"Spencer didn't do it." Lassiter's voice was firm, and a little annoyed that he had to state what should have been obvious to everyone. There was a long silence as Juliet O'Hara and Chief Vick flipped through their case folders, as if the reports might say something different the ninth time around. But they were disturbingly clear. Officers responding to reports of gunfire had found Samantha Perez, waitress at an upscale restaurant, dead in her Laguna St. apartment at 4:10 am. From the moment they'd come on shift that morning Lassiter and O'Hara had done everything by the book. And every piece of evidence had pointed to Shawn Spencer.
"His prints are on the weapon." O'Hara said it regretfully, but behind her tone Lassiter could hear the suspicion.
Prints on a murder weapon. How much clearer does it need to be?
"Print. Singular," Lassiter corrected. Only a thumbprint had been found. "I know." How could he not know? Ballistics had fired the weapon found at the scene confirmed the striations were a perfect match to the bullets that had killed Perez. The registration numbers had been ground to nothing, but when Lassiter had run the clear thumbprint from the gun's smooth barrel Spencer's picture had smiled out at him from his computer screen, practically daring him to file the report.
"And trace found his hair on her negligee." Chief Vick nodded heavily, as if that settled the issue for her.
"It's circumstantial." Lassiter knew how he must sound. The look on their faces said it all: You are in denial.
O'Hara grimaced, as if taking a nasty medicine. "And the vic's neighbour saw a man matching Shawn's description flee the scene."
"I know. I know." Hearing the details again weren't going to make him feel any better. Yes, the description provided by the neighbour, Steven Burnett, had matched Shawn perfectly, right down to his tousled hair. And he'd described the exact make and colour of Guster's ridiculous little car. "But Spencer didn't do it."
"If Shawn is innocent," O'Hara said patiently, "he'll have an alibi. And an explanation."
"You're right. Of course he will." Lassiter gritted his teeth.
"None of us wants it to be Mr. Spencer." Vick leaned forward and her voice dripped with infuriating sympathy. "But we have to follow the evidence. Especially when it's one of our own." Lassiter met her eyes and he could see disappointment there. And surprise that he, of all people, was the one who needed convincing.
Lassiter slapped the case file onto the Chief's desk so hard he felt his hand sting. "Burnett is incriminating Spencer on purpose." He jabbed the file with a long finger. "Let me bring Burnett in. Give me an hour with that son of a—"
Anger flashed in Vick's eyes. "I am not going to have us accused of intimidating witnesses, Carlton. We're going to be under a microscope on this one. Let's do it right." She stood, indicating the conference was at an end. "Do I make myself clear?"
If Shawn had been there, Lassiter thought, he'd have said something ridiculous, like "As clear the rather obvious plot to Bride Wars." But then if Shawn had been there Lassiter would have had to arrest him.
"Absolutely." Lassiter straightened his spine and his tie. Vick had a point. As soon as they brought Shawn in they were going to have Internal Affairs, and those vultures from the press, not to mention Henry Spencer, watching them like, well, vultures.
"Pick up Mr. Spencer," Vick said firmly. "For questioning."
Lassiter growled. Picking up, booking, and questioning Shawn was a waste of time that would be better spent finding the real killer.
"O'Hara and McNab can do it," he said. "I've got a… personal matter to see to." Lassiter turned and left while Chief Vick's eyebrows were still raised.
As he pulled a copy of every file on the Perez murder, Lassiter went over the details of the previous evening in his mind, looking for a loophole. Shawn had arrived at his place at 10:00pm, bearing Chinese food. The evidence was confirmed by both his watch and by the fact that the Channel 8 news with Lloyd Lansing had just started.
"What's this?" He'd demanded, peering inside the bag. "A bribe?"
"Think of it as a reward," Shawn had said, making himself comfortable on the couch. "Well, as the prequel to a reward. Think of it as the Prometheus to the chest-bursting goodness that is Alien. Or Aliens, depending on how tired I am. Definitely not Alien 3. I'll never know why Universal didn't set that movie on a women's prison planet."
They'd eaten garlic spareribs and fried rice and drank icy cold beer and argued about the open homicide on Lassiter's desk—which Shawn insisted on calling "The Case of the Missing Clues." The victim had been found early Sunday morning, in an alley off Palisades, bludgeoned with a tire iron. They had no ID, no motive and no suspects.
"You're clueblocked," Shawn explained. "That's what Gus and I call it when we have no solid evidence or any leads."
"Right…" Lassiter was unconvinced. Whatever he called it, the lack of a clear suspect was giving him knots in his shoulders and a tension headache. Shawn had helped him release that tension, twice. And in the morning Shawn had made him coffee, bacon, and pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse before slipping out discretely at 7:00am.
Sure, Shawn had an alibi for the time of the murder, but Lassiter doubted he'd be quick to use it.
At least, he hoped he wouldn't.
Clutching the case files to his thumping chest, Lassiter barrelled through the station. He needed privacy. He needed to think. He needed to feel like he was doing something. He needed to drive.
He slammed the door on his Ford Fusion, dumped the files on the passenger seat, and then rested his head in his hands.
Had be been used? Had all these little visits of Shawn's been part of a plot to kill Samantha Perez?
He went over it forwards and backwards in his mind. If the reports of gunshots and Woody's estimated time of death were correct, Perez has been killed around 4:00am. At that time Shawn had been nestled against him in bed, putting his right arm to sleep with his dead weight. That was a fact. Lassiter wasn't normally awake at that hour, but lately he'd taken to looking at Shawn's sleeping face in the glow of the streetlight outside, trying to figure out what, if anything, these visits meant.
Had it all been an elaborate plot to alibi himself out of a homicide using the SBPD's head Detective? Lassiter swore and slammed a fist against the dashboard.
Was there any way Shawn could have gotten to the crime scene? Could he have changed the clocks in the house to fake an alibi? He shook his head. If Shawn were so devious wouldn't he have chosen a different alibi? Something socially acceptable? Of course maybe that was Spencer logic. The more embarrassing the alibi, the more readily people would believe it. It made a twisted kind of sense. The kind that might appeal to someone who made his living as a 'psychic detective.'
Lassiter pulled out the parking lot onto East Figueroa, his mouth a tight line.
Shawn never liked you. You were just convenient. Gullible.
He put on his sunglasses, their mirrored surface covering the doubt in his eyes.
Fists clutching the steering wheel, Lassiter ran through every detail of the evening, looking for a moment that rang false. His head told him that Shawn could have changed the clocks. Maybe while Lassiter had taken out the garbage. But his gut told him otherwise. And if there was one thing he'd learned as a cop, it was to trust his gut.
As he pulled onto Garden he could almost hear his mother's disapproving voice: There's no fool like an old fool.
Parked in front of the victim's building, Lassiter looked at his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. He wanted to call Shawn and give him the heads-up. He deserved that much. But when IA started combing through the case, they'd want to know why he'd called the prime suspect in a homicide investigation moments before his arrest.
Of course things were going to look bad no matter how you cut it.
How long would Shawn hold out under questioning? Lassiter figured the psychic's smart-ass remarks could fill an hour or two by themselves. Hell, Shawn could probably take up 40 minutes ranting about Harrison Ford and the one-armed man. But when he faced a night in a cell, would his resolve hold?
Lassiter looked up at Samantha Perez' fourth-floor apartment. It was a nice building, and a good location. According to the superintendent, Perez had just moved in. Maybe that was a lead. Maybe the killer had expected the previous tenant and killed Perez by mistake. He called the precinct.
"Dobson? It's Lassiter. I need everything you can get me on the previous occupant of apartment 401 in that Laguna Street homicide. Yes, today."
He stepped out of his car and stood, watching. The sun spilled across the wall, a blazing white against the iron grille work and red tiled roof. Tiny peonies swayed innocently in their planting boxes. This did not look like the building where a young woman had been shot three times in the chest. But then most crime scenes didn't look like crime scenes. Lassiter squinted at the ironwork wrapped protectively across the bottom half of the patio doors. Someone could have climbed from his own apartment, along the wall, to the Perez apartment. That lying neighbour, Burnett, maybe.
Regretfully, Lassiter dismissed the idea. Four stories didn't look like much from down here, but from up there it would be alarmingly high. One slip and you had a 50-50 chance of being outlined in chalk. A break-in like that would take athleticism and fearlessness. And based on the uniform's report of their interview with Burnett, and the photo from his driver's license, the man had neither. Plus there'd been no sign of forced entry. No, whoever shot Samantha Perez had likely knocked on her door and been admitted. Even Burnett could manage that.
Lassiter glanced at his watch. They'd have Shawn in the squad car by now. He could picture him joking around, making a dozen references to The Fugitive or Double Jeopardy—any movie where the accused faces Tommy Lee Jones. But O'Hara was a good interrogator, and she knew Shawn. It was only a matter of time before she broke him. And then Shawn would tell her everything.
Lassiter groaned. He had three, maybe four hours before Shawn cracked. He just hoped it was enough.
The elevator doors in the apartment foyer opened as he reached for the button and Lassiter was suddenly face to face with the pressed dress shirt and tight fade of Burton Guster.
"Guster?" The doors began to close and Lassiter jammed his hand into the gap, forcing them open again. "What are you doing here?" The elevator buzzed a rebuke.
"I am investigating a murder. And a frame-up." Gus stepped into the hall.
Lassiter had seen many faces of Gus over the years—frightened, excited, disgusted, smug, shocked, and trying not to vomit at the sight of a dead body. But his current expression looked angry. Resentful.
Lassiter felt all the breath leave his body in one swoop. Guster knew. He had to. Lassiter swore under his Shawn's late-night promises, he'd blabbed.
"By yourself?" Lassiter removed his sunglasses and glanced furtively around.
"Of course I'm by myself. Shawn's a wanted fugitive."
The elevator buzzed furiously and the doors attempted to crush Lassiter's fingers. He pulled his hand back.
"How do you know that?" he asked, testily.
"Uh hello? Police scanner? We heard the BOLO."
Lassiter smiled. O'Hara would have known that Shawn listened to the scanner. The BOLO was her way of warning him.
"So he's on the run?" His heart sank. Running was bad. Running looked guilty. Yet part of him was relieved that Shawn might still be free, not yet under the barrage of O'Hara's questions.
"Shawn didn't kill that woman," Gus insisted. "We've been best friends since forever. I know the guy. And he's no killer. If you weren't so caught up in doing everything by the book maybe you'd see that too."
"I do see that."
"You do?" Gus looked surprised.
The tension in Lassiter's shoulders relaxed a notch. Maybe Guster didn't know about him and Shawn.
Lassiter nodded. "I figure the killer planted Spencer's print and hair. What I don't know is whether he was a target or just a convenient patsy."
Gus looked hopeful. "So you're not here to gather evidence against him?"
Lassiter jabbed the button to call the elevator again. "I'm here to clear him."
"Well. That's the first reasonable thing you've said." Gus pressed the button himself. "My primary suspect is the victim's neighbour, Steven Burnett. There's no way he could have seen Shawn flee the scene, or get into my car. He's lying. And lying people are guilty people."
Lassiter narrowed his eyes at Gus. "You seem to know a lot of details about this case."
Gus shrugged. "You don't become a partner in Santa Barbara's foremost psychic detective agency without developing some contacts."
Lassiter sighed. McNab. Well, if Spencer really was leading him up the garden path, at least he wasn't making the trip alone. The elevator opened and a tiny round woman with a Pekinese dog scurried out.
Gus stepped into the elevator and stood, arms folded, while Lassiter pressed the button for the fourth floor.
"Weren't you just up there?" Lassiter asked.
Gus nodded curtly. "Yes I was."
"So why go up again?"
Gus maintained his solemn expression. "I couldn't get in."
Lassiter smirked and when the doors opened he led the way to the Perez apartment. He slit the tape that sealed the door, and then unlocked the apartment with the key obtained from the building superintendent.
The Perez apartment was a junior bachelor, with a rumpled bed, kitchenette, and tiny blue bathroom. Lassiter stood by the door and imagined how the murder must have gone down while Gus searched the victim's desk. The recycling bin was empty, save for some yogurt containers, the plastic ring of a six pack, carefully cut so as not to choke wildlife, and a long box bearing the name of a local florist.
The matching bouquet was on the desk in a cheap glass vase. "These flowers need water," Gus noted, sniffing tentatively at the roses.
"And I need evidence," Lassiter grumbled, mostly to himself.
"Well," Gus said, "I've already learned that she was environmentally conscious, a romantic at heart, and took time to write to her family." He flipped through some unsent mail. "Girl, your penmanship was fine." He opened a side drawer and his eyebrows rose. "And personalized stationary. What!"
"She's dead, Guster, not auditioning for Paths of Love."
"Well, what have you found out?" Gus asked, moving on to search through the closet.
Lassiter rattled off the details from the background check. "Unmarried, no kids. No criminal record. Doesn't drive. Worked at that steakhouse, Beefeaters, down on the waterfront." He assessed the distance from the door to where Perez' body had been found.
Gus popped his head out from behind the closet door. "The one where they make the fries shaped like little fish?"
"Yeah." Lassiter didn't bother to mention that he'd taken Shawn there for dinner only two days before. He remembered the things Shawn had tried to do under the table of their secluded booth and fought away a smile.
"How do you figure it?" Gus asked.
Lassiter filled his lungs and exhaled slowly. "Well, the killer knocks on the door. Perez answers it and is shot three times in the chest at close range." He mimed shooting a gun. "Gunshot residue on the negligee confirms her killer was close." He wouldn't mention that Shawn's hair had also been found on the negligee. He looked over at the rumpled bed. Had Shawn and the Perez woman been lovers? Lassiter turned away. The thought cut him deeper than he expected.
Gus sat on the sofa. "Why would a young woman living alone answer the door in a negligee?" He bounced lightly on the cushions and ran a hand over the soft upholstery. "This is a very nice couch."
"Maybe you can buy it when her grieving relatives auction off the contents of the apartment," Lassiter said, his voice surly. He looked at the door, then back at the floor with its imagined corpse. "You've got a good point about the negligee. Door's got a peephole, so she'd know who was knocking. So…" He looked at Gus and a smile spread across his face.
"So she knew her killer!" Gus's face lit up. "Intimately."
Lassiter nodded slowly. "You may be right, Guster."
"Let's question Burnett about the nature of his relationship with the victim!" Gus bolted toward the door but Lassiter blocked him.
"Hold up. I need something solid before I can get within ten feet of Burnett."
"What do you suggest?" Gus had his shoulders back and his chin up. Lassiter couldn't blame him. His best friend was being framed. Doing nothing was not an option.
Lassiter glared at the door, as if his eyes could burn through into their suspect's apartment. "I'll dig up what I can to connect Burnett with our vic. You stay here. If he leaves, tail him and see where he goes. Then call me."
"How am I supposed to tail him? He evidently knows the blueberry."
Lassiter grumbled as if arguing with himself, then put out a palm. "Give me your keys."
Gus obeyed and Lassiter slipped them into his pocket, and then held his own keys out to Gus. "Take my car." As Gus reached for the keys he pulled them back an inch and added, "One scratch and I'll charge you with assaulting an officer."
Gus bristled. "I didn't lay a hand on you." He snatched the keys.
"I was referring to the car. Check in with me every hour, on the hour."
Gus hurried back to the desk, grabbed the flowers, and stuffed them into the box from the recycling bin.
"What are you doing?" Lassiter asked.
"I'm taking these flowers." Gus sniffed their heady bouquet.
"This is a crime scene."
"So?" Gus sniffed the roses again. "Flowers ought to be enjoyed while they're still fresh."
Fiddling with the door lock, Lassiter did not see Burton Guster also slip the victims' unsent mail and personalized stationary pad into his pocket.
"Shawn?" Juliet O'Hara stepped cautiously into the unlocked Psych office, followed closely by Buzz McNab. The sound of the police ban radio crackled from the corner, and she spun to face it, hand moving automatically toward her holster. But the office was empty.
"Looks like he left a note." McNab picked up the scrap of paper from the desk and slowly read it aloud. "Jules: I'm totally innocent. I would never kill a waitress. Gone to Beefeaters to look for clues and crispy fish fries." McNab nodded thoughtfully, perhaps thinking of fries.
"Great!" O'Hara sighed. As much as she wanted to believe in Shawn's innocence, she had a job to do. And today that job included bringing him in for questioning in a homicide.
"Should I bag this?" McNab asked, staring intently at the message.
"Yes, of course bag it." O'Hara walked slowly around the office, alert for any indication of Shawn's innocence or guilt. Finally she spoke. "There's nothing useful here. Let's roll."
"To Beefeaters?" McNab asked eagerly, trailing behind her.
Once in the squad car, O'Hara's frustration overwhelmed her reserve. "I cannot believe Shawn would put us in this situation." She hit the steering wheel angrily with both palms.
"Well, if he's innocent—" McNab began.
"We have the murder weapon," O'Hara insisted, taking an angry left. "With his print on it. And his hair on the victim."
"So you're saying—"
"So I'm saying all the evidence points to him. Plus an eye witness who described him and his car."
"Actually, I think it's Gus' car."
"What I don't get is why Shawn would commit such a sloppy murder," she said. "He knows what we look for. It makes no sense."
"Unless he—"
O'Hara's eyes widened. "You think he wanted to get caught?"
"Or," McNab said, "maybe he's—"
"Innocent. I know. I can't help thinking this feels all wrong. Like we're being fed evidence."
"Sounds like you want to believe him," McNab offered.
O'Hara pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Beefeaters. "Maybe I do, Buzz. Maybe he was framed."
"Then what do we do?"
O'Hara looked grimly at of the Beefeaters front façade, festooned with Union Jacks. "We do our job. We solve this thing."
Shawn strolled into Beefeaters, and was greeted by a smiling hostess and a roomful of British knicknacks. Somehow, being here on a case was far less romantic than when he and Lassiter had visited only two days ago.
"Good afternoon," she said, "and welcome to Beefeaters. Table for one?"
"Sadly, no. I'm psychic detective Shawn Spencer. You may remember me as Chad on Explosion Gigantesca de Romance." He smiled and flared his nostrils in what he hoped was a seductive manner. "But today I'm investigating the murder of Samantha Perez."
The hostesses' face became grave. "I heard about Sam. Do the police have a suspect?"
Shawn nodded. "Yes they do. But enough about me, let's talk about Samantha. Sam. Can I call her Sammy? Samwitch? Samalama?" Shawn quickly scanned the room, noting the secluded booth where he and Lassiter had shared a garlic shrimp appetizer and later talked shop over a couple of porterhouse steaks.
"I guess," the hostess said. "Sam was a good person. If there's any way I can help, let me know."
"Actually," Shawn said, "detecting is hungry work. Could I get a basket of those fries shaped like fish?"
"Our Famous Fish Chips? Absolutely." The hostess hurried to place the order. Shawn took the opportunity to duck behind the host station, flip through the reservation book, and take pictures with his phone. He frowned. His own reservation wasn't there. Lassiter had insisted on secrecy, so he'd used the name of Clint Eastwood's character from In The Line of Fire. He squinted at the book. Someone had torn out a page from Saturday. As the hostess returned Shawn intercepted her.
"Tell me, Barbara—" he began.
"My name is Monique."
"Are you sure? You really look like a Barbara." Shawn put a hand to his head and indicated a glass bowl of business cards on the small desk. "I sense this bowl was full on Saturday." Shawn knew the bowl had been full. He'd dropped three Psych business cards into it on his way out after dinner with Lassiter.
The hostess looked puzzled. "We have a monthly draw. The winner gets a 2 for 1 coupon good for any weekday lunch or dinner."
Shawn nodded. "Yes, but," he glanced at his watch, "Two days ago, Saturday, I'm sensing it was much fuller than this." He moved his hand around the bowl, to suggest fullness.
"Oh yeah." Monique laughed. "Late Sunday night some guy came in and stole all the cards."
Shawn 's eyes lit with interest. "Really? May I?" Shawn reached into the bowl, scooped out the cards, and quickly shuffled through them. No Psych cards were to be found. Hearing the door, he glanced over his shoulder to see Juliet O'Hara and Buzz McNab enter, looking determined.
"If you want to be included in the next draw I can take your card," the hostess offered.
"Please do." Shawn pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over. "Tell me, Monique, how long does Beefeaters keep their sales receipts?"
"Oh, months. Our manager reports the sales figures to head office at the—"
"Shawn!" O'Hara's voice rang out sharply as she approached. "You need to come with us. Now."
Shawn turned back to the hostess. "Could I get those fish fries to go?"