“Apparently.”
“Well, then,” Henry said. “You should have mentioned that earlier.”
“It doesn’t change anything, Henry,” Lassiter said. “There’s no exemption in the aiding-and-abetting statutes for private detectives helping their clients. If anything, the law is harder on those who have sworn to uphold it.”
Henry scowled, and his hand twitched as if it wanted to reach across the car and slap Lassiter. “You’ve known Shawn a long time, Carlton.”
Lassiter worked hard to keep any trace of irony out of his voice. “Oh, yes,” he said, desperately hoping that he’d managed not to imply what he was feeling-that five minutes with Shawn always felt like a year.
“I know you don’t approve of his methods,” Henry said. “Or his manners. Or his attitude. Or his clothes. Or his sense of humor. Hell-I don’t either. But there’s one thing even the dumbest cop should have figured out by now-he’s got good instincts. If he says someone’s a good guy, he’s probably right. And he’s not going to take on a client if he thinks he’s dirty.”
“The man held a knife to my throat, Henry,” Lassiter said. “A knife that was almost certainly the weapon in a gruesome murder. I’ve got to put that up against your son’s instincts.”
“It’s possible the guy panicked,” Henry said. “Recognized he’d been framed and reacted out of instinct before he knew what he was doing.”
“A lot of things are possible,” Lassiter said. “But as long as Kitteredge is out there and Shawn and Gus are helping him avoid capture, there isn’t anything we can do for them.”
Henry didn’t take his eyes away from Lassiter’s face. He just kept staring as if he could bore holes through his skull. “So what is it you want from me, Carlton?”
“I helped to create this mess,” Lassiter said. “No, strike that. I created this mess. And I’ve got to clean it up. The best way to do that is to find Shawn and convince him to turn himself and Kitteredge in.”
Henry’s stare still didn’t waver. “And you think I know where he is?”
“I know you don’t,” Lassiter said. “Because you would have done the same thing. But I thought maybe if we sat down together we could figure out where he might be hiding. And then we could go talk to him.”
After a long moment, Henry pulled his gaze away from Lassiter’s face. He looked out the window as if he expected to see Shawn and Gus strolling up to the car. “I’ve tried every place I could think of,” he said finally. “We’re not going to find him.”
“I can’t believe-”
Again, Henry held up a hand to stop him. “But I like the other half of your suggestion.”
“The other half?”
“We’re going to work together,” Henry said. “But we’re not going to waste our time looking for Shawn and Gus. We’re going to do the job you would have done if you’d trusted his instincts in the first place.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re going to find the real killer,” Henry said.
Chapter Thirty-four
Rarely was Gus able to hear good news without contemplating its darker side, and when things were clearly getting bad, he always managed to figure out a way they could be worse.
But his feelings had rarely been as divided as they were right now. On the positive side, he and Shawn were on their way to England. That sceptered isle had never made his top-five list of destinations to visit, but it was hard to deny the romance of the unexpected trip.
Especially since they were flying across the globe in a private jet without a moment’s notice. They were even wearing tuxedoes. You didn’t get much more romantic than that, unless there was actual romance involved.
But somehow the reality wasn’t matching up to the description. Which might explain why Gus was still wide awake when Shawn and Kitteredge had been asleep for hours.
There was the tuxedo, for instance. When he’d put it on thirty-six hours earlier, it had felt like a timeless symbol of elegance, the uniform for entrance into a world of glamour and wealth.
But while the rented suit still looked shockingly good after all this time, it was feeling less and less comfortable. Apparently it was woven out of some kind of super-synthetic fabric that kept it from wrinkling or showing stains even during the most extreme circumstances. But it seemed to be accomplishing that by absorbing all the dirt with which it came in contact, mixing it with Gus’ sweat, and holding it all inside. Gus felt like he was sitting in a sauna whose water hadn’t been changed in months.
That could be remedied once they were on the ground, he assumed. Gus didn’t know a lot about contemporary Britain, but from the YouTube clips he’d seen of an audience watching some homely lady singing a sad song, he knew the Brits wore clothes that were strikingly similar to the ones worn back home. He didn’t have a lot of cash to lay out for a wardrobe, and he was pretty sure he had a lot more than Shawn, but the TV commercials his credit card company ran during sporting events assured him he could charge anything he wanted anywhere in the world.
And it wasn’t like they were exactly welcome in Southern California right now. The police had clearly decided that they were involved in a criminal conspiracy with Professor Kitteredge, and they seemed to be devoting a good many resources to looking for them. He’d figured for a while that the best way to clear Kitteredge’s name was to learn the identity of the real killer and present that to the cops, and now the same went for himself and Shawn. If that search took them ten thousand miles out of the SBPD’s jurisdiction, Gus could live with that.
But before they could start searching, they had to get into London, and maybe even out into the countryside. And that was the one part of this trip he couldn’t figure out.
Shawn stirred himself up from sleep and glanced over at Gus. One look at his friend’s face woke him up the rest of the way.
“You find the most amazing times to start worrying,” Shawn said. “We’re on a private jet over the ocean, the fridge in the back is stocked with food, and in a couple of hours we’ll be in England. You should try to relax and enjoy the adventure.”
“I didn’t just start worrying,” Gus said.
“That’s true,” Shawn said. “I have very clear memories of you worrying about whether we were allowed to use the swings on the upper playground or if those were reserved for the big kids in second grade. But as I read the wrinkles on your forehead, you are not fretting about access to recreational areas right now. This particular concern has something to do with our current excursion.”
“It does,” Gus said. “Do you remember the conversation we had when you suggested we might flee to Canada?”
“I do,” Shawn said. “And I have to say I’ve felt much better ever since, knowing that I don’t belong to a culture that accepts DaVinci’s Inquest as entertainment.”
“Do you recall the objection I raised about undertaking such an expedition?” Gus said, avoiding the opportunity to engage in yet another conversation about the lack of conflict in Canadian television dramas.
“Something about not having passports,” Shawn said after a moment of thought.
“Not something about not having passports,” Gus said. “But the fact itself that we don’t have passports. Which means the English immigration people aren’t going to let us into the country.”
“What are they going to do?” Shawn said. “Shoot us down? It’s not like Malko’s going to radio down to the airport to say we don’t have passports, so by the time they find out, it will be too late. We’ll be there.”
“We’ll be in immigration at the airport,” Gus said. “They’ll let us out of the plane. They’ll take us to a counter where they’ll ask us for our passports. And when we can’t produce them, they’ll put us in a cell until we can prove our identities.”
“That’s easy. If they ask me who you are, I’ll just tell them. You do the same for me, and we’re fine.” Shawn unbuckled his belt and ambled to the back of the jet, where he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plate of sandwiches. “Looks like we’ve got roast beef with some kind of blue cheese horseradish sauce and a tarragon chicken salad on raisin bread. You want one?”