Spencer For Hire

At first Lassiter wondered if the transmitter had broken. He hadn’t heard any conversation for about a minute. And in a situation like this, a minute was a long time. He decided to wait, but each moment that crawled by he was tormented by images of Shawn being hit in the head and strangled. He wanted to move in, but he knew that busting in prematurely could end their only shot at getting Shapiro. Then his radio crackled to life. It was O’Hara.

“Shapiro’s coming out.”

Damn. Something had definitely gone wrong.

“Grab him,” he radioed O’Hara. “I’m going in there.” He headed for the door, not sure what he was going to find and berating himself for having allowed Shawn to put himself in harms way.

Shawn was lying on the sofa only semi conscious. His breathing was shallow, his lips were slightly blue and his pupils were tiny. He was high as a kite, and probably going into overdose.

“Lassie!” Shawn smiled a goofy grin at the detective, who loomed over him. “I knew you’d come.”

Lassiter swore, grabbed Shawn’s arms and pulled him into a sitting position. His skin felt cold and clammy. He pressed two fingers against his jugular; his pulse was too slow. Lassiter pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

Shapiro had set the scene well. He’d left a burnt spoon, lighter, and syringe on the table. If Shawn had been an escort, and this hadn’t been a sting operation, the police probably would have thought exactly what Shapiro had intended them to think. It infuriated Lassiter.

Gus came in through the back door.

“What happened in—“ He froze when he saw Shawn.

“Where’s Shapiro?” Lassiter asked grimly.

“Juliet’s locking him in the squad car,” Gus said, his eyes quickly looking the implements on the table. Suddenly he turned on his heel and bolted from the room, colliding with O’Hara who was just entering.

“What went wrong in here?” she asked, turning briefly to watch Gus running full tilt toward the Psychmobile.

“He’s been doped,” Lassiter said. “Probably heroin. I’ve called the ambulance. Keep an eye on Shapiro and direct the paramedics inside when they show. That sick bastard’s going down for this.” O’Hara left, reluctantly.

Lassiter grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Shawn’s torso. “Stay with me, Shawn. Help’s on the way.” Lassiter hoped it arrived in time. The average ambulance response time for their area was ten minutes. But a heroin overdose could kill a person in under five. Not knowing if Shawn had a tolerance for opioids, Shapiro had probably dosed him pretty heavily. Lassiter was not optimistic.

“I didn’t even see it coming,” Shawn whispered, his voice drowsy.

“You’re going to be okay,” Lassiter said, wishing desperately that he believed what he was saying. “Keep breathing. Keep talking. Uh, tell me about things you like.”

“I like waitresses,” Shawn said.

“Okay.” Lassiter had expected something like pineapples, or 80s movies. “What do you like about them?’ Lassiter wrapped his arms around Shawn, rubbing his twitching muscles through the blanket.

“They bring me food,” Shawn said. “I’ve slept with a lot of waitresses.”

Lassiter laughed, but felt sick inside.

“And more than a few waiters.”

“Oh.” Well, that answers that question about Spencer.

“I don’t care what Gus says.” Shawn lifted an arm free of the blanket and ran it across Lassiter’s cheek. “I like it that you’re a man.”

“That’s, uh, that’s good to know,” Lassiter stammered.

“My feet were always pointed at you, Lassie.” Shawn grabbed him by his tie, pulled him forward, and planted a clumsy kiss on him. His lips were alarmingly cold.

“Lassie?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Lassiter grabbed a waste paper basket and held Shawn forward as he retched into it. He tried not to take it personally. The door burst open and he turned, hoping to see the paramedics, although it was too early for them to have arrived. It was Gus, carrying a handful of something wrapped in plastic.

“Out of my way,” Gus said aggressively.

He grabbed Shawn by his slack jaw and tilted his head up. He ripped open one of the plastic casings and pulled out what looked like a small perfume bottle with a spongy arrowhead top. He shoved the object into Shawn’s nose and squeezed the trigger on it firmly. Nothing happened.

“What are you doing?” Lassiter asked.

“It’s Naloxone,” Gus explained. “It counteracts opioid overdose.”

Lassiter checked Shawn’s pulse and breathing; they were alarmingly slow.

“Well it’s not working,” Lassiter was trying to keep a lid on the panic he was feeling welling up inside him.

“It’s working,” Gus said. “We can dose him again in another two minutes.” Lassiter and Gus sat on the sofa, looking at Shawn. It was the longest two minutes of their lives. Moments after the second dose Shawn took a deep breath and became alert.

“Did we get Shapiro?” Shawn asked.

“Yeah,” Lassiter said, leaning back on the sofa, now physically and emotionally exhausted. “You got him.”

The ambulance arrived.