Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read Page 2

  “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 th
e 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.

  Chapter Two

  Every head in the courtroom swiveled to stare as Shawn marched down the aisle between benches packed with spectators. At the defense table, Veronica Mason gazed at Shawn with new hope. Under a low-cut blouse, her perfect breasts heaved as she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Man,” Shawn whispered to Gus, “does she ever button all the way up?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Gus said. “I thought we cared about her innocence, not her cleavage.”

  “I can care about lots of things at the same time.”

  Veronica’s was the only friendly face in the room. The spectators in the gallery looked like they were at a football game and Shawn had run onto the field just as the home team was about to score. Behind the bench, a graying Jerry Garcia look-alike in a black robe stared openmouthed at the interruption into his courtroom.

  “I object!” Shawn shouted, striding toward the wooden gate separating the spectators from the trial’s participants.

  The judge pounded his gavel so hard his small gray ponytail bounced up and down and his beard trembled. “What do you mean, you object? Who are you?”

  Shawn glanced at the judge. And saw. Saw the crystal pyramid holding down a stack of papers. The leather thong around his neck disappearing under the black robe.

  “I’m Oliver Mason, and I’m here to say my wife did not kill me!”

  A shocked whisper went through the crowd. In the jury box, the forewoman, a saggy matron in a black dress, went ashen, the verdict sheet trembling in her hand. Bert Coules, the Santa Barbara district attorney, jumped up from his chair.

  “Your Honor!” Coules shouted. A former Army Ranger, Coules still sported the buzzed hair and buffed body of the military’s most elite. When he looked at Shawn, Gus could almost see his eyes narrowing into sniper scopes.

  “Veronica loved me,” Shawn said. “You must not convict her!”

  The judge stared at Shawn. “Young man, this is a court of law. If you’re making some kind of joke, I will jail you for contempt.”

  “Do not blame this young man,” Shawn said. “He is only a vessel for my spirit. I have taken over his body to speak through.”

  The gavel hung in the air as the judge studied Shawn closely. “You’re a medium?”

  “I used to be, but I think I’ve gained a few pounds,” Shawn said.

  Gus shoved him. Shawn shoved back.

  “Your Honor, this is ridiculous,” Coules said.

  “It’s unorthodox—I grant that,” the judge said. “But many people believe that communication with the spirit world is possible.”

  “Idiots,” Coules said.“The same brain-dead ex-hippies who believe that crystals cure cancer and—”

  The judge pulled the leather thong out from under his robe, revealing the gleaming crystal hanging from it.

  “—and if we’re going to take this ‘medium’ seriously, I demand some proof that he really is channeling Oliver Mason,” Coules said quickly. “Let him tell us something about his wife that only the deceased would know.”

  “That’s fair,” the judge said, tucking his crystal pendant back under his robe and turning back to Shawn. “If you are channeling Oliver Mason, you must know all sorts of secrets.”

  “Secrets,” Shawn said. “Yes, lots of them.”

  “We only need one,” the judge said.

  “One, right,” Shawn said. “You know, it’s amazing what being dead does to your short-term memory. Maybe if I had a couple of minutes to think . . .”

  “Our client is about to be found guilty, and we’re parked in a red zone,” Gus whispered furiously. “Think of something now.”

  “We’re waiting,” the judge said.

  “I think we’ve waited long enough,” Coules said. “He’s obviously a phony.”

  Shawn pressed his fingers to his forehead. “My wife has a small birthmark on her right breast, just above the nipple.”

  The judge glanced over at the female guard who brought Veronica to the courtroom every day. “You’ve seen the accused change from her prison jumpsuit into street clothes?”

  “I have, Your Honor,” the guard said.

  “Does she have such a birthmark?”

  “She does, Your Honor,” the guard said.

  “I’m impressed,” the judge said. “Mr. Coules?”

  “It’s in the shape of a strawberry,” Coules said, “and there’s a freckle at the top that looks like the stem. I guess I’m Oliver Mason, too. And so is every man in this courtroom. Including you, Your Honor.”

  The judge banged his gavel. “I warn you, Counselor—”

  “Come off it, Judge, I saw you looking when she was on the stand,” Coules said. “You’d have to be a lot deader than Oliver Mason not to. Now will you please get this fraud out of here?”

  The judge sighed as if he’d just learned
at sixty that there is no Santa Claus. He banged his gavel desolately. “Bailiff, remove the medium.”

  The bailiff bolted up the aisle like a defensive end looking for a quick sack. He grabbed Shawn around the waist and started to haul him toward the exit.