Psych: Mind Over Magic Part 11

"Okay, maybe it can mean more than one thing," Shawn said. "But that seems like a pretty dramatic way to make an objection."

Gus climbed back up to his feet and immediately wished he hadn't. From above, the stain was even uglier.

"Look at that," Gus said, pointing down at the purple blotch. "We've got to find a way to clean it up."

"I believe it was you who mentioned just moments ago that the hotel has an entire staff of housekeepers," Shawn said.

"And if P'tol P'kah comes back before the maid does?"

"Then we're the greatest detectives in the history of the world, and who cares that we made a little mess?" Shawn said, sucking on what was left of the Popsicle.

"Benny Fleck doesn't want his client to know we were in his apartment," Gus said. He picked the folded s.h.i.+rt up from the ground where he'd dropped it and marched it back to the closet, sliding it onto its correct shelf. "That means not pulling his clothes out of the closet, not leaving the TV cables hanging in the air, and definitely not leaving giant purple stains on the white carpet."

"Maybe that's how they like their carpets back on Mars," Shawn said. "He'll think Fleck was so concerned about his well-being that he had the rug painted."

Gus closed the closet and went back to the kitchen area. Ducking behind the island, he started opening cabinets in search of cleaning supplies.

"And besides-" Shawn broke off as Gus slammed a cabinet loudly.

"There's nothing here," Gus said. "No rug cleaner, no bleach, not even any dish soap."

"If you'd let me finish my 'besides,' you would have known that," Shawn said, "because my 'besides' went to exactly that point."

"Okay, fine," Gus said, standing up. "Besides what?"

"Besides," Shawn said, "he doesn't live here. Because he doesn't exist."

"He insisted Fleck build him this place," Gus said. "Why did he do that-just for fun?"

"I don't know much about the ways Martians have fun, but that seems like a long shot," Shawn said. "No, I think he did it to throw people off his trail."

"What trail?" Gus said. "Until last night, he was doing eight shows a week in a theater built specifically for him. No one would have needed a trail to find him. They just needed a ticket."

"That would only have led them to P'nut P'b.u.t.ter," Shawn said.

Gus waited for Shawn to finish his thought, then realized he was waiting for the correction. "P'tol P'kah," Gus said.

"Right, that guy," Shawn said. "They'd need the trail to find Tucker Mellish."

"Who is Tucker Mellish?" Gus said. "Is that the dead guy? Are you finally talking about the dead guy? Because it's only been about seven minutes since you started to explain, and I'd hate to hurry you."

"The dead guy is not Tucker Mellish," Shawn said, "unless I'm much more impressive than I think, because Tucker Mellish is a name I just made up."

"Well, that's certainly helpful," Gus said. "So glad we had this conversation." Now he knew Shawn was going out of his way to annoy him. And it was working. But Gus refused to give Shawn the satisfaction of seeing it on his face, so he turned his back and started opening cabinets as if he hadn't given up on finding cleaning supplies.

"Tucker Mellish is a made-up name, but he's not a made-up person," Shawn said. "He's a stage magician, and a pretty good one. An inventive guy, he's particularly good at coming up with new wrinkles on old illusions. For example, he could take the old gag where the magician disappears out of a box and reappears in the crowd, and flash it up by using a tank of water instead of a cabinet."

Gus could feel himself becoming interested in Shawn's story. But he wasn't ready to give his friend that satisfaction yet, either. He kept banging open doors, finding stacks of untouched dishes and unopened boxes of food, but nothing that actually suggested someone had ever lived here.

"I think it's safe to say that Tucker Mellish was rising in his field," Shawn continued. "I'd guess he was building a reputation at least with other magicians, if he didn't have a ma.s.s audience yet. And when I say he was building a reputation, I mean that they all hated him, since that seems to be how they convey professional respect for each other."

Gus pulled open a cabinet next to the sink and found a trash compactor. It was the cleanest trash compactor he'd ever seen, and he doubted that a piece of trash had ever come near it. Maybe there was something to what Shawn was saying.

"So put yourself in Tucker's position," Shawn said. He moved around the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of Gus' face, just to see if he was listening. But Gus kept moving in the other direction and keeping the back of his head aimed toward Shawn wherever he went. "You've been practicing all your life to be a great stage magician and you've finally developed the skills to make it happen. You're rising up in your field, probably just beginning to talk to promoters about national exposure, and then it happens."

Gus could feel his muscles tightening as his body tried to turn him around to look at Shawn for the explanation. But he used all his willpower to force himself to stay in place. "What would that be?"

"You go to see one of the most powerful promoters in the business," Shawn said. "He tells you he loves your work and he's going to make you a superstar. But before he launches your tour, he needs to know a little more about your act. He needs to see the designs for your illusions. You're nervous about sharing your secrets, of course, but this man is a legend, so you leave them behind. Days go by and you keep waiting for the great man's call, but it never comes."

This was too much for the muscles in Gus' back to fight. They forced his body around. "How do you know all this?"

"And then you see the news item in Conman Weekly, or whatever the magicians' trade paper is called. One of the promoter's biggest clients has just announced a huge national tour-and the tricks he's promising are the same ones you left your plans for in the promoter's office. Now you call and call, but no one ever returns. Your rage is building. This is your life's work, and it's been stolen from you. Late one night, you break into the promoter's office, and when he laughs at you, it's too much. You snap. In fact, you snap his neck. You're gathering up your materials, when his a.s.sistant comes into the office. Terrified, she picks up a beaker of acid and hurls it into your face-"

"Wait a minute," Gus said. "Why is there a beaker of acid in a tour promoter's office?"

"You expect the a.s.sistant to fight off an enraged magician with her bare hands?" Shawn said. "Anyway, now you're horribly deformed and you're wanted for murder. If you ever want to be seen in public-which is really all you've ever wanted-you need to come up with some kind of disguise."

"If only to hide from the copyright lawyers." Gus felt a wave of disappointment cras.h.i.+ng through him. For a moment there he really thought Shawn had figured out something significant. "Because you've lifted your entire life story from The Phantom of the Opera."

"First of all," Shawn said as Gus turned back to exploring the cabinetry, "The Phantom of the Opera was written more than a thousand years ago, so it's long out of copyright-"

"Gaston Leroux published his original novel in 1910," Gus said as he slammed shut a cabinet holding an unused espresso machine, a blender still in its original packaging, and a George Foreman grill that had clearly never met a piece of meat. "So yes, that is in the public domain. But in that book, as in several film adaptations and the longest running show in Broadway history, the phantom was deformed at birth. The story you just stole was invented for the 1943 Claude Rains movie, and if you want to tangle with the powerful and brilliant intellectual property lawyers at NBC/Universal, you can do it without me."

"You're getting bogged down in details," Shawn said. "You have to listen to the broader point."

"A point can't be broad," Gus said. "That's what makes it a point."

"Whatever," Shawn said. "This guy Tucker Mellish-"

"This guy that you invented."

"This guy I didn't invent with a name I did," Shawn continued. "Forget about the acid. Forget about the stolen plans. He's on the run."

"From what?"

"Could be anything," Shawn said. "Maybe he owes money to the mob. Maybe he owes a fortune in child support. Maybe he's wanted by the police."

"Sure, for drowning chubby men in his disappearing tank." Gus opened and slammed a couple more cabinets, finding nothing of interest inside.

"It could be," Shawn said. "Maybe he's a serial killer. But whatever he is, he couldn't stand the thought of not performing in public anymore, so he concocted this entire Martian persona to allow himself to be seen in public without being identified."

"So why make Fleck build him this apartment?" Gus said.

"Misdirection," Shawn said. "The magician's best tool. Everyone who's the slightest bit interested in P'stuffed P'imento-"

"P'tol P'kah," Gus repeated by rote.

"Right, that guy," Shawn said. "Anyone who's interested in him is never going to take his eyes off the one place they're certain he'll be. And that lets Tucker Mellish run around without anyone watching him."

Gus had to admit the theory made sense. At least he had to admit it to himself. He wasn't convinced he felt like admitting it to Shawn, whose behavior had been so appalling, it didn't deserve the reward. Besides, that still left one big question unanswered.

"So who's the dead guy? Gus asked, bending down to check the last few cabinets.

"I have no idea."

"You told me you did," Gus said.

"I thought if I kind of ramped up to it, the solution would come to me," Shawn said. "And it might have, if you hadn't distracted me with all that endless blather about mayonnaise."

Gus was about to respond with a retort so perfect it would have sealed Shawn's mouth through the next leap year. But before he could utter the words, he opened one last cabinet and what he saw there froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"I mean, really," Shawn said. "I'm trying to solve the most baffling murder of this or any other generation, and you keep going on about condiments. And I get thrown off my point, I lose track of my thought, and bang zoom, a killer walks free. So I hope that you and Miracle Whip are happy."

Gus stared into the cabinet, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He recognized the shapes, of course. They were tall, thin tubes, flat on the bottom and rounded on top, with a smaller tube extending from the apogee. They were gray metal, flecked with nicks and scratches. He had seen these things a million times before. He knew exactly what they were. But they shouldn't be here. There was no earthly reason for them to be here.

"Are you sure about your theory?" Gus finally asked.

"Why, you have a better one?"

"Yes, but it's not mine. It's Fleck's," Gus said.

"Fleck didn't have a theory," Shawn said. "Unless you mean when he said that his client was a real Martian. You're not suggesting you believe that?"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Gus said. He hoisted one of the scuba tanks out of the cabinet. "I'm just wondering why anyone who was born on this planet would need to bring his own air with him."

Chapter Twelve.

s a physical barricade, the seal was completely useless. It was just a piece of paper-slick green paper backed with some kind of sticky stuff. A box cutter would go through it like a spoon through whipped cream. Even a b.u.t.ter knife would be enough to tear it open.

But as a moral barrier, the seal was inviolable. It wasn't a piece of paper; it was the entire American system of justice. It was the triumph of order over chaos, of civilization over savagery. It was proof that mankind was capable of understanding that there are societal obligations more important than any one man's desires. It was everything Detective Carlton La.s.siter believed in.

That was why his hand shook so badly as he lifted his Swiss army knife to cut through it.

La.s.siter didn't want to break the seal. He was the one who ordered it slapped on the door to the showroom at the Fortress of Magic, and he was the one who vowed to track down and incarcerate anyone who even thought about tampering with it. Because as much as he wanted access to the magician's machinery inside, he knew a judge had sent down an order prohibiting anyone from examining it. And even though La.s.siter had strong reason to believe the judge was motivated by his own personal issues and not by the rational pursuit of justice, the detective could not use that suspicion as an excuse to ignore the order. To do so would be to invite anarchy.

Instead, La.s.siter put all his years of experience to work for him. If he couldn't study the scene, he'd find another way to solve the crime.

Only there wasn't another way.

It had been thirty-six hours since La.s.siter had finished interviewing the last of the magicians, and as he stared at the black print on the electric green seal, his head was still pounding from the experience. It wasn't the fact that none of them knew how the green giant had disappeared that bothered him. He expected that. It wasn't even that none of them would admit knowing anything about the dead man. It was possible that they really had never met him, or that if they had, they weren't used to seeing him floating dead in a tank of water, and the new circ.u.mstances made recognition impossible.

What was making his head continue to throb was the way that each of the self-styled magicians insisted that P'tol P'kah was a talentless hack who wasn't capable of shuffling a deck of cards, and whose disappearance was the most obvious kind of trickery. And yet every time he asked one of them to give him a clue how the missing man had accomplished his disappearance, they all suddenly swore an oath of allegiance to something they called the Magician's Code. Apparently that was a sacred oath that forbade them to reveal the secrets of a fellow prestidigitator's tricks.

Right.

Carlton La.s.siter hadn't become head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department because he was stupid or gullible. He had clawed his way to that position by virtue of his superior intellect and keen instincts, along with a city budget crisis that resulted in a hiring freeze shortly after his employment, eliminating many potential compet.i.tors. He knew when he was being lied to, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

The magicians were all lying about this "code." There was one simple reason they wouldn't tell La.s.siter how the green guy had achieved his escape: They didn't have a clue. It didn't take a detective as good as him to hear the jealousy in their voices when they described their rival as a fraud and a hack. If any one of them had a hint how the Martian Magician had pulled off his stunt, it would have been all over the Internet before La.s.siter had a chance to ask his first question.

If the secret behind the miraculous disappearance was the greatest mystery La.s.siter had to deal with, his headache probably would have subsided to a dull throb. But right now everything about this case was conspiring to constrict the blood vessels in his scalp. Even questions that should have been easy were turning out to be unanswerable.

To start with, there was the dead guy's ident.i.ty. La.s.siter had personally supervised Detective O'Hara as she ran his fingerprints last night. He would swear in court that she had done everything right. But the system had been silent ever since. He sent the prints through every database he had ever used, and it kept coming up blank. Apparently the victim had never been arrested, which while frustrating, wasn't necessarily surprising. But as far as the computer systems could discover, he'd never applied for a pa.s.sport, requested a driver's license, or opened a bank account anywhere in the country. He put the dead man's image through a facial recognition program and didn't come up with a single match.

La.s.siter was a strong enough detective that he had long since learned how to fall back on his own skills when the computers failed, as they so often did. He studied every piece of the dead man's clothing, searching for any clues to his ident.i.ty. But there were no personal possessions in any of the pockets, and the clothes themselves were all national brands in stock sizes. They could have come from any store in any city in any state.

La.s.siter had hoped the hat would provide a significant lead. After all, you don't see that many people wearing bowlers in the United States. But the reason for that turned out to be not that no one bought them, but that they rarely took them out of their closet. The hat in question, technically a wool felt derby with a sixteen-ligne grosgrain band and grosgrain-bound brim edges, could have been manufactured by any of a dozen companies and purchased on any of a hundred Web sites, not to mention uncounted retail establishments, and purchased by any of tens of thousands of customers. If its late owner hadn't removed the label, they might have been able to narrow down its provenance, but without the tag, it was hopeless.

The body didn't offer any more clues to its ident.i.ty. Its former occupant was a forty-year-old white male, five foot six inches tall, 195 pounds. He was in good health, and there were no drugs or alcohol in his system. Cause of death was drowning. a.n.a.lysis of the contents of his lungs confirmed that it was the same water that filled the tank, matched to a sample that had soaked into La.s.siter's slacks when he had knelt by the corpse.

And that was making La.s.siter's head hurt, too, because he couldn't figure out how the death had happened. This guy was young and relatively fit. He wasn't drunk or drugged. So how did he end up drowning in a water-filled telephone booth? How did he get in there, and why couldn't he get out? And how did he drown so quickly?

La.s.siter knew there was only one cure for his headache. He needed to see that tank. If he could only figure out how it worked, he was certain the rest of the answers would fall into place. Unfortunately, it was in a locked room in his least favorite place on Earth, sequestered behind crime scene tape and protected by a court order.

He'd spent most of the morning on the phone, searching for a judge willing to overturn the order forbidding him to examine the tank. Many of them sounded sympathetic at first, but when they heard it was Albert Moore they were being asked to reverse, they backed off. Apparently Moore had a reputation as a street fighter, and few were willing to risk his anger. A couple of jurists didn't seem to mind that challenge, but when La.s.siter mentioned that it was Benny Fleck who'd requested the sanction, they all suddenly found new reasons to refuse his request.

La.s.siter had learned many valuable lessons during his years on the force. He had studied the Reid Technique to master the three components of interrogation. He had taught himself how to maneuver his way through an uncooperative bureaucracy. He had even figured out how to get the mechanics at the SBPD to make sure the air conditioner in his unmarked sedan would keep working through the worst of the Santa Barbara summer. But the most important thing he'd learned was that if a murder isn't solved within the first forty-eight hours, the odds of the case ever being closed plummeted to almost nothing.

The man in the tank had been dead for thirty-six of those forty-eight hours and La.s.siter was no closer to finding his killer. The clock was ticking and its hands were dripping blood.

When La.s.siter left the station in his unmarked sedan-the air conditioner blowing a stream of cool into his face-he told himself he was just going for a drive to clear his head. When he pulled up in the parking lot down the hill from the Fortress of Magic, he pretended there were some rooms he might not have checked out thoroughly the night of the drowning.

But now that he was standing outside the closed showroom, the blade trembling over the paper seal, there was no way he could hide from what he had really intended all along. He was going to violate the principles that had driven him his entire life. He was going to flout that court order, slash through the seal, and find out what trick the missing magician had used to make his escape.

La.s.siter pressed the tip of the blade into the crack between door and jamb, just above the top edge of the seal. One swift move and it would be done-the same motion as shaking someone's hand, that was all. And if the hand he was shaking belonged to chaos, anarchy, and the destruction of the rule of law, he was willing to do it as long as that would keep a killer from walking free.

La.s.siter's mind sent an order through his neural pathways down to his arm. Time to move. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly, he quoted to himself. La.s.siter couldn't remember where that phrase came from, but he was pretty sure that whoever said it had some unpleasant job to complete and felt much better when he'd gotten it all over with. His mind repeated its order. But his unconscious seemed to be blocking it. His hand trembled, but no more. Irritated at himself, the detective placed his other hand on top of the one holding the knife and pressed down.

The knife hand pressed back up.

This was unacceptable. La.s.siter had made the decision to break the commandments he lived by for the greater good. How dare one of his body parts rebel like this? Did his hand really believe it was better than the rest of him? He pressed down harder on the knife hand. The paper at the top of the seal began to crinkle down. Another second and it would be done.

"Carlton, stop!"

La.s.siter cursed under his breath. It was bad enough his arm was trying to reverse his decision. Now his conscience was speaking to him like Jiminy Cricket. Well, he'd spent his entire life following the orders of his extremely controlling conscience, and this time it could get out of his way-even if it did speak in a melodious, oddly familiar female voice.

"Yo, La.s.sie, give it up!"

La.s.siter froze. He was willing to accept the concept that his conscience would actually speak to him in words. But there was no way his own personal conscience, a resident of his own personal brain, would ever speak in that voice. He turned to see that Detective Juliet O'Hara had come up behind him, and she was followed by Shawn and Gus. For some reason Gus was carrying a dinged-up scuba tank.

"You have to leave this area, Detective," La.s.siter said with all the sternness he could muster. "For the sake of your career, you must not be a part of this."

"That's very generous, Carlton-"