William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

Gus was about to object, then stopped to think it through. “You mean, this entire thing started with Kitteredge’s obsession? And that’s all there ever was to it?”

“What did I tell you about the third kind of conspiracy theorist?” Shawn said. “They’re the ones who are dangerous to themselves and others, because they’re smart enough to invent theories that are so plausible and compelling they can make otherwise sane people believe them.”

Gus thought that over. There was still one problem. “But that means the poem wasn’t really a clue,” he said. “Or the painting. That fifty-five on the two shields. Why was that there?”

“It wasn’t,” Shawn said. “Unless you chose to look at it that way. There were a couple of animals on the shields. Everything else came from Kitteredge, with some help from Low.”

Gus still couldn’t let go. “But it led us to the Needle. You led us to the Needle.”

“I didn’t lead us anywhere,” Shawn corrected him. “I made up some nonsense about a line of poetry, and they invented meanings for every word. It’s what Kitteredge has been doing for years.”

Gus still wasn’t convinced. There had been such an elegant complexity to Kitteredge’s theories that he hated to give it all up for the sad reality of coincidences and misunderstandings. But the more he worked it through, the less persuasive the evidence became, and by the time they were halfway across the Atlantic he thought back on his belief in the Cabal with the same sort of embarrassed nostalgia that accompanied memories of his once firm faith that Phil Joanou would eventually surpass Steven Spielberg in the directing hall of fame.

But there was still one piece to the puzzle that Gus couldn’t figure out. He’d mentioned it to Shawn in the cell, but the answer he got back didn’t make him feel any better.

“So if there’s no Cabal, and Polidori is just a crook with an antiques business, who killed Clay Filkin?” he said.

“It’s still possible it’s Kitteredge,” Shawn said. “He did have the bloody murder weapon in his pocket. Although our lives are going to be a lot easier if he didn’t do it. I don’t think the penalties are quite as harsh for helping an innocent man escape.”

Gus had been so busy assuming he’d never see his home again that he’d forgotten what was waiting for him there. “I’m sure he didn’t,” Gus said. “Someone must have framed him. And whoever it was must have stolen the painting as well.”

“I hope you’re right,” Shawn said. “And I hope we can figure it out before we get back to Santa Barbara. Because if we can’t, we’re going to have to blame it on the Cabal. And I don’t think anyone else is going to buy that.”

Gus groaned. “If only that picture hadn’t been stolen,” he said. “If Kitteredge had been allowed to look at it for as long as he wanted, we never would have gotten involved like this.”

Shawn was about to respond, but then he stopped himself. A smile spread over his face. “We kept thinking it was the Cabal that stole the painting.”

“But there was no Cabal.”

“So who had a reason to steal it?” Shawn said.

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “Anyone who wanted a painting worth millions of dollars.”

“Maybe,” Shawn said. “Or maybe it was someone who didn’t.”

Gus had always liked this courtroom. When he’d been here before, either as a witness or as just a spectator, he’d always taken time to admire the high beamed ceiling, the bright white plaster walls, the oaken benches, and the murals of Santa Barbara’s founding painted on the back wall.

But now that he was sitting at the defendants’ table, waiting with Shawn and Kitteredge for their arraignment to be over, he couldn’t remember why he’d been so enthusiastic about it. All he wanted was to get out as quickly as possible.

Whether that was going to happen would be determined in the next few moments. They had been brought straight from the airport to the courthouse for their arraignment. The district attorney had offered them some time to meet with their state-appointed attorney first, but Shawn had merely slipped him a list of names and sent him away. Gus had expected Kitteredge to say something, but he’d been completely silent since they’d been arrested in London. It was as if learning that the Cabal had never existed had sucked all the life from his body.

Now the courtroom was packed with the people Shawn had asked the lawyer to fetch. Lassiter was sitting right behind Gus, his badge gleaming brightly on his belt, flanked by Henry Spencer and Chief Vick. It took Gus a moment to recognize the thin man sitting a few rows back, because he’d seen Hugh Ralston, the museum’s executive director, only that one night. But Flaxman Low he spotted right away. And there were two uniformed officers he thought were the ones who’d wanted to hire them for the bachelor party.

Gus had sat silently through the first parts of the proceedings except for the moment when the white-bearded judge came in and he was ordered to rise. He’d only half listened as the prosecutor, a sharkish young woman named Sarah Willingham, had laid out the charges against them, although that half was enough to convince him that they’d all be going away for a long time.

Now it was all coming to an end. The judge would ask them a simple question, they’d claim innocence, and the prosecutor would request that they be sent to jail until trial. Since they’d already proven themselves flight risks, the judge would grant her request. And then his life would be over and he could die. At least he’d be able to change into a comfortable prison jumpsuit. The tuxedo was now so filthy and sweaty that it had hardened into an armor Tony Stark would envy.

The judge pulled his attention away from the prosecuting attorney and turned it toward the defense table. “How do the defendants plead?”

Their lawyer started to stand up, but Shawn put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down, then leapt out of his chair. “That’s a very complicated question, Your Honor,” Shawn said.

Gus looked up at Shawn. What was he doing? Why would he want to drag this out any longer than necessary?

“No, it’s not,” the judge said. “It’s a simple binary. Yes or no. Up or down. Guilty or not guilty.”

“But who among us can be said to be truly innocent?” Shawn said. “I say, none of us. Certainly not her,” he added, jerking his thumb at Sarah Willingham.

She jumped to her feet. “Your Honor, I object.”

Shawn glanced at her, and he saw. Saw the sealed Wet-Nap sticking out of her jacket pocket. The spot of barbecue sauce on the sleeve of her white silk sleeve. And, sitting in her open purse, a small bottle of hand cream-the kind placed in hotel bathrooms. Then he glanced at the judge. And saw a small red spot in his otherwise meticulous white beard.

The judge gaveled for order. “She is not being charged with any crimes. You are. How do you plead?”

“Your Honor,” Shawn said. “At this time I’d like to call my first witness.”

“Objection!” Willingham said. “This is an arraignment. You don’t call witnesses at an arraignment.”

“In that case, I’d like to send out for some lunch,” Shawn said, staring at the judge. “You don’t happen to know a good barbecue place, do you?”

The judge’s face reddened under the white beard as he banged his gavel. “The defendant will sit down.”

“Okay, don’t tell me,” Shawn said. “I’ll ask around. I’m sure someone saw you having lunch today.”

Gus sank his head in his hands. He was pretty confident that the judge at an arraignment couldn’t actually sentence them to death, but Shawn seemed to be doing everything he could to find out. After a long moment when the judge hadn’t spoken or gaveled, Gus looked up again.