Psych:Mind-Altering Murder (12 page)

"That's exactly the attitude that's caused Nitrozine sales to plummet here," Sanjay said.

"Yes, it was my attitude," Birnbaum said. "It has nothing to do with a sales force that sleeps half the day and drinks the other half. Or the fact that no product left the warehouse for a week because some cow had decided to lie down in the middle of the road and no one could bring themselves to disturb it."

Gus cut in before Sanjay could respond. "There's no need for recriminations," he said. "I understand that you can't work together. So instead of wasting time trying to apportion blame, I'm simply going to give both sales and marketing in the Indian region to our Paris branch."

For the first time in what seemed like hours there was nothing but silence coming from the speaker. Gus started to count slowly to ten. By the time he reached four, Birnbaum's voice came over the phone.

"You know, I've been giving Sanjay's ideas a good bit of thought and I have to say he's got a point," Birnbaum said. "Perhaps our understanding of the local argot is not quite as complete as the natives'."

"I must say that we in Mumbai are in awe of the brilliant work performed by our counterparts in London," Sanjay said. "The wit, the humor, the sheer force of creativity. Perhaps we fail to understand the impact of the whole when we focus on such tiny details."

"No, no," Birnbaum said quickly. "The whole is only as good as the details that go into it. You were completely right to focus on the little things."

"So you two think you can work this out on your own?" Gus said. "Because I'd hate to burden Paris with more work if it isn't necessary."

"Consider it done," Birnbaum said.

"Without a doubt," Sanjay said.

"Good," Gus said with a smile. "I'll be looking forward to next month's sales figures."

Before either continent could say anything more, Gus hung up.
That should keep them quiet for at least a couple of days,
he thought, as he reached into his desk to pull out his file of new ideas.
Now if everyone else would leave me alone, I could actually get some real work done.

Gus reread the first few pages of his notes and was pleased to see that even though he'd scrawled many of them down just before he was falling asleep, they presented a clear, precise plan. D-Bob was going to be impressed.

At least he was if Gus was ever able to get the damn thing done. But it seemed like every time he managed to get his file open there was some kind of interruption. If it wasn't an urgent conference call or a crucial meeting, it was a celebration for an office birthday--D-Bob insisted that everyone attend for singing and cake cutting, no matter what kind of business had to be put on hold--or one of D-Bob's impromptu pep rallies, which happened at least three times every week.

Maybe this time will be the exception that finally lets me finish
, Gus thought as he picked up a pen and started to make notes in the margins of his paper. But before he could complete a thought he heard shouts from the other end of the floor and heavy footsteps running down the corridor.

At first Gus thought he'd stay at his desk and work on his project. If he was needed someone would call him. God knew his phone worked.

But then he got a whiff of roasting meat from the spacious kitchen down the hall. This must be one of D-Bob's surprise bonding lunches, for which he routinely brought in some of San Francisco's most famous chefs. Gus hadn't had the opportunity to experience one yet, but everyone he talked to was still buzzing about the last time, when the entire cast of the current
Top Chef
season prepared tasting menus for all the employees. There was no way Gus was going to miss that.

He shoved his papers back into his drawer, making a silent vow not to go to bed that night until he had finished, and then wandered out into the corridor.

As soon as he stepped through his office door Gus was nearly knocked over by a sales executive who was racing toward the kitchen.

"It can't be that good," Gus said jovially. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he looked at the faces of the people who were running down the corridor. None of them looked like they were anticipating a once-in-a-lifetime dining experience.

They looked scared.

And then he saw Chanterelle coming out of the kitchen. In all the times he'd entered or exited the building, the receptionist had always been wearing two things--a skirt that barely covered her pelvic bone and a smile so appealing he barely noticed her legs. But now she wasn't smiling. She was crying.

Gus ran toward the kitchen as fast as he could, slaloming around the other employees like a teenager skateboarding through a packed Walmart. There was a crowd clustered in the doorway, but he pushed through them as if they weren't there.

Once he was inside the kitchen the smell of roasting meat was overwhelming. But it wasn't coming from the Viking ovens that lined one wall. It seemed to emanate from the coffeemaker.

More precisely, it came from the coffeemaker's power cord, which was still spitting sparks where it was plugged into the wall.

Gus followed the sparks down as they landed gently on the still-twitching form of Jim Macoby, Benson Pharmaceuticals' executive vice president of worldwide sales and the man who was directly above him on the corporate ladder. At least he had been before thousands of volts had coursed through his body. Now, as the smells wafting throughout the building proclaimed, he was meat.

Chapter Sixteen

D
etective Juliet O'Hara was only concerned with the work of the Santa Barbara Police Department when she pulled up in her cruiser outside the beachside bungalow that housed the offices of the city's premier psychic detective agency. Shawn and Gus had helped them out on dozens of cases, and the local prison was filled with murderers who might have gotten away with their crimes if not for them. But since the team had broken up, Shawn hadn't stopped by the station once. She needed to assure him on behalf of the chief that he was still welcome even if he was on his own.

Not that the chief had asked her to check up on him. Or even, as far as she could tell, noticed that Shawn and Gus hadn't been around lately. But the chief was in the middle of negotiations with the city council over the department's budget for the next fiscal year and she might not have noticed if Montecito slid into the ocean.

So this isn't an official visit,
she thought as she walked up to the bungalow's front door. It's not like Shawn and Gus had always had a reason when they came to the station. Sometimes they were looking for a gig, it was true, but it was pretty clear that other times they showed up because they were bored and felt like talking to someone.

Not that that was what she was doing here. This was not a social call. She did have some business she needed to talk to Shawn about.

It was the Mandy Jansen case. She still hadn't been able to bring herself to close it. She just couldn't sign off on the idea that this young woman had taken her own life. But she also couldn't find any evidence that suggested anything other than suicide. So the case stayed on her desk, an open file staring up at her every time she came into the station.

She would have to close it soon. Mandy's mother had already called her twice, asking if she'd found anything new. The poor woman needed to let her little girl go, and she couldn't until she knew the truth. Every day Juliet kept the case open was one more day of doubt and fear for Mrs. Jansen.

O'Hara hadn't been authorized to hire Shawn to consult on the case. If she'd tried to suggest it to the chief in the middle of budgeting she'd be lucky if she was only fired. But she and Shawn had always had fun working together and she was pretty sure he'd be willing to take a look at things as a favor to her.

That's why I'm here,
she told herself as she rapped on the bungalow's green door. Just to get closure on the case. No other reason at all.

She waited for a moment, then knocked on the door again. Still no answer. No one home. She should have called first. Would have, if she'd been willing to admit to herself that this was where she was going when she left the station.

She was turning back toward her car when she heard a heavy footstep from inside. After a moment the door swung open and Shawn stood in front of her.

Actually, to say he stood was something of an exaggeration. Shawn slouched, holding on to the doorframe for support. He looked like he might tumble to the floor if he let go.

O'Hara stared at him, stunned. She was sure it had only been a few weeks since she'd last seen Shawn, but he looked like he'd been living on the streets through an entire winter. And not a Santa Barbara winter, but an East Coast one. His face had gone pale, at least the part of it that was visible through the heavy beard stubble. His eyes were bloodshot and half closed, and his limbs seemed to have lost all their strength.

"Jules," he croaked in a craggy whisper. "Thank God you're here. We've got to go."

"Right now," she said, and took his arm. He let go of the doorframe and nearly fell into her arms before righting himself. She pulled the office door closed behind them, shook the knob to make sure it was locked, and half led, half carried him to her waiting sedan.

"We don't have a lot of time," Shawn said.

"There's plenty of time," O'Hara said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. "You'll be just fine."

She loaded Shawn into the passenger's seat and wrapped the seat belt around him, then ran to her own door and got in, jamming the key into the ignition. She took a quick glance in the rearview, then slammed the car into gear and squealed out.

"Hey, the freeway's back there," Shawn said, as she made a screaming left turn toward the city's center.

"And the emergency room is this way," O'Hara said.

"I'm sorry. If you need help on a case, I'm usually there for you," Shawn said. "But I'm in the middle of my own, and I don't have any time to spare."

"I don't have a case at the emergency room," she said, trying to follow his logic. "I'm taking you there because you look like you're about to die."

"I'm fine," Shawn said.

"You could barely stand up when I came to your door," O'Hara said.

"So I'm a little tired," Shawn said. "I haven't been sleeping a lot lately."

"Or eating?"

"I went to BurgerZone just, um ..." His voice trailed off as he tried to remember exactly when that had been. "They don't allow food in the Imaginarium, and by the time I get out everything is closed. Besides, when you've spent the entire night trying to cut through steel plate with a butter knife, it's hard to work up an appetite."

"Shawn, listen to yourself," she said. "You're hallucinating."

"I'm not."

O'Hara had wondered what the breakup with Gus might have done to Shawn. Gus had always been his anchor, the one who kept him from flying off into flights of fantasy. But she couldn't bring herself to believe that this might have been literally the truth. That without Gus, Shawn would actually spiral down into insanity. Something else was going on.

"I'm going to get you to the hospital," O'Hara said. "You're exhausted, probably dehydrated. A little rest, some IV fluids, and you won't believe how much better you'll feel."

"There's only one thing that's going to make me feel better and that's to make that scrawny college girl talk to me," Shawn said.

Was it possible that this was the problem? Shawn was in love and the object of his affection had shut him out of her life? If so, this was a side of Shawn she'd never seen. He'd been with women before, one of whom was a regular--or at least regularly recurring--for a good twenty-six weeks before he'd allowed her to be written out of his life. But he'd never acted obsessed like this.

"If you'd like me to talk to her, I can do that," O'Hara said carefully. "Just as soon as we get you to the hospital."

Shawn brightened, and for the first time since he'd opened the door she saw a little of his usual cockiness. "You could talk to her," Shawn said. "You can probably speak her language."

"What language is that?"

"Student," Shawn said. "You went to college, right? You must have known women like this. Turn right here and get on the freeway."

"Hospital first," O'Hara said.

"I don't need a hospital. I need a translator," Shawn said. "There's a man missing out there, and if I don't find him he might die. And I can't do anything about it if that girl won't tell me what she knows."

O'Hara knew she should slam her foot down on the accelerator and get Shawn to the emergency room as fast as possible. But before she could put that plan into action, she made one mistake--she looked over at him. And what she saw was not the hollow, shambling mockery of a man who had answered the door, but a pale, shaky version of her old friend. The light was back in his eye and the grin on his face.

"I'll give it half an hour," she said. "And then I'm taking you to the hospital."

Chapter Seventeen

"W
hat the hell are you doing?"Juliet O'Hara backed away from Shawn, but not fast enough. She could feel the bullet whizzing past her ear.

"The guard was reaching for his gun," Shawn said, wheeling around to level his shotgun at the other security guard, who was cowering under a desk.

"So you killed three hostages to teach him a lesson?" she said, pointing at the bodies lying on the jewelry store's marble floor.

"Oh, no," Shawn said. "That's going to cost me a chunk of my inventory. We'd better check their pockets to see if there's anything we can use."

O'Hara looked around the jewelry store in disgust. She'd been at hundreds of crime scenes in her career, and seen more than one hostage situation go bad. But she'd never actually been one of the hostage takers before, and even though the victims were all virtual, she wanted to throw up.

"People do this for
fun
?" she said, practically spitting the last word.

"Not yet they don't," Shawn said. "I'm the only outsider who's been allowed to play the game. Except for Gus, of course, and he left before he got anywhere near level seven."