By the time he returned to the Psych office with his Santa bag empty and his samples already speeding their way through the bloodstreams of Santa Barbara’s cardiac-challenged elites, he was thinking it was time to pack it in and head to the beach. Nothing else that happened was going to top his morning.
But just as he was slipping into a Zombia T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops-if Gus had not dedicated himself to the art of natty dressing, he could have easily made his entire wardrobe out of logo-encrusted freebies-the office phone rang. Gus picked up on the third ring.
“Psych Investigations, Burton Guster speaking,” he said jauntily.
There was silence on the receiver.
“Psych, this is Gus,” he said, adding a touch of steel to the jaunt, in case this was a prank.
There was another moment of silence, then a single word, rasped out in a choked whisper: “Help.” And then a click as the connection broke.
Someone was in trouble. More to the point, someone was in trouble and he-Gus was pretty sure the voice had been male-had turned to Psych for help. This was more than a job; it was a moral duty. He hit the caller ID button.
Nothing came up. The number was blocked.
That might have been a problem for a civilian, Gus knew, but he was a private detective, the nonpsychic half of Santa Barbara’s premier psychic detective agency. Better than that, he was a self-taught private detective, so he wasn’t burdened with the by-the-book thinking of your average private detective school graduate-that is, if there were private detective schools and if they used books. The point was, Gus was a man of action. He tensed up his entire body, took a deep breath, and pounded his index finger against the buttons marked star, six, and nine.
An electronic siren screeched out through the phone. Apparently, call return was blocked as well. This was going to be harder than he thought. But hard was what Gus was all about.
Gus’ first thought was to call a friend on the force and get him to run a trace on the number the way the classic dicks of yore would have done. But since neither Shawn nor Gus had ever gotten around to saving the life of a future police detective in the jungles of ’Nam, thus earning his undying loyalty, there weren’t a lot of cops who would donate their morning to the agency.
Fortunately, Gus didn’t need police help to track this number. He could use his own mastery of technology. Snatching the receiver back up, Gus punched in the three numbers that would summon aid directly from the phone company. As soon as he heard the click of the connection, he let them know what he needed them to do.
“This is Burton Guster from Psych Investigations, and this is an-”
A soothing female voice interrupted him. “ Para ayuda en espanol, oprima el numero dos,” she said.
Before Gus could respond, there was a loud beep on the line. He knew the sound. There was another call coming in. He hit the TALK button.
“Psych, talk to me,” Gus said.
“Please, please help.” It was the same raspy whisper, but it sounded even more desperate this time. “He’s going to-” A loud click cut the connection.
“No!” Gus wasn’t going to lose this man again. He slammed his finger against the TALK button, praying that the phone company representative was still on the line. “I need to have that call traced, right now.”
“Please listen carefully, as our menu choices have changed,” a chipper man intoned on the line. “For repairs, say ‘repairs.’ For billing, say ‘billing.’ ”
“This is a matter of life and death,” Gus said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize that option,” the voice said. “For account status, say ‘account status.’ For-”
“Help!”
“Okay,” the voice said.
Gus breathed a sigh of relief. He could hear circuits switching as his crucial call was sent to a specialist.
“For help with your account status, say ‘account status,’ ” the voice said. “For help with repairs, say ‘re pairs.’ For help-”
Gus slammed down the receiver. There was no time to waste with a phone company computer. He had to help. The fact that he didn’t know whom he was helping, what he was helping him with, or where the help was needed wasn’t going to stop him. He punched in a series of numbers that would send any calls directly to his cell phone and grabbed his car keys. At least he’d be out stalking the mean streets when the next call came, and he could swoop down wherever he had to be.
He was just heading toward the door when it swung open and Shawn ambled into the office, bouncing a small, hard rubber ball.
“Where have you been?” Gus demanded.
“In this time of technological miracles, it’s easy to think that everything has been invented,” Shawn said as he tossed the ball against the far wall. It flew back into his hand. “And then some fresh genius comes up with something brilliant like Extreme Handball.”
Shawn took careful aim and hurled the ball across the room. It bounced off the floor and ricocheted into a framed picture of Gus shaking hands with Santa Barbara’s mayor, then flew back to Shawn in a shower of glass.
“We’ve got to go right now,” Gus said, grabbing Shawn as he came through the door and pushing him back out.
“No hurry,” Shawn said. “The quarterfinals don’t start for another hour.”
“We have a case,” Gus said. “High priority. Completely urgent.”
“It can wait,” Shawn said. “Headhunter Hank is going down today.”
“Headhunter who?”
Shawn stared at him as if he’d just said he couldn’t name all the Goonies. “He’s only the reigning champ of Extreme Handball in all of Santa Barbara. And I’m playing him next. Do you know what this means?”
“That you’re going to miss your game,” Gus said. “This is life and death.”
“You think Extreme Handball isn’t?” Shawn said, hurling the ball against the wall, where it dislodged three pictures and a clock before returning to his hand. “It’s a desperate struggle between two men, an existential battle on a concrete court. Kill or be killed. And by killed, I mean these things really sting when they hit. Headhunter Hank Stenberg is going to feel like he’s the guest of honor at a jellyfish convention by the time I’m done with him.”
“Headhunter Hank can-” Gus broke off, finally recognizing the name. “Hank Stenberg? You’re going to play against Hank Stenberg?”
“Someone’s got to take that killer down.”
“You mean the kid who lives down the street from your dad? I doubt he’s even twelve years old.”
“That’s what they said about all those Chinese gymnasts, and they still walked off with the medals,” Shawn said.
“We have work to do,” Gus said.
“That’s for sure,” Shawn agreed. “My serve is strong, but there are a couple of moves I haven’t quite mastered yet. I was thinking we could head down to the handball courts and I could try them out on you.”
“We are not going to the handball courts.”
Shawn glanced around the office. “I guess we could do it here, but it’s going to be dangerous with all this broken glass lying around.”
“We are not going to the handball courts because we have a case,” Gus said. “It might be the biggest, most exciting case we’ve ever had.”
That got Shawn’s attention. He stopped bouncing the ball. “The biggest?”
“It might be,” Gus said.
“Got it,” Shawn said. “Who died?”
“No one, if we can get there fast enough.”
“Get where?”
The phone rang once. Then Gus’ cell started ringing as the call forwarding kicked in. “There.”
Shawn snatched the cell out of Gus’ hand and hit the SPEAKER button. “Psych Investigations,” he said.
“Help, he’s killing me,” the rasp whispered harshly. But not quite as harshly, or as whispery, as it had before. There was a hint of tone, a smidgen of voice-not a lot, but enough for Gus to realize he knew the speaker from somewhere.