The speed was exhilarating. Intoxicating.
The plastic letters on the hatchback spelled out TOYOTA, but as Gus piloted the blue Echo down State Street, it might as well have been a Ferrari. He stomped down on the gas and felt 105 horses galloping under the hood. The four cylinders screamed like an F/A-18 Hornet in a Blue Angels formation. Gus knew if he cracked down the window, the blast of wind would blow his hair right off his head-if he didn’t keep it buzzed close to his scalp just for such an occasion. At the very least, it would whip his Donald Trump Collection power tie out the window. God only knew if the clip-on would be strong enough to keep it in the car.
Even so, Gus was tempted. It would be worth the risk to face the primal force of nature’s fury. But to crank down the window meant taking one hand off the wheel, and ahead in the distance, he saw danger.
Danger that would require all his driving skill.
As the light changed from green to yellow, a flock of schoolkids stood on the corner, waiting for the WALK sign. If they spread out in the crosswalk, there would be no way to avoid plowing into them. Gus took his foot off the gas.
There was a strangled scream from the seat beside him.
“It’s okay, Shawn,” Gus said. “I see them.”
Under his perpetual one-day stubble, Shawn Spencer’s face was turning red. He seemed to be having trouble forming words. Extreme speeds work like that on some people, Gus knew.
“The light just turned yellow,” Shawn said. “You can make it!”
“You mean run the light?” Gus said.
“You don’t need to run it. You can walk and still get through before it changes.”
Gus’ foot hovered over the gas. Shawn’s hand shot across the gear shift and pushed down on Gus’ knee.
“A woman’s life is at stake. Punch it!”
Gus struggled to keep his foot airborne. “Don’t touch the knee.”
“Then speed up.”
The hand pressed down on his knee. Gus had to risk taking one hand off the wheel to pry it off. But Shawn’s fingers were curved around his patella, and he couldn’t peel them away.
“Do you have any idea how fast we’re going?” Gus said.
“Yes. Thirty-three miles an hour.”
“ Eight miles over the legal limit. If there’s radar working, we’re in trouble.”
“We’re already in trouble. That’s why you need to speed up.”
“First, take your hand off my knee.”
Shawn scowled, but his hand retreated back to his side of the cabin. Up ahead, the light changed to red.
“We could have made it,” Shawn said.
“We’re not going to be able to help Veronica Mason if we’re killed in a car crash,” Gus said.
“She’s not going to care if we’re dead if we don’t get to the courthouse before the jury comes back.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that when we got the call, instead of watching TV all morning.”
“It wasn’t TV-it was HBO,” Shawn said. “More specifically, it was Into the Blue.”
“Jessica Alba is not taking off her bikini no matter how many times you watch that movie.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m thinking there might be a bonus every tenth time.”
“You explain that to Veronica Mason when she’s sitting on death row. Maybe you can watch it with her in her cell,” Gus said.
“They don’t give you a TV on death row. You get a Bible, and if you’re lucky, you can train a rat to be your friend.”
“She’s already got a rat for a friend.”
“Really?” Shawn said. “You’re going with the rat thing?”
The light changed to green and Gus hit the gas. The car chugged through the intersection and began to pick up speed. Shawn’s hand hovered over Gus’ knee, but after a stern look, he pulled it away.
“You promised a month ago you could prove she was innocent,” Gus said. “Now she’s about to be found guilty, and you haven’t done anything except play Centipede.”
That wasn’t exactly true. In the weeks since Veronica Mason first stepped into the beachside bungalow that housed their psychic-detective agency, Shawn and Gus had pored over every shred of evidence against her. They’d gone undercover as plumbers, pizza-delivery drivers, and piano tuners to question other suspects. And besides, Shawn wasn’t just playing Centipede. He was competing. He’d finally beaten Donald Hayes’ world record of 7,111,111 points, even if that had involved adding up the scores of a dozen separate games and then multiplying by eight.
“I was trying to get into our client’s mind,” Shawn said. “Centipede was the first arcade game ever written by a woman, and still one of the few to appeal to a female audience. Now would you please speed up?”
Gus glanced down at the speedometer. He was already thirty percent over the limit. But one look at Shawn showed him how much his partner was worrying about this case. Maybe it was worth the risk of a ticket.
When it started, it all looked so promising. Gus and Shawn were luxuriating in the glow of a string of successful cases. Which for Gus meant celebrating by rearranging their extensive DVD collection, moving from standard title-based alphabetization to a more intricate breakdown by genre, star, national origin, and release date. Shawn was busy studying the bra ads in the Santa Barbara Times. As Gus wrestled with the thorny question of whether Mannequin 2: On the Move should be filed with the Kristy Swanson collection, the “inanimate object becomes a hot chick” section, or the “sequel so bad it killed the franchise” area, the door opened. Gus looked up and saw a dollar sign standing in the doorway.
Actually, it was a young woman. In any other circumstance, Gus might have noticed her fiery red hair, blazing green eyes, and flawless skin, her long tan legs, and perfect shape. He certainly would have noticed the way her blouse hung open at the top, one button too many left undone. But after their unbroken string of solved cases, Gus was waiting for the Big One, the high-profile wealthy client who could put them at the very top of the local PI pyramid. This woman was obviously what he’d been looking for. He hoped that Shawn saw her the same way.
“Is this the detective agency?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.
Gus jumped out of his chair.
“Welcome to Psych,” he said, holding out a hand. “Come in. I’m Burton Guster.”
With a sinking heart, Gus saw her take a quick glance around the office at the frat-boy-with-a-credit-card decor: the leather armchairs, the wide flat screen, the comic books scattered over the coffee table.
“This is a mistake,” the woman said. “You can’t help me. No one can.”
“Many people think that before they come to us,” Gus said. “Before they meet Shawn Spencer.”
“Is he really psychic?”
Gus heard a moan of pain from behind him. Shawn lay spread-eagle in his desk chair, arms flung out at his sides, legs up on the desk, eyes screwed shut.
“I’m sensing something.” Shawn rose out of the chair as if yanked up by unseen strings and stared into the woman’s eyes. “There’s been a murder.”
“Yes,” she said. There was a flicker of hope in her eyes. Keep it coming, Gus thought. You’ve almost got her.
“I’m sensing that you were not the victim,” Shawn said.
The hope flickered out and died.“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”
Gus dived for the door, throwing himself between the woman and the exit. “You have to understand that Shawn sees the spirit world so clearly that sometimes he can’t tell if he’s addressing a living person or a ghost.”
“Often I need to use my hands to be sure,” Shawn said, extending his arms toward her.
“Shawn!”
“But not this time,” Shawn said, dropping his arms. “I sense there was a murder.”
“Yes, you sensed that already,” Gus said. “Maybe you could sense a little more.”
“Maybe I could,” Shawn agreed.
“Maybe you should,” Gus said. “Like now.”
Shawn put his fingertips to his forehead and sniffed the air.
“I was wrong,” Shawn said. “You were the victim of this crime. Not only has someone you loved deeply been taken away-you have been blamed for it. Unfairly, cruelly blamed by a world jealous of your talent, your beauty, your capacity for love.”
The woman froze, then turned to Shawn. She started to tremble, then fell back in a swoon. Gus leapt forward to grab her before she could hit the floor, and guided her to the couch, where he laid her down gently. Shawn nudged him out of the way as he kneeled by the couch, taking her hand. She opened her eyes, then sat up quickly as she remembered where she was.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been so long since…”
“Since anyone understood you?” Shawn said.
She nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“I see a wedding,” Shawn said. “A man who is much older-”
“Not so much,” she murmured. “Only forty-three years between us.”
Shawn turned to Gus, disgust on his face. Forty-three years- yuck . Then turned back to the woman on the couch.
“To the outside world, it seemed like a lot,” Shawn said. “But to two souls who’d been destined to be together, a matter of days.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, reliving her happier times.
“I see months of happiness. I see you honeymooning on his private jet.”
“Yes.”
“And on his private island.”
“Yes.”
“Off the coast of his private country.”
Her eyes opened. “What?”
“I see your wedding bed, spread with rose petals, the eager bride emerging into the chamber and lifting her-”
Gus felt his face getting hot. “Maybe you should see something else,” he said.
Shawn shot him a look. “I’ll just hold on to that part of the vision for now. Then I see darkness. A return to his mansion on the cliffs overlooking the crashing seas. And in the window, this strange, evil woman, laughing maniacally as the flames rise around her and-”
“There wasn’t a fire,” the woman said.
“That’s Rebecca,” Gus said.
“It is?” Shawn said. “Yes, it is. That’s your husband’s name.”
“Her husband was named Rebecca?” Gus said.
“I’m sensing that your husband’s name was Laurence Olivier. No-Oliver. And you are Veronica.”
“That’s right,” she said.
As infuriating as Shawn could be, Gus loved watching him do this-take tiny details that no one else ever noticed and use them to understand vast truths. He had no idea how Shawn had figured all this out and was looking forward to the explanation that would come once their new client was gone.
“You and Oliver had days of bliss. And then he took ill. The end was tragically fast, leaving you all alone with only his billions to keep you company. But what came next was even worse. You were accused of the crime. And while you assumed your name would be quickly cleared, the police found evidence pointing right at you.”
“Yes!”
“And worst of all, no one would believe that you’d never hurt Rebecca-”
“Laurence,” Gus said.
“Oliver,” she said.
“Oliver. When in truth you wouldn’t even mind going to jail, if only it didn’t mean people would believe you capable of hurting the only man you ever loved.”
“It’s like you read my mind,” Veronica said.
“Yes, much like that,” Gus said.
“I don’t read minds. I read auras,” Shawn said. “And your aura is the most innocent I’ve ever seen.”
“Can you help me?” she said.
“I guarantee it,” Shawn said.
“Because I’ve been to every other detective in town, and no one has been able to find anything that wasn’t incriminating,” she said. “And my trial starts on Monday.”
“Like I said, I guarantee it,” Shawn said. “You don’t have to pay us anything until we clear your name.”
“Except for a small retainer,” Gus said quickly.
“Which we’ll waive in your case.”
Gus felt his face getting hot again. Only this time it wasn’t embarrassment.
“The other detectives-”
“Don’t have a direct link to the spirit world the way I do. Although in your case, it should be a link to Heaven, so I can communicate with the other angels.”
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing Shawn’s hand.
Gus could barely wait until the door closed behind her before he exploded.
“You guarantee it?”
“Don’t we guarantee every case?”
“No!”
Shawn sat down behind his desk and picked up the newspaper. “We should start. It’s a great marketing idea.”
“Unless we fail and we have to give the client’s money back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shawn said. “We can’t give her her money back because we didn’t take any in the first place.”
Shawn flipped through the pages of the paper, then tossed it to Gus. A gorgeous model in a skimpy bra and skimpier panties smiled serenely up at him. “What does this tell you?” Shawn asked.
“That she’s Fit For The Cure,” Gus said, reading the copy on the bra ad.
“True, although they never say the cure for what. I think it’s the high price of Maxim magazine. But that’s not what I meant.” Shawn took the paper and flipped it over, then gave it back to Gus.
There was a small picture of their new client. Over it, a headline read “Model Wife or Murderess: Veronica Mason Trial Starts Monday.” Gus quickly skimmed the story, which included all the details that Shawn had “psychically” intuited and many he hadn’t mentioned. Oliver Mason was a pillar of the Santa Barbara community since his days as quarterback of the high school football team. He’d married the head cheerleader shortly after graduation, leaving many broken hearts behind, and begun a career in aviation that made him a billionaire. His first wife had died of cancer two years ago. Last summer he met Veronica in a restaurant where she was working as a waitress, and a month later they were married. Shortly after their honeymoon, Mason collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack. At first the death was ruled as natural causes, but an autopsy revealed a massive amount of the stimulant epinephrine in his tissues. With that discovery, the Santa Barbara police, led by Detective Carlton Lassiter, opened a murder investigation. They only had one suspect, and when they found multiple used “epi-pens”-one-shot epinephrine auto-injectors used to treat anaphylactic shock-in Veronica’s medicine cabinet, she was arrested and charged with her husband’s murder. The rest of the article was filled with quotes from people who had known and loved Mason.
“So she did it,” Gus said.
“Buddy, why so cynical?” Shawn chided. “Why would she kill him?”
“For a billion dollars and a private island?”
“He was decades older than her. If she wanted his money, she could have waited a few days for him to kick off from natural causes like Anna Nicole Smith did. Only without the whole posing for Playboy and dying of an overdose part. Which is too bad-the Playboy part, anyway.”
“She was twenty-five. He was sixty-eight. He could have lived twenty more years easily.”
Shawn stopped to do the math. “Twenty-five and forty-three is.. . Well, it’s really gross, however long he had to live. The point is, the police arrested the first suspect they could find, and they never looked any further. She’s obviously innocent.”
“You just want to believe that because her blouse was unbuttoned down to her knees.”
“Be that as it may, we’ve got to prove she’s innocent. Or we’re never going to get paid.”
So they got to work. Gus had to admit there was an element of brilliance to Shawn’s plan. With the trial going on right now, as soon as they came up with the evidence, they’d be able to burst into the courtroom and prove both her innocence and their genius on live TV. There was only one problem. In all the weeks the trial dragged on, Shawn and Gus found nothing. Not one thing that would undercut the prosecution’s claim. Now both sides had presented their cases, the jury had deliberated, and the verdict was due to be announced this morning. In a matter of minutes, their client was going to be sentenced to life in prison, and Shawn and Gus were going to lose their only chance for a payday.
Gus made a hard right onto Anacapa Street and saw the fake Spanish-Moorish palace that was the Santa Barbara courthouse. Shawn pointed at an empty space right in front of the steps.
“Park there,” he said.
“It’s red,” Gus said, scanning the street ahead for another space. There was nothing.
“We’re here for five minutes, you’re not going to get a ticket.”
“We’re right in front of the courthouse.”
“And no one’s going to be stupid enough to park in a red zone where he knows there are going to be cops coming and going all day, right?” Shawn said.
“Right,” Gus said.
“So why would meter maids even bother to patrol here?” Shawn threw his door open and jumped out of the car. “You coming?”
With a heavy sense of foreboding, Gus slid the Echo into the red zone, locked his door, and followed Shawn across the flagstones through the whitewashed archway and past a pair of heavy wooden doors. By the time Gus caught up with him, Shawn was standing in the vaulted hallway, frozen outside the door to courtroom number three.
“Something wrong?” Gus asked.
“Just going over the plan one last time,” Shawn said. “Making sure every piece is in place. Every angle is covered. Every contingency is
… contingencied.”
“Great,” Gus said. “What is the plan?”
“No idea,” Shawn said, and kicked open the massive wooden doors.