“Make that three.”
Gus, Shawn, and Lassiter all wheeled around to the front door. The man standing there was over six feet tall with the bleached blond hair and ropy muscles that come from a lifetime of playing beach volleyball. His uniform seemed to have been designed to show off his physique-short khaki pants that exposed most of his thighs and a baby blue polo shirt that was tight across the pecs and featured the stencil of a badge and official logo Gus couldn’t make out from across the room. A holstered gun hung off his thigh.
“Stand down, Officer,” Lassiter said. He reached into his breast pocket for his ID. But before he could get his hand near his lapel, the blond man had his gun out and leveled at the detective.
“Don’t move!”
“It’s going to be hard to get out if I don’t move,” Shawn said.
The blond man shifted his gun sights to Shawn, then back to Lassiter.
“You know, sometimes I can go for an entire week without having a gun pointed at me,” Shawn said. “Now it’s two in one day. Go figure.”
“Officer!” Lassiter’s bark brought the blond man’s attention-and his gun-back in his direction. “I am Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department. I am reaching very slowly into my pocket to pull out my ID.”
“You just make sure it’s nice and slow, ‘Detective,’” the man said.
“Now that’s impressive,” Shawn said.
“What’s that?” Gus said.
The man kept his attention focused on Lassiter.
“Most people would feel the need to use air quotes to put that much condescension around the word ‘detective,’ ” Shawn said. “Blond guy did it with his voice alone.”
Very slowly, Lassiter reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a wallet, then let it fall open to reveal his badge and ID. “I’ve identified myself,” Lassiter said. “Now you.”
“Officer Chris Rasmussen, Isla Vista Foot Patrol,” the blonde said. “All my ID is right here on my chest.” He patted the insignia on his polo shirt. “We small-town law enforcement personnel don’t get a pretty tin ‘badge’ like they give the big-city police folk.”
Now it was Gus’ turn to be impressed. “You’re right,” he said to Shawn. “I know both of his hands were occupied, but I could swear I saw air quotes.”
“Now that I know who you are, maybe you could tell me what you’re doing in this house?” Rasmussen said. He lowered the gun to his side, but he didn’t holster it.
“These two men are private detectives who have occasionally helped out the Santa Barbara Police Department,” Lassiter said.
“Occasionally?” Shawn said.
“That’s fair,” Gus said. “We don’t solve all their cases.”
“Just the hard ones,” Shawn said.
“Silence!” Lassiter snapped, then turned back to Rasmussen.
“They called me suggesting that the occupant of this house, one Ellen Svaco, might be in jeopardy. When we got here, the door was open-”
“And it sounded like David Hedison was about to be eaten by a spider,” Shawn said.
Lassiter glared at Shawn, then stepped aside, giving Officer Rasmussen a view into the bathroom. “Unfortunately we were too late. I’ve called it in, and the forensics team will be here in a few minutes.”
Rasmussen’s gaze flickered as he saw the body, but it hardened again as he turned back to Lassiter. “So you got a call and you just hoofed it on down here without a care in the world.”
“My ‘care’ was for the victim,” Lassiter said.
“That was pretty good, too,” Gus said to Shawn.
“Worth a one-handed air quote at best,” Shawn said. “I’ve heard Lassie much more condescending than that.”
“Was there some other ‘care’ I should have been concerned with?” Lassiter said.
“Much better,” Shawn said to Gus.
“Something we small-town law folk call jurisdiction,” Rasmussen said. “If you have reason to suspect a crime has taken place on my streets, you call me first.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Lassiter said.
“Try me.”
“Listen, McCloud,” Lassiter said. “This isn’t Dogpatch and it isn’t Hazzard, although if it were, you’d certainly have the shorts for it. This is still Santa Barbara County-”
“That’s right,” Rasmussen said. “Santa Barbara County, not city. You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“There’s a dead woman two feet behind me,” Lassiter said. “I hardly think the question of which law enforcement agency catches her killer is of primary importance.”
“Funny, that’s not what your people said when my hot pursuit crossed your precious city limits,” Rasmussen said. “That time, jurisdiction was important enough to throw me in jail overnight.”
Lassiter stared at him in astonished recognition. “You were the idiot who went screaming down State Street at ninety miles an hour?”
“It’s called hot pursuit for a reason,” Rasmussen said.
“You weren’t even in a police car,” Lassiter said. “Just some crummy old Mustang.”
“We’re the Isla Vista Foot Patrol,” Rasmussen said. “It would look bad if we had official vehicles, so when need arises we volunteer our private cars.”
“As I recall, the ‘need’ in this case was some punk spray-painting a street sign,” Lassiter said. “And that was your excuse for jeopardizing countless innocent lives.”
“We take our laws seriously here,” Rasmussen said. “Which is why I’m taking over the investigation of this apparent homicide.”
“This is my case,” Lassiter said.
“This is my jurisdiction,” Rasmussen said.
“I’m not leaving,” Lassiter said.
Rasmussen raised his gun. With his free hand, he pulled his cuffs off his Sam Brown belt.
“In that case,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”
Chapter Eleven
“Put your hands on your head,” Rasmussen barked at Lassiter.
Lassiter stared at him coldly and didn’t budge. Rasmussen stared back. Each man was frozen, waiting for the other to make the first move.
“Shawn!” Gus hissed. “We’ve got to do something.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” Shawn said. “I’m getting hungry again.”
“We can’t leave Lassie,” Gus said. “He’s only here as a favor to us.”
Shawn thought this over and reluctantly came to the same conclusion. With a heavy sigh he stepped between the two policemen. “I’ve seen this scene in a hundred movies, and it never makes any sense. You’re both on the same side.”
“He’s right,” Gus said. “You both want the same thing.”
“Well, not all the same things,” Shawn said. “Officer Rasmussen clearly desires a tan that will put George Hamilton to shame, while Lassie aspires to the subtler shades of your average mushroom. But I think we can all agree that what you both want most of all is to find the person who killed Ellen Svaco.”
“Stay out of this, Spencer,” Lassiter said.
At the sound of the name, Rasmussen’s head swiveled over to Shawn. “Spencer?” He stared. “I thought I recognized you. Are you Shawn Spencer of Psych?”
“So my fame has traveled all the way to Isla Vista,” Shawn said. “My master plan is working. Soon they’ll know Psych even as far away as Oxnard.”
Rasmussen walked over to Shawn, holstering his gun as he went. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Well, thanks,” Shawn said.
“Your father is my hero,” Rasmussen said, giving Shawn’s hand an enthusiastic pump. “The greatest cop this state has ever seen. I used to read about him in the papers. Sometimes I even wish he could have been my dad.”
“There were times I wished exactly the same thing,” Shawn said.
“He’s the reason I became a police officer,” Rasmussen said. “If only I could work a case with him my life would be complete.”
“Hard to imagine such a rich life isn’t complete already,” Gus said.
“Indeed,” Shawn said. “Too bad my dad is retired.”
Outside the bungalow a black crime scene van pulled up to the curb.
“But of course, no one ever really leaves the Santa Barbara Police Department,” Lassiter said. “I talked to Henry just the other day and he was saying how much he missed the life.”