A Fatal Frame of Mind (2 page)

“Can this actually be true?” he said “If only I could believe it.”

“I left campus to get lunch at BurgerTown,” Shawn said. “I was late getting back to history class, and I forgot we had a test. So instead of taking an F, I told Mrs. Grisby I had used the bathroom in the public library when I went there to study and I couldn’t leave because I overheard two guys making a drug deal and didn’t want them to know I’d seen their faces.”

For a moment, a look of hope passed over Henry’s face. Then it was gone. “That’s a good try, Shawn, but I just can’t believe it,” he said. “Your description of the deal was so precise, you couldn’t have made that up.” He looked up at Agent Wenzel. “Take him away, Agent Wenzel. Take him before I change my mind.”

Wenzel dragged Shawn towards the hall. He grabbed the doorknob and held tight. “I got it all from
Miami Vice
,” Shawn said. “Don’t you remember? We watched it together last week. That’s why I used it on Mrs. Grisby—it was the first thing that came to mind.”

Henry thought that through. Then he nodded. “You know, son, I think I can believe that.”

“Honestly, I just wanted to get out of failing the test,” Shawn said, a wave of relief rolling through him. “I never thought anyone would take it so seriously they’d call the Feds!”

“One thing you have to understand,” Henry said. “The bigger and more ridiculous the story, the more likely people are to believe it. Because no one could ever imagine you’d make up something so crazy.”

For the first time since he’d seen the government-issue sedan roll up outside their house, Shawn was able to inhale easily. But for some reason, the gray-suited man was still clutching his shoulder.

“So I guess I don’t have to go with this guy and meet my new family, right?” Shawn said, trying to extricate himself from the agent’s grip.

“Oh, no; you do,” Henry said.

“But there is no drug deal,” Shawn said. “There never was.”

“Which is a good thing, because Curtis here wouldn’t do much good if a drug kingpin was really after you,” Henry said. “Shawn, I’d like you to meet Agent Wenzel of the Santa Barbara School Police, Truancy Enforcement Squad. He’s going to take you to your new home.”

“You’re going to like it there,” Wenzel said. “We call it ‘permanent detention.’ ”

The last thing Shawn saw as Agent Wenzel dragged him out of his room was Henry’s face splitting into a broad, wicked grin.

“A
re you sure this is absolutely necessary?”Shawn examined himself in the full-length mirror that had appeared in the Psych offices earlier in the day along with the two tuxedos.

“Absolutely,” Gus said. “Are you ready yet?”

Gus slipped the rental studs through his French cuffs and flicked them open, locking them in place. He yanked his cummerbund into position, then slid into his dinner jacket. Even though the clock was ticking down and there was no time to waste, he took a moment to wonder why he didn’t wear a tuxedo all the time, like Dean Martin or the maitre d’ at Cappy’s Steak and Stein. He looked that good.

“I was born ready,” Shawn said. “Of course, I was also born naked, and that tells me there’s no actual reason for dressing up.”

“It’s the social event of the season,” Gus said as he smoothed his hand over his already smooth hair. “We were incredibly lucky to get an invitation. And that invitation specifically called for black tie.”

“I don’t wear ties,” Shawn said, flicking open his unbuttoned collar to emphasize the point. “And even if I did, I don’t see what that has to do with the rest of this ridiculous outfit.”

“Black tie is a dress code for semiformal events,” Gus said.

“I definitely agree that this event is semiformal,” Shawn said. “Because it’s only Ponyboy. I can’t imagine what we’d have to wear if Sodapop was going to be there, too.”

Gus hesitated. He’d been putting off telling Shawn the truth for so long he had begun to believe he’d never have to. “Ponyboy. Right. Look, there’s something I need to tell you about the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival,” Gus said.

“If you’re going to say that the man’s career is too vast to be shoehorned into one evening, I’m well aware we’re coming in partway through,” Shawn said. “Last night was his formative work from the eighties, when he grew from sensitive man-child into a solid, if still sensitive teen lead. Tonight, of course, is his timeless nineties’ material, which saw him mature into the hard-boiled hero of neo-noir classics like
Jail Bait
and
Teresa’s Tattoo
. And tomorrow is truly special, since so much of his work in this millennium was made for DVD and is being shown for the first time on the big screen. Or anywhere.”

“Glad to hear you won’t have to miss the best part,” Gus said.

“Miss?” Shawn said.

“We’ve got to go,” Gus said. “We’re going to be late.”

Gus scooped his car key off the coffee table and let it drop into the surprisingly roomy pocket of his rental pants, then headed for the street. Normally Shawn would have pushed past him just as he reached for the knob, showing a need equal to any golden retriever’s to be first through a door. But when Gus glanced back to see what had happened to his partner, Shawn was still sitting behind his desk.

“I don’t think you’re taking me to the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival at all,” Shawn said.

This was the moment. The absolute last second Gus could tell Shawn the truth before his small deception turned into a big lie.

“We’re going now,” Gus said.

This time Gus didn’t look back to see if Shawn was following him. He stepped out into the cool evening fog and crossed the curb to his waiting Echo. By the time he’d walked around to his door and slid behind the wheel, Shawn was already buckled into the passenger’s seat. Gus put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

T
he Echo cruised down State Street. Gus glanced over at Shawn to see if he was getting suspicious. But the Bijoux Theatre, where C. Thomas Howell was being feted, was in the same direction as their real destination, and Gus figured he had another minute or two before the truth became apparent. And Shawn seemed to be completely oblivious to the deception.

Gus felt a momentary thrill of triumph at successfully fooling his best friend and partner. At least he tried to feel it. This was a huge moment for him, one of the few times he’d ever gotten away with lying to Shawn, whose ability to see through other people’s lies was surpassed only by his skill at spinning his own.

But instead of victory, Gus felt ashamed. He’d lied to Shawn to get what he wanted, and now he was afraid that he’d ruined the evening for both of them. And maybe more than the evening. It was possible Gus had done ineradicable harm to their friendship.

“I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this film festival,” Shawn said. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but it could be the high point of my existence.”

“I’m sure it won’t be,” Gus mumbled. “Just a bunch of crummy movies you could get from Netflix any day.”

“It’s not just the movies; it’s the sense of community,” Shawn said. “To know for once in my life that I’m not all alone in the world. That I’m not a freak.”

“You’re not a freak, Shawn. And you don’t need a C. Thomas Howell Film Festival to—” Gus broke off, suddenly hearing his words echoing in his head. “How long have you known?”

The puzzled look on Shawn’s face was so pure and innocent that a Renaissance painter could have used it as the inspiration for one of the cupids hovering around the corners of his painting, if there had happened to be any Renaissance painters hiding in the backseat of the Echo and they were able to get over the shock of being transported in a coach with no visible means of locomotion in time to pay attention to their model.

“Known what?” Shawn said.

“You know what,” Gus said. If he’d felt lousy at having tricked Shawn, it was only fair that he should feel better, now that he realized Shawn hadn’t been fooled. Instead, he felt even more annoyed at himself.

“That you’re not taking me to the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival?” Shawn said. “That in fact you never intended to take me to the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival and instead have duped me in some cruel and manipulative manner?”

“Yes.”

“Since you went out to get the tickets a week ago,” Shawn said. “And when you came back to the office and I asked to see them, you said you’d dropped them off at your apartment. If you’d wanted to make this halfway believable, you could have at least bought a couple of tickets.”

“If we’d had tickets, you would have found a way to use them,” Gus said. “I had to make sure you thought we had seats until the thing sold out.”

“And in case hell didn’t freeze over, what were you planning on doing then?”

“I’m doing it.” Gus pressed his foot on the gas, and the car zipped past the Bijoux, where either a small crowd had gathered to salute their favorite actor or the number three bus was going to stop soon.

“At least you could tell me where we’re going,” Shawn said after a few silent blocks. “You owe me that.”

“You mean I could tell you where we’re going
again
?” Gus said.

Shawn looked confused. “Why, did we already go there?”

“Go where?” Gus said.

“I don’t know,” Shawn said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

It took Gus a moment to run through the conversation and figure out where they had gone off track. “When I said ‘again,’ I was using it to modify the first half of the sentence, not the second.”

“Can you say that in English?” Shawn said.

“That was English,” Gus said. “In fact, it was more than English. It was specifically a point of English grammar, so you don’t get much more English than that.”

“What about Gwyneth Paltrow?” Shawn said. “She got pretty English. Madonna, too, although I think Guy Ritchie took the accent back in the divorce settlement.”

Gus slowed for a yellow light and stopped with his front bumper precisely above the limit line. “What I meant was not that we were going someplace we’d already been, but that this was not the first time tonight’s destination had come up in conversation, and that in previous discussions I had told you where I wanted to go, asked if you wanted to come along, and been denied.”

“Okay, that’s how Gwyneth would say it,” Shawn said. “Now put it in your own words.”

“We’re going to meet a client,” Gus said. “And after we meet with him, we are going to take his case.”

S
hawn stared at Gus in disbelief. “You went through all this just to get me to take a case?”

“Yes,” Gus said.

“Why didn’t you just say, ‘Hey, Shawn, here’s a case; let’s take it’?” Shawn said. “You know me: I love cases. I never turn a case away. In fact, I’m still waiting for that free case of Doritos they owe me for publicly endorsing their product.”

“You’re not getting any free Doritos,” Gus said. “Not for standing in the chips section of the Food King and shouting ‘Boy, I like Doritos.’ That’s not a public endorsement.”

“It’s as public as I’m going to get about a cheese-flavored corn snack,” Shawn said. “But I’d do much more for a real case.”

“Except for this case,” Gus said. “You did turn this one away.”

Shawn scrunched up his forehead as he tried to summon up the entire contents of his memory into his forebrain. “Sorry,” he said finally. “Just doesn’t sound like me.”

“You said you’d rather spend eternity being water-boarded with lime Jell-O than even meet with our client,” Gus said.

“Now that does sound like me,” Shawn conceded. Then he remembered. “Oh, no. You’re dragging me to see that Crispix guy.”

“His name is Kitteredge, as you well know,” Gus said. “Langston Kitteredge. And he’s not a guy; he’s a professor. And the single most brilliant man I’ve ever met.”

“Turn this car around right now,” Shawn said, clutching at the door handle.

“I will not,” Gus said. “We are going to meet Professor Langston Kitteredge at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. And while we’re there, you will act like a professional.”

“Great,” Shawn said. “Maybe I should act like a professional waiter, because that’s how I’m dressed.”

“There’s a gala event tonight,” Gus said. “Professor K is the guest of honor. It’s the only time he could meet with us.”

“So now we have to listen to him make a speech?” Shawn said. “Instead of watching C. Thomas Howell as a renegade cop trying to stop a sex-slavery ring from kidnapping innocent teenage runaways, we’re going to listen to some droning hack go rabbiting on about brushstrokes?”

Gus tried to keep from getting angry. After all, he had lied to Shawn. But this was the kind of case Gus had dreamed of since he and Shawn had gone into business as psychic detectives. Not just another dead body or looted mansion, but something of historical significance. A chance to make a real difference to the entire world.

At least, he assumed that’s what it was. Professor Kitteredge’s letter requesting the meeting had been brief and completely without details. But Gus was sure the professor wouldn’t bother with anything that came in at less than earth-shaking on the importance meter.

“I don’t know why you’re making this so difficult,” Gus said. “It’s not like I drag you to museums every day.”

“Yes, it is,” Shawn said. “It’s exactly like that.”

Gus gaped at the injustice of Shawn’s accusation. “When was the last time you were in any museum with or without me, except when you were on a case?”

“I’d have to say that would be when I was ten and my father decided I needed some culture, so he took me to this traveling Van Gogh exhibit. But in the third gallery he tripped over an art student who was sitting on the floor copying some picture of sunflowers, and the student acted like it was my dad’s fault. So he arrested the kid for interfering with a police officer and copyright infringement, at which point we were politely invited to leave the museum.”