Psych: Mind Over Magic Part 17

They were parked in Gus' Echo, outside a grand Spanish mansion high on a hill overlooking the sparkling Pacific.

"Maybe we've got the wrong house," Gus said, checking the paper in his hand against the tiled address sign set into the long white wall. They matched, but that didn't mean there wasn't a mistake earlier in the information chain.

"Impossible," Shawn said.

"Why?"

"Because it was too hard to get this one," Shawn said. "If it's wrong, we have to start all over again and I refuse to do that."

It had been hard-much harder than either of them would have guessed. It seemed like a safe bet that a woman who was covered in tattoos, called herself Phlegm, the Human Freak Show, and made her living by plunging knives into her eyes would be fairly easy to track down. At least there wouldn't be too much trouble confusing her with any of the other Phlegm, the Human Freak Shows in the phone book. And odds were she'd probably have a pretty good Web presence so that America's legion of knife-in-the-eyeball fans would know where to look for her next performance.

But aside from a couple of fleeting mentions in articles lamenting the failure of the New Vaudeville movement back in the mid-1990s-and a couple more celebrating that failure-they couldn't find any trace of her. They tried to get her information from the membership secretary at the Fortress of Magic, but that august executive insisted she was sworn to secrecy. Even after Shawn and Gus had successfully bribed her with a coupon for two dollars off two pizzas that had come in the mail that day-apparently the Fortress of Magic was not generous with its employees' paychecks-she had been unable to find any listing for Phlegm. Gus had insisted she try a long list of alternate spellings of the word, but the closest the records came was someone named Don Flegman, and he'd died around the same time as disco. They even trolled the seedier parts of State Street on the off chance that she was performing next to the buskers, three-card monte dealers, and charcoal artists peddling sketches of Jimi Hendrix, but no one they talked to had ever heard of an act anything like hers.

Finally, Shawn announced that they would have to call their client. After all, he had employed Phlegm as a c.o.c.ktail waitress. Gus was nervous about the prospect, figuring that if they didn't bother Fleck, he might forget he'd hired any detectives and not feel compelled to destroy them if they were unable to solve the case to his satisfaction. But as Shawn pointed out cheerfully, a mogul who once sued a contractor into bankruptcy for using the wrong brand of Navajo White paint on his maid's room's ceiling was probably not going to forget about the two private detectives who'd eaten his lobster and purpled his white carpet.

Fortunately for Gus' nerves, when they called the number Fleck had given them, the line was answered by one of his many a.s.sistants, an efficient-sounding young woman who introduced herself as Sandy Butler, a.s.sociate a.s.sistant to the a.s.sistant a.s.sociate. And when they explained what they were looking for, the AAttAA a.s.sured them it would be neither necessary nor wise to trouble the big man over something this minor. She could handle it herself. All she needed was a name.

That, of course, was the sticking point, because there was little chance that their subject had applied for-and gotten-a c.o.c.ktail waitress position under the name Phlegm, the Human Freak Show. Sandy ran a check of the personnel files just to make sure, but there were no listings for Phlegm or any other type of mucus in the system.

They were stuck. One woman seemed to hold their first major clue in this case, and they had no way to find her-or at least no way that wasn't going to require a huge amount of work.

"I guess we're going to have to do this the hard way," Shawn said into the speakerphone. "If we give you a couple of dates, can you send us a list of all the c.o.c.ktail waitresses who were working then? We'll track them all down until we find the right one."

"I can," Sandy said. "But maybe you'd like me to narrow that list down a little first?"

"Narrow it how?" Gus said.

"Hair color, eye color, height, weight, bra size, place of residence, distinguishing physical characteristics, marital status, citizenship status, food allergies, medical history, legal history, educational history, financial history, s.e.xual history, birth date, birth weight, astrological sign, number of parking tickets paid or unpaid, a.s.sociations, clubs, political party, Netflix queue, fashion sense, common sense, pets by breed, pets by name, siblings, race, religion, church attendance, favorite book, favorite movie-"

"Wait a minute," Gus said. "Fleck keeps that much information on his employees?"

"Our background investigations are extremely thorough," Sandy said, a hint of pride leaking through her businesslike tone. "Speaking of which, you might want to pop down to Santa Barbara City Hall today. And bring cash. The parking ticket you received at 1637 State Street is exactly one month old, and after tomorrow, late fees are going to kick in."

"I don't know what I find more troubling," Gus said, "that you keep all this information in your database, or that it isn't even correct. I haven't gotten any parking tickets in the last month."

"I'm looking at a digital copy of it on my screen right now," Sandy said. "Apparently you told the ticketing officer that you were a doctor and you had stopped for an emergency. When she pointed out that you were parked in front of a BurgerZone franchise and were walking out eating a Triple Triple, you told her you were a doctor of burgerology and that the emergency was a sudden pickle intervention."

"I never-" Gus broke off. He turned to glare at Shawn, who was gazing calmly out the window, as if he hadn't heard a word of the conversation. "Did you borrow the Echo again without asking?"

"That's a good question," Shawn said. "If I don't ask first, can it really be called borrowing? It's actually much closer to theft. But since I always bring it back as soon as I'm done, technically it's joyriding. And how can we object to any activity that brings a little joy into this cold, hard world?"

Gus had plenty of ways to object, and several of them involved clubbing Shawn about the head and neck with blunt instruments. But he was a professional, and he knew that the worst thing they could do was argue in front of the client. Or even the a.s.sociate a.s.sistant to the client's a.s.sistant a.s.sociate. "Shawn will make sure to pay the ticket today. Thanks for the heads-up."

"No problem," Sandy said. "You can also let him know that his teeth are past due for a cleaning."

"Oh, I'll definitely make sure he knows about that," Gus said.

Shawn ignored Gus' smile and leaned into the speakerphone. "Did you say you can search your database for distinguishing physical characteristics?"

"Moles, freckles, dimples, wrink-"

"How about tattoos?"

"Words or pictures?"

"Pictures," Shawn said. "Snakes."

"Location?"

"Arms. Upper chest. Possibly lower chest, but we don't know for sure."

They could hear a keyboard rattling as Sandy typed in the information.

"Got a pencil?" she said.

According to the database, Phlegm's real name was Jessica Higgenbotham, and she lived on a street Shawn and Gus had never heard of. When they consulted a Google map, they understood why. It was a brand-new street in a brand-new development of brand-new mansions. This seemed odd even at the time, since they couldn't imagine either of Phlegm's careers bringing in enough cash to pay for luxury housing. But maybe the city had demanded that the developer throw in a couple of "affordable" units, the going exchange rate for permission to erect a fleet of multimillion dollar eyesores on the area's rapidly diminishing store of open s.p.a.ce.

After a quick stop at city hall to pay the parking ticket, they drove up into the hills above Santa Barbara until they found a hilltop that had been carved off, leveled, and dotted with pink Mediterranean villas. They drove right through the development, a.s.suming that the handful of lower-priced homes or apartments would be as far from the breathtaking ocean views as possible without actually being located underground. But the houses stayed just as grand all the way back, and the only people who looked like they might qualify for subsidized, affordable housing were the occasional gardeners and pool cleaners.

As they were cruising back toward the entrance, Shawn spotted a sign for Phlegm's street, and they followed it until they reached the number AAttAA Sandy had given them. It was a sprawling, three-story Spanish. The sales brochure had probably called it a hacienda, but in style, size, and intent it was much closer to one of the original missions, designed to intimidate as much as impress.

"Boy, are we in the wrong business," Shawn said. "If I'd only stopped using my eyes to see and started parking knives in them, we could be rich by now."

"All we know is that this is the address Phlegm gave the casino," Gus said. "For all we know, she just picked a street name out of the air."

"I don't know about you, but I've never breathed air that had anything like 49523 Mariposa Del Suerte floating around in it," Shawn said. "If you're going to make up an address, you choose something that sounds generic."

"So maybe she used to babysit for the owners," Gus said.

"Because she'd be such a good role model for the young 'uns," Shawn said.

"Or she cleaned their house or delivered pizza to them or robbed the joint once," Gus said. "Or she works for a real estate agency. There are a million ways she could have come up with this address."

"A million and one," Shawn said. "It could still be that she actually lives here."

Before Gus could answer, Shawn was out of the car and halfway up the long flight of stairs that led to a heavy door, black iron studs planted firmly in old oak. Shawn lifted a ring dangling from a metal lion's mouth and let it fall on an iron strike plate just as Gus stepped up next to him. Gus couldn't imagine how the clank of metal on metal could even penetrate the wood, let alone be heard throughout the dozens of rooms this house must contain. But even as Shawn was reaching to clank the ring again, they heard the unmistakable sound of high heels on tile clacking toward them.

The door swung open silently and Shawn and Gus found themselves facing an elegant blond woman in her early thirties. She was dressed in St. John's finest midrange casual business suit, her hair cascaded down over her shoulders, and the diamonds in her ears, on her ring finger, and around her neck could have purchased the Psych agency's services well into the next millennium.

The woman stared at them, surprised. Gus realized she hadn't come to answer their knock on her door; she was on her way out.

"Can I help you?" the woman said, but it was clear from her tone of voice that even if she had the power to a.s.sist them, she was quite certain that she would choose not to exercise it.

"Yes," Shawn said, positioning himself directly in front of her to block her way. "I'm Shawn Spencer, manager of Santa Barbara's finest steak house, the Dead Cow. And this is Rattus Norvegicus, my head dishwasher."

"I don't eat meat and I've never heard of your restaurant," the woman said. "If this is some kind of promotion, I'm not interested. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a very important meeting."

She stepped out through the door, right where Shawn had been standing. But if he thought he was blocking her, he found himself backing away as she came toward him, as if she were projecting some kind of force field. She pulled the door closed behind her, jiggled the handle to make sure it was locked, then started toward the stairs.

"You could help save this poor man's job," Shawn said, pushing Gus toward her.

"I doubt it," she said, but she hesitated. "What can he possibly have to do with me?"

"Well, you see, in the steak house trade, the chief dishwasher's most important task is to keep track of the steak knives," Shawn said.

"They're very expensive," Gus said. "You'd be surprised how many customers walk out the door with them."

"And in last night's count, we turned up one short," Shawn said. "This is the third one Rattus has lost, and if he can't account for it, that's his job."

The woman stared at them in disbelief. "You're accusing me of stealing a utensil designed for food I never eat from a restaurant where I've never been?"

"Not exactly," Shawn said. "We just think you might have accidentally misplaced it. You know, you meant to put it back on your plate, but instead you jammed it into your eyeball."

Gus studied the woman's face closely for any sign that she knew what Shawn was talking about. He might as well have been studying the iron lion holding the door knocker, for all the change he saw.

"There should be a security patrol coming through the neighborhood any minute," she said. "Please feel free to continue trespa.s.sing on my property until they haul you away."

She walked down two steps, then took a sharp left down a path leading to the garage. She reached into her purse and must have hit the b.u.t.ton on a remote, because the garage door glided open silently, revealing a sparkling blue Porsche convertible and an empty s.p.a.ce where another car would park.

"So much for that lead," Gus said. "Now what do we do?"

"Follow her," Shawn said. "And when we catch up to her, find out about her conversation with Chubby Dead Guy."

"It's not the right woman, Shawn. She gave Fleck a phony address."

"And you say that why?"

"First of all, look at her."

Jessica Higgenbotham was making that easy to do. She'd popped the trunk on the Porsche and was leaning in to get something.

"So she cleans up well," Shawn said.

"And she didn't react at all when you hit her with the knife-in-the-eyeball thing."

"Oh, but she did," Shawn said.

"She didn't even blink."

"Exactly," Shawn said. "You mention something about eyeball injury, and that's exactly what people do. They blink. It's like a guy crossing his legs when you mention the concept of castration. Or fidelity."

"That's ridiculous," Gus said.

"You're probably right," Shawn said with a sigh. "Say, did I ever tell you about the time I went fishing with my dad and this old guy down the pier from us got a hook stuck in his eyeball?"

"What does that have to do with-" Gus broke off, feeling his eyelid fluttering angrily. He slapped a hand over his eye until the blinking reflex pa.s.sed. "Okay, fine. She's immune to the eyeball thing. And there is a very slight physical resemblance in the features of her face. But the hair's completely different, the voice is completely different, and-"

"And what?" Shawn said.

"And that." The woman dropped her purse in the trunk, then peeled off her suit jacket, revealing a silk tank top underneath-a silk tank top and two long, bare, tanned arms.

"Quick, Gus," Shawn snapped. "To the Psych-mobile!"

Shawn flew down the stairs and was buckled into the pa.s.senger seat before Gus got to the car door. Climbing in, Gus started up the car and slapped it into drive.

"Where to?"

Shawn pointed through the windshield at the Porsche zipping down the street. "Follow that overpriced car!"

"She's not the same person."

"Then you've got two choices," Shawn said. "You can follow her and let me make a fool of myself, or you can call Benny Fleck and tell him his database is wrong."

Gus didn't take a second to think over the choices. He slammed his foot down on the gas and the Echo spurted away from the curb.

Chapter Seventeen.

They followed the sports car down the steep road past downtown. As it reached the entrance to the 101 South, its blinkers flipped on and the car accelerated onto the freeway.

"Faster," Shawn commanded. "You're going to lose her."

"Yes, there is that danger," Gus said as he steered the Echo up the on-ramp. "Because it's much harder to spot a bright blue Porsche on four lanes of open freeway than in a maze of twisting streets."

As the ramp leveled off onto the 101, Gus pointed out the windshield. The Porsche was a handful of car lengths ahead of them and three lanes to the left.

"Do you want to tell me now why we're following this woman, or do you want to wait until we're actually in Los Angeles?" Gus said, eyeing the freeway sign that said they were eighty-eight miles away from the city.

"Better yet, why don't you tell me?" Shawn said.

"Because this is your theory, not mine," Gus said. "So you know the reason and I don't."

"Which is why it will be good for me to hear it coming from you," Shawn said. "When I tell myself something, it always sounds like a good idea. When you talk I'm much more objective."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'objection able,' " Gus said. But he knew that Shawn wouldn't tell him anything until he'd taken at least one solid guess. "Okay, Ms. Phlegm claimed she lived at a house she couldn't possibly afford, so it's definitely a fake address. But it's not the kind of fake address you make up, so it's got to be a house she knows. All right so far?"

"More or less," Shawn conceded.

"And when we got to the fake address, we met a woman who couldn't possibly be described as a human freak show, but who does bear some similarity to the one who sticks knives in her eyeb.a.l.l.s."

"So far so good."

"So you have deduced that when she was filling out the c.o.c.ktail waitress job application, Ms. Phlegm put down her sister's address," Gus said, feeling a small thrill of triumph as he put the pieces together. "And the woman we're following, the one who looks slightly like her, is actually her sister."