre-teen. "When I was a kid, I spent every weekend at a western town just like this."

"When you were a kid, you probably lived in the Old West," Ty shot back.

Lassiter scowled at him. "You’re not funny."

"Admit it," Ty pressed on, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your dad was a blacksmith, wasn’t he?"

"Do you want to leave?" Lassiter demanded, gesturing back at the car.

"God, yes!" Ty snorted, spinning on his heel and trying to make a mad dash for safety.

Lassiter grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back before he got two steps, however.

"Forget it," he growled. "We’re here now, and we’re not leaving until I see at least one gun fight."

"Gun fight?" Ty groaned. "Carl, when did you become a dork?"

"When did you become a whiner?" Lassiter returned.

"I’m not whining," Ty argued. "I just don’t need a babysitter. I could have stayed home alone by myself all weekend."

"Yeah, right," Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"What?" Ty blinked up at him innocently. "Don’t you trust me, Carl?"

"Hell, no," Lassiter snorted, pushing the swinging doors of the saloon open and walking in ahead of the boy.

"I survived by myself for a whole year," Ty pointed out, following the detective into the saloon. "I think I can manage for one weekend without someone checking up on me."

"You’d be fine," Lassiter agreed, sliding onto one of the tall barstools. "The Hendersons’ house wouldn’t make it…but you’d be fine."

"So, instead of letting me be by myself for one weekend, you’re taking me to a bar?" Ty asked, climbing up onto the stool next to Lassiter. "Isn’t furnishing alcohol to a minor a crime?"

"It’s root beer," Lassiter assured him, taking two frosty mugs and handing one to Ty.

"So, instead of letting me be by myself for one weekend, you’re taking me to a bar?" Ty asked, climbing up onto the stool next to Lassiter. "Isn’t furnishing alcohol to a minor a crime?"

"It’s root beer," Lassiter assured him, taking two frosty mugs from the bartender and handing one to Ty. Ty accepted it, grasping it in both hands and taking a long sip. Putting it down again, he ran he sleeve over his mouth.

"So," he concluded. "Not only do I have to spend my whole Saturday in Carl’s Land of Lost Boyhood, I also don’t even get a real beer? Can I at least start a real gun fight? You did bring your gun, didn’t you?"

"No," Lassiter grunted, spinning around in his stool so his elbows were resting on the bar behind him. "I didn’t bring my gun."

Ty groaned miserably, polishing off his first root beer, but already knowing he was going to need another. "Then, what’s the point? Why are we even here?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "The point is it’s history. I learned everything I know about being a cop watching sheriffs at Old West towns when I was a kid."

"Like what?" Ty laughed. "How to walk in high-heeled boots?"

"No," Lassiter snapped impatiently. "Like honor. Like how to stare down some bastard with a gun and a big mouth who wants to shoot you between the eyes and not even blink at him."

"Yeah," Ty quipped, eyeing the tourists with cameras hanging around their necks that were scattered around the saloon. "There are some real tough hombres around here."

"Never mind. Just shut up and drink your root beer."

Lassiter sighed, his eyes sweeping across the saloon, taking it all in. Interspersed throughout the crowd of shorts-and-t-shirts-wearing tourists were cowboy actors in ten gallon hats and six-shooters.

"You really wanted to be a cowboy, didn’t you?" Ty asked, grinning at him. "You wanted the horse and the star badge and everything."

Lassiter shrugged. "I spent more time being a cowboy than at home."

Ty grinned.

He hadn’t been that far off when he called Carl’s Land of Lost Boyhood.

He sighed, shaking his head as he motioned the bartender for another root beer. "Okay," he shrugged. "Let’s find a gun fight…but I’m not wearing a hat."

Lassiter finally had a day off.

Not that he wanted one.

In fact, he had initially refused to take it, but the Chief told him he was overworked and overstressed and if he didn’t the take day willingly, she could arrange a psych eval and force it on him without pay. Not being an idiot, he took the day with the pay.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He was up at 5 am like always, dressed for work down to the gun strapped to his shoulder. Sure, he might be a civilian for the day, but he would be damned if he wasn’t going to bring his gun along with him.

He sat at his kitchen table, silently gulping his coffee as he read the paper, unable to stop his mind from looking through the articles for clues and connections to open cases. Finally, he gave up and tossed it aside as he downed his third cup.

He was just about to pour himself a fourth cup when the doorbell rang.

His brow furrowed almost angrily as he crossed the house to the front door. Who the hell would be bothering him at this hour?

He opened the door cautiously, his hand poised to grab his gun if he needed it.

As it turned out, he didn’t.

Standing on his front step was Mrs. Henderson and a very glum, sickly looking Ty.

"What--?" Lassiter started to demand, but Mrs. Henderson cut him off by raising her hand in the air.

"I’m sorry to bother you so early, Detective," she smiled sweetly at him. "But Benji mentioned it’s your day off, and I could really use your help. He’s not feeling well, and I can’t let him to go to school sick. His fever was 101 this morning. Would you mind if he stays here today while I’m at work?"

Lassiter blinked, trying to follow the speech, which seemed to come out as one, long run-on sentence.

Finally, he caught up.

"What?" he asked. "You want him to stay here? Sick?"

"Just for a few hours," Mrs. Henderson assured him, sensing his hesitance. "He won’t be a bother. Poor dear just needs to sleep. I would stay with him myself normally, but Derek has a soccer game I have to go to and Max has a conference with his teacher. I have to get some work done before."

"Uh--" Lassiter stammered, but before he could decline the offer, Ty’s eyes bulged out of his head and he pushed his way into the house, making a beeline straight for the bathroom.

"His tummy’s bothering him, too," Mrs. Henderson explained, clearing her throat delicately as the noises emanating from the bathroom left little the imagination. "Try to keep some fluids in him, but I wouldn’t try to feed him anything. Do you have any clear broth?"

Lassiter just stared at her as if she’d asked him to dance a polka. "Why the hell would I have clear broth?"

"Never mind," Mrs. Henderson sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just make sure he sleeps. Don’t let him get too riled up. I’ll be back in a few hours to get him. Thank you, Detective."

With another wave and an appreciative smile, she was gone.

When Ty came out of the bathroom a few minutes, looking paler and even sicklier than he had before, he collapsed onto the couch without even looking up at the detective. "Where’s Mrs. Henderson?" he moaned, stretching out to his full length.

Lassiter scowled. "She jumped ship. And don’t even think about puking on my couch."

"I won’t," Ty mumbled feebly, flopping onto his stomach, his eyes closing in misery.

Lassiter inched a nearby trash can closer to his head, just in case.

"So, what’s the game?" he asked finally, perching on the arm of the couch. "Math test?"

Ty opened one eye, looking genuinely confused. "What game?"

"What are you trying to get out of?" Lassiter pressed on, undaunted. "Why are you faking being sick? You don’t think I’m actually falling for it, do you? Hell, Spencer pulled the same crap last week."

"I’m not faking!" Ty insisted, his voice cracking under the strain of trying to speak loudly.

He suddenly grabbed the trash can and dropped his head into it as his stomach lurched again, but this time it appeared he had nothing left to spew.

Lassiter backed away a few inches.

Suddenly, his theory didn’t seem quite so valid.

He watched silently as Ty pushed the trash can away again and rolled back over onto his back, groaning in very real misery.

Swallowing a little, Lassiter settled back onto the arm of the couch, for once in his life facing a situation that all the training in the world couldn’t prepare him for.

How the hell was he supposed to know what to do with a sick kid?

He was pretty sure you didn’t feed it…mostly because Mrs. Henderson had told him not feed it.

Liquids were probably a good idea, he supposed.

Hadn’t she said something about liquids…?

He cleared his throat, looking down at the boy. "Uh…did you want some coffee?" he asked, trying to remember what other liquids he had around.

Beer and scotch were out of the question…

Milk?

Was his milk even good anymore?

Ty blinked up at him, looking somewhat amused even in the midst of his agony. "Coffee? Carl, I’m eleven. I’m not allowed to have coffee."

"You’re supposed to drink something," Lassiter told him.

"Do you have any orange juice?" Ty asked.

"Do I look like someone who drinks orange juice?" Lassiter shot back.

Ty rolled his eyes. "Water, I guess, then."

Lassiter stood up, nodding.

That made sense.

Water was a liquid.

"Water. Right."

"And can I have a blanket?" Ty added as the detective started for the kitchen.

"Blanket. Right." Lassiter paused in the doorway, turning back around. "You’re not going to--?"

"I won’t puke on it," Ty promised. "I just want to take a nap."

"Right," Lassiter agreed. "Okay, then."

He returned a few minutes later with a glass of water and a blanket. As he walked back into the living room, he saw Ty had huddled up into a tight ball on the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest. His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and heavy.

Apparently, he hadn’t needed the blanket to take a nap after all.

Lassiter stood in the doorway for a moment, not quite sure what to do next.

Did he wake the kid up and make him drink the water?

Did he just leave him alone?

Ty shivered in his sleep, burrowing his face deeper into his knees. Lassiter quickly crossed the room and tossed the blanket over him. Without waking up, Ty pulled it up over his shoulders and snuggled underneath it.

Lassiter watched him for a moment, his brain straining to figure out what else he was supposed to do.

He wanted to do something.

He wanted to fix it.

He sighed, placing the water on the table and moving the trash can back next to Ty’s head, just in case.

It was all he could do for now…but maybe this time, that was enough.

The smell was unmistakable.

It hit Lassiter’s nose the moment he walked into the house.

He’d smelled it at least a thousand times before, more than a few of those times after long nights of his own.

The only question was…who the hell was puking all over his house?

And why?

He drew his gun and followed the stench up the stairs. He couldn’t actually see any evidence of the noxious deed yet, but it was there.

He knew it was there somewhere.

He kicked open the bathroom door, aiming his weapon as he stepped inside.

There, in the middle of the floor by the toilet, lying flat on his stomach and groaning piteously, was Ty. The seventeen year old slowly rolled over on his back when he heard the detective enter, blinking up into the blinding fluorescent lights as he continued to moan. By the toilet bowl, sitting in the noxious puddle, was an empty bottle of scotch.

“Carl,” the boy coughed, slowly forcing himself to sit up. “Why do you drink that stuff? It’s awful. It--”

He was forced to stop when another surge hit his stomach. He scrambled across the floor to the toilet, barely making it in time.

Lassiter stood in the doorway, watching silently as the scene unfolded. He slid his gun back into its holster, not quite sure what he was supposed to say.

The kid wasn’t 21.

Was he supposed to arrest him?

Shoot him for wasting his best scotch?

Yell at him?

Once again, as happened frequently with this little rat, Lassiter was in over his head.

When Ty finally gasped and fell back to the floor on his back, Lassiter decided he had to say something.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “If you’re going to get drunk off your ass and spew all over my floor, at least use the beer in the fridge. It’s hell of a lot cheaper than my scotch.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say. It felt right, at least, so Lassiter nodded emphatically.

Ty just groaned again. “It can’t be any worse than that stuff,” he agreed. “Seriously, Carl. I think someone was trying to poison you.”

“No one tried to kill me,” Lassiter assured him. “At least, not this time. You’re just a lightweight. Good God, Ty, most of it ended up on the floor. How much did you even actually drink?”

“Enough.”

“I’d say.”

Lassiter leaned against the sink coolly as Ty sat up again, rubbing his surely throbbing head.

He still wasn’t sure where to go from there.

He had to do something, right?

Tell the kid he was an idiot?

Tell him drinking gets you nowhere except dead?

Show him some bloody driver’s ed. film?

Goddamn it, why didn’t they have a manual for this type of thing?

Ty seemed to know what the detective was thinking, because he looked up at him, his large, black eyes pleading. “You’re not gonna tell on me, are you? The Hendersons would kill me if they found out--”

“I’m not your dad, Ty,” Lassiter answered quietly, shrugging. “I’m not your legal guardian.”

Ty’s head dropped further, his complexion turning more pallid, if that was possible. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is that what you’re doing here?” Lassiter pressed on. “Is that why you’re puking on my floor? Because you know I’m not your father and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?”

“No!” Ty insisted, shaking his head weakly. “That’s not it, Carl. I just--”

“What?” Lassiter spat. “Had an uncontrollable intellectual curiosity?”

Ty just shrugged, looking down at the floor.

There was nothing he could say.

“There’s not a damn thing I can do,” Lassiter pressed on. “We both know that. If you want to be a drunk idiot, I can’t stop you. Just don’t do it in my house. I damn near shot you.”

Ty moaned again, his head falling into his hands. “You don’t get it, Carl.”

“I don’t get what? You’re a kid. You wanted to get drunk and this was the only place you could do it without getting your ass handed to you. I understand, Ty. Believe me.”

“No!”

“Then, what?”

“I just…wanted to see what the big deal was,” Ty mumbled. “Apparently, the big deal is puke. Lots of puke.”

Lassiter actually laughed.

The little rat was going to learn that lesson the hard way, and probably more than once.

“I’m buying a lock for my liquor cabinet tomorrow morning,” he added, just in case the kid thought he was getting off scot-free. “And you’re cleaning up your mess. As soon as you stop puking your guts out.”

Ty nodded, not bothering to argue.

They both knew he deserved worse.

He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, blinking a few times as he tried to clear his head and stop the next onslaught from overtaking his churning gut. “You gonna ground me?” he asked quietly.

“Ground you?” Lassiter looked confused. “How the hell could I going to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Ty shrugged. “It just seems like you should do something besides yell, doesn’t it?”

“What do you want me to do?” Lassiter demanded. “We just went over this, Ty. If you want someone to ground you, talk to the Hendersons.”

“I don’t want the Hendersons to ground me,” Ty argued. “I want you to ground me. Or at least threaten to ground me.”

“Why?”

Ty just shrugged again, looking down at the dirty tile floor. “It’s what my dad would do. Hell, my dad would probably kick my ass.”

Lassiter nodded slowly. “Mine would’ve, too. He had a belt…”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Lassiter sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Ground me?”

“Sure. You’re grounded. No more drinking.”

“Sounds good to me. You can start by promising you’ll never buy scotch again,” Ty groaned, stumbling to the toilet again.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “No one told you to drink it.”

“I’ll never do it again.”

“Damn straight.”

The conversation paused while Ty emptied the rest of the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Lassiter rolled his eyes.

He still didn’t know what to do.

There was no manual for this.

But something told him he was getting it right…or, at least, mostly right.

It was the worst way to start a new day.

It was barely five in the morning, and Lassiter found himself at a murder scene. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he found himself at a murder scene at five in the morning with Shawn Spencer.

The psychic wasn’t doing anything particularly obnoxious at the moment, just standing around with the officers who were already on the scene, bumming coffee.

But Lassiter knew better than to believe that would last long.

In less than five minutes, Spencer would be annoying the hell out of him.

Sure enough, as soon as Lassiter got out of the car, the psychic saw him and grinned, waving across the dark alley.

The alley was short, narrow and dirty, half of the available ground covered by a looming dumpster. There was nowhere for Lassiter to go.

He had to talk to Spencer.

Goddamn it, he hadn’t even had coffee yet.

“Hey, Lassie,” Spencer greeted as he approached. “Why can’t you guys ever find murder scenes after sunrise? It’s starting to interfere with my beauty sleep.”

Lassiter just grunted, pushing past him and moving towards the dumpster, behind which he knew there was the body. Spencer followed, for the moment keeping all further quips to himself.

The victim was a man, mid-forties. He was lying flat on his back, a knife sticking out of his chest. Lassiter knelt next to him, immediately noticing his bloody knuckles and bruised, battered face.

There had been a hell of fight.

This bastard lost.

He glanced up at the officers who had been waiting for him. “Do we know who he was?”

“Not yet, Sir,” one of the officers spoke up. “We’re running his prints.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Yeah,” the other added. “A woman. She’s talking to the sketch artist. We’re canvassing the neighborhood for more.”

Lassiter nodded, slowly standing up.

As he did, something under the dumpster caught his eye.

He quickly pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and picked the small, flat object up. It was a credit card. It looked like it had been ground into the dirt and dust under someone’s heel.

“Bag,” Lassiter barked at the officers, gently blowing the dust off it so he could read the name.

He froze as the raised letters faded into view.

BENJAMIN LASSITER.

Spencer was standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quietly, almost reading Lassiter’s mind. “It could be any Benjamin Lassiter. It doesn’t say Benjistein.”

“Shut up, Spencer,” Lassiter snarled, standing up stiffly.

He didn’t need to be told it didn’t mean anything.

His heart had begun to thunder in his chest as the officer handed him a plastic baggie. He dropped the credit card inside, a cold rush flooding his veins.

It couldn’t mean anything.

He refused to believe it meant anything.

“Sir,” a voice spoke from behind him.

He turned around slowly. The sketch artist was standing behind him, sketch pad in hand.

“She only saw the guy for a minute,” the artist explained. “As he was leaving the alley. The street lights were on, so she got a pretty good look at his face…this is the best I can do.”

He handed the pad to Lassiter, who looked down at the picture, his fingers and toes suddenly going numb.

The face staring back at him was Ty.

            *                                  *                                  *                                  *

“Chief, you’re wasting time!” Lassiter complained bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched through the one-way window as O’Hara interrogated Ty.

Well, she tried to.

The kid had clammed up the second they brought him in.

Just like old times.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do, Detective,” Vick told him firmly, also watching. “But we don’t have a choice. He’s a suspect in a homicide.”

“He didn’t do it!” Lassiter insisted, his stomach clenching as tightly as his fists as he watched the tall, defiant dark-haired man in the interrogation room. “He hasn’t even asked for a lawyer! Did you see the vic? He was pummeled before he was stabbed, and his knuckles are messed up. There was a fight.” He nodded at Ty. “Ty doesn’t have a scratch on him. No way in hell he could’ve walked away from a fight like that without some kind of injury.”

Vick nodded in agreement. “Then, why isn’t he talking?” she demanded. “He won’t even give Detective O’Hara an alibi. He can’t explain why someone saw him at the scene or how his credit card got there.”

Lassiter sighed helplessly.

He couldn’t explain it.

He didn’t understand it.

But to his bones, he knew Ty had nothing to do with it.

He couldn’t.

It just wasn’t possible.

“Let me talk to him,” he said quietly.

“No way,” Vick shook her head. “Do you have any idea how many protocols that would break? It’s the definition of conflict of interest, Detective. I can’t let you--”

“Chief,” Lassiter cut her off. “He’s innocent. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but he’s not going to talk to O’Hara. He’s not going to talk to anyone. Once he shuts his mouth, a damn atom bomb won’t open it. But he’ll talk to me.”

Vick sighed, finally nodding slightly. “You have three minutes,” she told him. “Try to get him to see reason. Right now, it doesn’t look good for him. If he has anything to say, he needs to say it now.”

“Don’t worry,” Lassiter growled, opening the interrogation room door. “If there’s something to spill, he’ll spill it.”

Both O’Hara and Ty looked up as he walked into the room, shutting the door behind him.

O’Hara stood up. “Carlton,” she murmured, her head tilting curiously to the side. “Does the Chief--?”

“Get some coffee, O’Hara,” he ordered, his eyes locking with Ty’s.

She didn’t argue.

She just nodded and left the room silently.

As soon as they were alone again, Lassiter slid into the chair across from Ty. The kid was hardly a kid anymore. He was twenty-three, tall and muscular.

He could handle himself in a fight, Lassiter realized dully.

He could handle himself…

He forced the thought out of his mind, hiding his clenched fists under the table.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“Carl, I didn’t do it,” Ty spoke finally, his voice a quiet whisper. “I swear I didn’t do it. You believe me, right?”

He was looking at the detective with those same dark, pleading eyes that he’d had thirteen years ago, the first time they had been in an interrogation room together.

The first time the little rat had called him Carl and never let that nickname go.

“I believe you,” he nodded, his voice almost as quiet as the boy’s. “But you have to tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“We have a witness, Ty.”

“You didn’t put me in a line-up.”

“Do I have to?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Damn it, Ty!” Lassiter shouted, his fist coming down on the table so hard it made both of them blink. “I’m trying to help! You’re a suspect in a murder! If you know something, you have to tell me!”

Ty’s black eyes hardened as he settled back in his chair, his jaw tightening. “I can’t tell you, Carl. I can’t tell you anything.”

Lassiter sat slumped over his desk, trying to fill out his backlog of paper work.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t bug him.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter.

But he was lying, and he damn well knew it.

It mattered.

For thirteen years, he had been the only person Ty confided in. He had been the only person who had always backed him up. He’d even gotten the little rat out of his fair share of scrapes…so why was he stonewalling him now?

What the hell was going on?

Lassiter hadn’t watched the rest of the interrogation after he left the room, but he had heard McNab and the Chief talking.

They had his fingerprints at the scene now, on the dumpster and on the knife.

There was question he was there.

He was hiding something, something he wouldn’t even tell Lassiter.

After thirteen years, he still just saw the detective as another cop.

Lassiter looked up as a young woman slipped silently into the chair across the desk from him. She was short, just a few inches over five feet. Her hair was short and some color Lassiter couldn’t identify exactly, but his best guess was a combination of pink and orange.

Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t natural.

“Are you Carl?” she asked quietly, leaning over the desk, her earnest brown eyes locking with his.

“I’m Detective Lassiter,” he corrected her, sitting up straighter. “How can I--?”

“Did they arrest Benji yet?” she pressed on, not letting him get a sentence out. “I know he’s here. He used his phone call to call me…did they arrest him?”

Lassiter’s eyebrows shot up as he surveyed the woman in front of him. “Not yet,” he answered finally, measuring each word carefully. “Who are you?”

“He didn’t mention me,” the woman laughed, rolling her eyes. “Of course not.”

“You’re not answering me, either,” Lassiter pointed out, his voice sharper than it normally would have been.

She nodded evenly, her laughter fading. “Sorry.” She reached across the desk, shaking his hand firmly. “Alexis.”

“Alexis?” He repeated, not quite sure if he was curious or scornful.

“I think that’s what I said,” she returned without batting an eyelash.

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t like her already.

“Fine. Alexis. Ty called you?” he demanded. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, her fingers drumming nervously on the desk. “We’ve been dating…kind of…we’re not, like, exclusive or anything…I don’t even know if you could really call it dating.” She sighed, slicing her hand through the air. “Whatever it is, we’ve been doing it for a few months. He really didn’t mention me? He talks about you all the time.”

“He didn’t mention you,” Lassiter reiterated. “Why are you here?”

“Because he didn’t do it. He told me you think he killed some guy--”

“I don’t think he killed anyone,” Lassiter corrected her sharply. “But I wouldn’t know, would I? He’s not telling me a damn thing. What’d he tell you?”

“That he didn’t do it. That’s all he’d say…he just kept saying it over and over. He’s scared, Carl.”

“Detective Lassiter.”

“Sorry. Detective.” She looked up at him again, her brown eyes brimming with determination. “He didn’t do it, Detective. He couldn’t have. He was with me.”

Lassiter blinked in surprise, but she pressed on before he could say anything.

“All night,” she added firmly. “We were at my apartment, and he didn’t leave once.”

Lassiter leaned back in his chair, leveling a skeptical glare at the girl.

She was lying.

Over twenty years on the force had given him a sharp, accurate lie detector implanted in his brain.

“He was with you?” he repeated, linking his fingers behind his head. “All night?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “All night.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that?” Lassiter demanded. “Or the Chief? Or anyone? If he has an alibi, why wouldn’t he tell anyone?”

“I don’t know,” she matched his glare with her own. “Maybe he was trying to protect me. Maybe he didn’t want to get me involved. But I’m telling the truth.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!”

“Look,” Lassiter sighed, leaning over the desk. “You don’t think I thought about making up some bullshit story to protect the little rat, too? If it would do him any good--”

“It’ll keep him out of jail!” Alexis shot back.

“No, it won’t,” Lassiter informed her, his voice a low growl. “Listen. If you go in there and tell them he was with you, they’re going to check it out. They’re going to find out you’re lying. And when they do, it’s going to look worse for him. He’s in deep enough as it is right now. He doesn’t need more lies. He needs to start telling the damn truth.”

She sat up straight, all her muscles going rigid as her eyes narrowed at the detective. “Then, make him tell the truth.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” Lassiter shouted. “I tried! He won’t talk to me! I’m doing everything I can!”

“Really?” she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because right now, it looks like you’re sitting on your ass.”

Lassiter groaned, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I know.”

“We  have to help him, Carl. Detective.”

Lassiter looked up. “We?”

She nodded firmly. “I’m not leaving.”

“Detective,” Chief Vick spoke up, approaching the desk without acknowledging the girl sitting on the other side. “I need to talk to you.”

Lassiter stood up, glaring at Alexis warningly. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not stupid,” she shot back.

“Then, your hairdresser is,” Lassiter snapped. “Just stay put. And don’t even think about coming up without another story.”

Before Alexis could respond, he had stalked away into Vick’s office.

Vick shut the door behind them, clearing her throat carefully as she crossed to her desk and slowly took a seat behind it. “He’s not leaving me with a choice, Detective,” she spoke softly. “We got a hit on the vic’s prints. His name’s Raymond Carbone. He has priors. A lot of them, mostly for assault and racketeering.”

“What the hell would Ty be doing mixed up with scum like that?” Lassiter demanded.

“I don’t know,” Vick shook her head. “He still isn’t talking about it. But we have his prints at the scene now, too. He doesn’t have an alibi…I don’t have a choice, Carlton. I have to arrest Benji. I wanted to tell you first.”

“You can’t--!”

“I don’t have a choice.” She repeated the words more firmly the second time.

As if that made it okay.

As if somehow those words absolved her, absolved all of them.

Lassiter wasn’t looking for absolution.

He spun on his heel and was out the office door in less than a heartbeat, but it was too late.

Juliet was already bringing Ty out of the interrogation room, handcuffed.

His dark, hard eyes met Lassiter’s as the detective came out of the Chief’s office. Neither man spoke.

There weren’t any words.

For the first time in thirteen years, there was a wall of secrecy between them.

Finally, Ty looked down at his feet, avoiding the gaze.

From Lassiter’s desk, Alexis saw them. She stood up, air trapping in her lungs as she tried to exhale.

“Benji,” she called, dashing the entire distance of the precinct in the span of time it took Lassiter to take a single step, stopping less than a foot away from the handcuffed man. “Bejni, I told them you were with me.”

Ty looked up at her, a grin flitting across his pale face. “I told you. Carl’s too good a cop to believe that. Aren’t you, Carl?” The words were spoken without his eyes ever leaving the girl.

Lassiter just shook his head at first, then finally realized Ty still wasn’t looking at him.

“No,” he spoke gruffly. “I didn’t buy it.”

Finally, Ty’s eyes shifted to Lassiter, their dark depths so opaque Lassiter wasn’t even sure he was looking at Ty.

If Lassiter wasn’t searching for absolution, Ty certainly wasn’t offering it.

“I didn’t tell her to lie, Carl. I’m not lying to you. I didn’t do it.”

“I know,” Lassiter confirmed, his tone frosting over before it revealed anything. “I’m working on it.”

“I know,” Ty nodded.

“Come on, Benji,” Juliet spoke up gently, nudging him forward. “I have to take you to booking.”

Ty didn’t protest or fight it. He just nodded and focused his eyes straight ahead and marched towards booking.

*                            *                                              *                                  *

“I told you I’m not leaving,” Alexis told Lassiter as they both stepped out of his car.

“I know,” Lassiter grunted, rolling his eyes as he tried to stave off the familiar headache of listening to a moron prattle on.

“Then, why are we at a psychic’s office?” she demanded, following him up the sidewalk and into the Psych building.

“Because if Ty’s not going to help, we need someone who can get into his head,” Lassiter explained, not about to tell her the truth.

Spencer was a damn good distraction, and he wasn’t about to be followed around by a kid while he tried to figure all this out.

Shawn was sitting behind his desk as the detective and the girl walked in. He looked up at Lassiter, blinking in surprise.

“Lassie!” he grinned, casting a glance at Alexis. “Is this your girlfriend? Isn’t she a little young for you? Will she even be able to drink at your wedding? Or buy a lottery ticket?”

“Ew!” Alexis gagged dramatically. “Do you seriously think I’d date him?”

“No one’s dating me!” Lassiter shouted, suddenly regretting his decision to recruit Spencer as a decoy.

“Maybe that’s because of all the shouting,” Shawn suggested helpfully. “A smile goes a long way.”

Lassiter scowled as he stomped across the room, jerking Shawn out of the chair by the shoulder and dragging him to the corner of the room where Alexis wouldn’t be able to hear them. “I’m not here for your smart-ass remarks,” he growled in a low voice. “I need you to babysit Ty’s girlfriend while I look into the murder. Keep her the hell out of my hair.”

“Girlfriend?” Shawn beamed, shaking the detective’s grip off his shoulder as he crossed the room back to Alexis. “So, our little Benjistein finally found someone.”

“Benjistein?” Alexis snorted. “Does he seriously let you call him that?”

“We have an understanding,” Shawn assured her. “We go way back. I’m kind of like his mentor…a father-figure, if you will. I knew the big dog back when he was a puppy. I took that puppy, molded him, shaped him…taught him not to piddle on the carpet. Now, he’s a full grown Benji dog. He must have mentioned me. Spencer. Shawn Spencer.”

“He never mentioned you,” Alexis told him.

Shawn was devastated. “Never?” he scoffed. “Maybe not by my slave name. He may have called me Captain Amazing.”

“He didn’t,” she assured him.

Shawn sighed, shaking his head. “And I got him chew toys for Christmas.”

“If you’re such a good friend,” she challenged, her eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t you help me prove he’s innocent?”

“I was waiting for the call,” Shawn shrugged. “When Lassie needs my help, he likes to use the psychic signal. It’s like the bat signal, only instead of the bat logo the light projects my third grade school picture.”

“Why your third grade school picture?” Alexis asked.

“Have you ever seen my third grade picture?” Shawn asked. “I was adorable. My hair was never better. The perfect combination of body and natural highlights.”

“Well, the light’s flahing now,” Alexis informed him, jabbing her finger at his chest. “If we’re going to clear Benji’s name, we need all the help we can get.”

“Wait a minute!” Lassiter spoke up, suddenly realizing his plan was going horribly awry. “I didn’t mean--!”

“I’m there,” Shawn agreed, cutting the detective off. He and Alexis were already on their way out the door. “You can drive, Lassie,” he added over his shoulder.

Lassiter groaned, but it was too late.

Now instead of one idiot on his hands, he had two.

“When will I learn?” he growled, stomping out the door. “You don’t fight morons with morons.”