Lassiter let out a huge sigh of relief, sinking back onto the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to get a hold of himself and his sudden bout of worries. "O'Hara. It's Carlton Lassiter." No one's voice had ever sounded so wonderful and ... and what? He dropped his hand into his lap and frowned into the phone. "Here? Where's here? Where are you?"
Speaking of which, where the hell was he? He glanced around the room again, trying to piece together the events of last night as if that would explain how he had gotten into some stranger's room. He couldn't think of anything logical. Unless he had been drugged. Lassiter checked his clothes and cringed again when he realized they were not his own. Crap. He had to have been drugged. There was no other logical explanation for this. Not even in the slightest. This wasn't his house and these weren't his clothes and that wasn't his coffee mug sitting on the night stand.
At least it had a shamrock on it though. That was some consolation. Lassiter scratched the side of his head. "O'Hara, listen. I have no idea whose house I'm in. I'm gonna be late to work." If he could get to work. What if this was some weird dream and he had taken somebody else's life? Oh no, what if it was worse? What if that other life, of him as head detective, what if THAT had been the dream? Lassiter groaned and fall to his back on the bed. "Do we have any cases?" Maybe that could get his mind off this horrible ... mess.