off the corpse-water. “Wipe! Wipe!” he shouted.
“Wipe what?” Gus said.
“It’s not a verb; it’s a noun,” Shawn said. “You’re supposed to hand me one of those little moistened towelettes they give you at barbecue joints.”
“Maybe I should give you half a chicken and a brisket sandwich while I’m at it,” Gus said.
“I’m the detective; you’re the assistant-”
“I am no man’s assistant,” Gus interrupted. “Especially yours. I’m your associate.”
“Fine,” Shawn said. “I’m the detective, and you’re the associate. And the associate is supposed to carry a supply of sanitary wipes in his purse just in case the detective happens to touch something disgusting.”
Gus stared at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Really? I thought it showed some real consideration on the associate’s part. Also, you’re supposed to be a pretty blonde. If you’re not going to carry wipes, you could at least work on that.”
Shawn dried his hands on his shirt and walked back to where Lassiter was kneeling over the body. The man’s jacket lay open, revealing a vest bulging at the buttons, barely holding in his gut. Lassiter touched one of the buttons, and the vest exploded open, the liberated stomach sloshing around inside a now-translucent white shirt.
Ignoring the dancing flesh, Lassiter reached a gloved hand into the corpse’s jacket pocket and fished around before pulling it out with a scowl.
“No wallet.”
“You wouldn’t carry your wallet to go swimming,” Shawn said. “Of course, you probably wouldn’t wear that hat, either.”
Lassiter ignored him, turning to Fleck, who’d barely wasted a glance on the dead man. “You sure you don’t know him?”
“Positive.”
“He wasn’t a rival magician? A stalker? Someone your guy owed money to?”
“I already told you-”
“I know what you told me,” Lassiter said. “I’m just giving you every opportunity to improve your memory, so that if there’s any chance of a connection between this man and you, you’ll remember it now, when it can still make you look better rather than worse.”
O’Hara moved up beside Lassiter. “What my partner means is that in the heat of the moment, memories sometimes get clouded in ways that make subsequent realizations look less reliable than they are.”
“What they both mean is that they hope you’re lying and you’ll tell them who the dead guy is, because they don’t have a clue,” Shawn said.
“Thank you for translating,” Fleck said, then turned his icy gaze up at Lassiter and O’Hara. “I am a duly sworn officer of the court, and fully aware of my legal and deontological obligations to provide a truthful statement to the police in any matter civil or criminal. If you have reason to believe that I have violated this duty, then you must report me to the bar, or arrest me. Absent such belief, I urge you to cease from making such assertions, or I will see you in court.”
Shawn turned back to the police. “What he means is go f-”
“Shawn!” Gus warned.
“Go find out who the dead guy is for yourself,” Shawn finished.
“I think we can handle that,” Lassiter said.
“Good,” Shawn said. “We’re going to go look for a Martian.”
Chapter Nine
“ Let’s face it, if you’re a Martian who’s come to Earth to study human culture, this is where you want to be.” Shawn waved out the taxi window as they cruised past the Great Pyramid at Giza, a medieval castle, and the skyline of New York City. “I mean, you could get in your flying saucer and buzz the stratosphere, but think of all the gas you’d use up trying to see as much as you can in four blocks of the Las Vegas Strip.”
Gus looked out at the people clogging the sidewalks and wondered what a Martian would think of them. Blinking in the sudden sun after hours in the artificial twilight of the casinos, clutching fat plastic buckets of quarters or thinner plastic buckets filled with fifty-cent margaritas, barely fitting into their XXXL sweatpants, they looked like a population whose spirit had long since been crushed by alien invasion. The Martian might easily be fooled into thinking that his forebears had already taken over.
Or maybe Gus was just feeling uncomfortable about the meeting they were about to have. When they got back to the Psych office after Lassiter banished them from the Fortress of Magic, Gus flipped on the computer and discovered that Fleck’s assistant had already e-mailed them tickets for tomorrow’s first Allegiant Air flight direct from Santa Barbara Airport to Las Vegas, as well as an address for an office on East Frontage Street. There were no other instructions, not even a greeting. They were being commanded to appear by a man they’d barely met.
That didn’t bother Shawn at all. He’d talked Fleck into hiring them; he couldn’t complain if the man actually wanted them to do some work for their money. And they were getting a free trip to Vegas. Normally you had to sit through a three-hour sales pitch for time-shares to get that. They’d jet into town, do a little background, and expense a dinner buffet at one of the casinos. Or if Fleck wouldn’t agree to an expense account, they’d just win a few bucks on the slots and use that to buy dinner.
Gus had to admit the plan sounded appealing. But after finding the plane tickets, he did some basic research on Benny Fleck, and he wasn’t comforted by a lot of what he found. Fleck was one of the biggest promoters in family entertainment, and his touch seemed to be golden. He hadn’t had a flop in a decade, and with every success his shows had become bigger, grander, and more spectacular. He’d spent one hundred million dollars building a special theater for P’tol P’kah in Outer Space, the science fiction-themed hotel and casino, charged two hundred bucks for each of the five thousand intimately arrayed seats, and sold out every show since the gala opening eight months ago.
But Fleck’s golden touch didn’t seem to give him a thick skin. The Internet was filled with stories about the mogul’s revenge on people he felt had crossed him. He’d been sued several times for hiring private investigators to dig up dirt on reporters who got too close to him.
“Where’s the downside?” Shawn had asked when Gus told him what the research had dug up.
“Let’s see,” Gus said. “We’re getting into business with a man who is famous for targeting people who let him down.”
“And who does he hire for his targeting?” Shawn beamed, clearly feeling he’d bested Gus’ logic on this one. “Private investigators. Which means us. So either we find the green guy and we’re heroes to the boss, or we don’t and we’re searching for dirt. Either way, we’re looking at a long-term business prospect.”
“You think he’s going to hire us to dig up dirt on ourselves?”
“That would be silly,” Shawn said. “I figure we can do each other. And believe me, I can give him lots of hot stuff about you.”
Gus might have continued arguing against the Vegas trip if the door to the offices hadn’t banged open just then. Henry Spencer stood in the doorway, red faced and breathing hard. He looked like a cartoon bull who was about to turn into a steam engine in order to flatten the matador.
“What have you done?” he demanded. “Are you so thoughtless, so selfish, that you casually ruin other men’s lives just for fun?”
“You used to be a cop,” Shawn said without even blinking. “You ruined people’s lives for money. Doing it for fun is much less selfish than that.”
Henry’s hands twitched as if he wanted to put them around Shawn’s throat. Then he dropped them to his sides. “All I asked was for you to deliver a present to my friend Bud’s bachelor party. You didn’t even have to say a word. Waltz in, waltz out; night’s over.”
“I’ve never been much of a dancer,” Shawn said.
“Why did you have to tell Bud that Savonia was cheating on him?”
