William Rabkin - Psych - A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

Gus gave Shawn’s desk chair a shove and sent him rolling away from the desk. Then grabbed the phone.

“What are you doing?” Shawn said, scooting himself back toward the desk.

“I’m calling the police.”

“What if she’s innocent?”

“Then the police will make a couple of calls, find out the truth, and there won’t be any problems. But if she’s guilty and we don’t call, it’s going to look bad for us.”

“You’re right,” Shawn said. “We should call the police. The only question is who exactly we call-the detective we humiliated in front of Veronica Mason’s jury or the one we humiliated in front of her superior officer?”

“There are more than two people in the Santa Barbara Police Department,” Gus said.

“I think two people with a reason to hate us are enough for now,” Shawn said, “although historically it’s a pretty low number.”

“If we turn a car thief over to them, maybe they’ll hate us a little less,” Gus said.

“You mean the car thief who’s been chauffeuring us around in her stolen car?” Shawn said. “The one who has told top members of the SBPD that she is controlled by my psychic orders?”

Gus was on the verge of coming up with the exact, perfect reply to that when his hand started ringing. He looked down and realized he was still holding the receiver.

“That’s her,” Gus said.

“It’s not her,” Shawn said. “Why would she use the phone when she’s got a direct psychic link to my brain?”

“Whatever,” Gus said. “It’s not going to be good news, whoever it is.”

“One way to find out.” Shawn tried to grab the phone again, but Gus hid the ringing receiver behind his back. Shawn sighed, then reached across the desk and hit the SPEAKER button on the base station. “Psych Investigations, Burton Guster speaking,” he said.

“What did you do that for?” Gus whispered.

“I can’t be absolutely certain it’s good news,” Shawn said.

“Mr. Guster, my name is Devon Shepler, and I’ve got good news for you and Mr. Shawn Spencer.”

“Pretty certain, though,” Shawn said.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Shepler?” Gus said.

“Before you answer that, you’re not Mr. Shawn Spencer’s psychic mind slave by any chance?” Shawn said.

The silence from the other end of the line stretched on for what seemed like minutes before Shepler’s voice returned. When it did, it brimmed with superiority and condescension even through the tiny speaker. “No, I can’t say that’s the case.”

“Just checking,” Shawn said. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shepler said. “Is Mr. Spencer there?”

Shawn nudged Gus. “I’m here,” Gus said. “But it’s Mr. Guster you want to talk to. He’s the real brains behind the organization.”

Shawn threw a pencil at him.

There was another silence from the other end; then Shepler’s voice started again. “I represent Mr. Dallas Steele. Are you familiar with this name?”

“Dallas Steele.” Shawn pronounced the words as if they were in some unfamiliar Eastern European language. “Dallas Steele. Was he the kid who got sent home in tears when he failed the shoe-tying test in kindergarten?”

By now Gus suspected he could count down the seconds that would elapse before Shepler’s voice came over the speaker again. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve only worked for the man since he became the third-most-successful venture capitalist in Wall Street history.”

“Just third?” Shawn said. “That must hurt. I bet the first two get together and make fun of him behind his back.”

Gus decided to put Shepler’s predicted silence to work for him. “So, Mr. Shepler, what is the good news you’re calling about?”

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Spencer. As I mentioned, I work for Mr. Dallas Steele, and he has asked me to invite you to meet with him this afternoon to discuss a business proposition.”

“He’s free to drop by if he wants to,” Shawn said. “I can’t guarantee we’ll be here, because we’re working on a murder investigation, but there’s a spray-on tan place next door if he wants to wait.”

“Mr. Steele requests that you come to see him at Eagle’s View,” Shepler said after the by-now-traditional pause.

Gus could feel his mouth dropping open. During the brief period when he had wanted to be an architect, Eagle’s View was the building that had inspired him most. Erected in the 1920s by shipping magnate Elias Adler, it sat in a private valley fifty miles into the hills outside Santa Barbara, and its opulence and decadence were legendary by the standards of the time. Or of any time. Even William Randolph Hearst reportedly found it “a bit too much,” and after an overnight stay ordered his architect, Julia Morgan, to scale down certain aspects of his own castle for fear of looking as crazy as Adler. Over the decades the mansion had passed through a series of extremely wealthy and private hands. Very few people had actually been through the estate’s massive gates in years, and Gus had never even met one of them. Now they were being invited in, and Shawn was refusing.

“We’re happy with our view here,” Shawn said. “Tell him no deal.”

“No, wait!” Gus said, but Shawn had already disconnected the call. “What did you do that for?”

“Who does that jerk think he is?” Shawn said. “Summoning us to see him like he’s some kind of king.”

“Most kings couldn’t afford Eagle’s View,” Gus said. “In the fifties, there was one who actually offered to trade his crown for the place.”

“I’m not him, and I’m not giving away my crown for anything.”

“You don’t have a crown.”

“No, but I have my dignity.”

Gus didn’t bother to argue. He just picked up the trophy Shawn had won in the Hollywood Tropicana Jell-O Wrestling Championship and pointed to the bottom, where the words “Dirtiest Fighter” were engraved.

“Okay, so I don’t have dignity. But I’m not going to go crawling to Mr. Dallas Steele just because he’s got some snooty secretary summoning us.”

“I don’t understand,” Gus said. “Why do you hate this guy so much?”

“I don’t understand why you don’t,” Shawn said. “He spent the entire senior prom making out with your date.”

“No,” Gus says, “that was you.”

“Oh. Well, he asked to read your English essay, then turned it in as his own, so you got an F for copying him.”

“No,” Gus said, “that was you, too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t just hate people for no reason,” Shawn said. “And I definitely hated him. So there must have been something.”

“Because even though he was incredibly handsome, hugely intelligent, and came from the richest family in town, he worked harder than anyone else in school and honestly earned everything he got,” Gus said.

“Right,” Shawn said. “I hate that guy.”

The phone rang again. Shawn hit the SPEAKER button. “Psych,” he said.

There was a familiar pause. “Mr. Guster.”

“No, this is Mr. Spencer,” Shawn said. “Can’t you even tell our voices apart?”

“But I-”

“I told you before, we’re not coming.”

“I thought that was Mr. Guster.”

“I’m Mr. Guster,” Gus said. “I’m the one who isn’t crazy.”

“And I’m Mr. Spencer,” Shawn said. “I’m the one who isn’t a suck-up toady for any multibillionaire who happens to have his assistant call my office.”

The silence on the other end of the line lasted twice as long as any of Shepler’s previous pauses. “Mr. Steele expects to see you within the hour,” he finally said.