A Fatal Frame of Mind (15 page)

“I might,” Shawn said. “Or I might just put my head under the front tire and beg Gus to hit the gas.”

But Kitteredge’s words had an impact on Gus. He stared at the looming shadow in front of them. “What about the Indians?” he said, ignoring the strangled cry from the seat next to him.

“The Chamokomee were a peaceful people, even more so than their close neighbors the Chumash, and they had neither the inclination nor the ability to fight the better armed and trained Spanish,” Kitteredge said. “All they wanted was to live their lives undisturbed. So they became experts at hiding their settlements. They could construct elaborate structures to mask their villages from the outside world.”

“That would explain why we haven’t seen any Indians tonight,” Shawn said. “That and the fact that it’s too dark to see anything. But unless your friend is one of the Chappaquiddick guys—”

“Chamokomee,” Gus said.

Since he didn’t have a tire iron to beat Gus’ head in with, Shawn ignored the correction. “—why do we care about any of this?”

“I think Gus knows,” Kitteredge said.

Gus didn’t. At least not quite. But there was something playing around the edges of his mind, and if he could just pull it forward he’d know which way to go.

“All we need to understand is whether we’re supposed to turn left or right here,” Shawn said. “So maybe the one piece of knowledge we need here is your friend’s address.”

Gus peered down the road to the left, then the right. And then he knew. He cast a glance back at Kitteredge, who was smiling and nodding his encouragement.

“Hold on,” Gus said, taking his foot off the brake. “This may get a little bumpy.”

Before Shawn could object, Gus pushed his foot down on the gas and the car lurched forward across the intersection. Straight across toward the unpaved hillside.

“What are you doing?” Shawn shouted.

“Getting us there,” Gus said.

The Echo flew across the road, then shuddered and thudded as it left the pavement. Gus could feel the tires clutching for purchase on the loose dirt of the hillside. He could hear the engine screaming as it fought to haul the car’s weight up the steep slope, saw the high weeds covering the windshield like a curtain. For a moment it seemed like the car was going to slide back into the intersection.

And then the tires grabbed asphalt. Flat asphalt. On both sides of them the hill angled up steeply, but they were on a level road.

“What happened?” Shawn said.

“I think it was the old Chamokomee trick,” Gus said.

“An artificial hill to disguise the entry to my friend’s property,” Kitteredge said.

Shawn peered out the window to confirm this, but it was too dark to see anything. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I did,” Kitteredge said. “Why didn’t you listen?”

Gus glanced over at Shawn to make sure he wouldn’t have to physically restrain him from leaping onto the backseat and throttling Kitteredge. But before Shawn could unbuckle his seat belt, the air was filled with the sound of an explosion. The windshield flew in their faces in a shower of glass pebbles.

“Somebody’s shooting at us!” Shawn shouted. “Get out of here!”

Gus hadn’t actually needed the instruction. He stomped on the brake, threw the gearshift into reverse, and jammed down on the gas.

But before he got more than a foot, there were two quick shots, and the front tires exploded out from under them. The Echo landed hard on the rims and dug divots in the asphalt.

Shawn and Gus dived for their door handles. Gus made it out first and yanked open the back door, pulling Kitteredge out of his seat as Shawn rushed around the car to join them.

“Now what?” Gus said.

“We run,” Shawn said.

“Not a bad idea,” a voice from out of the darkness said. “Would have been better if you’d thought of it before.”

A figure stepped into the beam of the Echo’s headlights. At first all Gus could make out was the doublebarreled shotgun pointed directly at them. But once that had registered, he was able to make out some of the details of the man carrying it. And he wished he hadn’t.

The shotgun’s owner seemed to be no more than four feet tall. But Gus realized that was only because he was so hunched over from the hump on his back. His face was as gnarled and twisted as his body, with a jagged scar that started at his hairline and zigged across his face, taking out his left eye.

“Would have been much better if you’d thought of it before,” the hunchback said. “Could have saved me some shells that way.”

After all, this wouldn’t be the first time Lassiter had asked Shawn and Gus for help. When he’d been framed for murdering a suspect in his cell and suspended during the investigation, the Psych boys had stepped in and found the real killer. And when Lassiter’s surrogate father, the sheriff of old Sonora, had been in trouble, he hadn’t hesitated to ask them to assess and correct the situation.

But this was different. Shawn and Gus had seen him at the lowest point in his career, probably his life. They had seen him helpless, humiliated, held hostage at knifepoint. And not by some meth-crazed biker with arms like sewer pipes, but by a professor of art history. Granted, the professor was the size and shape of a grizzly bear, but that was no excuse. Now he was contemplating crawling to them for help.

Lassiter let his department Impala idle while he struggled to decide whether he should turn the corner and pull up to the Psych headquarters. At least Chief Vick had let him keep the car pending the official Internal Affairs review.

But the car was all she’d left him. When he returned from his rap session with that hippie quack, Chief Vick had already gotten a report from her. Of course it was a pack of nonsense.
Detective Lassiter is uncooperative
, it said.
He refuses to acknowledge the seriousness of the incident or the emotional impact it’s had on him. Some level of denial is to be expected in this sort of situation, but Detective Lassiter’s unwillingness even to begin to process his reaction to the event is so total it tends toward the psychotic.
And on and on.

In other words, a load of hogwash. Clearly this was a woman who hated strong men. She couldn’t stand the thought that some people didn’t allow themselves to be ruled by their emotions like little children. And she refused to let herself believe that he could have gone through that ordeal and come out stronger for it. In her world, people who had a bad experience had to curl up and weep for a month just to get over it. If she accepted the fact that he had emerged psychologically unscathed, it would destroy her entire worldview. She’d need to close down her practice and take up a career she was better suited for, like teaching kindergarten or serving at soup kitchens.

But Chief Vick didn’t see it that way. At least she couldn’t admit she did. Lassiter knew that the chief saw the world the same way he did—the same way any good cop would. She must have wanted to burst out in peals of derisive laughter when that quack tried to insist there was something bad about the fact that he wouldn’t give in to his emotions.

But Karen Vick hadn’t gotten to be chief without understanding how the system worked. And she must have had some kind of inside knowledge about McCormack’s ties to the upper echelons of the city’s bureaucracy. No matter what her personal feelings about this psychiatric witch hunt might be, she knew she had to pretend to take the shrink seriously. If McCormack demanded that Vick place her lead detective on suspension until she signed off on his mental health, the chief would understand that this battle needed to be fought on another level. Because while it wasn’t true that you can’t fight city hall, you had to be smart to do it well. She would surrender this battle to win the war.

That’s why he didn’t argue when the chief asked for his badge and gun. Well, he didn’t argue much. Definitely not more than half an hour. And the instant she informed him that he would be fired on the spot if he didn’t hand them over and accept his suspension immediately, he did as she asked. It was all a bit of departmental kabuki. He’d fought for his rights, and she could say she had brought the full power of her office to bear on the recalcitrant detective.

The last words she’d said to him as he left the police station were to get help, get better, and come back quickly. And that’s why he was coming to Psych.

Surely, this must have been what she meant when she told him to get help. For some reason, Chief Vick had a bizarre faith in Shawn Spencer’s abilities; when there was a problem she thought (inevitably mistakenly) that the police couldn’t solve on their own, she reached out to the Psych boys. Where else would she have wanted him to go?

But it wasn’t easy for him. Asking for any kind of assistance came hard to Lassiter men. His grandfather had settled in Santa Barbara only because he’d gotten lost on the road from Boston to Chicago and refused to ask for directions. And begging for help from a couple of guys with a work ethic that would get them fired from a comic book store was particularly painful. He longed to slam the car into drive and head out to search for Kitteredge on his own.

Instead, as he always did when faced with a difficult decision, he made a mental list of pros and cons.

The negative list was filling up fast. To start with, there was nothing Shawn and Gus could do that would clear his name. He hadn’t been framed this time; he had allowed himself to be taken hostage inside his own police station. There wasn’t a bizarre set of circumstances that needed to be exposed; tragically, everything had been visible to the world all along. And since the Psych boys had been present to see his humiliation, there was a strong possibility that they’d simply start laughing the instant he walked through their door.

He knew he could keep filling up the cons all day long—or all night long, since the sun was sinking quickly into the ocean. There were so many ways in which Lassiter had been humiliated, and there were a thousand variations still to be played out. Anything he did now would just make it all worse. Best to turn the car around, drive home, and stay in bed until the official investigation was over.

Especially since the list in the other column was so damn short. One item. Six words.

I’m going to get that bastard
.

It was that simple: Lassiter wanted him. Wanted to see him behind bars, where he belonged. He wanted to be the man who put him there. And he knew Chief Vick wanted the same thing. Why else would she have sent him here?

That was that, then. He was going to do it. Before he could second-guess himself, he put the car into drive, flipped on the turn indicator, and pulled around the corner and up to the bungalow that served as Psych’s headquarters.

But before he turned off the ignition he saw that something was wrong. The bungalow’s lights were all ablaze, and its front door was partially open. And it clearly hadn’t been opened by its owner. The glass half of the door had been smashed in.

Lassiter reached instinctively for his gun and cursed when he remembered that it was locked in the chief’s desk. How was he supposed to roust evildoers if he was unarmed? What had Chief Vick been thinking?

He didn’t have a gun and he didn’t have a badge, but Lassiter still had the two most important tools in his crime-fighting skill set—his intelligence and his training. And what they were telling him was that this was his moment. He couldn’t guarantee that Kitteredge was inside the bungalow. He was unable to swear that the professor had come back to finish off two of the witnesses to his crime spree. But he could make an educated assumption. And his intelligence and training would back him up.

Silently opening the car door, Lassiter crept to the front of the bungalow and positioned himself at the side of the doorway. He listened intently, and after a moment he heard a rustle from inside.

That was Kitteredge. It had to be. All Lassiter had to do was step through this door and take him down. It would all be over.

Except that it wouldn’t, he realized. He was pretty sure he could take down the man-bear in a fair fight, but what then? Without his badge, he had no power to make an arrest. And what he wanted more than anything was to see Kitteredge back in the custody of the Santa Barbara Police Department. If Lassiter launched an attack at him without the authority of the shield, he might actually aid in the professor’s defense once some commie lawyer started screaming about brutality.

Lassiter wanted his man, but even more he wanted to see him taken down the right way. He couldn’t do this on his own. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the first number on his auto-dial. He didn’t know how many friends he had on the force right now, but he was certain that no matter what had happened his partner would still be loyal to him.

Inside the bungalow, someone started singing. For a moment Lassiter wondered why Kitteredge would take this moment to belt out the chorus to “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero.” As soon as the thought crossed his mind he realized that the voice didn’t belong to the professor but to Bo Donaldson. And he knew why Bo was singing.

It was his special ring tone on Juliet O’Hara’s phone.

The song stopped, and Lassiter heard O’Hara’s voice in his ear. “Carlton?”

“I’m at the door, Detective,” Lassiter said and disconnected the call.

He moved in front of the open door as she emerged from the bungalow’s back room, holstering her phone, her gun in her other hand.

“What are you doing here, Carlton?” O’Hara said as she reached the doorway. “If the chief knew . . .”

“The chief sent me here,” he said.

She gave him a confused look. “You’ve been reinstated?”

“Not officially,” Lassiter said. “But Chief Vick must have known my help would be appreciated. I’m only sorry I got here too late.”

O’Hara studied him carefully, trying to decide if the truth he was telling matched up to objective reality. “Too late for what?”