Ronnie Masters | the MENTALIST (COMPLETE)

A DOZEN RED ROSES : pt I

Note: Ronnie's internalized thoughts, opinions, and reactions do not at all reflect my endorsement of how one might perceive or experience SA. This is a narrative of a flawed and deeply damaged character, not a politicized message on events that actually happen.

WE'RE ALMOST DONE WITH THIS BOOK! I can't believe it. Obviously I'll start up season two as well, but there will be a small break since I have other projects I want to work on before starting the next season. I have a Primeval story next and part of me has been dying to attempt a (don't laugh) Supernatural x Gilmore Girls fic but holy cannoli that would be a monster.

Alsooooo we have been #1 in KIMBALLCHO rating for WEEKS, thank you all so much for the engagement! We've come back around to #1 in TERESALISBON, too. Thank you guys so much. I can't believe how great you are.

Charlie Chaplin and Marilyn Monroe found the body of Felix Hansen, shot to death, in an alley on Hollywood Boulevard. Six-year California state Representative, Hansen was a frontrunner in the fight against the drug trade in public campaigns for years, and evidently had a number of enemies. He was found without a set of car keys and no valet ticket in the depths of Hollywood, where nobody ever walked.

"So, you didn't hear anything unusual?" Cho got the lucky job of interviewing Marylin and Charlie while the others checked out the body.

It had been five days since Ronnie had been abducted by Shiralai Arlov, and so far the only leads the CBI had gotten was the recovery of the car that had been driven to grab her before they swapped vehicles. Arlov's mob and diplomatic connections had kept him well under the radar with a state agent for nearly a week.

Cho's capacity to effectively do his job had become limited. Short of temper, quick to enraged outbursts, all due to the prolonged disappearance of his partner who was almost certainly being tortured. She would be punished for Vanya Arlov's death, she would be punished for humiliating Arlov in front of his men and his guests over the Moro. His dreams were filled with the possibilities of the hell she must be stuck in.

He scribbled the irrelevant details that Charlie and Marilyn had provided so far into his little flipbook. "And where were you going when you found the victim?" The past few days of picking up a case here and there had him working on autopilot. The basic interview questions were textbook, his focus almost completely removed from the witnesses and suspects he'd had to confront.

Rigsby had been forced to step up more than usual to cover the more sensitive details of the cases and let Cho worry about the data processing. For the most part, all he had to do was file things and type up reports following every turn in each case.

He didn't care.

At the new line of questioning, Charlie pointed a finger at himself, appalled. "I don't speak." His face paint had cracked and flaked off in patches, and his gelled hair had fallen around his face in greasy clumps around the sides of his bowler hat.

"In the movies, no. But here in the real world, you speak." Cho returned impatiently. "You just did."

"I'm saying nothing more." The entertainer stated angrily. "Five hours we've been here."

Marilyn, an anxious, pouty woman in cheap costume, butted in, flustered. "For the umpteenth time, I was going home from work. Victor was walking me to my car." She gestured to Charlie.

"And what is your work?" Cho asked, not looking up from his scribbling pen.

She stared at him in disbelief, arms extended to indicate her white sixties-style dress and butter-blonde wig. "I'm Marilyn."

Finally looking up to take her in with an almost distasteful expression, the perturbed CBI agent was not impressed in the slightest. "How is that your work?"