Chapter 21: December Begins
December 1, 2008 - Morning - CBI Headquarters
My phone buzzed at nine AM.
Lorelei: First shift starting. Twelve residents currently, Director Marsh is giving orientation. Will update in two hours.
Me: Be safe. Call if anything feels wrong.
Lorelei: Always.
I set the phone face-down on my desk, but my eyes kept drifting back to it. Lorelei was inside Safe Harbor—Red John's probable hunting ground—asking questions, building relationships, getting close to people who might have information about Miranda's murder.
And I was sitting at CBI headquarters, pretending everything was normal.
"You're distracted."
Jane stood beside my desk, coffee in hand, studying me with uncomfortable intensity.
"Just thinking about a case," I said.
"No, you're not. You're worried about your girlfriend." He sat in Rigsby's empty chair, spinning it to face me directly. "She's doing something dangerous, isn't she? Related to her sister's murder."
The accuracy was unsettling. "Jane—"
"I'm not going to pry. But if you need backup, if this investigation becomes something that requires... resources, you know where to find me."
[ **ANALYZING: PATRICK JANE** ]
[ **GENUINE CONCERN: 87%** ]
[ **OFFERING PARTNERSHIP WITHOUT DEMANDS** ]
[ **TRUST BUILDING: ACTIVE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 70/100** ]
"He's offering help. No strings, no interrogation. Just... partnership."
"Thank you," I said quietly. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Do." He stood, heading back to his couch. "Dangerous investigations are easier with friends."
December 3, 2008 - Afternoon - Crime Scene
The holiday decorations made everything worse.
Christmas lights strung across the living room, tree in the corner with presents underneath, family photos on the mantel showing happier times. And in the middle of it all, Robert Sinclair lay dead on his expensive carpet, blood pooling around the knife wound in his chest.
The family gathered in the kitchen—wife, three adult children, assorted spouses. Early Christmas celebration turned nightmare. Everyone had motive, opportunity, and the kind of dysfunction that made family gatherings dangerous.
Jane walked through the scene like he was shopping for furniture, touching nothing, seeing everything. But something was off. His movements were mechanical, focus fractured. He kept glancing at the Christmas tree, expression distant.
"Holidays remind him of his family. His dead wife and daughter."
Lisbon noticed too. She pulled me aside while forensics processed the scene.
"Jane's not himself today," she said quietly. "Can you take lead on witness interviews?"
"Of course."
I spent the next four hours interrogating family members. The Profile Generator and Lie Probability Gauge worked overtime, analyzing every statement, every micro-expression.
[ **ANALYZING: MICHAEL SINCLAIR (NEPHEW)** ]
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 89% - HIGH DECEPTION** ]
[ **STRESS MARKERS: EXTREME** ]
[ **GUILT COMPLEX: PRESENT** ]
[ **FINANCIAL MOTIVE: DETECTED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 66/100** ]
Michael cracked after two hours. Gambling debts, desperate need for inheritance money, argument with his uncle that escalated to violence. Standard murder, tragic outcome.
By the time we returned to headquarters, Jane had recovered some composure. He approached my desk, expression grateful.
"Thank you for carrying me today," he said.
"You'd do the same."
"I would. But it doesn't make your effort less meaningful." He paused. "December is difficult. Christmas especially. My daughter loved Christmas."
The admission was rare, vulnerable. Jane rarely discussed his family except in abstract terms—"my wife," "my daughter," never names or specific memories.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be. Just... thank you for being here when I needed backup."
Lisbon watched from her office, expression thoughtful. After Jane returned to his couch, she called me in.
"You two balance each other," she said, leaning against her desk. "When he's off, you compensate. When you have those migraines, he picks up slack. That's what good partnerships look like."
"We work well together."
"You do. Which is why I'm making it official—you and Jane are primary partners on major cases starting January. Rigsby and Cho will work together, Van Pelt floats between teams."
The promotion wasn't dramatic, but it mattered. Official partnership with Patrick Jane meant recognition, trust, and increased responsibility.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me. You earned it." She smiled. "Now go home. Your girlfriend's probably wondering where you are."
December 5, 2008 - Evening - Tedd's Apartment
Lorelei arrived at seven with Thai food and updates.
"Safe Harbor's interesting," she said, unpacking containers on my kitchen counter. "Patricia runs it tight—strict rules, careful screening, good security. But there's something underneath. Like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Waiting how?"
"Paranoid. She checks cameras constantly, asks volunteers about anything unusual they notice. More than normal shelter vigilance."
The System tracked her observations, building profile data.
[ **ANALYZING: PATRICIA MARSH BEHAVIORAL PATTERN** ]
[ **ANXIETY MARKERS: HIGH** ]
[ **POSSIBLE AWARENESS OF THREAT** ]
[ **RECOMMEND: FURTHER OBSERVATION** ]
[ **ENERGY: 64/100** ]
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Yeah. There's a consultant who visits sometimes. Dr. something. Patricia mentioned he helps with 'difficult cases'—residents with severe trauma, complicated situations."
My instincts triggered immediately. Red John was known for inserting himself into investigations, victim services, places where he could access vulnerable people while appearing helpful.
"A consultant. Someone with access to residents, trusted by staff, invisible in his legitimacy."
"Did she give a name?" I asked carefully.
"Not yet. Just said he's been helping the shelter for years. Very respected, volunteers his time." Lorelei set down her pad thai. "Why? You think it's important?"
"Could be. Predators often insert themselves into victim services. Appear helpful while selecting targets."
Her expression shifted—concern mixing with determination. "I'll get more information. Name, credentials, schedule."
"Be subtle. Don't make Patricia suspicious."
"I know how to be subtle."
We ate in comfortable silence, the investigation's weight settling over us like fog. Lorelei was inside Red John's hunting ground, asking questions, getting close to people who might be dangerous.
And I was stuck outside, relying on her reports, trusting her instincts.
The System provided updates without prompting.
[ **SAFE HARBOR INVESTIGATION: PROGRESSING** ]
[ **NEW LEAD: SHELTER CONSULTANT** ]
[ **IDENTITY: UNKNOWN** ]
[ **PRIORITY: HIGH** ]
[ **RECOMMEND: BACKGROUND VERIFICATION** ]
[ **ENERGY: 62/100** ]
After dinner, I pulled up CBI databases. Searched for consultants connected to Sacramento women's shelters in the early 2000s. Dozens of names appeared—psychologists, social workers, volunteer coordinators. Without more specific information, the lead was too vague to pursue.
My phone buzzed. Text from Lorelei, already home.
Lorelei: Will ask Patricia about the consultant tomorrow. Casually.
Me: Be careful around him if you meet him. Get a name, but don't push.
Lorelei: Always careful. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I stared at the screen long after the conversation ended. Something about the mysterious consultant felt significant—instinct screaming that this was important, that we were close to something real.
But instinct without evidence was just paranoia.
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