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,” Lassiter 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 glass. “I’m Burton Guster, Shawn’s partner.”
“And you are not currently working for the Santa Barbara Police Department?” Fleck said.
“God, no,” Lassiter 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,” Lassiter 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-,” Lassiter 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?”
Lassiter didn’t assent, 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.
Shawn and Gus climbed up on the low stage and pushed the airplane stairs up to the tank.
“How did you get him to agree?” Gus said as they maneuvered the staircase into place.
“Something I saw when P’teter P’karker-”
“P’tol P’kah.”
“Right, that guy,” Shawn said. “Anyway, after he gave Balustrade his swimming lesson, he climbed back up here and even though the tank was open, he closed it again, latched it, then unlatched it and reopened it. Why do that?”
“Showmanship?” Gus said.
“If that was all it was, then Fleck never would have blinked and we’d be sitting in a broom closet guarded by McNab waiting for Lassiter to pretend to question us,” Shawn said. “What I guessed, and what Fleck has now confirmed, is that flipping the latch did something to the tank that was necessary for the trick to work.”
“What?”
“Possibly it turned on the chubby-dead-guy-generator,” Shawn said. “Other than that, I don’t have a clue.”
Gus stepped away and watched as Shawn climbed up the metal stairs. At the top, Shawn peered down into the tank, a look of disgust on his face as if he suddenly realized the particularly unpleasant flaw in his plan.
“I have an idea,” Shawn said. “Why don’t I deputize a couple of big, strong police officers to be temporary Psych employees. That way they could reach into the tank and fish out the body and still couldn’t say anything.”
“Unacceptable, Mr. Spencer,” Fleck said. “It’s you, or he stays in there until we get a ruling from the Supreme Court. And I don’t mean the one in Sacramento.”
“This was your idea,” Lassiter said. “Do it or I’ll throw you in jail for obstructing justice.”
O’Hara shot her partner a weary look, as if to suggest that he wasn’t helping. “What Detective Lassiter means to say is ‘please.’ ”
“That’s the magic word,” Shawn said. “Unless there are fake dogs involved. Then-”
“Shawn!” Gus yelled up at him. “Stop stalling.”
Shawn sighed heavily, then reached up and grabbed the cable. From here he could see that it ran through a series of pulleys and down to a hand-cranked winch on the far side of the stage, which was no doubt useful for bringing heavy equipment such as tanks of water onto the stage, or making heavy objects such as elephants disappear from it.
Shawn lowered the cable into the water and tried to maneuver the noose around the dead man’s hand. But of all the carnival games Shawn had ever tried, the ring toss was the one he had never mastered, and this was like that, only upside down. Every time the noose drifted close to the hand, the body drifted away, bounced against the tank wall, then drifted back in a slightly different position.
“It would be a lot easier if you got into the tank,” Gus said.
“It would be even easier if you got into the tank,” Shawn snapped.
“For all I care you can both go into the tank and never come out,” Lassiter said. “But I need that body on the ground in thirty seconds or I’m shutting down this charade.”
“Fine,” Shawn said. Getting down on his knees, he rolled up his sleeve, took a deep breath, and lay down on the platform. He squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could, then plunged his hand into the water.
“It would be easier if you opened your eyes,” Gus suggested.
Shawn scowled, but when he followed his partner’s advice he discovered that the noose was at least four inches from the target and moving in the wrong direction. He shifted the cable and maneuvered it around the dead man’s wrist, then yanked it so it slid up to his arm-pit. Jumping to his feet, he gave the cable a yank, just as the Martian Magician had done when Balustrade was on the other end. Only this time nothing happened.
“Gus, go man the winch,” Shawn said.
“I’m not sure Mr. Fleck would approve,” Gus said. “What if the winch is part of the illusion’s secret?”
“It’s not,” Fleck said.
“You could be saying that because you don’t want to reveal the truth in front of people who aren’t sworn to secrecy,” Gus said. “It is my fiduciary duty to you to have nothing to do with that winch, that tank, or anything relating to that incredibly gross dead body.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lassiter said. He climbed onto the stage, pushing Gus aside even though the collision took him out of his way, and went to the winch handle.
On top of the stairs, Shawn leapt back when the body started to emerge and nearly fell the seven feet to the ground. But he caught himself on the handrail and, taking the tiniest edge of the corpse’s pants cuff that he could get his fingers on, guided the dead man down the stairs as Lassiter gradually lowered him on the winch.
As soon as the body was lying on the ground, Shawn jumped away from it, waving his hand wildly to shake
