The reader must have equal opportunity
with the detective for solving the mystery.
All clues must be plainly stated and described.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

-x-

11.

Lunch at Cafe Del Sol with Jason and Sean began as a stoic study in anxiety and how friends handle it, but ended on the cheerful notes of friendship they'd cultivated through the years. At Gus's lonely arrival ten minutes into the meal, he received plenty of remorse that Juliet was unable to join him.

Gus scanned a menu he'd learned ages ago. "She sends her condolences, but she's been up to her eyeballs in that armed robbery from last week."

"Another reason I didn't want her working with me on this new case," Carlton said. "She's got that headache to worry about, and that hasn't been an easy case."

"Did you take a look at it?" Gus asked him, then threw out his beverage and meal order to the server.

"She's had everyone look at that case," Carlton answered. "Except you and Shawn."

Shawn was shaking his head, preempting Gus's speech. "No, dude. Just no."

Gus took the blatant brush-off to heart. Conversational topics were switched rapidly. "So, Sean, how did the screen-test go?"

As with most actors, Sean was happy to tell anyone about his work. Unlike some actors, though, he was more grateful to be where he was. After climbing through a couple of really horrendous ordeals, he had more than enough reason to be thankful for the position he now had in his career as well as his life.

Shawn was sorry to part with Sean and Jason at lunch's end. They were heading to the airport, back to New York City. Sean made Shawn promise one thing: "Don't work too hard."

Later, on the phone with his dad, Shawn repeated the phrase. It was as funny to Henry Spencer as Shawn had anticipated. "Don't work too hard? You're the epitome of slacker. Well," Henry obtained a sprinkling of self-reproach, "maybe not so much anymore. But you used to be—at least of a certain type."

"Come on, Dad, admit it: I was never really a slacker. You only thought that about me for a really long time because I worked odd jobs and never seemed to stay in one place for very long."

"I used to think there were outstanding warrants for your arrest, you moved around so much."

"Being a cop, you would know better. And now I've had more fun in my life and done more things than anyone I know, and I was happy. I'm happy now, as a matter of fact. Don't tell me you're at the station, too."

Henry looked around the busy office. O'Hara's case was giving everyone fits of nerves and annoyance, and Lassiter was still eager to drill any information he could out of Zack Ingelow. "I think I'll cut out of here in a bit. Wait—aren't you supposed to work this afternoon?"

"I don't know, you tell me. You keep stricter tabs on my schedule than Tina Athens does. It's almost scary."

"I like to know where you are at all times." One too many times had Shawn dropped off the radar. If he—Henry—and Lassiter hadn't been attacked by an unexplained case of restlessness the afternoon Scobie decided that shooting Shawn Spencer would be the last thing he did on earth, who knew what would've happened?

"I'm not sure what to do with Hank while I'm at work, if Lassie's not home yet." Shawn's conclusions were reinforced with much greater rapidity than before. All he had to do was recall the way Hank had held tightly to his newfound friend yesterday. "Know what? Never mind. I'm taking him with me. Hope he likes horses."

"Probably. Most boys do."

"Where's his stuff, anyway? I assume that he had a backpack or a suitcase when his mother brought him out here."

"Hank's stuff is in Evidence."

"Still? I bought him a few things yesterday, but I'm pretty sure he'd like to have his own clothes back."

"I'll see if I can put a rush on it."

"Yes, Father, ostentatiously display your authority. Any sign of Anabel Ingelow's car?"

"Her car? Shawn, we can't even find the crime scene. Anabel Ingelow had kelp in her lungs, the coroner said."

"Yeah, and no sand anywhere on her body. I caught that, too."

"The kelp might've been a plant."

"Oh, the pun! Have you no sense of pun decency, Dad?"

"Shawn—"

"Yes, it could be a piece of evidence taken from its natural habitat and into an unnatural habitat to throw us—and by that I mean you—off the real crime scene."

"Which is—where?"

"Where do you think?"

"The mansion?"

"More than likely."

"The neighbors didn't hear or see anything suspicious."

"I have to go, Pop. This was supposed to be a short conversation and it's rapidly turning into something way too important—and interesting."

"If you want to think of a way to keep Zack Ingelow in jail, you're going to have to come up with something, kid. Evidence here is deteriorating."

"Hanging up now. For real. Have to go to work. With horses."

Having finally ended the call, Shawn sat still for a while to regurgitate the important facts. While technically not on the case, from his faraway position he could see a number of things that were a bit more myopic to those talented individuals trying to figure it out, chiefly Lassie and his team.

The phone didn't even have a chance to cool off before Shawn contacted Carlton. He explained about taking Hank to work with him. "Just as well," Carlton said, tight with stress and misery. "I don't know when I'm going to get out of here."

Shawn had nothing specific about the case that he could tell Carlton. No ideas of the crime scene came to him, but with Anabel Ingelow's missing car, he had a pretty good idea. He wasn't the only one. "Try to be home when we get home. I'm only going for this show jumping thing they're having out there this afternoon," Shawn said, likely the third or fourth time he'd explained it to Carlton. "We should be home around six—maybe six-thirty."

Carlton promised he'd have a simple dinner prepared by that time, a fine coercion to get Shawn home at the hour stipulated. Shawn used to have a tendency to wander around after work, and Carlton would call him forty or sixty minutes later, demanding to know his whereabouts. Shawn would be at the beach, or out with Gus, or spending casual time with his coworkers. But with Hank in tow, Carlton didn't doubt Shawn's ability to walk through the door between six and six-thirty.

At the barns, Hank already looking around, totally enthralled with everything, including the ride on public transportation and the short walk to the country club, Shawn was again on his phone.

"Officer McNab," Buzz greeted.

"Hey, Nabby! It's Shawn Spencer."

"Hey, Shawn. What can I do for you?"

"Is my boyfriend around?"

"I think he's at his desk on the phone." Buzz McNab had powers of deduction, a skill he'd improved across the years. He concluded that Shawn wasn't calling him just to get to Detective Lassiter. Quite the opposite, actually. "We have plenty of space to talk. I'm in the Video Room with Officer Tyas, actually. We got some emails from the police in Columbia, Missouri—about the Ingelows. You're not on that case, are you? I mean, I know the boy's staying with you and Carlton, but—well, what can I do for you?"

"I have a couple of questions and an idea."

"All right, shoot."

"Question one: I know how extensive the interview with Hank was yesterday afternoon, I was there, but did the chief or Lassie mention interviewing him again?"

"Not that I've heard. The poor kid probably said all he could say. Why?"

With Hank in line of sight, Shawn's instinct was to bypass McNab's question. "He doesn't seem surprised or upset much about his mom, and that's something I can't figure out."

"The Ingelows were separated," Buzz said. "Didn't you know that?"

"That helps a lot. And no, I didn't. I haven't looked at the case file and I haven't even spoken a single word to Zack Ingelow. I take it Hank was living with his dad."

"For three years, off and on."

"Separated for three years, no divorce in sight?"

"Mr. Ingelow said they were still in counseling, and they were happier being apart. These things happen."

"Hank lived with his dad with Anabel's mother around more often than Anabel."

"That's how it appears."

"What do you mean?"

"The chief said that you requested photographs of Hank's room back in Columbia."

"Yes—yes, I did do that. Showing a lot of blank wall space and very little personality."

"Your clairvoyance is accurate, Shawn, as usual. Hank's room at his mother's house and his father's apartment are both pretty bare. Anabel was a nurse and a student at the local college. She didn't have a lot of time to spend with Hank, but even Zack says he was very devoted to her. Should I be telling Detective Lassiter that we've had this conversation?"

"No," Shawn replied, mischievous, "even if he tortures you."

"Then I should hang up. I just looked out the hallway here and he's coming this way. Oh. Wait. No. He turned to the chief's office. What's your idea? Frankly, Shawn, we're out of ideas and even Detective Lassiter's having a hard time coming up with anything we can do. Mr. Ingelow won't confess to killing his wife. I mean, that's a given. We don't know where Nina Grayson is. Or Mrs. Ingelow's car. We don't know where she was killed. We don't know where her cell phone is. There's really a lot we don't know."

"I would like you to do something for me. But don't tell Lassie."

"I don't know, Shawn," Buzz responded slowly. "You and Lassiter just got out of a really bad fight and I don't want to do anything that would bring about some unwanted feelings again."

"No, no, Nabby, it'll be fine. The silence I've requested of you doesn't have anything to do with Lassie. It's something I'm not sure will pan out, and the fewer mistakes I make and everyone hears about, the better I'll feel about my sleuthing self. It's been a long time since I've done this, you know."

Boy, didn't McNab know! And unlike riding a bicycle… Well, solving cases wasn't really at all like riding a bicycle. "Okay, I'll do as you ask. Anything to keep your sleuthing self happy. What is it?"

Shawn told him, and McNab, intrigued, said he'd get right on it.

Shawn had his five-foot-one shadow around him throughout the day. Hank, infused with a personality that defied most anxieties and fears, was no weakling around horses. Shawn let him lead a few of the tamer ones out of their stalls, and taught him the proper method of returning a horse to the stall. But Hank liked best the grooming. The horses made funny faces then, sucking in their soft and whiskery mouths while the curry comb hit them in spots they couldn't reach. As the few hours of labor zipped by, Shawn wanted to intercept their peacefulness by asking Hank if he really understood that his father was in jail and his mother was dead. Only when he took an inquisitive call from Kat the social worker did Shawn have a chance to understand how much Hank knew. It was more than Shawn had originally supposed, both comforted that he didn't have to explain the situation further to Hank, and that there was no additional discomforting news to bring him.

The walk from the bus stop to home, Shawn's mind continued its rapid boil of thoughts. Hank stayed at his side, occasionally expressing an emotional distance Shawn didn't try to dissuade or halt. This wasn't Hank's home, and he was probably missing his friends, not to mention his mother, father and ever-present grandmother. Hank's despondency continued when he stepped into the mud room. He went straight to the big red chair after sending a limp hello to Carlton.

"Combination of things, really," Shawn said, expounding on Hank's behavior. "We had a very exciting day at the barns, equally thrilling rides on public transportation," he paused while Carlton smirked, "and, all and all, it was a tiring day. Dinner smells delicious, and thank you for not making fish. After we eat, I'd like to go over to Nova Place."

The cupboard almost slammed on Carlton's fingers, he was so surprised. "Nova Place? You mean the Hayworths' again? Why on earth do you think I'd let you go back there?"

"Are we doing that Whose Line is it Anyway? game where we can only talk in questions?"

Carlton wasn't angered enough to play along. "Why? Does it sound like we are? And why the Hayworth place again?"

"What if I told you that it wasn't the Hayworth place I wanted to look at?"

"Do you know what cheeriness looks like?" Carlton let out a bright, oversized but obviously fake grin. "Did you know it looks like this?" he said through his white teeth.

"What if I told you that I want to look at the street of—of Nova Place?"

Carlton waited ten seconds too long to come up with a retorting query—and couldn't do it. "Damn it," he muttered.

Shawn made a slash mark on the dry erase board they kept on the side of the refrigerator, tallying up the points of their games. Despite Shawn's practice, Carlton was only a few slash marks behind. He helped Carlton load up small plates with spaghetti. Maybe Carlton wasn't a splendid chef, but he could make spaghetti.

"I have this theory that Anabel's cell phone might be over there somewhere," said Shawn.

"We asked Hank, and he said his mother left their hotel room this morning and he went out to find her a few hours later. She didn't tell him where she was going."

"That's how he ended up back at the mansion, I know." Shawn recalled the muddy knees and dirt under the kid's fingernails when they first met at the mansion, and that when Gus had caught the sprinting ghost, Hank hadn't fallen to the patio flagstones. How, then, had he become so engulfed in earth? He must've been looking for something. His mother's phone, for instance. "I had a vision this afternoon that her phone's buried on Nova Place somewhere."

"Couldn't narrow it down, could you?"

"I'll see if I can get within inches—just for you, my lovely sweet muffin of a man."

For adequate reason, Carlton didn't believe him. "We've had no luck tracing it with GPS. It's probably off now, with a dead battery. I admit that having her phone might shed some light on what she's doing in Santa Barbara. Zack knew she was going and taking Hank with her, but the excuse she gave him seems pretty ridiculous."

"She wanted to see where she was born, and see the ocean again?"

See, moments like those, Carlton had to assume that Shawn was psychic. That was precisely what Zack Ingelow had said of his wife's visit to Santa Barbara.

Actually, McNab had told that to Shawn before the two hung up earlier that day, and Shawn had been waiting to squeeze it into a communication with Carlton. It'd piqued Shawn's interest, more in Nina Grayson than her only child Anabel.

Hank's appetite that evening was minimal, but neither Shawn nor Carlton begrudged it to him. "You can have some ice cream later," Carlton told him. Well, what he'd said was, "Me give you cold food later." Which Shawn had to repair, cold food becoming ice cream, and Hank looked less terrified and embarrassed. He thought Carlton had some odd way of punishing him for not eating all that'd been put on his plate. Shawn assured him that Carlton's Ameslan was better than most people's, worse than some, and "you might have to get used to being afraid until he improves." Hank snickered, causing Carlton to whip around from dishwashing and wonder what they'd been saying behind his back.

Shawn stuck his hands behind his head, relaxed and unconcerned. "Nothing, Pooch." But he threw Hank a conspiratorial glance.

Due to his exciting day, Hank fell asleep in the car on the way to Nova Place. Shawn, who'd grown so high into his thirties that he could see the crest of forty, fell asleep in a car at the drop of a hat, if he were tired enough. Carlton, however, had trouble falling asleep in anything that moved. It vetoed Shawn's idea of ever getting a waterbed or a yacht. Carlton was the only one not yawning when the Ford stopped at the side of the street, about a block from the mansion.

As soon as he cast a glance at the surroundings, Hank plastered himself against the car. "Why are we here?" he signed frantically to Shawn and Carlton. "I don't want to be here."

"You know why," Shawn replied. "We're looking for what you were looking for when Gus and I found you: your mom's phone. But we have a weapon you didn't have that day." Shawn took out his phone and dialed the number Carlton had texted to him. He showed the screen to Hank, who immediately recognized the digits. It took him another second to relax visibly. When Shawn sent the call, he was dismayed and disappointed. "Just as you said, Lassie: straight to voicemail."

"Back-up plan," Carlton said. He opened the trunk and pulled out a seemingly giant monster of rails and boxes and circles. Carlton's high-end metal detector could find a cell phone—feasibly. With the sensitivity up as high as it would have to go, they'd run into a lot of other things, too. "It's going to be a long night."

He wasn't lying. Seeing Carlton's intention to labor intensely over the search for his mother's missing phone, a frenetic Hank signed that he'd tried looking for it around the mansion.

"So," Carlton concluded, "we'll keep our search perimeter outside the mansion's grounds."

Hank agreed that this was the best idea, if they were going to do this at all.

Carlton manned the device, drowning out the urban white noise with a pair of quality earphones, but even his ears grew tired of the incessant beeping. He found many things, including a bullet casing that he carefully stuffed into an evidence bag. Shawn had long ago ceased asking Lassie why he carried evidence bags around in their car.

Shawn was surprised at Hank's stamina. They walked up and down the whole block twice, and down in front of the mansion before Hank grew tired and pesky. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, he asked Shawn for a favor.

"Could I use your phone? I want to text someone back home."

"Friend?" Shawn asked, curious but not in the mood to tease Hank about his burgeoning love life.

"My friend Leighton," Hank concluded. "Best friend."

"Boyfriend?" Okay, Shawn was in the mood to tease—a little.

Hank threw him a bored, annoyed expression that every eleven-year-old knew how to do without even trying. In the ambient light of the city, street lamps and the occasional flaring porch sconce, Hank was blushing tremendously. Eventually, he nodded. "Boyfriend. So, can I? I haven't talked to him in days. I don't want him to think I don't care."

Gladly, Shawn handed his phone to Hank. He seemed no stranger to the iPhone, progressing through it rapidly, and his thumbs flew at the speed of light.

"Pooch," Shawn said, lifting his elbow to Lassie's side.

Carlton peeled headphones off. "Huh?"

"Hank has a boyfriend. His name's Leighton."

"Oh, God." His stomach churned. Hank was eleven! It was too soon for him to date! "It's too soon for him to date!"

"Relax, Pooch. We're not his parents—not his dad, anyway," Shawn said, as maudlin as he could get in the throes of being right. "Boyfriend, though, that's what he said. Unless he's making it up. Judging by the supersonic speed of his thumbs as he texts yonder beau Leighton, I don't think he's making it up. Still think my idea of Anabel's death having something to do with Hank is a bit off?"

"It's a bit pessimistic," Carlton admitted. "I don't know how off it is. Sadly."

He heard a particularly loud beep through the headphones. With several more swipes of the metal detector letting him hone in on the object, he sent Shawn down to dig in a flowerbed of one of the nice houses on Nova Place. Two doors south of the Hayworth mansion. As Hank looked on, his thumbs quiet for the first time in five minutes, Carlton set a hand to the back of the boy's head and gave it a little squeeze with his fingertips. Hank was enthralled by Shawn's proceedings, hoping it was his mom's phone—identically hoping it wasn't.

Shawn pulled something from the soft loam just as a yipping dog came out the front door of the home and nearly bit his arm off. He jumped up, making himself too big for the little terrier to attack.

"A Jack Russell. Well, that explains a lot," said Carlton. He spotted the mister and missus on the porch. "I'd better take care of the chatelains. Nice digging, cutie. You, too, Shawn."

"Ha, ha." Shawn put the chewed phone in the evidence bag Lassie had given him. He showed it to Hank, who nodded. If it turned out to be someone else's, at least he was sure it looked like his mom's.

"We'll drop it off at the police station before we go home," Shawn said, then changed the subject. "How's Leighton?"

No redness tinctured Hank's narrow cheeks a second time. "He's okay. Misses me. I have my own name-sign for him. I make up signs for the people I know well. Want to know what it is?"

"Of course."

Hank smiled and pulled at his forelocks, then swept a forefinger below those forelocks. "He has pretty hair."

"I'm jealous," Shawn said, smiling. "I thought I had the best hair."

"No, his is better. Sorry. But maybe I could come up with a sign for you and Carlton."

"You don't have to. I'm sure your dad will take you back home soon."

Hank failed to reply to the comment about going home. "Can I try the metal detector?"

Shawn handed it over. Hank once again proved he was a quick learner, sweeping the detector around the patch of grass and a bit of the wide street. Shawn thought he wouldn't find anything more than a couple of soda can tops dug into the street through the years, but when Shawn heard the machine beeping, in combination with a couple of serious marks of tire skids, he stopped Hank to check on the found treasure.

In the street, Shawn spotted a small, sparkling item, longer than his thumb and almost as wide. At Carlton's return, Shawn pointed the object out. Carlton fetched it from the gutter with his tweezers and made Shawn get a tiny evidence baggie from the car.

Carlton put the question of the earring's heritage to Hank. "Look familiar?"

He'd signed "Look correct?" but Hank was too distracted to think about it. "It's Mom's." He was rattled, bewildered.

Carlton put the earring in the baggie, adding it to the collection in his jacket pocket. "I think we should get a crime scene unit out here." His head tilted. "Again. I never thought of looking in the street. You call it in, Shawn. I want to go get a statement from the neighbors I was just talking to. And don't tell him anything," Carlton warned. He didn't want Hank more worried than he had to be.

Forensics was done in ninety minutes, but Shawn, Hank and Carlton had left far before that. Carlton still wanted to go to the police station before they returned home.

Relieved that he'd told Leighton at least a fraction of what'd been happening to him the last few days, Hank was far less tense for his second visit to the Santa Barbara Police Station. He swirled around in Carlton's chair. He studied the pencils. His nose caught a sweet smell, and unearthed one of Shawn's hidden candy bars. He peeled off a piece and put it back, just for the confusion it'd bring Shawn later. Shawn hadn't caught him doing it, either—at least it didn't seem that he had. For the majority of the last five minutes, Shawn had been caught up in snooping through a file he clearly wasn't supposed to be looking at (and therefore both of them were up to no good). Hank hit him with a small wad of paper, right near the eye, to warn him Carlton was coming. The file was hurriedly returned to its neat position on the stack Carlton had on his desk.

"Well, bad news is that the phone's severely damaged," Carlton said. "The good news is that if there's anything worth saving on the phone, we'll know by Monday."

"Monday?" repeated Shawn, disheartened. That was way more than a day away.

"That's the best we can hope to do at this point. Come on," his gestures and not his voice coaxed Hank away from the desk and toward the exit, "let's get out of here. It's a good thing you're not in school," he said to Hank, forgetting about the sign issue, and neither of them thought anything about it.

Shawn did, though.

-x-

If Juliet's phone rang any hour before dawn, it was considered to be a call too important to miss. She slapped around on the nightstand for the obtrusive object. Gus pretended not to hear it, but tossing his head under the pillow didn't stop the obnoxious trilling.

Juliet listened to a description from a strong female voice vaguely familiar. "Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Without catching another word from Vick, Juliet ended the call. Rolling over, she plowed her forehead to Gus's shoulder. An exasperated huff escaped in the form of a groan. "Gus, are you awake?"

He waited a beat, hoping she'd ignore him and go back to sleep. That failed. She grabbed his wrist and made him slap his own face, a scheme that went back to when they'd briefly dated. "Fine, all right, I'm awake! Now why do you need me awake?"

Juliet bounced out of bed, being the bouncy sort, even at—no, Gus refused to look at the clock.

"That was Vick on the phone. They found something."

"And you want me to care?"

"It has to do with what you and Shawn are looking into."

Gus, who'd sprawled upon the bed, still torpid, still wishing for another couple hours of sleep, had a mere second's thought of what in the world his wife was going on about. Suddenly, his eyes flung open. He was out of bed. Juliet was already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. How she got changed so fast had always been a source of fascination to him, one he'd have to explore later. His brain wasn't meant to be put through such rigorous treatment at that ridiculous hour.

"Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"You'll see. Get dressed. We're both going."

Gus grabbed the shirt and trousers she'd thrown his way. A lot of time had passed since a case with Psych had woken him up at a predawn minute.

The sun hadn't quite come up when they reached their destination: a sandy stretch of beach just south of the city. Cops from several stations stood around. Vick was there, wearing a warm overcoat, a hat, and a sour expression. She traipsed her way to the two people who'd just stepped below the yellow tape.

"Sorry to get you out of bed," Vick started, "but I thought this was important."

"It's not the bed part so much," said Gus. "it's the Making Me Get Dressed and Out of My House part that's har—" He lost the words in a yawn.

"Why did you want us here, Chief?" Juliet sounded short-tempered.

Gus defended her. "She's not a morning person. If you can call this morning. It's more like nautical twilight."

Vick, without speaking, handed O'Hara a pair of powerful binoculars. She pointed to the horizon, where water and sky met.

Juliet looked, squinted at the spot with her uncovered eyes, and looked again through the binoculars. She handed the apparatus off to Gus. "How far out is that thing?"

Vick had her mouth open to answer with a guess, but Gus spoke instead.

"Three miles, maybe two-point-seven, two-point-eight." Both women regarded him with astonished expressions—and partly annoyed expressions, too. "Well, on average, the farthest you can see out to the ocean is three miles. Meaning that the horizon line is roughly three miles out from the beach. So that thing has to be less than three miles."

Juliet continued to stare. Gus thought she might've fallen asleep with her eyes open, like Shawn swore Vick could do. But she was having a hard time deciding if she'd married a genius or an ordinary man with an amazing amount of trivia that was often more useless than useful.

"Some fishermen out early this morning spotted it and called it in," said Vick. "They thought we might like to see it."

"Why would they be suspicious of a trunk bobbing around in the ocean?" Juliet's voice trembled. It was cold for an August morning. The wind was strong and tore right through her. Gus interpreted the petrified stance, throwing an arm around her to warm her up. "It's just a trunk to everyone else, isn't it? We never made the information about the trunks public all those years ago, not that I noticed when I was browsing the file the other day."

Vick had anticipated this question. "One of the fisherman on board is former SBPD sergeant Tony Ortiz."

Juliet's eyes widened, and Gus recalled the name, too.

"He was there that day—when they brought in the first trunk. I remember him being there," said Gus. "Him and Officer Grayson were both there that day. Is it the same trunk?"

"Ortiz thinks so," Vick replied.

"Which means that trunk is the one that belongs to Mrs. Glass," concluded Gus. His gaze snapped back to Vick. "Did you call Lassiter? Or Shawn?"

Instead of answering, Vick gestured to a spot behind them. Just crawling below the lifted tape, long legs, an overcoat and graying hair whipped to untidiness by the wind: Lassiter, awake if nothing else. But he had a drink tray with three beverages on it, two of them offered to Juliet and Gus. Juliet was so thrilled to have something hot to drink that she immediately tossed her arms around Carlton and squeezed.

"I thank you, too," Gus imparted to Carlton, "since I think you saved my wife from a mild case of hypothermia."

"Do we need to hug?" Lassiter opened an arm, but Gus stepped back.

"No, I'm good. Where's Shawn?"

"At home watching Tom and Jerry."

A confused Juliet shook her head. Would Shawn never stop slacking off? "He chose to stay home and watch cartoons rather than coming out here to see the third sea chest, the third chest that he predicted existed back when he was what—twenty years old?"

"Eighteen," Lassiter corrected, remembering that past scene fondly. "And, no, he didn't choose to stay home. We just didn't want to bring Hank with us, and we didn't want to leave him home by himself."

Juliet's palm hit her forehead. "I forgot that he's been staying with you!"

Lassiter smiled tightly at his usual case partner. "Drink your coffee, O'Hara. So, Chief! How long until that thing out there makes landfall?"

"We're sending a boat out now. Maybe ten minutes. What did Shawn say when you told him?"

"He wasn't surprised. Just that he hoped Guster wasn't here and there was no goopy dead body inside. His very words. 'Goopy dead body.' I agree with him about that. Wonder what the chances are that it will be empty? Hey, is that Ortiz over there? I'm going to talk to him."

Twelve minutes later, Carlton, Vick, O'Hara and Gus gathered around the trunk while McNab finished picking away at the wax that glued the lid shut. Finally, the trunk lid was wrestled free. Its contents were exposed to the air and a dozen surrounding eyeballs.

Gus breathed easier. "No goopy dead body."

"But this is interesting," Carlton said. With a pair of tweezers in a gloved hand, he pulled from the water inside a knotted mess of kelp and thin strands. "I think it's human hair. I think it's Anabel Ingelow's hair."

-x-

Mrs. Glass had no trouble explaining her deal with groundskeeper, repairman and all-around fix-it guy Homer Bledsoe. She was happier when Burton Guster was joined by a sleepy-eyed and traditionally messy Shawn Spencer in the conference room at the SBPD. Having one gorgeous, well-dressed man was enough to please her, but having Mr. Spencer around added such a wondrous foil. She liked Detective Lassiter's bone structure, but he was far too old.

"You'd look younger if you dyed your hair," she offered, leaning slightly forward in the seat. The deep crease between ample breasts was on grand display. A shirt with a dangerous neckline came to breasts' aid. "Not a whole lot, mind you. Just enough to darken it up a bit, have a few sexy grays instead of way too many old-man grays. Also, applying a little petroleum jelly around the eyes will keep them from wrinkling so fast."

"Your advice would be very helpful if I were once again in the dating pool of this murderous little city," Carlton told her coldly, deadpan but strangely not annoyed. "Now, Mrs. Glass, you said that Mr. Bledsoe—"

"Homer, yes."

"Homer Bledsoe took the trunk from you five days ago."

"In the afternoon. He came in his car and took it off to that hovel of his. He lives in an abandoned car joint behind the Gypsy Drive Car Wash. Not the garage part, but the offices and stuff. He lives there. Fixes things up in the shop. I'm surprised you didn't ask him in here as well."

"We tried," Lassiter told her, "but we can't find him."

Mrs. Glass wrinkled her brow, moving her back into the seat. "Homer's always at home. If he's not at my house or that damn Hayworth place, he's at home. He's a hermit. Has no friends, knows no one. He's so off-the-grid he doesn't even get junk mail."

Shawn slipped around the room, arms crossed, thoughts circling as they usually did when he was close to figuring something out. "I'm sure you've done all you could for him, Mrs. Glass. But I sense that he still doesn't want your help. You keep him employed because you feel sorry for him, and he has just enough pride to let you throw legitimate work his way."

She blinked, afraid of the tears and her mascara running. It'd be a shame to let men see her with raccoon eyes. But falling into a kind of numb trance, she answered Shawn. "Yes, of course. I've always tried to help him—when he'd let me. He was happy to work on the trunk, though." Her frosty blue eyes practically tore through the detective. "Are you sure you looked at his hovel? He can get really drunk sometimes, and maybe he didn't hear you. He might've been passed out."

McNab, since he was working the case with Lassiter and learning loads more than he ever thought he would, came to a conclusion he was pretty proud of. "You're showing a lot of concern for your handyman, Mrs. Glass."

Mrs. Glass looked startled. The tears were out of her eyes but they were keeping her from breathing. "I've known him for years."

Shawn let out an airy laugh. "I'll just bet you have. You've known one another your whole lives, Mrs. Glass, because you're half-siblings."

Surprise flowed around the room. Mrs. Glass, knowing that Shawn Spencer was a psychic, failed to say anything. Gus made a mental note to ask Shawn how he'd figured that out, but later—when it wasn't so exciting in the conference room.

"But let's move on," Shawn said, waving a hand. "His being your half-brother doesn't have anything to do with anything right now. But you should probably tell him, Mrs. Glass. He'd like to know he's not completely alone in the world."

"Yes," she answered, getting weepy at the thought of her stupid older brother and his drunkenness, the waste of his life, "yes, I'll tell him. What else can I help you with? I told you all that I know about the trunk and how I let Homer have it. You don't think he threw it in the ocean, do you? What if he's been hurt himself?"

"I don't think your brother's involved," Lassiter said, trying to make her feel better while not lying out loud. The probability of Homer Bledsoe being guilty of something—murder or tampering with evidence—was increasing by the minute.