Gus followed. “I told you to stop thinking about her cleavage.”
The judge cleared his throat. “I apologize to the jury for this interruption. Have you reached a verdict?”
As he struggled to free himself from the bailiff’s arm-lock, Shawn saw the jury forewoman stand up again. She raised the verdict form and began to read.
“We have, Your Honor,” she said with a quaver in her voice.
Shawn looked at the forewoman and saw. Saw the savage pen stroke under the verdict that almost tore through the paper. Saw the ring on her finger—a class ring, Santa Barbara High School, class of 1958. Saw the Med Alert bracelet dangling off her wrist—allergic to bee stings. Saw the small smile of triumph on her face as she sneaked a glance at Veronica.
“On the charge of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant—”
“I’m sorry!” Shawn howled. “I’m so sorry I hurt you!”
The judge gaveled again. “Quiet!”
“I’ve been quiet too long,” Shawn said. “I should have spoken up in high school—when I broke your heart.”
“How long does it take to get one guy out of a courtroom?” Coules said.
The bailiff yanked Shawn toward the door. Shawn grabbed on to a bench. “But it was the second time that was unforgivable. After my first wife died, I knew you thought we’d finally be together. But I married this waitress instead.”
The forewoman gasped. The judge glared at her. “Do you know this man?”
“No,” the forewoman said. But her face had gone pale.
The bailiff lifted Shawn off the ground, trying to break his grip on the bench. “And I know you didn’t mean to kill me when you stuck me with the epi-pen you carry in case you’re ever stung by a bee. Just like the one you undoubtedly have in your purse right now.”
“Bailiff, release that man,” the judge said.
The bailiff let go of Shawn, who crashed to the floor.
“You wanted to provoke a minor heart attack so you could save my life and prove that we were meant to be together. But when I died, you knew who was really responsible—it was Veronica, who had weakened my heart with her intense sexuality. Every time I saw her cleavage, it took another year off my life.”
“Enough with the cleavage,” Gus whispered.
“Bailiff, I’d like to see the forewoman’s purse,” the judge said.
The bailiff walked over to the jury box and held out his hand. The forewoman reluctantly gave him her large leather bag.
“And since you knew that Veronica was ultimately to blame for my death, you planted several of your epipens in her belongings so that justice would be done,” Shawn said. “When you were put on this jury, it was like justice itself was congratulating you for a job well-done. When in fact it was probably just a close friend somewhere in the court system.”
A wiry woman in a floral-print dress jumped up from her seat in the back of the galley so fast she nearly knocked over the bench full of spectators. She leveled a shaking forefinger at the forewoman.
“You lied to me!” the woman said. “You told me you just wanted to get on the jury to get a book deal!” Fighting off tears, she ran out of the courtroom. At a signal from one of the prosecutors, a guard went after her.
The judge dug through the forewoman’s purse and came up with a small black cylinder, roughly the size and shape of a ballpoint pen. He held it out to Coules.
“Does this look like the murder weapon to you, Mr. Coules?” he said.
Coules took the epi-pen and stared at it.
A tear ran down the forewoman’s face. “I always loved you, Oliver. And you said you loved me. That night under the bleachers—that’s why I . . . I know you meant it. Wait for me—I’ll join you in the spirit world and we can have eternity together.”
“Bailiff, take this woman into custody,” the judge said. Then he turned back to Coules. “I assume you won’t mind dropping the charges against Mrs. Mason.”
“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said.
The crowd burst into cheers. Veronica leapt up from her seat and hugged her defense attorney. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome . . . I guess,” he said, trying to figure out what had just happened.
Shawn gave a quick shudder as if he’d just woken up from a deep sleep. “Where am I?” he said. “What am I doing here? Why am I lying on the floor?”
Gus helped him back to his feet. “Good plan. Well contingencied,” he whispered as they headed toward the door, fighting their way through a throng of people begging to know who Shawn was. Gus made sure each one of them got a Psych business card.
They finally got into the hallway, where another mob surrounded Veronica Mason. Now that the fear of prison was gone from her face, she was more beautiful than ever. As the crowd swept them past her, Veronica leaned over and whispered in Shawn’s ear.
“Call me,” she said. “I’ve got a birthmark even Oliver didn’t know about.”
And then the crowd swept her down the hallway from them. Shawn watched her go, then turned to Gus with a satisfied smile.
“I think we’ve made a new friend,” Shawn said.
“I think you’ve made a new enemy.”
They turned to see Bert Coules, the DA, looming over them. His fists were clenched, and a vein in his temple throbbed.
“Hey, Bert,” Shawn said. “Good work in there. Think how well it would have gone if you’d tried the right person.”
“She was the right person,” Coules said. “You just let a murderer walk free.”
“The forewoman confessed,” Gus said. “You heard her.”
“I heard a pathetic, lovelorn spinster desperately falling for a con dreamed up by a cheap fake,” Coules said.
“I am not cheap,” Shawn said. “I’m reasonable. Maybe you should try my services next time.”
Coules’ eyeballs looked like they were going to explode out of his head. “No, Mr. Spencer, you are going to try mine,” he said. “Unless you are the most law-abiding person in Santa Barbara County. Because if I discover you’ve committed the tiniest infraction of the smallest regulation, the entire office of the district attorney is going to find a way to make you serve the sentence Veronica Mason should be serving.”
Chapter Three
“Gus, this is just one of those things that no one could have anticipated.” Shawn and Gus trudged along the endless stretch of chain link, heat radiating up from the melting asphalt and burning through the thin leather soles of Gus’ best dress Oxfords.
“No one except a psychic,” Gus said, staring through the metal links at the acres of cars. “Too bad neither of us knows one.”
“Gus, Gus, Gus,” Shawn said, “that would have been a truly cutting comment if I actually believed I had psychic abilities. But since we both know I don’t, you’ve got to dig a little deeper.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Gus said. “Almost as useful as the last bit you gave me.”
“I know you loved that fanny pack, but its day was over.”
“I mean about the street signs,” Gus said. “Specifically about the signs that said, ‘No parking—violators will be towed.’ Specifically that we should ignore the signs because meter maids would never patrol outside the courthouse.”
The day had been going so well. After Shawn’s triumph in the courtroom, they were mobbed by journalists. They spent two hours giving interviews that would lead to tons of free publicity. One of the reporters even asked who Gus was.
But when they finally got outside the courthouse, everything started going downhill. First was the shock of finding an empty curb where Gus’ Echo used to be. And then the greater shock of realizing that the curb wasn’t completely empty. Detective Carlton Lassiter was standing there, a grim look on his face.
That wasn’t the real problem. Detective Carlton Lassiter almost always had a grim look on his face. He was the lead detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, and he took his job every bit as seriously as he to
ok himself. Shawn’s easy attitude toward crime fighting had the same effect on him as a roll in a field of poison oak.
The real problem was that Bert Coules was coming up to Lassiter, and his look was anything but grim.
“Look, Gus, your car finally got its wish,” Shawn said. “It’s been turned into a real boy.”
“Close,” Coules said. “Not the boy part, of course. But the turning into what it’s always wanted to be. In this case, a heap of scrap metal.”
“You can’t,” Gus said. “My car didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It didn’t?” Coules said. “I thought it solved the Oliver Mason murder case and then withheld the identity of the real killer until it could be used to embarrass the entire Santa Barbara DA’s office.”
“My car would never do that,” Gus said.
“Be that as it may,” Lassiter said, “it was parked in a tow-away zone. You left us no choice but to tow it away.”
“Oh, there were other choices,” Coules said. “Personally I favor arresting you both for reckless endangerment. If there was a fire in this courthouse, that car could have been blocking the exits.”
“But it wasn’t!”
“I’d be willing to let a jury make that decision,” Coules said.
Lassiter stepped between them and handed Gus a ticket. “The police felt it was sufficient to write you up for a violation. You can collect your car once you’ve paid the ticket and the towing fee.”
“Better do it fast, though,” Coules said. “Hate to see them crush it for scrap by mistake.”
“Shawn, do something!”
“If we can’t get to a crime scene, how are we going to solve your cases for you, Bert?” Shawn said.
“I meant do something useful,” Gus whispered furiously. “Like apologize.”
“Oh, that,” Shawn said. “Sorry, Bert. I assumed you were capable of prosecuting the right person. I won’t make the same mistake next time.”
Gus groaned. “Please, if you have to punish someone, punish Shawn. The Echo didn’t do anything.”
“Tell it to the boys at the impound lot,” Coules said. “But you’d better start walking if you want to make it before they close. It’s about eight miles from here.”
“Walking?”
“You don’t have a car. And I wouldn’t even think about trying to hitch your way over there.” Coules gave Lassiter a significant look.
Lassiter sighed apologetically. “California Vehicle Code section 21949-21971, article 21957 specifically forbids soliciting a ride from the driver of any vehicle. And while I probably shouldn’t give away department secrets, I believe that all patrol cars have been ordered to step up enforcement of that particular provision today.”
And with one last wave, Coules stepped off the empty curb and headed across the street to the police station. Lassiter stood in the street, uncomfortably trying to decide if he had anything to say. Finally he decided against speech and followed Coules. Gus sank down to the curb.
“You’re not going to let him get you down?” Shawn said.
“I’m not letting him do anything,” Gus said. “He did it all without my permission.”
“He’s hazing us,” Shawn said. “It’s a sign of respect. Welcome to the brotherhood of crime solvers.”
“I hope one of the other brothers has a car, because we don’t have a way to get home.”
“What kind of attitude is that?” Shawn said. “It’s a beautiful day. We’re young, healthy, and strong. And Santa Barbara has been repeatedly voted best pedestrian city in the USA.”
Gus stared up at him. “Are you saying we should walk to the impound lot?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“There’s no point in us both going. So I’ll wait in the coffee place on Anacapa. You know, the one with the waitress you think likes you but who really has a thing for me.”
“My car was towed because of you. You’re going with me to get it back.”
“Okay, okay. But we’re not going to walk. I’ll call my father and ask for a ride.”
Gus sighed, then got wearily to his feet and started walking down the street.
Shawn called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To get your phone. It’s in my glove compartment.”
Those were the last words Gus said to Shawn for eight long miles. Eight long vertical miles up a narrow, twisting road. Because the impound lot lay at the top of a high hill looking out over all of Santa Barbara and the bay.
On a cooler day, Gus might have wondered who would have been crazy enough to build a wrecking yard on a lot that could be developed into multimillion-dollar-view homes. But the heat of the sun made it clear why that had never happened. The canyon directly below the yard was Santa Barbara’s most active landfill, and the stench of rotting garbage made breathing almost impossible.
Now they were finally at the impound yard, and Shawn was still trying to get Gus to respond.
“So you really think this is my fault?” Shawn said. “You’re going to blame me?”
Gus grabbed the fence and pressed his face against the links. Autos stretched out across acres. In the middle of the lot, like the god the cars all worshipped, a yellow crane towered over the car crusher.
Gus searched the lot for a sign of blue.
“No,” Gus said. “I’m going to blame myself. You’ve been taking advantage of me since we were kids. It’s my fault for letting you.”
“Well, as long as you’re not blaming me,” Shawn said.
In the far distance, Gus saw a glint of blue metal. The roof of his Echo seemed to be calling to him for help.
“There it is,” Gus said. “It looks so lonely.”
“It’s got all those other cars to play with,” Shawn said. “It’s probably having a great time—won’t ever want to come home.”
Gus thrust his finger at Shawn’s face. “We’re getting the Echo now.” Without waiting to see if Shawn was following, he turned and marched down the fence toward the impound lot’s entrance.
A small tin building stood at the far end of the fence. A sign on the door designated it as the office, which was helpful since otherwise it might be mistaken for the punishment box at an Alabama prison camp. Gus pushed open the door and was met by a searing blast of hot air.
“Close that damn door,” a voice growled from inside. “You’re letting the air-conditioning out.”
Gus slipped into the shack, Shawn following him before the door could slam shut. As soon as the door closed, the temperature inside seemed to double.
“Now I know what one of those chickens feels like inside the rotisserie,” Shawn said. “I think I’ll wait outside.”
Gus didn’t answer, but the laser beams shooting out of his eyes welded the door shut. Or at least, that was the effect his glare had on Shawn.
“Or I’ll stay here and enjoy the steam,” Shawn said, looking around for a place to sit. Two drooping Formica chairs leaned against one corrugated wall, their molded plastic forms melting out of shape; a low table between them held a copy of Popular Mechanics jauntily promising that mankind would finally walk on the moon within no more than ten years. Across from this luxurious waiting area, its proprietor leaned on a sagging counter covered with dust-crusted plastic signs. At least Gus assumed this was the proprietor—it could have been a ton of potatoes sewn into a filthy jumpsuit.
As Gus and Shawn approached the counter, the potatoes stood up, leaving a man-sized grease mark on the scarred surface. Long hair drizzled from his scalp, tangling into a longer beard.
“Bathrooms are for employees only,” he growled, then settled his bulk down on the counter. “No exceptions.”
“I promise I won’t ask,” Gus said, trying desperately not to imagine what the employee restroom might look like. “I’m looking for car. It’s a blue Echo.”
“License plate?”
Gus pulled out his wallet and slid his vehicle registration across what little part of the count
er wasn’t taken up by the attendant’s forearms. Heaving a sigh deep enough to rearrange most of the smaller spuds in his jumpsuit, the attendant leaned down and pulled a laptop computer out of a drawer, then typed Gus’ information on the keyboard.
“That will be six thousand dollars,” the attendant said.
“Six thousand dollars!” Gus heard the shriek coming out of his mouth before he could close it. “That’s not possible.”
“For that much money, you should just get a new one,” Shawn said.
“That’s a company car, Shawn. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read Page 3