“No, just their license-plate numbers.”
The computer let out a chime, and the screen filled with the uninspiring gray logo of the California Department of Vehicles. Gus went to the window and checked the Mercedes’ plate, then typed the letters and numbers into the form. After a moment, the computer chimed again and a page of information filled the screen.
“So who is our mystery woman?” Shawn said.
Gus studied the monitor. “Apparently her name is Enid Blalock, and she lives in Arcata. And according to this, she weighs three hundred forty-five pounds.”
“Wow, she’s really dropped a lot of weight,” Shawn said. “Do you think she did that for me?”
Gus barely wasted a glance at him. “She also has green eyes and blond hair, and she was born in nineteen forty-eight.”
“Don’t see a lot of women over fifty who look that good.”
“Shawn, she stole that car.”
“For all we know, there’s a perfectly good reason for her to be driving around Santa Barbara in a hundred- thousand-dollar car that belongs to some fat, divorced Realtor in Arcata.”
“Give me-” Gus broke off. “Wait a minute. How do you know that Enid Blalock is divorced?”
“Easy,” Shawn said. “Clearly she’s let herself go physically-I mean, three hundred forty-five pounds is more than a second helping of turkey over the holidays. Hubby loses interest, starts looking into other options. Enid catches him, and he buys her the expensive car to keep her happy.”
“So then she wouldn’t be divorced,” Gus said.
“The car’s three years old,” Shawn said. “You think hubby could keep it in his pants that long? So on strike two, she takes him to court.”
“Okay, fine,” Gus said. “So how do you know she’s a Realtor?”
“This is California,” Shawn said. “When was the last time you met a divorced woman who wasn’t?”
Gus had to concede that point. “That doesn’t change the fact that Tara is driving around in her car.”
“Enid Blalock could be her mother,” Shawn said. “Or maybe Tara works as a valet at Enid’s club, and she’s just looking for a really good place to park it. The point is, Tara is innocent until someone proves her guilty.”
“Next thing you’ll say is she’s sane until someone proves her insane.”
“I’m willing to stand up for this woman’s constitutional rights, even if you’re willing to throw them away.”
“Because she looks hot in a minidress.”
“That’s not part of the Constitution?”
Gus gave Shawn’s desk chair a shove and sent him rolling away from the desk. Then grabbed the phone.
“What are you doing?” Shawn said, scooting himself back toward the desk.
“I’m calling the police.”
“What if she’s innocent?”
“Then the police will make a couple of calls, find out the truth, and there won’t be any problems. But if she’s guilty and we don’t call, it’s going to look bad for us.”
“You’re right,” Shawn said. “We should call the police. The only question is who exactly we call-the detective we humiliated in front of Veronica Mason’s jury or the one we humiliated in front of her superior officer?”
“There are more than two people in the Santa Barbara Police Department,” Gus said.
“I think two people with a reason to hate us are enough for now,” Shawn said, “although historically it’s a pretty low number.”
“If we turn a car thief over to them, maybe they’ll hate us a little less,” Gus said.
“You mean the car thief who’s been chauffeuring us around in her stolen car?” Shawn said. “The one who has told top members of the SBPD that she is controlled by my psychic orders?”
Gus was on the verge of coming up with the exact, perfect reply to that when his hand started ringing. He looked down and realized he was still holding the receiver.
“That’s her,” Gus said.
“It’s not her,” Shawn said. “Why would she use the phone when she’s got a direct psychic link to my brain?”
“Whatever,” Gus said. “It’s not going to be good news, whoever it is.”
“One way to find out.” Shawn tried to grab the phone again, but Gus hid the ringing receiver behind his back. Shawn sighed, then reached across the desk and hit the SPEAKER button on the base station. “Psych Investigations, Burton Guster speaking,” he said.
“What did you do that for?” Gus whispered.
“I can’t be absolutely certain it’s good news,” Shawn said.
“Mr. Guster, my name is Devon Shepler, and I’ve got good news for you and Mr. Shawn Spencer.”
“Pretty certain, though,” Shawn said.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Shepler?” Gus said.
“Before you answer that, you’re not Mr. Shawn Spencer’s psychic mind slave by any chance?” Shawn said.
The silence from the other end of the line stretched on for what seemed like minutes before Shepler’s voice returned. When it did, it brimmed with superiority and condescension even through the tiny speaker. “No, I can’t say that’s the case.”
“Just checking,” Shawn said. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shepler said. “Is Mr. Spencer there?”
Shawn nudged Gus. “I’m here,” Gus said. “But it’s Mr. Guster you want to talk to. He’s the real brains behind the organization.”
Shawn threw a pencil at him.
There was another silence from the other end; then Shepler’s voice started again. “I represent Mr. Dallas Steele. Are you familiar with this name?”
“Dallas Steele.” Shawn pronounced the words as if they were in some unfamiliar Eastern European language. “Dallas Steele. Was he the kid who got sent home in tears when he failed the shoe-tying test in kindergarten?”
By now Gus suspected he could count down the seconds that would elapse before Shepler’s voice came over the speaker again. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve only worked for the man since he became the third-most-successful venture capitalist in Wall Street history.”
“Just third?” Shawn said. “That must hurt. I bet the first two get together and make fun of him behind his back.”
Gus decided to put Shepler’s predicted silence to work for him. “So, Mr. Shepler, what is the good news you’re calling about?”
“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Spencer. As I mentioned, I work for Mr. Dallas Steele, and he has asked me to invite you to meet with him this afternoon to discuss a business proposition.”
“He’s free to drop by if he wants to,” Shawn said. “I can’t guarantee we’ll be here, because we’re working on a murder investigation, but there’s a spray-on tan place next door if he wants to wait.”
“Mr. Steele requests that you come to see him at Eagle’s View,” Shepler said after the by-now-traditional pause.
Gus could feel his mouth dropping open. During the brief period when he had wanted to be an architect, Eagle’s View was the building that had inspired him most. Erected in the 1920s by shipping magnate Elias Adler, it sat in a private valley fifty miles into the hills outside Santa Barbara, and its opulence and decadence were legendary by the standards of the time. Or of any time. Even William Randolph Hearst reportedly found it “a bit too much,” and after an overnight stay ordered his architect, Julia Morgan, to scale down certain aspects of his own castle for fear of looking as crazy as Adler. Over the decades the mansion had passed through a series of extremely wealthy and private hands. Very few people had actually been through the estate’s massive gates in years, and Gus had never even met one of them. Now they were being invited in, and Shawn was refusing.
“We’re happy with our view here,” Shawn said. “Tell him no deal.”
“No, wait!” Gus said, but Shawn had already disconnected the call. “What did you do that for?”
