Psych: Mind Over Magic p-2

by William Rabkin

  O’Hara positioned herself between the tank and the forklift. “Not until I see some identification.”

  Major Voges reached into her purse. Gus half expected her to come out with a bazooka. Instead, she produced a slim black wallet. She flipped it open and handed it over.

  O’Hara stared at the ID in disbelief. “Federal Communications Commission?”

  “That’s what the badge says,” Voges said calmly. “Specifically the Office of Engineering and Technology, Equipment Authorization Branch.”

  “What possible jurisdiction does the FCC have in a murder case?” O’Hara demanded.

  “Absolutely none at all.” Voges’ eyes never strayed from O’Hara’s face.

  “Let me rephrase that,” O’Hara said with a calm that Gus knew cloaked anger rising toward rage. “What authority does the FCC have to preempt any local law enforcement activity that does not directly relate to issues of communications?”

  “Again,” Voges said, “absolutely none at all.”

  “Then maybe you could give me one good reason why I shouldn’t impound your forklift and throw all four of you in jail for obstructing justice.”

  “No,” Voges said. “I can’t do that.”

  O’Hara glanced back at her partner to see if he was going to step in. But Lassiter was staring at the major in unabashed awe. “Detective Lassiter,” she hissed, “we have a situation here.”

  “We do,” Lassiter said. “And that’s why we should back off and let the major do what she needs.”

  O’Hara pulled her partner off to one side and whispered furiously at him. “This woman has no jurisdiction here. She’s some low-level functionary in a bureaucratic division that has nothing to do with any crime more serious than stealing cable signals. How can you possibly suggest that we back off?”

  “For exactly that reason,” Lassiter said.

  “For exactly what reason?”

  Lassiter held up one finger to suggest she watch and learn, then stepped back to the major. “Explain one thing to my partner, please,” he said. “Why exactly would a bureaucrat from the Federal Communications Commission be involved in a murder investigation?”

  “There is absolutely no reason,” Voges snapped.

  O’Hara let out a sigh that could be heard in Bakers-field. Lassiter shot her a look, then continued. “So if an operative from the FCC were to appear at a crime scene in California with three agents at her side and order the local police to stand down, would it be a logical assumption that her job title is actually cover for a different government position? Something that could not be discussed in the open without jeopardizing national security?”

  “You might suggest that,” Voges said. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  Lassiter cast a quick look back to make sure O’Hara was following him. She seemed to be, but she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

  “We won’t ask you to,” Lassiter said. “But I hope you understand that without some clarification of the issues involved here, we can’t simply walk away from our own investigation. You need to meet us halfway.”

  Voges looked him over with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d just discovered that the stray cat she was petting had a wide white stripe down its back. Then she snapped her finger and waved at the agent driving the forklift. It lurched into gear and headed straight for the tank.

  Before the prongs could touch steel, O’Hara leapt across the room and positioned herself directly in front of the tank. There was no way to pick it up without crushing her.

  “I advise you to move, Detective,” Major Voges hissed.

  “I advise you not to tamper with my crime scene.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like Guantanamo Bay,” Voges said. “Especially with multiple broken bones. The medical care there really doesn’t live up to its reputation.”

  O’Hara didn’t move. The forklift crawled closer.

  “Detective O’Hara, stand down!” Lassiter said.

  She didn’t move. The forklift was inches away, the prongs already surrounding her. The yellow steel of the lift touched her chest and pushed her back against the tank. O’Hara reached into her purse and pulled out her gun, leveling it at the forklift driver’s forehead.

  Lassiter cursed under his breath. The situation was going to hell. But his partner had made a move, and he had to back her up. He yanked out his gun, but by the time he had it aimed at the major, she was already leveling an automatic pistol at him.

  “Let’s stay calm here,” Lassiter commanded. His gun shifted between the major and her two agents.

  “Drop the weapon, Detective,” Major Voges said, a dangerous edge in her voice.

  “You first,” Lassiter said.

  “And back this thing away from me,” O’Hara said to the driver, “or you’ll be driving a forklift in hell.”

  “I said stand down, Detective!” Lassiter shouted.

  “When they do,” O’Hara said calmly, or as calmly as she could with all the air pressed out of her lungs.

  Across the stage, Gus and Shawn watched in horror. Well, Gus watched in horror. Shawn was mostly just watching.

  “We’ve got to do something,” Gus said.

  “Before we find out who’s going to win?” Shawn said.

  “Between Detective O’Hara and eight thousand pounds of solid steel?”

  “The major can’t weigh that much, even if she is made of metal,” Shawn said. “And even if she does, I put ten bucks on Jules.”

  “They’re not going to start mud wrestling, Shawn,” Gus said. “This army woman is crazy.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Shawn said. “This retired army woman is crazy.”

  “You have to do something.”

  Detective O’Hara’s breath was coming in short gasps as the forklift compressed her ribs into her lungs. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Shawn shrugged. Then he looked over at the major. And he saw. Saw the American Airlines ticket peeking up out of her bag, the letter d at the top. Saw a small stripe of blue ink protruding from the sleeve of one of her agents. Saw the bright white lip on the tan face of the forklift operator.

  Shawn pressed his fingertips to his temples and let out a howl. “My molecules!” he moaned. “Bring them back! Bring back my molecules!”

  Startled, the forklift driver took his foot off the pedal, and the machine stopped moving forward. O’Hara released the pressure on the trigger. Major Voges wheeled toward Shawn, aiming her gun at him. “What the hell is that?” she snapped.

  “My guess is it’s a call from beyond,” Gus said. “It’s a psychic signal direct from P’tol P’kah.”

  “He’s a local crank, and that’s the junior crank,” Lassiter said. “Ignore them.”

  “Yes,” O’Hara wheezed. “Ignore them-at your peril. Shawn Spencer is Santa Barbara’s premier psychic detective.”

  “And after you’re done with him, I’ll take you to meet Santa Barbara’s premier homeless guy,” Lassiter said, keeping his gun trained on Voges’ agents. “I think we can resolve our differences here between law enforcement professionals.”

  “Is that before or after you’re all dead?” Gus said.

  “My molecules are flying across the country,” Shawn said. “We need to stop them. We need to catch them. I need my molecules back.”

  “I’m ordering you to remain silent,” Voges said to Shawn.

  “And so am I,” Lassiter said.

  “Can’t stay silent,” Shawn howled. “Must tell the entire country to look out for my molecules. Alert the entire population to watch for them. Got to tell the press the entire story… every bit of it.”

  Major Voges glared at Shawn. “This is an issue of national security. It must not be reported.”

  “No one is going to interfere with national security,” Lassiter said.

  “Must tell the whole country,” Shawn moaned. “Starting in Washington DC. I think a lot of my molecules are there right now.”

  “If you
want him to shut up you’d better get a court order fast,” O’Hara gasped. “But you’d better choose the right judge, because there aren’t a lot who will grant an order of prior restraint.”

  “Or maybe we can all just work something out right here,” Gus said quickly. “Releasing Detective O’Hara would be a good first step.”

  Voges turned her glare on Gus for a moment, then signaled the forklift driver, who backed off. O’Hara took a deep breath of air into her lungs, held it for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

  “This must not go public,” Voges said. “I can’t explain the reasons, but this must remain secret.”

  The major slipped her gun back into her purse. After a moment, Lassiter reholstered his.

  “All we want to do is solve a murder,” O’Hara said, still breathing heavily. “You stand out of our way; we’ll stand out of yours.”

  “I cannot let you examine this device,” Voges said.

  “And we can’t let you take it back to Washington until we do,” O’Hara said.

  “Kids, kids.” Shawn strolled over to the two women and put his face between theirs. “Didn’t Mommy and Daddy ever teach you anything about sharing? If you can’t play nicely together with your toys, then Mommy and Daddy have to take them away until you can.”

  “Get back, Shawn,” O’Hara said.

  “He’s right,” Lassiter said, although the look on his face suggested that it was painful for him to do so.

  “Detective Lassiter!” O’Hara warned from between clenched teeth.

  “We have a standoff here, Detective,” Lassiter said. “And it’s not going to be settled at our pay grade. We need to back off and let our superiors work this out.”

  “And until then?” O’Hara said.

  “We put the seal back in place,” Lassiter said. “And we’ll put a guard on the place.”

  “Like I’m going to trust some Santa Barbara police officer to keep you out,” Voges said.

  “About as much as I’m going to trust one of your goons,” O’Hara said.

  “We’ll each put a guard outside the door,” Lassiter said. “They can watch each other.”

  O’Hara and Voges considered it, and then both took a step back. Shawn clapped Lassiter on the back.

  “Nice job, Lassie,” Shawn said. “We make a pretty good team. If that multiplex gig doesn’t work out, you’ve always got a place at Psych.”

  “Get away from me, Spencer,” Lassiter said.

  “I will,” Shawn said. “But don’t you think you ought to mention the morgue?”

  “The morgue?”

  “You know, the place where they keep the bodies?” Shawn said. “The ones you might want to investigate later?”

  Lassiter thought this over, then turned back to Voges. “Do we need to post guards at the morgue as well?”

  “Only if you plan to keep me from taking the body back to DC,” she said.

  “Then it’s done,” Lassiter said.

  Major Voges snapped her fingers and her three agents retreated to the doors, slipping through without ever turning their backs to the tank.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting her get away with this,” O’Hara hissed to Lassiter. “You were willing to throw away your career for a look at that tank.”

  “My career, yes,” Lassiter said. “But not my nation’s safety.”

  “She works for the FCC,” O’Hara said. “She’s in the equipment authorization department. She probably spends her days testing TV remotes to see if they cause carpal tunnel syndrome.”

  “James Bond officially worked for Universal Exports Ltd.,” Lassiter said. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t have a license to kill.”

  “You told me there was no such thing,” Shawn said.

  “He was right,” O’Hara said. “It’s fiction. All of it was fiction.”

  “I understand your frustration,” Lassiter said. “I share it. But I look at a situation from every angle, I eliminate everything that’s impossible, and then I know that what’s left over, no matter how improbable, must be true.”

  “Sherlock Holmes is fiction, too, Carlton,” O’Hara said.

  Shawn clapped his hands over Gus’ ears. “Don’t say that,” Shawn said. “I haven’t told him yet.”

  Gus shook Shawn off his head in time to hear Lassiter say, “We’ll look into this woman. We’ll check her out in every way. But for right now, there’s only one explanation that makes sense, and that’s that her FCC ID is a cover for some secret position. If that turns out not to be the case, we’ll take turns dunking her into that tank until she talks. Until then, let’s err on the side of national security.”

  Detective O’Hara thought it through, then jammed her gun into her purse unhappily. “I’m not getting chased off this case.”

  “I’m not, either,” Lassiter said.

  “Us, neither,” Shawn said.

  “Oh, joy,” Lassiter said.

  Shawn and Gus left the detectives standing outside the showroom, facing off silently against Major Voges and her agents until a uniformed officer could be found to take guard duty. As they walked down the steep hill to the parking lot, this time unmolested by electronic guard dogs, Gus tried to figure out what had just happened.

  “Do you really think that scary woman is from the government?” Gus said.

  “Definitely,” Shawn said. “Did you see her shoes? Plain, dull, comfortable, and moderately priced. The hallmark of the government worker.”

  “But is she with the FCC or Homeland Security?”

  “That depends on who P’Torky P’kig really is.”

  “P’tol P’kah,”Gus sighed, knowing that Shawn wouldn’t explain any further without the obligatory correction.

  “Right, that guy,” Shawn said. “If he’s a holographic projection from a new kind of projector, she’s probably with the FCC.”

  “We felt the floor tremble when he walked.”

  “So probably not a holograph,” Shawn said. “Which means she could be who she doesn’t say she is.”

  “Why would Homeland Security be chasing a missing magician?”

  “Maybe he really is a Martian,” Shawn said. “Or maybe he’s a spy. He uses the magic act as a cover to travel from town to town, stealing secrets and passing them to his undercover contacts wherever he goes.”

  “A brilliant idea,” Gus said. “Except that he didn’t travel from city to city. He never left Las Vegas. What kind of secrets can he steal there?”

  “Which casino has the best buffet?”

  “Couldn’t the undercover contacts just try all the buffets and find out for themselves?”

  “Not if they had a small budget,” Shawn said. “Despite what you might think, some of those places are really expensive. And then they put a lot of cheap items up front so you’ll fill up on bread before you can get to the good stuff, like the crab legs and lobster tails.”

  “Let’s come back to this later,” Gus said.

  “Good. Because I’m suddenly hungry.”

  They reached the car and Gus fished in his pocket for his keys. “But if she really is from Homeland Security, how did you get her to back off?”

  “She didn’t want publicity,” Shawn said. “You saw that.”

  “So why didn’t she just arrest us all?”

  “Because whatever she’s doing here, it’s not an official DHS operation,” Shawn said.

  “And you know that how?”

  “The little d on top of her plane ticket,” Shawn said. “It’s a fare code. She flew DC to LAX in a full-price business-class seat,” Shawn said.

  “Last I heard the government had lots of money,” Gus said. “At least they act like they do.”

  “Right,” Shawn said. “So if this really was a crisis involving national security, she would have taken a DHS jet.”

  “How do you know they have one?”

  “Their budget is like fifty billion dollars,” Shawn said. “Can you imagine having fifty billion dollars and not buying at least on
e jet? And even if they didn’t, they would have sent her on a military transport.”

  “Maybe it’s not an emergency.”

  “In which case she would have flown coach,” Shawn said. “Federal officials aren’t allowed to fly business class.”

  Gus hit the remote on his key fob and the car doors popped open, but he didn’t want to get in until he was sure he understood what Shawn was saying. “They’ll spend millions buying a jet, but they wouldn’t spring for a business-class ticket? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Then I must be wrong,” Shawn said. “Oh, wait, this is the federal government. I’m right. Can we get out of here now?”

  Before Gus could answer, Shawn opened his door and got in. If Gus wanted any more answers, he’d have to get in, too. He buckled himself into his seat, but he didn’t start the car.

  “Okay, fine,” Gus said. “What else?”

  “There’s more?”

  Gus waited until Shawn gave in.

  “Did you see the upper lip on that agent?” Shawn said. “It was bright white, while the rest of his face was tanned. Which means he had a mustache until a day or so ago.”

  “And?”

  “And another one of the agents had a dragon tattoo running down his arm,” Shawn said. “At least, I assume it ran down his arm. The tip of the tail was sticking out of his sleeve, and it’s hard to imagine anyone having just the tip of a dragon’s tail tattooed on his wrist.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Homeland Security agents can’t have tattoos or facial hair,” Shawn said. “These are rental guys she picked up in LA.”

  “So she’s a phony.”

  “Not necessarily,” Shawn said. “It’s quite possible that Major Voges had some vacation time coming and she decided to spend it interfering with an ongoing criminal investigation.”

  “That one doesn’t work for me.”

  “Then how about this?” Shawn said. “There’s something terribly, terribly wrong, and whatever it is, it’s something that Major Voges was supposed to take care of. She probably even told her superiors that she had. But she screwed up, and now it’s worse than either of us could ever possibly imagine.”