“And then tell her you’re going to have her arrested if you ever see her again.”
“That sounds kind of cruel.”
“Of course it’s cruel,” Gus said. “You’re going to have to break her heart. But it’s for her good and it’s for our good. And I think we both know that nothing else is going to work.”
The bell over the door rang, and Tara came in carrying white take-out bags. She was dressed in red, as always, but she’d traded the minidress for a pair of tiny shorts and a T-shirt so tight that Gus could see the order in which the cells of her lungs gave up their allotment of oxygen.
“Sorry it took so long,” Tara said. “That guy did the pickle thing again, and I figured it was worth a little extra time to make sure he didn’t do it again.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” Shawn said, “although it’s hard to believe you’d have to say anything twice to any man who saw you in that outfit.”
She blushed happily at the compliment. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem in the future,” she said.
Gus cleared his throat. “Did you hear that?” he said significantly to Shawn. “Tara says it’s not going to be a problem in the future.”
“Are you expecting that she should somehow do something about the problem in the past? Because that would risk bringing up the whole time-travel paradox thing. We start out trying to change the pickle count on a cheeseburger, and before we know it, I’ve killed my own grandfather, the Nazis won World War II, and there’s a dinosaur in the White House.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
If Shawn was hoping for a reprieve from Gus’ judgment, he wasn’t going to get it. “I do,” he said.
“Are the cheeseburgers okay?” Tara asked. “Because I’m feeling like my orders have changed.”
“Just a little bit,” Shawn said. “Maybe we should talk outside for a moment.” She dropped the three white bags on the desk and headed brightly for the door.
Gus waited until Shawn was outside, then moved over to the window and drew the curtain aside so he could watch what was happening. Tara was leaning happily against the Mercedes as Shawn went up to her. But as Gus watched, whatever Shawn was saying to her seemed to be bringing her mood down to earth. At first, she just looked confused, as if Shawn’s words were in direct conflict with the psychic orders she was receiving from him. As he kept talking, her face began to darken and she started trying to object. Gus had to give Shawn credit-it seemed like he wasn’t letting her get out more than a syllable before he was able to talk over her objection. Even from this distance, Gus could see her protests getting weaker and weaker.
Just as Tara’s anger was beginning to fade away into tears, the phone rang behind Gus. He knew he should answer it. It might be Shepler, asking if they’d decided which firms they were putting their funds into. It could be Veronica Mason, apologizing for her long absence and offering to messenger over a check right now. It could even be a new client with a hot case who’d be willing to give them a big cash retainer in advance. But for the moment, none of that was as intriguing as the scene that was going on outside this window. Nothing would keep Gus from watching Shawn finally send Tara away for good.
Nothing, that is, except for the voice that came over the machine.
“I know you’re there, Spencer. This is Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police department, and you have exactly ten seconds to pick up this phone.”
Immediately Gus forgot what he’d been so engrossed in just seconds before. He sprinted for the phone and snatched up the receiver before half the allowed time had passed. “Psych Investigations. Burton Guster speaking,” he said.
“If I were interested in talking to a sidekick, I’d have called Ed McMahon,” Lassiter growled.
Normally Gus might have given in to his instinctive desire to defend Ed McMahon’s underrated acting career. He certainly would have bristled at being called a sidekick. But there was something in Lassiter’s voice that strongly suggested this wasn’t the time for repartee. “Whatever you have to say to Shawn, you can say to me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
Lassiter did.
And Gus tried to figure out why he had been so insistent that Lassiter tell him personally.
When the bell over the door chimed and Shawn came back in, Gus was still staring down at the receiver in his hand.
“That was tough,” Shawn said. “And I don’t mean ‘figuring out your taxes’ tough. This was more like ‘Babe finding out his mother had been ground up for hamburger’ tough.”
Gus didn’t even look up at him. He just kept staring at the phone.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want details, Gus,” Shawn said. “Or that you’re not dying to tell my that Babe’s mother was a pig and they make hamburger out of cow. Let me have it.”
Shawn waited for Gus to take the bait. But Gus didn’t even seem to hear him. “Lassiter called.”
“Speaking of Babe. Which, to protect me from charges of cliche-mongering, you may apply to the lovely Juliet O’Hara, not to the oft-drawn comparisons between police officers and our oinking friends. So what did he want?”
“Us,” Gus said. “There’s a warrant for our arrest.”
Chapter Ten
Walking through the bright yellow corridors of the police station, Gus was certain everyone was staring at him. He’d been here so many times before, but always as a consultant helping out on a case. While there were usually a few suspicious glares from members of the force, there were also people who were glad to see him. And even the ones who resented him knew that there was a small chance that he’d help clear a case off their board and make their averages look better.
But this time Gus had come in the backseat of a squad car. He was here as a suspect, and the mood was completely different. Harsh stares came from every corner of the precinct. If Gus had been cuffed, chained, and manacled, the reception couldn’t have been any colder.
Why hadn’t they simply told the truth when they had been called down to the impound office? Gus vaguely remembered being afraid that he’d be accused of the murder. It could have made for a couple of unpleasant days. But now they’d lied to the police and obstructed justice. When Lassiter accused him of killing the impound clerk now, what could he say that would convince anyone of his innocence?
“Hey, guys!” It was Officer McNab, whose usual cheery smile had been replaced by an ominous baring of his teeth.
“Don’t let him get me alone in my cell,” Gus whispered to Shawn.
“What are you talking about?” Somehow, Shawn seemed to be oblivious to the hostility radiating out at them.
“Officer McNab,” Gus said. “He’s got some new interrogation technique he’s learned from the feds, and he’s itching to take it out on me. I saw it in his eyes.”
“The only thing in those eyes was the adoring friendliness of a well-fed puppy,” Shawn said. “Officer Friendly thinks McNab is too soft.”
“That’s a technique,” Gus said, “because he knows we’re suspects. He wants to soften us up.”
“How much softer could you get? You’ve already passed Jell-O on the wiggle test.”
“Lassiter said he wanted to talk to us about a violent, ugly criminal act,” Gus said. “And he made it sound like he wanted to perform one on us.”
Shawn clapped Gus on the back. “There’s nothing to worry about, Gus. We haven’t committed any violent, ugly crimes. Unless you count the sweater you’re wearing.”
Lassiter stepped out in front of them. “Chief Vick’s office. Now.”
He turned and headed into Vick’s office. Shawn gave Gus a reassuring smile. “See, it’s just the same as always. Nothing to worry about.”
Living in Santa Barbara, Gus had never had much experience with snow. But one winter his parents took him
