“I never-” Gus broke off. He turned to glare at Shawn, who was gazing calmly out the window, as if he hadn’t heard a word of the conversation. “Did you borrow the Echo again without asking?”
“That’s a good question,” Shawn said. “If I don’t ask first, can it really be called borrowing? It’s actually much closer to theft. But since I always bring it back as soon as I’m done, technically it’s joyriding. And how can we object to any activity that brings a little joy into this cold, hard world?”
Gus had plenty of ways to object, and several of them involved clubbing Shawn about the head and neck with blunt instruments. But he was a professional, and he knew that the worst thing they could do was argue in front of the client. Or even the Associate Assistant to the client’s Assistant Associate. “Shawn will make sure to pay the ticket today. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem,” Sandy said. “You can also let him know that his teeth are past due for a cleaning.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely make sure he knows about that,” Gus said.
Shawn ignored Gus’ smile and leaned into the speakerphone. “Did you say you can search your database for distinguishing physical characteristics?”
“Moles, freckles, dimples, wrink-”
“How about tattoos?”
“Words or pictures?”
“Pictures,” Shawn said. “Snakes.”
“Location?”
“Arms. Upper chest. Possibly lower chest, but we don’t know for sure.”
They could hear a keyboard rattling as Sandy typed in the information.
“Got a pencil?” she said.
According to the database, Phlegm’s real name was Jessica Higgenbotham, and she lived on a street Shawn and Gus had never heard of. When they consulted a Google map, they understood why. It was a brand-new street in a brand-new development of brand-new mansions. This seemed odd even at the time, since they couldn’t imagine either of Phlegm’s careers bringing in enough cash to pay for luxury housing. But maybe the city had demanded that the developer throw in a couple of “affordable” units, the going exchange rate for permission to erect a fleet of multimillion dollar eyesores on the area’s rapidly diminishing store of open space.
After a quick stop at city hall to pay the parking ticket, they drove up into the hills above Santa Barbara until they found a hilltop that had been carved off, leveled, and dotted with pink Mediterranean villas. They drove right through the development, assuming that the handful of lower-priced homes or apartments would be as far from the breathtaking ocean views as possible without actually being located underground. But the houses stayed just as grand all the way back, and the only people who looked like they might qualify for subsidized, affordable housing were the occasional gardeners and pool cleaners.
As they were cruising back toward the entrance, Shawn spotted a sign for Phlegm’s street, and they followed it until they reached the number AAttAA Sandy had given them. It was a sprawling, three-story Spanish. The sales brochure had probably called it a hacienda, but in style, size, and intent it was much closer to one of the original missions, designed to intimidate as much as impress.
“Boy, are we in the wrong business,” Shawn said. “If I’d only stopped using my eyes to see and started parking knives in them, we could be rich by now.”
“All we know is that this is the address Phlegm gave the casino,” Gus said. “For all we know, she just picked a street name out of the air.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve never breathed air that had anything like 49523 Mariposa Del Suerte floating around in it,” Shawn said. “If you’re going to make up an address, you choose something that sounds generic.”
“So maybe she used to babysit for the owners,” Gus said.
“Because she’d be such a good role model for the young ’uns,” Shawn said.
“Or she cleaned their house or delivered pizza to them or robbed the joint once,” Gus said. “Or she works for a real estate agency. There are a million ways she could have come up with this address.”
“A million and one,” Shawn said. “It could still be that she actually lives here.”
Before Gus could answer, Shawn was out of the car and halfway up the long flight of stairs that led to a heavy door, black iron studs planted firmly in old oak. Shawn lifted a ring dangling from a metal lion’s mouth and let it fall on an iron strike plate just as Gus stepped up next to him. Gus couldn’t imagine how the clank of metal on metal could even penetrate the wood, let alone be heard throughout the dozens of rooms this house must contain. But even as Shawn was reaching to clank the ring again, they heard the unmistakable sound of high heels on tile clacking toward them.
The door swung open silently and Shawn and Gus found themselves facing an elegant blond woman in her early thirties. She was dressed in St. John’s finest midrange casual business suit, her hair cascaded down over her shoulders, and the diamonds in her ears, on her ring finger, and around her neck could have purchased the Psych agency’s services well into the next millennium.
The woman stared at them, surprised. Gus realized she hadn’t come to answer their knock on her door; she was on her way out.
“Can I help you?” the woman said, but it was clear from her tone of voice that even if she had the power to assist them, she was quite certain that she would choose not to exercise it.
“Yes,” Shawn said, positioning himself directly in front of her to block her way. “I’m Shawn Spencer, manager of Santa Barbara’s finest steak house, the Dead Cow. And this is Rattus Norvegicus, my head dishwasher.”
“I don’t eat meat and I’ve never heard of your restaurant,” the woman said. “If this is some kind of promotion, I’m not interested. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a very important meeting.”
She stepped out through the door, right where Shawn had been standing. But if he thought he was blocking her, he found himself backing away as she came toward him, as if she were projecting some kind of force field. She pulled the door closed behind her, jiggled the handle to make sure it was locked, then started toward the stairs.
“You could help save this poor man’s job,” Shawn said, pushing Gus toward her.
“I doubt it,” she said, but she hesitated. “What can he possibly have to do with me?”
“Well, you see, in the steak house trade, the chief dishwasher’s most important task is to keep track of the steak knives,” Shawn said.
“They’re very expensive,” Gus said. “You’d be surprised how many customers walk out the door with them.”
“And in last night’s count, we turned up one short,” Shawn said. “This is the third one Rattus has lost, and if he can’t account for it, that’s his job.”
The woman stared at them in disbelief. “You’re accusing me of stealing a utensil designed for food I never eat from a restaurant where I’ve never been?”
“Not exactly,” Shawn said. “We just think you might have accidentally misplaced it. You know, you meant to put it back on your plate, but instead you jammed it into your eyeball.”
Gus studied the woman’s face closely for any sign that she knew what Shawn was talking about. He might as well have been studying the iron lion holding the door knocker, for all the change he saw.
“There should be a security patrol coming through the neighborhood any minute,” she said. “Please feel free to continue trespassing on my property until they haul you away.”
She walked down two steps, then took a sharp left down a path leading to the garage. She reached into her purse and must have hit the button on a remote, because the garage door glided open silently, revealing a sparkling blue Porsche convertible and an empty space where another car would park.
“So much for that lead,” Gus said. “Now what do we do?”
“Follow her,” Shawn said. “And when we catch up to her, find out about her conversation with Chubby Dead Guy.”
“It’s not the right woman, Shawn. She gave Fleck a phony address.”