Lassiter didn’t wait to be told. He marched down the corridor as quickly as he could. Detective O’Hara gave McNab a sympathetic smile.
“Don’t take it personally,” O’Hara said. “Detective Lassiter likes to come into a crime scene cold so his first impressions aren’t colored by anyone else’s.”
“I just wanted to say there’s something you’re not going to like in-”
O’Hara held up a hand to cut him off, the sympathy gone from her face. “All good detectives like to come into a crime scene cold.”
She turned and scurried to catch up to Lassiter, who had slowed enough to let her catch up with him at the closed doors to the showroom.
“You didn’t let him color your impression, did you?” Lassiter snapped.
“Not a tint,” O’Hara said.
“Good. Let’s solve this puppy.” As Lassiter threw open the doors to the showroom, he also opened the doors to his mind, letting out all his prejudices and preconceptions, even the well-earned ones about magicians. He was a blank slate, waiting to be filled by the sight in front of him.
What he saw first was an enormous glass and steel tank, filled with water-and with the floating corpse of a chubby man in a three-piece suit and bowler hat. In front of the tank stood a small man, half a step above a midget, dressed immaculately in expensive designer clothes. His arms were crossed angrily, as if he expected somehow to use the force of his will to keep an army of normal-sized people from removing him from his spot in front of the tank.
And it seemed to be working. The night guy from the coroner’s office stood next to the near-midget, a pleading look on his face, two uniformed officers lined up behind him. But somehow they couldn’t bring themselves to push past the little guy to get to the body.
Something was wrong here; Lassiter could sense it. No, worse than wrong. There was nonsense in the air, and the detective would have none of that. This was a serious business, and he was going to treat it seriously.
Officer McNab appeared in the doorway behind them. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I really thought you should know-”
“That there’s nonsense afoot, McNab?” Lassiter snapped. “I can figure that out for myself. And you know I will brook no nonsense.”
A cheery voice called out from the other side of the room. “I’ll brook no trout, myself. Not that I have any idea what that means.”
Lassiter felt every muscle in his body tightening. He had heard that voice so many times, and whenever he did, it guaranteed that the next few hours would be filled with nothing but nonsense. Well, nonsense and occasionally the solution to a crime that had baffled the entire SBPD, but Lassiter wasn’t entirely sure that catching a few murderers was worth tolerating such a level of drivel.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir,” McNab said. “Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster are here.”
“I can see why you thought I might have missed that,” Lassiter said. “Since they’re usually so quiet and unobtrusive.”
“Hi, Jules! Lassie!” Shawn strode up to them, Gus following right behind him.
“What I don’t understand, McNab,” Lassiter continued without even a glance in Shawn and Gus’ direction, “is why you felt compelled to admit them to the crime scene.”
“He didn’t have to, Lassie,” Shawn said. “We were already here.”
“Saw the whole thing,” Gus said.
“Did you now?” Lassiter said. “That’s very good to know. If you’ll follow Officer McNab, he’ll put you somewhere until I can take your statement.”
Detective O’Hara stepped in front of Lassiter. “Hey, guys,” she said. “So, what’s going on here?”
Lassiter was surprised to discover that his muscles could tighten even further than they already had without starting to snap like overstretched violin strings. When he complained that his partner was willing to tolerate nonsense, it was her friendly attitude toward these two that was his primary complaint.
“Not much,” Shawn said.
“Unless you count the disappearing Martian,” Gus said.
“Oh yeah,” Shawn said.
“And the dead guy who mysteriously appeared in that tank,” Gus said.
“Good point,” Shawn said.
“And the short dude who won’t let anyone near the body,” Gus said.
“Right,” Shawn said. “But aside from that, not much. What’s up with you two?”
“We’re here to investigate a murder,” Lassiter said.
Shawn slapped his forehead. “I knew I forgot something,” he said. “The murder.”
“What about it?”
“We solved it.”
Chapter Eight
Everyone was staring at Shawn. Even Gus.
“Excuse us for a second,” Gus said. He dragged Shawn a few steps away and whispered furiously at him. “We solved it?”
“Didn’t we?”
“Do you know who the dead guy is?”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Shawn said. “How many men wear bowler hats? It won’t take long to track them all down, and then we just have to pick him out.”
“Do you know how he got into the tank?”
“I know it wasn’t magic,” Shawn said. “And once you know what it wasn’t, you’re halfway to knowing what it was.”
“That’s great,” Gus said. “Do you have any idea where the green guy went?”
Shawn thought that one over for a moment, then stepped back to the police. “Small correction, just a tiny point,” he said. “When I announced that we had solved this case, what I meant to say-”
“Was that you’re completely useless and should get out of my way.” Lassiter pushed past him and strode up to the night-shift coroner. “Hey, body snatcher. Why aren’t you snatching that body?”
The coroner’s assistant was barely twenty-five years old. No doubt a medical student earning near-minimum wage to fill in when the grown-ups were sleeping, Lassiter thought.
“He won’t let me,” the kid said, pointing at the little man.
“And what’s he using to stop you?” Lassiter demanded. “A gun? A knife? A light saber?”
“That.” The kid pointed at the short man’s hand, which was wrapped tightly around a glowing iPhone.
“So it’s an iPhone,” Lassiter said. “What’s the problem-he’s cooler than you?”
“It’s not the phone, Detective,” Fleck said. “It’s what’s on the screen.”
“The hot new video on YouTube?”
“It’s a restraining order signed by Judge Albert Moore of the California Superior Court for Santa Barbara County forbidding any agent of the state to examine, investigate, or in any way come into contact with the secret work product of my client, P’tol P’kah, the Martian Magician, that would expose his methods and practices and thus threaten his career, without the express permission of Mr. P’kah or his duly authorized agent.”
Lassiter cast a glance at the corpse in the tank. “If that’s your client, I think his career is facing greater threats than anything I can do.”
“That’s not my client,” Fleck said. “I have no idea who he is, or what he’s doing trespassing on my client’s property.”
Lassiter fought the impulse to pick up the little man and toss him in the tank with the corpse. He turned to O’Hara, who was stepping up beside him. “Who is this guy?”
“Benny Fleck,” O’Hara said. “He manages, produces, and owns half the top-grossing shows on the Vegas Strip, along with several sports franchises, the nation’s largest ticketing agency, and a big chunk of Times Square.”
“Fast detective work,” Lassiter said.
“One of the meter maids always leaves her People Magazine behind in the women’s restroom,” O’Hara said. She turned to Fleck. “Mr. Fleck, I understand your position here, and I hope you can understand ours.”
“Understand yes, care no,” Fleck said. “And don’t even think about trying to go over Judge Moore’s head to void the restraining order. He’s not the only member of the bench who’s indulged some of his more individual tastes in Las Vegas.”
Before Lassiter could respond, there was a moan from the other side of the tank. Reluctantly, he turned to see Shawn clutching his forehead as if in great pain.