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

Shawn turned to Gus, suddenly troubled. “You know, I think he’s right.”

“Definitely. We’ve got no proof at all.”

Coules tried to push past the detectives. They didn’t move out of his way.

“They don’t need proof, Mr. Coules,” Chief Vick said. “They’re not police. We’re the ones who need to show proof. And if you’ll be so good as to accompany us back to the station, we’ll make a couple of calls and find out if you ever handled a case involving Mr. Marichal Senior. That should be enough to hold you while we start checking some of these cars for your prints. Mr. Spencer, you say we should start with the Florida plates?”

“It’s still all ridiculous speculation!” Coules shouted. “It’s all based on the idea that Walinsky and Marichal were involved in the race track robbery. And there’s no evidence of that.”

Chief Vick turned to Shawn. “He does have a point there. Do you have any evidence that Herman Walinsky had anything to do with the Calder Race Course robbery besides catching its perpetrators?”

“None at all,” Shawn said.

“Unless you count the three million dollars,” Gus added.

“We can’t count it if we can’t find it,” Lassiter said.

“Then you should check out a yellow nineteen sixty-five Ford Thunderbird with Florida plates about three hundred yards west of here,” Shawn said.

“If you’d be so good as to lead us, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said.

“Yes, do,” Coules said. His smile had turned into a smirk.

Shawn and Gus led the group through the maze of cars until they came to the rusting T-Bird.

“This is your brilliant idea?” Coules said. “If half of what you said was true, this is one of the first cars Marichal would have checked.”

“You, too,” Gus said.

“Fine. Whatever. Go ahead and check it.”

Shawn rapped sharply on the trunk. With a groan of hinges, the lid began to lift slowly. The others crowded around to see what was inside.

“It’s empty!” Mindy said.

“Just like this clown’s head,” Coules said. “Can I go home and start preparing my defamation suit now?”

Shawn stared into the empty trunk. “Dad?”

Henry Spencer sighed wearily. “Yes, son?”

“What was the name of Herman Walinsky’s legendary lure?”

“I really don’t think that fishing tackle is going to do you much good right now.”

“Humor me.”

“Please humor him,” Mindy said. “’Cause he can stand here and keep talking if he wants. Believe me, I know.”

Henry took the scrapbook back from Shawn and flipped it open to a page with a photo of a fishing lure fastened securely in its center. He held the book open so everyone could

see. “It was called the YTBL3.”

“Did he ever say what that stood for?”

“No,” Henry said. “I always assumed it came after the YTBL2 and before the YTBL4.”

“Good thought,” Shawn said. “Here’s a better one. Y-Yellow. TB-Thunderbird. L-Left.” He turned theatrically to his left. “Three-well, three.” He walked down three rows of cars and stopped next to a decaying nineteen sixty-one Olds Cutlass. “Does anyone happen to have a crowbar?”

Gus bent down and picked one up from off the ground. “Look, Shawn, it seems that someone has graciously left one for us right here.”

“Then let’s accept their generous gesture.” Shawn took the crowbar and used it to pry open the Cutlass’ trunk. Inside were a dozen fraying canvas bags. Shawn lifted one out of the trunk. With a sound of ripping cloth, the bottom tore out and bundles of cash poured out on the ground.

Coules stared at the money. “So close. All this time, it was right there.”

O’Hara pulled out her cuffs and snapped them on his wrists. “And this is as close as you’re getting to it.”

Gus cranked down the window and let the wind blast him in his face. This was what life was all about: speed, freedom, and the open road.

Veronica Mason had finally come through with the reward she’d promised, and the first six thousand dollars had ransomed the Echo. The rest of it would let Shawn and Gus live safely and securely no matter how much profit the Psych agency was generating.

At least it would if Shawn managed to persuade the rest of the nation to drink Blak. Although Gus had begged him to put the money into T-bills, Shawn had insisted on investing the entire post-Echo sum in a new Bulgarian Blak bottling company. Odds were, they’d never see a penny of it again. But they were young, they were free, and for the first time in ages, they didn’t have the prospect of execution in their near future.

Gus tapped the brakes to let a BMW slip in ahead of him. There was an anguished scream from the seat next to him.

“What are you doing?” Shawn forced the words out through a throat choked with frustration.

“Thought we’d draft for a bit.”

“ Draft? You thought we’d draft?”

“What I said.”

“As in ease out of the headwind and take advantage of the Beemer’s slipstream?”

“That’s what it means.”

Shawn chose his words with extreme care, as if fearing that the wrong ones were lurking in his mouth and threatening to leap out and pummel Gus over the head.

“We’ve been in this drive-through line for twenty-three minutes,” he said. “We haven’t moved in twenty-two. The only headwind is coming from that kid blowing straw wrappers at us.”

Gus cranked down the window another notch and let the warm breeze fill the car. “You drive your way, and I’ll drive mine.”

Shawn reached for the door handle. “I’m going to go inside, place my order, receive my food, eat my delicious BurgerZone burger, place my refuse in the receptacle, and when I come back out, you’ll still be sitting in exactly this place.”

“Quite possibly true, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember this?” Gus reached into the glove box and pulled out the xeroxed flyer. Across the top it read: Attention All BurgerZone Employees. On the bottom it warned in stern letters: Do Not Serve. And in the middle, a police artist’s sketch of Tara. And another one of Shawn.

“If you even want to sniff the aroma of those delicious BurgerZone burgers, you’ll do it my way.”

Shawn crumpled up the flyer.

“You’re going to sit here forever because you’re so happy to be back behind the wheel of this car.”

“Yup.”

“And you’re going to make me sit here because you don’t like to be alone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking advantage of the fact that I’ve been banned from BurgerZone? That you’re taking advantage of my own personal weakness?”

“Don’t think of it as me taking advantage of you,” Gus said, patting Shawn on the knee. “Think of it as a win-win.”