But the second problem was much more serious. Shawn recognized all the excuses Gus was giving him because Shawn had used them himself, over and over again. So he knew these were not only lies, but lazy lies. They were the lies of someone who doesn't care if anyone believes them. They were the lies of a man who'd moved on.

Shawn had spent a lot of time trying to figure out why Gus might not want to be part of Psych anymore, but he couldn't come up with a single reason. They did what they wanted when they wanted, took only the cases that sounded like fun, and managed to avoid almost all sense of adult responsibility. Who could ever find fault with that? Who could ever want anything else?

In general, Shawn didn't like taking on two cases at once. Not since the time he'd gotten mixed up and had accused a suspect in one case of committing the murder in the second. But this was different. One of these cases, as they said on the movie posters, was personal.

So while Shawn continued to search for Macklin Tanner, he was simultaneously going undercover to spy on Gus. Fortunately his cover was strikingly similar to his own persona--in fact, he was going undercover as himself--so he could move back and forth between his two roles without needing to adjust fake mustaches or even change clothes. But while the outside world might see him as a psychic detective hunting for a missing tech genius, secretly he was engaged in spying on his partner.

Gus hadn't made it easy on him. There were no surrept.i.tious phone calls, no mysterious meetings, not even any unexpected e-mails in any of Gus' accounts. If he was hiding something, Gus was playing it cool. Which was, to Shawn, the most suspicious sign yet, since Gus and "cool" were almost never mentioned in the same sentence.

Shawn was beginning to think he might have to consult the army field interrogations manual to find the truth when Gus finally slipped up. They were hanging out at the office when Shawn mentioned he was in the mood for pizza from LaVal's by the Pier, the one place in town that didn't deliver. This wasn't the first time Shawn had mentioned this craving, and usually it led to forty-five minutes of Gus refusing Shawn's offer to wait at the office if Gus wanted to run down and pick up the pie, and then to the inevitable call to Domino's. But this time Gus didn't argue at all. He asked what toppings Shawn wanted.

This was the moment. The only reason for Gus to give in so easily was that he was about to make his move. All Shawn had to do was follow him and see where the trail led.

That would have been a lot easier, of course, if Shawn had had any mode of transportation faster than his own feet. Unfortunately Gus had picked him up from his home that morning so they could share the forty-five-minute ride to VirtuActive's headquarters in Thousand Oaks. If they'd had the foresight to set up a suitcase full of chemicals in the office, Shawn could have hoped for a lightning bolt to spill them all over him, granting him superspeed. But without the proper equipment--or even a cloud in the cool evening sky--chasing Gus' car on foot didn't seem like a profitable enterprise.

But he had to know where Gus was sneaking off to. He couldn't let this chance go to waste.

"Why don't we go together and eat there?" Shawn said.

If Shawn had been hoping for some kind of strong reaction from Gus, he was disappointed. "Fine" was the only answer he got.

During the ride down toward the pier, Gus didn't seem any more tense than he had over the previous few weeks, so Shawn began to doubt he was trying to make a secret rendezvous. What was he up to, then?

It wasn't until Gus pulled up outside the pizzeria that Shawn figured it out. More precisely, it wasn't until Gus made a big show of fumbling in his pockets for change, then announcing he needed to run across the street to the convenience store to break a dollar for the parking meter.

The excuse was so transparent, Shawn nearly pointed out that the meters had stopped being enforced an hour ago, and that Gus' pockets were so full of change he'd been jingling as they left the office. But he managed to stop himself a second before the words spilled out. He told Gus he'd get a table, then went into the restaurant and spied out through the front window as Gus walked toward the convenience store. But just as Gus approached the entrance, he made a sharp zig to the left and went to the pay phone that stood outside it. He picked up the receiver, dropped in a few coins, then dialed. After a few moments he hung up the phone and headed back toward the car. Shawn didn't stay at the window to see him feed the meter, but he did check on their way out and saw they still had twelve minutes left. If nothing else, he had to admire Gus for being thorough.

The next day, finding out whom Gus had called was easy work, as long as you consider impersonating a police officer work rather than, say, a felony. He called the pay phone company and, after spending twenty minutes being transferred from office to office, gave Detective Carlton La.s.siter's name and badge number to a junior vice president for community relations.

Gus had spent 107 seconds on the phone with United Airlines. It should have been quick work to find out if he had booked a ticket and if so to where. But the operator he spoke to would not give out any information without something called a "record locator number," and once Shawn realized this was not a case of privacy protection but simple incompetence on the part of a bureaucracy he gave up trying. He'd have to figure out where Gus was going on his own.

That wasn't hard. If Gus planned to be away overnight he'd need to come up with some excuse, and he hadn't mentioned anything. So it was going to be a day trip. Realistically that ruled out any flight longer than a couple of hours. But which way would he fly? Not south--Gus could drive to LA or even San Diego almost as fast as he could fly, and Tijuana would require a pa.s.sport, which Gus didn't have. West was out, too, unless Gus was planning to bring scuba tanks. Seattle seemed too far for a day trip, and while Portland was inside the zone, Shawn couldn't imagine why anyone would go there.

That left three good possibilities: Phoenix and Las Vegas to the east and San Francisco up north. Gus had distant relatives in Phoenix, so if he had been planning to go there he would certainly have told Shawn he was going to visit cousin Enid and the kids. Vegas was possible, but it just didn't feel right. That left San Francisco.

Of course even if Shawn was right about the destination, he still didn't know when Gus was going to fly. But since the trip meant Gus was going to be away for most of a day, Shawn just had to wait until he announced he needed to attend an all-day sales meeting at his other job.

As for the flight, that was the easy part. He knew how Gus' mind worked and he knew how Gus would think about how Shawn's mind worked. This was the one that Gus would a.s.sume Shawn would find least likely. Which meant it was the one he would pick.

Unless, of course, Gus had taken his logic a step further and realized that Shawn would have figured out what he was thinking, and so changed to a direct flight from Santa Barbara. But Shawn knew that Gus had a strong dislike of that kind of circular thinking. As a child he'd seen too many science fiction movies and TV shows where the hero was able to make an evil supercomputer explode simply by offering it an example of a logical feedback loop, and he was always careful to protect his own brain from that particular danger. So unless Gus had just given up on the whole project, he was going to be on this flight.

As he finished off the plate of fried food Shawn looked over at the gate and saw that the doors were open and pa.s.sengers were coming out. The first few were middle-aged businessmen in suits and ties. They were followed by what looked like either a start-up's software-development team or a group of escapees from a juvenile mental inst.i.tution. They were all talking to the air in front of them, but since Shawn couldn't confirm they had Bluetooth headsets attached to their ears he couldn't decide which they were. Most of the remaining pa.s.sengers were clearly tourists, ambling out of the Jetway with looks on their faces that said, This airport is already something to see and I'm going to take my time about it. At the end of the line was one more middle-aged man in a suit and tie. He walked slowly and kept glancing back over his shoulder. Shawn a.s.sumed he'd spent the trip flirting with one of the flight attendants, and he was still hoping she might come running after him to thrust her phone number into his hand.

And then the Jetway doors were empty. One of the gate agents peered in to see if anyone else would be deplaning, but that seemed to be it. There was a rush of movement around the gate as pa.s.sengers waiting to board the plane started to jockey for position.

Shawn was surprised to discover how relieved he felt. After all, the mere fact that Gus wasn't on this plane didn't mean there wasn't something seriously wrong. He could have used a different calculus to choose his flight. Or Shawn could have been completely wrong and Gus could be hailing a cab outside the Las Vegas airport right now. Or Gus could have gotten sick of trying to outgame Shawn's thought process and driven up north.

Whatever the explanation for Gus' failure to deplane from this flight, the underlying problem, whatever it might be, would still be there once Shawn got home. And worse, Shawn would have blown his best shot to figure out what it was.

Intellectually he knew that was all true. But he didn't care. Gus wasn't here, which meant that Gus was not betraying him. At least not in the manner that he'd suspected. There would probably be plenty of things to feel terrible about, but they would come later. For the moment he could relax.

Shawn scrawled his name across the bottom of the credit card slip the waitress must have placed on the table while he was staring across the terminal and stood up. He was going to make that flight home after all.

He was halfway out of the restaurant when he noticed one of the gate agents rushing down gate one's Jetway. He didn't want to wait to find out what was going on. His departure gate was at least half a mile away and it was going to start boarding soon. But something made him stay, frozen, staring at the doors.

For a long moment, the doorway was empty. And then Shawn saw a flash of chrome and he relaxed again. There was a wheelchair coming up the ramp, carrying a woman who looked like she was born when her father was still fighting in the trenches of the Western Front. That was why the gate agent had rushed in--after all the walking pa.s.sengers had gotten off the plane, he'd brought down a wheelchair for her.

Fighting the urge to whistle a merry tune, Shawn headed down the terminal toward his own homeward gate. If it hadn't been for the bakery case at the Emporio Rulli Gran Caffe, he might have made it back to Santa Barbara in the same good mood.

But as he pa.s.sed the case his feet came to an involuntary stop. It wasn't that he was hungry. The first lunch had left him full, and the second had had to squeeze into whatever room remained in the odd corners of his stomach. But when he approached the cafe, it was as if he'd been hit by a tractor beam.

As far as he could tell, the beam was emanating from a slice of cake the label called "Honore" and described as allb.u.t.ter puff pastry with Italian pastry cream filling, layered with sponge cake brushed with rum, decorated with chocolate whipped cream and pastry cream and pastry cream-filled cream puffs.

Shawn would be ill if he ate another bite, and while something as spectacular as the Honore might have been worth a spot of nausea, he didn't want to spend his flight home in one of those tiny airplane lavatories.

Mustering all the strength in his body, Shawn stopped his foot midstride as it was about to take another step toward the bakery case. Then he commanded it to turn ninety degrees back toward the way he had come. Pressing his eyelids shut, he brought his other foot around and when he opened his eyes again the cafe was gone from his sight.

He found himself facing the ancient woman from the Burbank flight, whose wheelchair was just coming through the doors.

And now he wished he had stopped for a piece of cake. Now he wished he'd eaten the entire bakery. Because not only did he see the old woman, he saw the person who had volunteered to push her chair up the ramp.

It was Gus.

Chapter Seven.

The high school had been a dead end. She'd known it would be, even as she made the appointment to talk to the princ.i.p.al. Mandy Jansen had graduated almost ten years earlier. Whatever had led to the moment of her hanging in her mother's bas.e.m.e.nt almost certainly had nothing to do with her years on the cheer squad.

The only reason Juliet O'Hara could find for taking the investigation all the way back to high school was the fact that she was found wearing that uniform. But as a clue that seemed like less than a long shot.

Even as she'd sat waiting outside the princ.i.p.al's office, she knew she was wasting her time. And everyone she'd met over the next two hours seemed to prove her right. The princ.i.p.al had only been in the school for two years, and there had been three others since Mandy's day. He was able to pull up her records on the district's computer, but there was nothing there but the transcript of Mandy's good, not great, grades. Mandy's guidance counselor couldn't place the name; she'd been one of a thousand students over the last decade. Even the coach of the cheerleading squad only remembered Mandy as a "nice girl, legs like springs."

But O'Hara had needed to visit the high school, because she didn't have anywhere else to turn. All the evidence seemed to suggest--to insist--that Mandy had taken her own life. There had been no signs of an intruder in the bas.e.m.e.nt apartment, no signs that anyone besides Mandy had been down there in weeks.

What evidence they did turn up kept suggesting the same thing: that Mandy was a deeply troubled woman, who was battling depression for reasons no one seemed to understand. She'd apparently left a lucrative career in sales to move back in with her mother, who was undergoing treatment for some kind of rare cancer. Since then she had barely left the house except to take her mother to the doctor or to run to the supermarket or the pharmacy, and while she told her mother, who was too weak to make it down the stairs, that she was taking care of the garden, she'd clearly been letting it go for a long time. Mrs. Jansen thought Mandy had had a girlfriend over a few times, because she'd heard voices through the floor, but she had no idea who it might have been, and O'Hara was never able to find a trace of her.

As soon as they'd walked into the crime scene La.s.siter had made the judgment that Mandy's death was suicide, and O'Hara hadn't found anything to suggest he was wrong.

But she couldn't accept that. Wouldn't accept it. When La.s.siter showed her a draft of his report, she refused to sign off on it, and insisted they keep the investigation open just for a little while longer.

But that little while had already stretched past its breaking point and unless O'Hara could come up with something fast, she'd have to put her name on the report that would close the case.

If she could just articulate what she felt was wrong about the case La.s.siter would have come over to her side. He would have grumbled, because that was what La.s.siter did. But he trusted her instincts and he would have followed her lead.

But she had nothing. No suspects, no motives, no evidence. Just a conviction that Mandy Jansen hadn't killed herself. A conviction for which she couldn't find a single fact.

She was so busy trying to figure out her next move as she crossed the visitors' parking lot that at first she didn't hear the man following her. There were so many kids running to their next cla.s.s that one set of footsteps didn't make much of an impact on her consciousness. But as she got closer to her car, she could hear the steady slap of leather on asphalt and could tell the footsteps belonged to someone who was hoping to catch her before she reached the sedan.

This could be it, she thought. Someone who had heard her questions but didn't want to speak up in front of other people. Someone who knew something about Mandy and needed to talk about it, even at great personal risk.

O'Hara slowed down just a little, then turned quickly to see the person who was going to break her case wide-open.

It was her partner.

"Gee, m.u.f.fy, didn't mean to startle you," La.s.siter said. "I just wanted to know who was taking you to the prom."

"How did you know I was here, Carlton?" she said.

"You had an appointment," La.s.siter said. "It was on your scheduler."

"You broke into my computer?" she said, anger rising.

"Let me rephrase that," La.s.siter said. "You had an appointment. It was on your scheduler, right under the reminder about the meeting with the Coalition to Help the Homeless."

O'Hara felt her anger melting rapidly into embarra.s.sment. She'd completely forgotten about that. "How bad was it?"

"How bad was it?" La.s.siter said. "Let's see--how many times in an hour do you imagine one n.o.ble philanthropist could mention that his wife sits on the city council?"

"That clown?" O'Hara said. "About a thousand."

"Sure, he's a clown," La.s.siter said. "Only I was the one feeling like I had a red nose and floppy shoes. Because when he wasn't reminding me that he sleeps next to a woman who controls our budget, he was demanding to know what kind of progress we were making solving the hit-and-run of a homeless man on Santa Barbara's busiest street. And what could I tell him? That we hadn't done jack on the case because we were busy trying to prove that an obvious suicide really wasn't?"

"Carlton, I'm sorry I missed the meeting," O'Hara said.

"Don't be sorry. Be right," La.s.siter said.

"I don't understand," O'Hara said.

"Find some evidence fast that this cheerleader was actually murdered," La.s.siter said. "That way no one can accuse us of ignoring our jobs."

Chapter Eight.

The meeting had gone well. Better, in fact, than Gus had expected. He'd spent much of the previous night memorizing facts and figures, studying company history and trying to game a strategy for dealing with a roomful of skeptical executives.

But to start with, the room hadn't been full. There had only been two people sitting at the conference table. One of them was Armitage, of course. He'd been Gus' contact all through this, and he was exactly as Gus had envisioned him during their multiple phone calls. Maybe the suit was a little more expensive than Gus had imagined, but that was only because his imagination had trouble picturing anyone spending that much money on clothes. His hair was white, but the lines of his face looked like the kind that come from lots of outdoor living, not decay. He had a firm handshake and a broad smile that matched the one Gus had always heard in his voice.

The other man was young enough to be Armitage's grandson, and he was dressed like he'd stopped in to cadge a free lunch out of gramps on the way to a Hacky Sack tournament in the marina. His bright pink polo was wrinkled, his chinos stained at the cuffs by grease from a bicycle chain. While Gus did his best to answer Armitage's questions without sounding like he'd stayed up late rehearsing them, the kid barely looked up from his smartphone, except for one moment when he let out a loud "boo-yah!" that seemed to have more to do with whatever was on his screen than Gus' frank confession that he often put his work obligations over his personal life, even to his own detriment.

In another context Gus might have pulled Armitage aside and suggested they give the kid a handful of quarters and send him to the arcade down the street until their meeting was over. Or he might have gotten so annoyed that he grabbed the punk by his tiny ponytail and dragged him out of the conference room.

But this was Armitage's meeting, and if he wanted his grandson here, then his grandson would be here.

After an hour, Armitage gave him another of his broad smiles. "I think that's everything we need to know," he said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand for Gus to shake. "You'll be hearing from us very soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," Gus said. Only then did he turn toward the kid at the end of the table. "Nice to meet you."

The kid didn't exactly look up from his smartphone, but he did raise a hand to give him half a wave.

As Gus rode back down in the walnut-paneled elevator, he tried to figure out what he'd do next. If the meeting had been a failure, of course, he wouldn't need to make a decision. He'd fly back to Burbank, sweat the traffic up the 101, and in the morning he'd pick up Shawn and accompany him to Darksyde City.

But if he'd read things correctly Gus was about to be facing a serious decision. And this wouldn't be like most of his decisions, which he usually made, unmade, and remade at least a dozen times before he committed to a certain path, and then a dozen more afterward. This one would be final.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, letting Gus out into a small lobby of granite walls and marble floors. He slipped the visitor's pa.s.s out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the security guard's console, then clickclacked his way across the stone floor to the metal and gla.s.s door.

It was amazing what a couple tons of granite can protect you from. Inside the lobby you'd never know this building sat at one of the busiest corners in San Francisco, with thousands of screeching brakes and blaring horns going past every hour. Inside, life seemed sane and calm and peaceful. If only Gus could stay right here for a few hours to think things through. Removed from the noise and bustle and confusion of life, he could surely come to the right decision. If the security guard hadn't started to eye him suspiciously and finger the gun at his waist, Gus might have slid down to the floor and stayed there until he'd made up his mind.

Instead he pushed the door open and let the sounds of the traffic wash over him along with the cool air that was being pushed into the city by the oncoming layer of fog.

Even out in the noise it isn't bad, Gus thought. Maybe it wasn't the isolation of the stone lobby that had made him feel so calm and so free. It was simply being away from home.

Gus glanced at his watch. His flight didn't leave for another four hours. Normally he'd already be worried about missing the plane and would spend the next half hour debating whether he should take BART or spring for a taxi. But right now he didn't feel any pressure to get to the airport. He didn't want to go home. He had a strange feeling that whatever decision he made, it would be easier to reach here.

So Gus would stay for a few hours. He'd stroll through the financial district, maybe toddle down toward the waterfront, where he could watch the ferries come and go. Or he could head over to Chinatown and atone for his lunch by ordering some real Chinese food. Maybe he'd just walk. Walk and think. And if he wasn't done thinking by eight o'clock, he could find a cheap hotel and postpone his return until the morning. Worst-case scenario was he'd get bad news from Armitage after he'd rescheduled his flight and be stuck here for no reason.

Now that the thought of staying overnight had occurred to him, Gus started to like it more and more. He might as well just commit now. He'd call United and change his reservation, then look around for a hotel.

Gus pulled out his cell phone and powered it up--he had, of course, switched it off for the meeting. It went through its usual delaying tactics, showing logo screen after logo screen. Then it told him it was searching for service. Finally a series of four bars appeared at the top of the display. Gus started to dial when the phone rang. It was Shawn.

"Hey, Shawn," Gus said as casually as he could. "Good timing. We've got a short break in the sales conference."

"Good, because I need some advice," Shawn said.

Gus regarded the phone suspiciously. In all the years they'd been first friends, then colleagues, Shawn had never actually asked Gus for advice. Even on those occasions when he knew he needed it, Shawn always found a way to phrase the request so that it sounded like he was doing Gus a great favor.

"About what?" Gus said.

"Remember that guy you killed?" Shawn said. "The one with the Cayenne?"

"You mean the character I killed in the computer game we were playing," Gus said. He didn't know for sure that the government had computers that sifted all cell calls for certain phrases, but if they did "remember that guy you killed" was probably one that sent up a lot of flags.

"That's him," Shawn said. "He was a hit man who was working for Morton, right?"

"He was a fictional hit man whose role in the game was as a soldier for the fictional mobster known as Morton, right," Gus said.