“Saw the whole thing,” Gus said.
“Did you now?” Lassiter 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 Lassiter. “Hey, guys,” she said. “So, what’s going on here?”
Lassiter 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 attitude 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,” Lassiter 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.” Lassiter pushed past him and strode up to the night-shift coroner. “Hey, body snatcher. Why aren’t you snatching that body?”
The coroner’s assistant was barely twenty-five years old. No doubt a medical student earning near-minimum wage to fill in when the grown-ups were sleeping, Lassiter thought.
“He won’t let me,” the kid said, pointing at the little man.
“And what’s he using to stop you?” Lassiter 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,” Lassiter 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.”
Lassiter 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 trespassing on my client’s property.”
Lassiter 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,” Lassiter 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 Lassiter 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?” Lassiter 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,” Lassiter 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,” Lassiter 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.
