Part 11 (2/2)

He'd tried to deny it to himself, and when that didn't work, he'd simply ignored the sensation. Because every time he even thought about working on a case, he had been filled with fear.

It didn't used to be like this. When Gus teamed up with Shawn he'd managed to share his best friend's blithe a.s.sumption that as long as they were having fun that was all that mattered. And for years, the world seemed to follow that dictate. Gus and Shawn would take the most outrageous risks, play the most ludicrous scams, and accuse the least likely suspect of the vilest crimes. And every time they turned out to be right.

It was like they were charmed. Shawn could do something as ridiculous as announce that a sea lion had been murdered, and not only would no one ever point out that the definition of the crime extends no further than the willing extermination of a human being, but they'd also end up catching a band of international diamond smugglers.

It was wonderful. And then the charm wore off.

It happened last year. When his old art history professor Langston Kitteredge became the prime suspect in a vicious murder, Gus insisted that he and Shawn were the only ones who could clear his name.

The story Kitteredge told them was as fascinating as it was frightening--the professor was the victim of a centuries-old, global cabal that only he knew about. To clear his name of the murder charge, they'd have to unmask the conspiracy.

It sounded impossible. But Gus and Shawn had tackled so many cases that sounded crazy at first blush; one of their clients had seemed to be possessed by the devil, for heaven's sake. This one wouldn't be any different.

Except that it was.

Everything Gus thought about the crime had turned out to be wrong. He had allowed himself to be blinded--not only by his fondness for the professor, but by his belief in his own skills as a detective. It simply never occurred to him that he could have been mistaken.

Until it was too late. Too tragically, horribly late. He watched as a man was murdered in front of him, all because Gus had been so convinced he had it all right.

Since that case had ended Gus had simply had no appet.i.te to take on another one. Every time a potential client came through the door, Gus would envision that dead man lying on the floor and he'd want to flee the room.

He'd tried talking to Shawn about this. When Brenda Varda came in to ask them to find Tanner, Gus had pleaded with him not to take the case. But when Shawn asked why, Gus couldn't find the words. He rambled on and on about the Kitteredge case and how badly he'd screwed up, but Shawn just chucked him on the shoulder and said something about getting back on the horse.

The trouble was, there was no horse anymore. His instincts, which had been so infallible for so long, had completely failed him with Kitteredge. And since neither he nor Shawn had any formal detective training, if such a thing even existed, Gus' instincts were all he had to go on. If he couldn't trust them, he couldn't trust himself on a case. Because if he was wrong, peoplc could die.

So he wouldn't call Shawn and help him figure out what a blacksmith had to do with the disappearance of a computer-game mogul. He wouldn't share his theories about the other possible meanings of the clue, and he definitely wouldn't do to Shawn what he had just done to himself. He wouldn't sow doubt and fear when the only thing that could help the situation was confidence.

Gus had made his choice. He used to be a detective; now he was an executive vice president of a rising pharmaceuticals company. He'd loved being part of Psych, but that time was over. There was no going back.

Chapter Twenty-two.

It was only a few hundred feet from one side of the ridge to the other, but it felt like they'd traveled a thousand miles. The climate they'd left behind was temperate and practically tropical, cooled by the gentle breezes blowing off the ocean. Now they'd stepped into a desert of dead gra.s.ses and blasting heat.

Detective Carlton La.s.siter had always loved crossing the hills that separated Santa Barbara from the rest of the world. Sure, the city he lived in was widely considered a paradise, and the backcountry was barely livable for rattlesnakes. But there was a truth to the arid heat that was hidden by the green and pleasant climate of the city below: Life was cruel and death was always waiting around the corner for you. The hills told you that. b.u.ms lived out on the streets of Santa Barbara for years--there was one old guy he was sure had been camping outside a shopping mall since Carter was president. But you couldn't survive a summer in the hills without running water and air-conditioning and shelter. In August you'd be lucky to make it through a day.

As much as he enjoyed the physical experience, though, La.s.siter had little interest in being here now. He had work to do, cases to close, criminals to catch. He couldn't afford to waste most of a day trying yet again to solve the murder of a woman who hadn't been murdered.

This was his partner's doing. She had insisted they follow some mysterious lead in the Mandy Jansen case and slog up this way. At least she said she'd had a lead; she refused to tell him where it had come from. For all he knew it had been revealed by a gypsy woman reading her palm.

Normally he wouldn't have cared where she'd gotten the tip. Juliet O'Hara was as good a detective as he'd ever met and the best partner he could imagine.

But lately she had begun to change. As far as he could tell it had started when they'd been called to the scene of that hanging cheerleader. For some reason the sight had affected her more deeply than she would acknowledge. La.s.siter had offered her the advice that had always helped him through the tough times on the job. But when he'd pulled her aside and said ”walk it off, Detective,” she had only given him that vacant smile she reserved for civilians who came into the station to report that s.p.a.ce aliens were eating Jell-O on their lawn.

La.s.siter was still willing to trust her instincts--he was here with her, wasn't he? But he found himself questioning her judgment far more than he ever had before.

And now, as their unmarked sedan bounced down a dirt road leading into a deep canyon, he had to wonder if she'd lost her senses completely. There was no crime to investigate at all, just a poor, unfortunate girl who had taken her own life. And yet O'Hara was insisting they search for some kind of phantom evidence in Southern California's answer to Appalachia.

”Are you sure you've got the right address, Detective?” La.s.siter said.

”No, Carlton,” O'Hara said, not taking her eyes off the rutted road. ”The other fifteen times you asked me that, I lied. But now that you've hit the magic sixteenth, I'm compelled to tell the truth. I've actually got the wrong address, and I'm just going to keep driving through the middle of nowhere because I'm too embarra.s.sed to admit it.”

”At least that would be behavior I could understand,” La.s.siter said. ”I can't imagine what else would possibly drag you up here.”

The car rounded a tree and suddenly La.s.siter could imagine. There was a small blue car sitting under the branches, the one bit of shade for miles around. Shawn Spencer was stretched out on the hood.

”This was your tip?” La.s.siter said.

”It wasn't a tip. It was a lead,” O'Hara said. ”We found it together.”

She pulled the sedan up behind the blue Echo and got out. After a long moment La.s.siter followed, but only because she'd turned off the ignition and the cabin was already starting to heat up.

”Sorry we're late, Shawn,” O'Hara said, as he ambled over to meet them.

”No problem,” Shawn said. ”It's hard to move fast when you're stapled to a lead weight.”

La.s.siter glared at Shawn. ”What does this loser know about Mandy Jansen?” La.s.siter said. ”I doubt she would have given him the time of day.”

”I don't think he knows anything about her,” O'Hara said. ”We're here searching for Macklin Tanner.”

Now La.s.siter turned his glare on her. ”The Mandy Jansen case would be bad enough,” he said. ”At least that's technically an SBPD case, even if it's only still open because you've got some strange fixation with it. But Macklin Tanner isn't a case at all. Our detectives looked at it, determined there was no foul play, and dismissed it. So if you are using the time of two Santa Barbara Police Department detectives to help a private detective out on his own case, that is theft, and despite my great respect and admiration for you, I will have no choice but to report you to the proper authorities.”

”And then Santy Claus won't bring her any presents,” Shawn said. ”I bet you'll feel guilty come December twenty-sixth, La.s.sie.”

”I'm at a dead end with Mandy Jansen's case,” O'Hara said. ”I asked Shawn to consult, but since the department wasn't prepared to pay I told him I'd give him a hand on his case.”

”Unfortunately she didn't mention she'd be bringing some other body part, as well,” Shawn said.

”I refuse to have anything to do with this,” La.s.siter said.

”Too late, Carlton,” O'Hara said. ”The mileage is already on the vehicle. If you report me, what are you going to say--that I kidnapped you?”

”Don't think I won't report myself, as well,” La.s.siter said. ”You know I will.”

”Poor La.s.sie,” Shawn said. ”Doesn't have any friends, so he's got to do everything on his own.”

”I don't see your little sidekick anywhere, Spencer,” La.s.siter said. ”Oh, that's right. He dumped you to take a real job.”

”He didn't dump me,” Shawn said, rolling off the car's hood and landing on his feet. ”If you ever had a friend you'd know that sometimes you've got to go off in separate directions for a while.”

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