Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read p-1 Page 24

  The harpist let loose with a brief glissando. Shawn and Gus stepped up to the counter. Lassiter glared at them.

  Shawn rapped on the counter. “My good man, we are here to collect a car. Prithee, hasten and fetch it!”

  “Prithee?” Henry said. Mindy, who had wrapped most of her limbs around him, beamed at his interruption.“Are we flashing all the way back to the sixteenth century?”

  “First, all good drama includes the word ‘prithee,’” Shawn said. “Second, you should be ashamed of yourself. That girl’s a third your age.” He turned back to the counter. “Hasten already.”

  Lassiter glanced at his script. “That will be six thousand dollars.”

  Gus clapped his hands to his cheeks in full Macauley Culkin. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Then get lost.”

  Shawn touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Wait. I’m getting an emanation from the beyond. The spirits are speaking to me. They’re telling me you’re not who you claim to be. You are not the legal holder of this position in an impound lot licensed to serve our fair city. You are in fact a convict who has recently escaped from a chain gang.”

  Lassiter checked his script, then dropped it on the counter. “I am not going to say this.”

  “You have to,” Shawn said. “Gus stayed up all night working on that script.”

  “You’d think it was easy, but it turns out good dialogue has to advance both the story and the character, while providing a break from straight exposition,” Gus said.

  “Just say it,” Detective O’Hara said. “We’re never going to get out of here until you do.”

  Lassiter muttered something under his breath, but he picked up the pages and read from them. “Oh, you are indeed a wise and powerful psychic. How it pains me to know that my own master plan depends on depriving the rest of the world of your geniusssss.”

  He took a shotgun out from under the counter and aimed it at them. Shawn motioned to Alicia, and she glissandoed them back to the present.

  “End scene!” Shawn said. “I’d like a special round of applause for our volunteer from the audience.”

  No one clapped. Chief Vick said, “Mr. Spencer, what was the point of that? We already know what happened when you came to get Mr. Guster’s car.”

  “Do we?” Shawn said. “Do we really?”

  “Yes,” Gus said. “We already told them.”

  “Oh,” Shawn said. “Sorry we wasted your time, then. Come on, Gus.” He pushed through the crowd of astonished and angry faces to the door.

  “I’m waiting for my apology, Spencer,” Coules shouted at him.

  Shawn stopped and turned back. “You know, I don’t think we did tell you what this refugee from a chain gang was doing here.”

  “I don’t believe we did,” Gus said.

  “Remember, he was serving time in Arizona,” Shawn said. “After he escaped he came directly to Santa Barbara and murdered the real impound lot attendant so he could take over his position. It’s a safe bet that a second-generation criminal with a history of armed robbery wouldn’t be that excited to land a minimum-wage job. He was here for a specific reason.”

  “Yes, Mr. Spencer, the police were also able to reach that astonishing conclusion.” Chief Vick was finding it hard to hide her frustration in the heat of the shack. “We simply couldn’t figure out what that reason was.”

  “That’s because you weren’t looking in the right place,” Shawn said. “Alicia!”

  Lassiter raised the shotgun. “I swear, Spencer, if you start another flashback, I will beat you to death with this. And I guarantee you there won’t be a single witness who’ll say they saw me do it.”

  “No more flashbacks,” Shawn said. “Just a little traveling music.” He signaled to Alicia, and she launched into a jaunty tune. Shawn took a moment to appreciate the music, then walked around the counter and out the back door to the impound lot. The others followed.

  Shawn waved at the acres of cars in front of them. “John Marichal came all the way across the country to die here.”

  “If you consider the next state over to be all the way across the country,” Coules said. “He escaped from a chain gang in Arizona.”

  “Only because he was caught holding up a liquor store to finance the rest of his journey,” Shawn said. “He originally came from Florida. Miami. Isn’t that where you’re from, Bert?”

  “Me and Detective O’Hara and eighteen million other people.”

  “Good point. And among those eighteen million people were Herman and Betty Walinski.”

  “Didn’t he used to run the tackle shop down on the pier?” Lassiter said.

  “Before that, he ran a small fleet of tow trucks,” Shawn said. “Which he then contracted to the city, and used that connection to open the impound yard, later expanding it into one of the few combined impound-and-wrecking yards on the West Coast. When he’d made his fortune here, he used some of it to open his tackle store, where he spent a happy retirement.”

  “Thanks for the lesson in local history,” Coules said. “Is there a point?”

  “Dad?” Henry stepped up and handed Shawn the scrapbook. Shawn flipped it open to the picture of Herman as a young police officer. “It turns out that before Herman moved to Santa Barbara, he was an officer on the Miami PD. He went undercover with some bad cops and managed to bust them for participating in the biggest race track heist in Florida history, the Calder Race Course robbery of nineteen seventy-two.”

  Shawn flipped the pages over and showed them headlines about the robbery from Miami newspapers. “But after that heroic act, Herman turned his back on law enforcement. He quit the force, took a long vacation in Europe, and then settled here, where he never told anyone he used to be a cop. Wonder why.”

  “Because cops don’t like cops who inform on their fellow officers, even if they deserve it,” Detective O’Hara said. “That robbery happened before I was born, but there were still people upset about it in the department when I was there.”

  “That’s what my dad assumed,” Shawn said. “It’s probably what any cop would assume. But Gus and I aren’t cops.”

  “And we can all thank the city of Santa Barbara for that,” Coules said.

  “The money from the race track robbery was never recovered,” Gus said, trying to get things back on track.

  “Three million dollars,” Shawn said. “You can bet that the people who planned the heist never stopped looking for it. But all the crooks were caught, and no one had a dollar. Imagine what it would be like to spend twenty-some years in jail with nothing to do besides trying to figure out who’d taken your money. And when you finally did, to know there was nothing you could do about it until your sentence was up.”

  Shawn stopped to take a breath, and Gus stepped into the breach. “Then, when you got out, you were too old and too feeble to go after the SOB who stole your money. But if it couldn’t help you, at least you could pass the information to your son, who’d followed you into the armed-robbery business.”

  Lassiter stared at them suspiciously. “You’re saying that John Marichal’s father was part of the Calder heist?”

  “It’ll be pretty easy to check out,” O’Hara said. “I can call one of my buddies out there.”

  “So let’s go with it for now,” Shawn said.

  “And he was looking for the money here?” Henry said. “You’re not going to try to tell us that Herman was one of the thieves. He was a friend of mine.”

  “And yet in all those years of friendship, he never mentioned his past in law enforcement,” Shawn said. “Because the fewer people who knew about it, the fewer people would think to connect him to the money. But John Marichal’s father did, and he sent his son to get it. Unfortunately, by the time the lad got off the chain gang, Herman had died of cancer, so John was going to have to search for the loot himself.”

  “Here?” Chief Vick said.

  “Where better to hide three million cash than in acres of abandoned automobi
les? Marichal killed the original attendant and took his place so he could take his time and search every car in the yard. He would have started with Florida plates and tried to move on from there.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Coules said. “Why would the money still be there after all this time?”

  Shawn turned to his father. “I think you can figure out why.”

  Henry thought back on the Herman Walinski he knew. He was kind and gentle and happier with his life than anyone he’d ever known. All Heman had wanted to do was sit behind the counter in his tackle store and design lures. “Because Herman didn’t need it. Maybe he never did. Maybe he just stole it to keep it out of the hands of the thieves. Either way, he made his own fortune in the towing business, and never had to touch the loot.”

  “And so here it sat for almost forty years, until Old Man Marichal got out of jail,” Shawn said. “He told his son what he had figured out, and young John headed west. He must have told someone else, too.”

  “Someone he was scared of,” Gus said. “Why else would he talk?”

  “And what would frighten this old man more than the threat of spending his last few years back in jail?” Shawn said. “I wonder who’d have the power to do that.”

  “Say,” Gus said. “Didn’t Bert Coules used to work in the Miami DA’s office?”

  “I believe he did,” Shawn said.

  All heads swiveled to stare at Coules. He took a step backward. “You can’t believe this fraud.”

  “I’ve often started off with that attitude, Mr. Coules,” the chief said. “But by the time he’s done, I almost always find myself convinced.”

  “I am not going to put up with this.” Bert Coules started back toward the street, but Lassiter and O’Hara stepped in his way.

  “Just for a little while longer,” O’Hara said.

  “If it makes you feel any better, we’re rooting for him to get it wrong, too,” Lassiter said.

  “Bert Coules came to Santa Barbara, settled into the community, and began a yearlong search for the money. He’d break into the impound lot after hours and search the cars, one by one.”

  “He was even searching for the loot while you all were staring at a corpse in the shack. Remember the oil stains on his slacks? If you crawl around on the ground here, you’ll end up with spots just like that,” Gus said.

  “So he kept on searching,” Shawn said. “Until one night he broke in and found someone there. He must have recognized young Marichal-and no doubt Marichal recognized him. There was a fight, and Marichal ended up permanently staring backward.”

  “Like I could take on a giant like that,” Coules protested.

  “You’re the one who said that someone as small as Tara Larison could break his neck with the proper technique,” Gus said.

  “A technique I’m sure you learned during your time in the Special Forces,” Shawn said. “You stole the office’s computer in hopes that Herman had kept a record of where he hid the money. But it didn’t help.”

  “Maybe it was in Herman’s private code,” Gus suggested. “Or maybe it wasn’t in there at all. Something drove you to see Betty Walinski and try to force the truth out of her. You snapped her neck, which not only kept her quiet about you, but also helped convince the police that Tara Larison was a mad dog who needed to be killed on sight.”

  “And if I may say, that might be the worst crime of all,” Shawn said.

  “What do you mean by that, Shawn?” Gus said.

  “To depend on our Victorian stereotypes of the mad-woman in the attic, to play on our prejudices about women as unstable and vengeful, is to reduce countless individuals to gender-based cartoons whose entire selfhood is determined solely by their reproductive organs. It diminishes me as a man simply to hear such canards recited.”

  Henry, Lassiter, Coules, and the other men in the shack stared at Shawn baffled. But Detective O’Hara and Chief Vick regarded him warmly for the first time since Tara had tried to forcibly exchange saliva with Juliet, apparently on Shawn’s psychic orders.

  “Do you mean that, Shawn?” Detective O’Hara said, finally treating him to one of her warm smiles.

  “I always have,” Shawn said. And it was actually true, if by “always” he meant since this morning when he’d memorized the passage from a Web site of feminist literary theory.

  Coules waited for them to go on. When they didn’t, he broke out into a smile. “So aside from sisterhood being powerful, is that it?”

  “I think so. Gus?”

  “Sounds about right?”

  “You don’t have anything,” Coules said.“It’s all supposition and theory. You don’t have one shred of proof.”

  Shawn turned to Gus, suddenly troubled. “You know, I think he’s right.”

  “Definitely. We’ve got no proof at all.”

  Coules tried to push past the detectives. They didn’t move out of his way.

  “They don’t need proof, Mr. Coules,” Chief Vick said. “They’re not police. We’re the ones who need to show proof. And if you’ll be so good as to accompany us back to the station, we’ll make a couple of calls and find out if you ever handled a case involving Mr. Marichal Senior. That should be enough to hold you while we start checking some of these cars for your prints. Mr. Spencer, you say we should start with the Florida plates?”

  “It’s still all ridiculous speculation!” Coules shouted. “It’s all based on the idea that Walinsky and Marichal were involved in the race track robbery. And there’s no evidence of that.”

  Chief Vick turned to Shawn. “He does have a point there. Do you have any evidence that Herman Walinsky had anything to do with the Calder Race Course robbery besides catching its perpetrators?”

  “None at all,” Shawn said.

  “Unless you count the three million dollars,” Gus added.

  “We can’t count it if we can’t find it,” Lassiter said.

  “Then you should check out a yellow nineteen sixty-five Ford Thunderbird with Florida plates about three hundred yards west of here,” Shawn said.

  “If you’d be so good as to lead us, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said.

  “Yes, do,” Coules said. His smile had turned into a smirk.

  Shawn and Gus led the group through the maze of cars until they came to the rusting T-Bird.

  “This is your brilliant idea?” Coules said. “If half of what you said was true, this is one of the first cars Marichal would have checked.”

  “You, too,” Gus said.

  “Fine. Whatever. Go ahead and check it.”

  Shawn rapped sharply on the trunk. With a groan of hinges, the lid began to lift slowly. The others crowded around to see what was inside.

  “It’s empty!” Mindy said.

  “Just like this clown’s head,” Coules said. “Can I go home and start preparing my defamation suit now?”

  Shawn stared into the empty trunk. “Dad?”

  Henry Spencer sighed wearily. “Yes, son?”

  “What was the name of Herman Walinsky’s legendary lure?”

  “I really don’t think that fishing tackle is going to do you much good right now.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Please humor him,” Mindy said. “’Cause he can stand here and keep talking if he wants. Believe me, I know.”

  Henry took the scrapbook back from Shawn and flipped it open to a page with a photo of a fishing lure fastened securely in its center. He held the book open so everyone could

  see. “It was called the YTBL3.”

  “Did he ever say what that stood for?”

  “No,” Henry said. “I always assumed it came after the YTBL2 and before the YTBL4.”

  “Good thought,” Shawn said. “Here’s a better one. Y-Yellow. TB-Thunderbird. L-Left.” He turned theatrically to his left. “Three-well, three.” He walked down three rows of cars and stopped next to a decaying nineteen sixty-one Olds Cutlass. “Does anyone happen to have a crowbar?”

  Gus bent down and picked one up from off the
ground. “Look, Shawn, it seems that someone has graciously left one for us right here.”

  “Then let’s accept their generous gesture.” Shawn took the crowbar and used it to pry open the Cutlass’ trunk. Inside were a dozen fraying canvas bags. Shawn lifted one out of the trunk. With a sound of ripping cloth, the bottom tore out and bundles of cash poured out on the ground.

  Coules stared at the money. “So close. All this time, it was right there.”

  O’Hara pulled out her cuffs and snapped them on his wrists. “And this is as close as you’re getting to it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gus cranked down the window and let the wind blast him in his face. This was what life was all about: speed, freedom, and the open road.

  Veronica Mason had finally come through with the reward she’d promised, and the first six thousand dollars had ransomed the Echo. The rest of it would let Shawn and Gus live safely and securely no matter how much profit the Psych agency was generating.

  At least it would if Shawn managed to persuade the rest of the nation to drink Blak. Although Gus had begged him to put the money into T-bills, Shawn had insisted on investing the entire post-Echo sum in a new Bulgarian Blak bottling company. Odds were, they’d never see a penny of it again. But they were young, they were free, and for the first time in ages, they didn’t have the prospect of execution in their near future.

  Gus tapped the brakes to let a BMW slip in ahead of him. There was an anguished scream from the seat next to him.

  “What are you doing?” Shawn forced the words out through a throat choked with frustration.

  “Thought we’d draft for a bit.”

  “ Draft? You thought we’d draft?”

  “What I said.”

  “As in ease out of the headwind and take advantage of the Beemer’s slipstream?”

  “That’s what it means.”

  Shawn chose his words with extreme care, as if fearing that the wrong ones were lurking in his mouth and threatening to leap out and pummel Gus over the head.