Psych: Mind Over Magic Part 7

"Good. Let's solve this puppy." As La.s.siter threw open the doors to the showroom, he also opened the doors to his mind, letting out all his prejudices and preconceptions, even the well-earned ones about magicians. He was a blank slate, waiting to be filled by the sight in front of him.

What he saw first was an enormous gla.s.s and steel tank, filled with water-and with the floating corpse of a chubby man in a three-piece suit and bowler hat. In front of the tank stood a small man, half a step above a midget, dressed immaculately in expensive designer clothes. His arms were crossed angrily, as if he expected somehow to use the force of his will to keep an army of normal-sized people from removing him from his spot in front of the tank.

And it seemed to be working. The night guy from the coroner's office stood next to the near-midget, a pleading look on his face, two uniformed officers lined up behind him. But somehow they couldn't bring themselves to push past the little guy to get to the body.

Something was wrong here; La.s.siter could sense it. No, worse than wrong. There was nonsense in the air, and the detective would have none of that. This was a serious business, and he was going to treat it seriously.

Officer McNab appeared in the doorway behind them. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I really thought you should know-"

"That there's nonsense afoot, McNab?" La.s.siter snapped. "I can figure that out for myself. And you know I will brook no nonsense."

A cheery voice called out from the other side of the room. "I'll brook no trout, myself. Not that I have any idea what that means."

La.s.siter felt every muscle in his body tightening. He had heard that voice so many times, and whenever he did, it guaranteed that the next few hours would be filled with nothing but nonsense. Well, nonsense and occasionally the solution to a crime that had baffled the entire SBPD, but La.s.siter wasn't entirely sure that catching a few murderers was worth tolerating such a level of drivel.

"That's what I was trying to tell you, sir," McNab said. "Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster are here."

"I can see why you thought I might have missed that," La.s.siter said. "Since they're usually so quiet and un.o.btrusive."

"Hi, Jules! La.s.sie!" Shawn strode up to them, Gus following right behind him.

"What I don't understand, McNab," La.s.siter continued without even a glance in Shawn and Gus' direction, "is why you felt compelled to admit them to the crime scene."

"He didn't have to, La.s.sie," Shawn said. "We were already here."

"Saw the whole thing," Gus said.

"Did you now?" La.s.siter said. "That's very good to know. If you'll follow Officer McNab, he'll put you somewhere until I can take your statement."

Detective O'Hara stepped in front of La.s.siter. "Hey, guys," she said. "So, what's going on here?"

La.s.siter was surprised to discover that his muscles could tighten even further than they already had without starting to snap like overstretched violin strings. When he complained that his partner was willing to tolerate nonsense, it was her friendly att.i.tude toward these two that was his primary complaint.

"Not much," Shawn said.

"Unless you count the disappearing Martian," Gus said.

"Oh yeah," Shawn said.

"And the dead guy who mysteriously appeared in that tank," Gus said.

"Good point," Shawn said.

"And the short dude who won't let anyone near the body," Gus said.

"Right," Shawn said. "But aside from that, not much. What's up with you two?"

"We're here to investigate a murder," La.s.siter said.

Shawn slapped his forehead. "I knew I forgot something," he said. "The murder."

"What about it?"

"We solved it."

Chapter Eight.

Everyone was staring at Shawn. Even Gus.

"Excuse us for a second," Gus said. He dragged Shawn a few steps away and whispered furiously at him. "We solved it?"

"Didn't we?"

"Do you know who the dead guy is?"

"It's the twenty-first century," Shawn said. "How many men wear bowler hats? It won't take long to track them all down, and then we just have to pick him out."

"Do you know how he got into the tank?"

"I know it wasn't magic," Shawn said. "And once you know what it wasn't, you're halfway to knowing what it was."

"That's great," Gus said. "Do you have any idea where the green guy went?"

Shawn thought that one over for a moment, then stepped back to the police. "Small correction, just a tiny point," he said. "When I announced that we had solved this case, what I meant to say-"

"Was that you're completely useless and should get out of my way." La.s.siter pushed past him and strode up to the night-s.h.i.+ft coroner. "Hey, body s.n.a.t.c.her. Why aren't you s.n.a.t.c.hing that body?"

The coroner's a.s.sistant was barely twenty-five years old. No doubt a medical student earning near-minimum wage to fill in when the grown-ups were sleeping, La.s.siter thought.

"He won't let me," the kid said, pointing at the little man.

"And what's he using to stop you?" La.s.siter demanded. "A gun? A knife? A light saber?"

"That." The kid pointed at the short man's hand, which was wrapped tightly around a glowing iPhone.

"So it's an iPhone," La.s.siter said. "What's the problem-he's cooler than you?"

"It's not the phone, Detective," Fleck said. "It's what's on the screen."

"The hot new video on YouTube?"

"It's a restraining order signed by Judge Albert Moore of the California Superior Court for Santa Barbara County forbidding any agent of the state to examine, investigate, or in any way come into contact with the secret work product of my client, P'tol P'kah, the Martian Magician, that would expose his methods and practices and thus threaten his career, without the express permission of Mr. P'kah or his duly authorized agent."

La.s.siter cast a glance at the corpse in the tank. "If that's your client, I think his career is facing greater threats than anything I can do."

"That's not my client," Fleck said. "I have no idea who he is, or what he's doing trespa.s.sing on my client's property."

La.s.siter fought the impulse to pick up the little man and toss him in the tank with the corpse. He turned to O'Hara, who was stepping up beside him. "Who is this guy?"

"Benny Fleck," O'Hara said. "He manages, produces, and owns half the top-grossing shows on the Vegas Strip, along with several sports franchises, the nation's largest ticketing agency, and a big chunk of Times Square."

"Fast detective work," La.s.siter said.

"One of the meter maids always leaves her People Magazine behind in the women's restroom," O'Hara said. She turned to Fleck. "Mr. Fleck, I understand your position here, and I hope you can understand ours."

"Understand yes, care no," Fleck said. "And don't even think about trying to go over Judge Moore's head to void the restraining order. He's not the only member of the bench who's indulged some of his more individual tastes in Las Vegas."

Before La.s.siter could respond, there was a moan from the other side of the tank. Reluctantly, he turned to see Shawn clutching his forehead as if in great pain.

"Are you the keymaster?" Shawn groaned, staggering toward Fleck and reaching down to grab his lapel. "Or are you the gatekeeper?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fleck said, shoving Shawn away.

"The keymaster!" Shawn howled.

Gus stepped up and pulled Shawn back a few feet, then whispered in his ear. "What are you doing?"

"I'm invoking an ancient mystical text," Shawn said. "All the best psychics are doing it these days."

"Ancient mystical text?" Gus demanded. "That's from Ghostbusters."

"And when it was made, the smallest cell phone weighed two pounds, Kings Quest 1 was the greatest computer game in history, and people took Frankie Goes to Hollywood seriously," Shawn said. "I think we can all agree that qualifies as ancient."

Shawn stepped back up to Fleck and grabbed his forehead again. "The keymaster," he moaned.

"Can't anyone get this clown out of here?" La.s.siter demanded.

Officer McNab made a move toward Shawn, but before he got there, Shawn bent over double and let out a howl of pain.

"No, not the keymaster," Shawn said. "We need the latchmaster. I see a latch. It's open, then it's closed, and then it's open again. And though it needs to be opened, the latchmaster closes it again before he opens it. Oh why, latchmaster, why?"

Shawn straightened and dropped his hands to his side. Fleck stared at him.

"Who is this?" Fleck said, never taking his eyes off Shawn.

"Shawn Spencer, official psychic to the Santa Barbara Police Department," Shawn said.

"Occasional consultant to the Santa Barbara Police Department," La.s.siter corrected. "When he's been called in to consult on a case. Which in this case he has most definitely not."

"I haven't?" Shawn said.

"Absolutely not," La.s.siter said.

"You know only the chief has the authority to bring you on to a case, Shawn," O'Hara said."And I suspect she might find you more useful as a witness on this one."

"Well, then," Shawn said, "that makes me Shawn Spencer, private citizen. Oh, and psychic detective, available for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and really impossible murder cases."

Fleck eyed him thoughtfully. "So you're a licensed private detective?"

"Licensed?" Shawn said. "You have to ask?"

"I have to ask."

Shawn pulled out his wallet and flipped through the contents. "I've got a license to drive. License to fish. License to use official Microsoft Office software as long as I don't violate the terms of the user's agreement. License to kill."

"You do not," La.s.siter said. "There's no such thing."

"The James Bond fan magazine I snipped it from said it was authentic. Oh, according to my father, I've got a license to make a fool of myself," Shawn said, still flipping through his wallet.

Gus stepped up beside him. "Psych Investigations is duly licensed by the California Bureau of Security and Investigative Services, number 06-443672. If you need to see the actual certificate, it's hanging on the wall at our office," he said, hoping that Fleck wouldn't need to see it for at least a couple of days. The framed certificate was one of the things that Shawn had knocked off the wall during his Extreme Handball practice, and it was currently lying on the floor under a heap of broken gla.s.s. "I'm Burton Guster, Shawn's partner."

"And you are not currently working for the Santa Barbara Police Department?" Fleck said.

"G.o.d, no," La.s.siter said.

Fleck studied Shawn carefully, then made a decision. "In that case, I am hiring you to investigate the disappearance of my client, P'tol P'kah, the Martian Magician. We'll work out the terms and conditions when you come to my office in Vegas tomorrow."

"Mr. Fleck, that doesn't help us with the question of the dead man floating in your tank," O'Hara said.

"Actually, it does," Shawn said. "Because P'can P'kie-"

"P'tol P'kah," Gus corrected.

"Right, what he said," Shawn said. "Anyway, he vanished from this tank and the man in question stepped in to take his place. For all we know, the floating fellow is actually the insane genius behind a brilliant plan to abduct the green guy."

"Yes, that would be a brilliant plan," La.s.siter said. "I particularly admire the part where he throws the police off his trail by winding up dead."

"I still don't see how that helps us," O'Hara repeated. "We can't do anything as long as that court order is in force."

"You can't, but I can," Shawn said. "Because as a licensed detective, I have a fiduciary duty to protect my client's privacy. Which means that if I were to climb up the stairs and loop the cable that's hanging above the tank around the dead man's arm, then even if I did see something that Benny Fleck didn't want revealed about the workings of the tank, I would be prevented by detective-client privilege from revealing anything about it, even if I were called to testify in a court of law."

"That's not-," La.s.siter started, but O'Hara cut him off.

"Wouldn't you like to examine this body, Detective?" O'Hara said. "Don't you think this is a potentially good compromise?"

La.s.siter didn't a.s.sent, but he didn't finish his objection, either.

"Of course, as a licensed Microsoft Office end user, I have agreed that the software company can share my information with others, such as hardware and software vendors," Shawn said. "But I'm willing to stand up even to Bill Gates to protect my client."

"So, Mr. Fleck," O'Hara said, "can we proceed under these conditions?"

For a moment, everyone in the room held his breath waiting for Fleck's answer, except for the man floating in the tank, who didn't have any breath left to hold-and Shawn, who was quietly humming the theme song from Ghostbusters. After a long pause, Fleck gave a sharp nod and the combined exhalation could have filled a weather balloon.