Cunning. Guile. Stealth. Machiavellian.

Terms in no way used in reference to her person. By anyone.

The station at large had dubbed her the nice one, only just above McNabb in regards to her fiercesome factor and right below the newest departmental K9 recruit. Who just so happened to be all of three months old.

Her partner, now in the eyes of their coworkers that was another kettle of mackerel entirely. Carlton Lassiter on a tear ranked far above your average serial killer and somewhere just skirting the same level as Satan. Rookies had set up her shrine, readied the paperwork for canonization and sainthood after her second full week at his side. Of course, they also whispered the fact she was young, blonde, and pert in all the right places didn’t hurt her chances for retaining life and limb under his tutelage.

Lassiter had apparently gone through partners like some guys went through six packs, without mercy and tossing their empty husks to the side while popping into the next.

Lucinda had been a record of sorts, the longest trial run at true partnership the detective had managed in ages; cocking it up by bedding her was still a rather sore subject for the fellow, Juliet knew as much from the one and only time she’d been brave enough to broach the implications of interoffice romance.

Which was why she knew she had to very delicate and roundabout when inviting Carlton to her home to check out her bed.

She didn’t want him to read anything into the request, didn’t want him to show up with a bottle of ripple and a smile at her front stoop and little else save a wide variety of prophylactic party favors. Not that she really expected that, but still, she had to work with him, spend an inordinate amount of time locked in close quarters. They weren’t even comfortable enough to belch around the other yet, something she well knew from prior coworkers to be the first steps of loosening up on long boring stakeouts and letting human nature win over society and propriety. And Lassiter, poor Lassiter of the never ending separation and divorce, who knew what a guy in a sinking marriage might stoop to when presented a rather comely offer to test drive a new mattress?

But this roundabout, cunning method to her plan was getting downright tiresome. Particularly to her poor beleaguered neck muscles. As cute as a button in the showroom, a designer’s dream in her living room, her sofa wasn’t made to accommodate a prone body larger than a four year old’s. And she was beyond tired of cramming her rather petite yet adult frame on it night after night. Not weary enough to subject herself once more to the plethora of suggestive and downright vulgar responses she’d endured cold calling handymen from the yellow pages, but another week and she’d revisit the issue, harassment be damned.

She’d nearly reached that point when an off hand phrase tumbled from Lassiter’s lips like manna from heaven. “Finally managed to pry my power tools from my wife’s talons.”

It was just chatter really, a quick reply to how he’d spent his weekend off. But she saw her meager opening and pounced. “Power tools? Huh.”

“Huh?” Lassiter repeated, gaze swinging up from the messages littering his desk to skewer her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ah, nothing. You just don’t seem the handyman type.”

“Don’t seem the handyman type? What type do I seem to you, O’Hara?” Voice modulated slightly higher on the indignant register.

“The dial a handyman type.” Carlton’s look more glaring than a neon sign, she had him hook, line, and sinker. Now all was left was reeling the poor fellow in. “Nothing wrong with that, mind you. Just some days, well, you have a hard enough time juggling your morning coffee and paperwork. The idea of a power nail gun in your hands…. Scary.”

“I’ll have you know, O’Hara, when I’m awake, properly caffeinated, and free of the lurking terror of a Spencer appearance, I’m a master craftsman.”

“If you say so….”

“I am, O’Hara. Worked my way through college doing summer construction.”

“That’s more toting things though, isn’t it? No real skills involved.”

“What do you want, a hand’s on demonstration?”

“Carlton, please, okay, you can swing a hammer. I believe you. Happy?”

“No, O’Hara, and I don’t appreciate that condescending tone.”

“Tone, what tone? You’re the epitome of Mr. Fix-It.”

“I am,” low, last word and all, Carlton slunk back toward his desk.

Nearly in the boat…. “Prove it.”

The rookie passing by flinched as if expecting to be struck Lassiter pivoted so sharply back in her direction. “Never, ever challenge a Lassiter, O’Hara….”

Devilish gleam in his eyes, she should’ve backed down there and then, or better yet, asked Carlton to meet the chauvinistic carpenters she’d hired (prior to their supposed little showdown, of course) at her door. But a challenged Lassiter was also a damned persistent Lassiter.

Which explained why their next work free day kicked off with him at her doorway and she of the bedhead and bunny slippers blinking myopically at daylight. “It’s morning, Carlton.”

“It’s nine, O’Hara. Daylight’s burning. Actually, I’ve been sitting in your drive for half an hour, waiting for some signs of life in your little tomb, but your neighbor was starting to look ready to call 911 so….”

Ah, yeah, Mrs. Jawaroski. Old bat. “Hello, ma’am,” Juliet called, massive fake smile stretching her features to the point of cheeks twinging in protest. “Nosy old wretch,” she finished, cheery little wave pantomimed as the busybody no doubt called every person on the block to report the hussy was entertaining visitors again. Cause yeah, all the best whores saw clients decked out in Hello Kitty pjs.

She managed to operate the door pretty well in her sleep-deprived, caffeine free state, which might also explain the six or seven stumbling steps before Lassiter’s attire clicked in her brain. Jeans, tee, ratty converse sneakers, and an honest to God tool belt. With nary a hair product in sight. Dear God, he was serious about doing this then?

“Coffee?”

“I really shouldn’t….”

“How many?”

“Three.”

Which might explain the hopping intermittently in those converses just a little more succinctly, but she poured that second cup all the same, counting fingers as precaution as Carlton snatched his drug of choice with more relish than a crackhead offered free rock.

Upon first meeting him, if anyone had told Juliet months later of this scene --- she in sleep clothes, he in ratty work attire, calmly sharing coffee in her kitchen --- she’d have asked what recreational substance they’d smoked, snorted, or tweaked. And the way he was eying her stash of Girl Scout cookies she’d best get him to task ASAP if she had any hopes of retaining her snack food cache. “Uh, c’mon, I’ll direct you to your project.”

Cheeks hot before they’d even passed the threshold, Juliet found herself unable to watch his reaction as the decimated remains of her bed came into view. “Good God, woman. How did you manage that? And if you say Spencer, I’m out of here.”

The swat connected sharply before her mind even analyzed the impulse. “Bat….” low, mumbled, Daredevil couldn’t’ve deciphered that admission.

“Stop with the abuse, O’Hara, and speak up. Unless of course abusing some poor man is how you managed to completely demolish a bed frame. Do I need to keep eyes peeled for any stray riding crops?”

“Carlton!” His mumbled apology was more than a bit transparent what with that wicked little grin fighting to break free. “I was running from a bat.”

Demeanor hardened instantaneously, and Juliet was kinda sad to see mischievous Lassiter overtaken by standard hard-nosed cop Lassiter. “Some maniac was chasing you with a bat?”

Huh? What? Oh, no wonder he looked ready to chew some of those nails squirreled away on his belt. “No, Carlton, a bat. Diseased little rat with wings. I was running to get my baseball bat to nudge it out of the house when the thing swooped down on me. Miscalculated that leap and landed on the bed.”

“And the bed frame landed on the floor. Gotcha.” Lassiter studied the carnage of her antique bedstead before offering up, “You know, it might be cheaper to go with a new one.”

“No! Mr. I’m-a-master-craftsman, I fully expect you to perform a miracle. Besides, it was my great grandmother’s, Carlton. I can’t just toss----”

Hands up in full surrender, he hedged, “Well, I should be able to salvage the head and foot boards. Let’s move your mattresses so I can assess the damage.” Five minutes of silence broken only by grunts and the occasional vulgarity, and when she finally laid eyes on the antique structure, tears prickled hotly. “Definitely looking at a total overhaul of the basic framework. We’re going to need supplies, basic measurements. Go take a shower, and I’ll have your list by the time you’re presentable.”

“Thank y---- presentable? And I’m what now? Quasimodo or something?” Hands on hips, Juliet O’Hara was a fiercesome example of SBPD’s finest at its most indignant.

“Hey, you want to prowl Home Depot in little girl pjs, whatever floats your boat….”

Oh yeah, those…. Damn she had to get some real sleep soon. “Back in twenty, Carlton.” Proper attire in hand, she scurried off to complete morning ablutions. Nineteen minutes later, she met her partner once again, list complete and ready.

Sugar. Eggs. Unless he was constructing Strawberry Shortcake’s boudoir…. “Uh, Carlton?”

“Wood should be delivered in about half an hour.”

“And this list?”

“I’m a cheap handyman, O’Hara, not free. Lunch should cover it. Home cooked, no take-out, no sandwiches, a real full course meal. And chocolate cake. Little advice, Juliet. Next time, ask. You’d have saved on your chiropractic bills alone by just asking. I married a world class example of a manipulative woman. You, partner, are a rank amateur in that department.”

Her little hurmph just about masked it, but Juliet of the sharp ears caught it all the same. “And for that I’m eternally grateful.”