next to it, but an actual auditorium with curtains and reclining chairs and lots of velvet. But he never dreamed of anything as grand as the room they found themselves in now. There was barely an inch that wasn’t covered in gold or silver; the gilded jaguars leaping out of the doorway seemed to have gemstones for eyes. The walls were covered with a golden frieze telling the story of God’s creation of Earth, His raising of Man from the muck, and His guidance through the great cultures of history. While some might have quibbled over minor theological issues-it’s not generally accepted that the Egyptians built the pyramids with help from a UFO-driving divinity-what would have upset many more believers was the notion that God was created entirely in Elias Adler’s image.
Even through his fog of despair, Gus marveled at the theater. If only he had more time to study it, to examine carefully every gold-slopped inch of it, he’d devote his life to understanding this temple to one man’s ego. He might even be willing to convert to the Church of Elias Adler.
Anything, as long as it would put off walking down the scarlet carpet to the front of the auditorium.
Because the first three rows of seats in front of the slightly raised stage and grand gold curtain were filled with people who had turned to stare at him and Shawn. Gus recognized most of the faces, and a couple of them belonged to people he hoped he could still consider friendly despite the events of the last few days-Chief Vick was in the front row with the mayor who’d appointed her; Detective Juliet O’Hara was a row back with Lassiter.
But most of the faces showed no sympathy at all. The assembled reporters, many of whom had been so eager for a quote after the Veronica Mason verdict they practically licked Gus’ hand, now gazed at them with the hungry stare of a diner making sure his waiter grabbed the meatiest lobster from the tank.
It was the smiling faces that bothered Gus the most. He didn’t know what Steele had said when he’d invited these people to the press conference, but he must have suggested it wasn’t going to be a particularly pleasant experience for Shawn and Gus. Because the happiest smiles in the room belonged to people who spent a lot of time wishing them a hideous, drooling death.
It wasn’t just Carlton Lassiter who looked like he was about to receive the pony Santa had never brought him. Three seats down from him was Ernie Farrago, a crime reporter for the Santa Barbara Times Shawn had embarrassed on a half dozen occasions. There were other happy faces Gus couldn’t quite place, but he was pretty sure that Shawn had done something to all of them that would leave them eager to see him publicly humiliated. And then there was the biggest grin of all, plastered across the face of District Attorney Bert Coules.
For one moment, Gus considered bolting from the room and disappearing into the bowels of Eagle’s View. It wouldn’t stop the press conference; even if he wasn’t there Steele would insist on having his revenge. But at least he could put off the humiliation until he got home. And who said he ever had to go home? Maybe he could stay in Eagle’s View forever. He’d haunt the place like the Phantom of the Opera.
Gus was in the middle of designing his unique haunting costume when he glanced over and noticed that Shawn was already halfway down the aisle. Gus walked quickly until he’d caught up with him.
“What’s our plan here?” Gus whispered.
“It’s a little thing I call Operation Improv.”
“Improv? Improv? ” Gus had to fight to keep his voice from rising to a shriek. “You have no idea what you’re going to do.”
“Really?” Shawn said. “We’ve had all night to come up with a plan, and you think I’m going to get up on that stage and wing it?”
“Are you?”
“Of course,” Shawn said. “But it will go much better if you can pretend we know what we’re going. These reporters are like bears-they can smell fear.”
“Then they’re getting a noseful already,” Gus said.
“Yeah, and it’s not just from you,” Shawn said. “Where’s our old pal Dal?”
“I assume he’s preparing some kind of grand entrance,” Gus said. “It takes a long time to get a cauldron of oil to boil.”
“Well, these people are expecting a grand entrance from somebody,” Shawn said. “Let’s give them one.”
Shawn strode cheerfully down the aisle, stopping only to slap the occasional back or smile for the cameras that swung up to meet him. He stepped up in front of the heavy golden curtain and smiled out at the audience as Gus joined him.
“Glad you could all make it this morning,” Shawn said. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why Dallas Steele asked you here so early.”
“No, we’re not.” Bert Coules seemed to have sharpened his military buzz cut into blades for the occasion. “Steele said he was going to crucify you.”
“Uh-huh,” Shawn said. “That sounds like old Dal. But I bet he didn’t tell you what he really meant by that.”
A short man wearing a toupee that seemed to be fashioned from dog hair stood up in front. “He said he was going to expose you as a complete fraud, and then demonstrate the harm that your scam has caused the entire population of Santa Barbara County. After that there was going to be a light lunch.”
“You fell for that?” Shawn looked incredulous. “And you call yourself a reporter.”
“I don’t call myself a reporter,” the man said. “I’m Arno Galen, the owner of the Seaside Vacation Kennel. Or I was until you claimed that we were renting out the pets people boarded with us to an underground dog-fighting ring. Now I spend my days in court fighting frivolous lawsuits.”
Shawn looked out at the man under the toupee, and he saw. Saw the strands of the pet hair clinging to his slacks. Saw the scrap of duct tape stuck to his blazer pocket. Saw the scratches on both hands and the splint on his left where the little finger had been broken.
“And where do you spend your nights?” Shawn said.
“That’s none of your-” Galen started, but Shawn held up a hand to cut him off.
“Not you,” Shawn said, casting his gaze heavenward. “I want to hear from Fluffy.” Shawn batted the air with his hand, then drew it across his face, licking it, then using it to slick back his hair.
“What’s this?” called a voice from the audience.
“A kitten,” Gus said. “I’m guessing it’s Fluffy.”
Shawn batted at the air again, then shrunk back in horror. “What’s that you say, Fluffy?” Shawn listened so intently the audience could practically see the sound waves entering his ears. “Meow meow meow. Mew mew. Meow. Raoar?”
Shawn staggered backward, as if released by the spirit that had momentarily taken control of him.
“This is ridiculous,” Galen said. “Do we really have to wait for Steele to expose this phony?”
“I think you need to translate for these people,” Gus said. “They don’t seem to speak kitten.”
“Isn’t there one educated person out there?” Shawn peered at the audience. No one volunteered. “Fine. What Fluffy told me was a tale that started with domestic bliss but ended in a fate worse than death. Actually, not worse than death so much as death, which is pretty bad on its own. He was always a happy kitten, content to while away his hours playing with a bit of string or cuddling up in his mistress’ lap. Then one day he slipped through an open door to see what the world outside was like. At first, it seemed like paradise, filled with-”
“Even if we believed you could talk to dead cats, which we don’t, this is still moronic,” Galen shouted, pushing his way through the sea of knees to march down the aisle to the stage. “He said four meows, two mews, and a raoar. You can’t possibly get all this out of that.”
“The cat language is very complex,” Shawn said. “If a cat had written the Harry Potter books, he could have gotten through the whole thing in fifteen pages, tops. And he would still have found the space to mention that Dumbledore was gay, if that’s what he meant.”
“Perhaps you could take an example from your feline friends and minimize your word count now, Mr. Spencer.” Chief Vick looked like she hadn’t warmed up to them much since their last visit to her office. “If you have a point, this would be the time to make it.”
Shawn gave her a cheery wave and turned back to Galen. “Once Fluffy got out, he was snatched off the street and stuffed into a cage. No matter how much he fought and clawed, he couldn’t get away. The kidnapper wrapped his mouth and paws in duct tape so he couldn’t bite or scratch, then threw him into a ring with a pit bull. He didn’t understand the concept, but he was being used as a bait animal to train the dogs to fight.”
“That’s terrible,” cried a woman in the audience. “My poodle Baxter disappeared last month. Is it possible that he was…?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.
