"Detective O'Hara," a deep voice rasped. "Got a minute?"

Sitting at her desk, Juliet looked up at the tall form of Detective McClellan from Internal Affairs.

Normally, when IA wanted to talk they sent for you and then let you sweat a while in an interview room. But McClellan had come to her, and was asking to talk instead of demanding it. Her spine tingled.

"Absolutely. Please," She motioned to a chair. "What can I do for you?"

"It's more a question of what I can do for you." McClellan pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Let's talk about Steven Burnett."

O'Hara closed the file she'd been reading and stifled a smile. Given what she'd just learned about the gun permit once issued to Burnett's now-deceased father, this was a conversation she was very interested in having.

Gus winced as he used his barbeque tongs to hold the envelope from the Perez apartment over the steam from his kettle. Scalding caused twenty-four percent of major burn injuries each year, and Burton Guster was not about to become another statistic. When the envelope was sufficiently dampened he grabbed his letter opener and gently eased the flap open.

Pulling out the letter and gently unfolding it, his eyes eagerly read the dead woman's words to her mother. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. This called for a celebration.

Since the water was boiled, he made himself a cup of vanilla chai and tried to remember where he'd put the ginger snaps he'd hidden from Shawn. Were they in the Weetabix box? No, those were the decoy cookies.

Standing outside the door to the Psych office, O'Hara stuffed the search warrant into the pocket of her blazer and pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. "Try the door first." She motioned with her head. Buzz reached down and jiggled the doorknob, but found it locked. O'Hara sighed. Of course it was locked. With Shawn in custody there was no one to leave it open. "Okay," she said heavily. "Get us in."

She stepped back, expecting Buzz to give it a slam with his shoulder or a kick with his heavy boot, but instead the big officer shuffled carefully through his keys and unlocked the door.

"You have a key to the Psych office?"

Buzz nodded solemnly. "In the event that Shawn and Gus die simultaneously I've agreed to get rid of any uh…stuff that might be in their office or on their computers." He silently mouthed the word 'porn.' "It's a big responsibility."

O'Hara stepped inside and surveyed the room with a thoughtful pout before turning to Buzz. "We need to print this whole place."

Buzz poked a bobblehead of Gus with a gloved finger and enjoyed the way it jiggled. "That's a lot of prints. Shawn and Gus are here all the time, and they bring clients here too."

She opened her crime scene kit. "We're looking for one particular print. Anything belonging to Steven Burnett." A smirk crossed her lips and for just a moment she reminded Buzz of Lassiter. It was kind of spooky.

Coming up from what he hoped was his final visit with Shawn in the holding cells, Gus took a deep breath, straightened to his full 5'10", and approached Lassiter at his desk in the SBPD bullpen.

"We need to talk."

The head detective motioned for Gus to follow him into an alcove by the filing cabinet. "Is this about my personal life, Guster? Because so help me I will not have my—"

"It's not," Gus assured him. "Shawn's uh, had a vision confirming that Burnett and Samantha Perez were a couple, and that she suspected him of having committed a crime." Gus swallowed, unsure of how much Shawn might have admitted about his supposed psychic gifts. "We need to search Burnett's apartment."

Lassiter swore. "We'd never get a warrant based on the vision of a murder suspect, and anything we found by illegal entry would be thrown out of court."

"Maybe we could get him to invite us in," Gus suggested. "If there's evidence in plain sight…."

Lassiter swore again. "He's had time to throw away anything incriminating."

"Maybe," Gus said, looking sly, "we need to go through his garbage, Sneakers-style."

Lassiter nodded grimly. "Let me grab some gear." He ran off in the direction of the storage closet. When he returned a few moments later, with two rubber ponchos under his arm, Gus was holding a sheet of paper, tilting it in the light from Lassiter's desk lamp.

"What's that?" Lassiter asked.

"A page of stationary from Samantha Perez' desk. There's a trace of her last note on it. I can't help feeling it's important."

Lassiter loomed in. "You took that? That could be evidence."

Gus got defensive. "You guys take evidence all the time."

"We're the police," Lassiter said through clenched teeth. "We collect evidence."

"Well I work with the police, and I'm working with you now, and this could be important evidence." He continued examining the notepad.

Lassiter squinted at the sheet, covered in graphite shading. "Restaurant. K. Chow. 6pm?" He snorted derisively. "Sounds work related." Seeing the disappointment on the other man's face he added, "Sorry Guster, not every piece of trash you pick up at a crime scene can be a clue."

Gus grabbed the notepad back and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

"Enough of this Hardy Boys crap." Lassiter said. "Let me show you how real police work is done: with patient persistence, filthy assignments, and soul-grinding tedium."

"I took the liberty of calling ahead," Gus said, glaring at the back of Lassiter's head as he followed him to the door. "Burnett's super has collected all the garbage from Monday in the storage room."

"That was nice of him," Lassiter said. "He knows we're not paying him for that, right?"

Gus winced. "He may think I'm from the city's Hazardous Waste Containment Department."

"Why would he think that?" As far as Lassiter knew, the city had no such department.

"No idea." Gus shrugged with feigned innocence and followed Lassiter to the parking lot.

"This is the last of it." Lassiter, wearing an enormous black rain poncho, set the garbage bag on the tarp with the others. On television, when cops sorted through a suspect's garbage it was clean, odorless, and dry, with all objects easily distinguishable from one another. The occupants of the Laguna Street apartment building were not producing television garbage. This garbage was slimy, messy, and stinky. Lassiter looked at Gus, in rain poncho and bright yellow dishwashing gloves, sorting through an already open bag on a folding table. "Any luck yet?"

Gus pulled the white filter mask from his face. "No." He glanced from the handful of junk mail in one hand to the list of residents of the Laguna St. apartment complex. "Shapiro. This bag is definitely from the second floor." He closed the bag and hefted it to the pile in the corner.

Lassiter donned gloves and opened a bag, turning his face away at the smell. "Congealed Chinese food and… Ugh! Ladies hygiene…things." He closed the bag. "This isn't Burnett's. At this rate we'll never clear Shawn."

"You know," Gus ventured. "If you need to talk…I mean, I get how you must feel."

"I can't afford to feel," Lassiter growled. The fact was, he wasn't sure how he felt. Drunken roughhousing had turned unexpectedly sexual. Then it happened again. Then it happened sober. Soon it was happening with alarming frequency and shades of domesticity had crept in. They'd even had a pseudo-romantic dinner out. And then Shawn got arrested. Lassiter opened the next bag. National Geographics, covered in fungus.

"I'm just saying." Gus heaved another bag onto the table. "You can talk to me."

"I don't need to talk," Lassiter insisted. "I just need to solve this case." He dumped two heavy bags into the 'done' pile. "Although the way things are going, Shawn may beat us to it." He paused, unsure whether he wanted to get into the issue of Shawn's supposed psychic gift. "He's good at what he does."

"I know it." Gus agreed, adding a searched bag to the growing pile. "He's like Batman. If Batman were broke and not very motivated."

Lassiter smirked. "So that makes you Robin."

"Hell no." Gus smiled, fists on his hips, chest out. "I see myself as a black Clark Kent."

"Clark Kent's not a superhero," Lassiter objected. "He's an alter-ego."

"Clark Kent is Kal-El's Earth identity, powers and all. Superman is just his superhero persona."

"Whatever." Lassiter focused on the garbage. Guster's conversation was starting to resemble a Tarantino monologue. "Bingo!" He pulled a sheaf of papers from the bag. "Burnett's cellphone bill." He began to scan the numbers. "We'll look these up at the station. See who he's been talking to."

"This bag is from Burnett's too," Gus added, sorting through the contents. "An empty package of Milk Duds. Orange peels. Wood glue. Super glue. The guy uses a lot of glue."

"What?" Lassiter dropped the bag he was holding and moved over to look. "Well, well, well," he said, picking up a plastic sheet. "We're eating oranges and we're making fingerprints."

"How's that?" Gus asked.

Lassiter pointed at the bottle of superglue. "The main ingredient of superglue is cyanoacrylate."

"Right. Right." Gus nodded, excited now. "It reacts with the fat residue in fingerprints, forming a solid, white substance. I've seen them develop prints with it on CSI."

Lassiter nodded too. "Burnett develops the print with the superglue, then copies it with a scanner, or better yet, takes a picture of it with his cellphone." He gripped the thin plastic sheet, from which a corner had been cut. "Then he prints the picture on the transparency, reproducing Shawn's print. That's where the wood glue comes in."

Gus' eyes lit in understanding. "Shawn and I used to coat our hands in wood glue, let it dry, then peel it off like fake skin."

Lassiter nodded. "All kids do that."

Gus looked down at the garbage. There was no way he was going to admit they'd done that only two weekends ago, nor to having chased each other around the office in an epic glue fight. "So," he added quickly, "he smears wood glue on the transparency and he's got a fake print!"

"Exactly." Lassiter smiled. For the first time since this whole nightmare started he finally had something solid. "He must have had access to something with Shawn's prints on it."

"Hey!" Gus' hand dived into the bag. "This is one of our business cards." He held up the small card with Psych logo on it. "What do you want to bet this has Shawn's prints on it?"

"No bet, Guster." Lassiter smacked him on the back. "Job well done."

He bagged the evidence and then they surveyed the dozen garbage bags still to sort.

"Well," Gus admitted, "job half done."

Juliet O'Hara and Buzz McNab approached the holding cell, keys jingling. O'Hara's face could barely contain her excitement.

Shawn hung up the payphone and stuffed a handful of sweaty quarters into his pocket.

"Jules! Buzz! Am I glad to see you," he said. "I've had a vision."

"And I've got good news." O'Hara sang out.

"Me too!" Shawn nodded eagerly and pressed himself against the bars.

"I know who killed Samantha Perez!" Shawn and O'Hara spoke in unison.

For a moment O'Hara stood motionless, her mouth gaping. Then she sighed, pulled her wallet from a pocket and passed a $20 bill to Buzz McNab, who hummed happily as he tucked it into his pocket.

Shawn slapped a hand to his forehead. "I see clues. Clues and visions. It's like a heatwave. Flames! On the side of my face. Breathing, heaving, breaths—"

"Okay. Enough!" O'Hara raised her hands in surrender. "What do you see, Shawn?"

"Take me to the crime scene and I'll clear this whole mess up. I'll need Lassie and Gus, too." He looked at his wrist, where his watch would normally be, but wasn't. "We can all be home in time to watch that NBC special where Molly Ringwald talks to sloths."

"Fine." O'Hara said, unlocking the cell door. "But let's officially release you from custody first." She smiled. "If you're gonna take this dirtbag down it should be as a free man." Shawn stepped out, stretching as if he'd been confined in a locker for 24 hours.

Buzz grinned and smacked a hand onto Shawn's shoulder. "Let's swing by property and get your stuff," he said. "I charged your phone."

"I don't know about you," Gus said grimacing, as he loaded the last garbage bag into a bin, "but I feel filthy."

"I hear you." Even with the protective gear Lassiter was sweaty and grimy, and he suspected that the strong smell of spoiled milk, decaying takeout, and wet cardboard was going to cling. He surveyed the rain gear he'd commandeered. There was no way he was putting it into his trunk without double or triple-bagging it first. He had just stripped off the poncho when his cell phone rang.

"Lassiter." The chipper voice of his partner babbled quickly into his ear. "I'll be there ASAP," he assured her before hanging up.

Gus looked at him expectantly.

Lassiter didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Shawn's had a 'vision.' He's gathering everyone at Burnett's apartment to make an arrest."

"That's great," Gus said. He felt his shoulder muscles relax. "I just wish we'd gotten that call before we sorted through a weeks worth of stinky trash." While Lassiter bagged up the gear Gus pulled out his own phone and quickly texted Shawn, letting him know about their discovery in the garbage.

Lassiter closed the trunk of his car on the rain gear and the evidence and then checked his watch. Technically, his shift had ended hours ago.

"Any chance we could shower and change before we join everyone upstairs?" Gus asked.

Lassiter sniffed. That smell had definitely permeated his clothes. Possibly his skin. "You know what, Guster," he said, "I'm gonna sit this one out."

"Sit this one out?" Gus pointed in the direction of the garbage room. "After all that? No way José! I deserve to be in on the arrest. And so do you. They're up there now, waiting for us." He stood, chin up, daring Lassiter to disagree.

"Shawn doesn't need us," Lassiter ground out. "He never did." Shawn had solved the crime without any clues, from inside a jail cell while his best friend and—well, Lassiter wasn't sure what he was—had dug for clues in the garbage. All for nothing. His clothes needed to be laundered, and he needed to shower for about an hour. Maybe even sink into a hot manly bath. He sniffed an armpit and made a face. He'd need to drive with the windows down.

"It's not like that, Lassiter." Gus wished he could have told the detective how all the work they'd done and the clues they'd uncovered—the Burnett land deal, the flower delivery, the faked fingerprint, the letter he'd slipped to Shawn on his last visit—had led to Shawn's 'vision.' But looking at him now, sore, tired, grouchy, and grimy, he doubted that the news would be taken in the spirit he intended. Instead he'd just have to watch Lassiter drive off angry and hope that Shawn could repair the damage.

"Sure it is."

"Well Shawn's counting on me," Gus said. "So garbage or no garbage, I'm going upstairs."

Lassiter stood outside the apartment doors, watching as Gus disappeared into the elevator. Was he right? Was Shawn counting on him? Had he ever? How many cases could he watch Shawn steal from under him before he felt completely useless? He thought back to their dinner at Beefeaters. Despite his paranoia about being discovered, it had been fun. And their evenings at his place had been really enjoyable. As had the mornings. He smiled. Shawn's attempts at being domestic were endearing. He'd felt wanted. Desired, even. But had he ever felt necessary? He wasn't so sure. And he needed to be sure.

Lassiter was halfway into the drivers seat before he was stopped by a series of high-pitched screams. Lassiter turned and glared up at the building through mirrored sunglasses.

"Lassie!"

There, clinging frantically to the iron grille work four stories above, was Shawn Spencer. His legs kicked frantically, looking for purchase but finding none. Lassiter felt his guts tighten. A fall from that height—Shawn would be lucky if he could hobble away with just a leg or pelvis broken. Land the wrong way and it was game over. Lassiter began to run, his legs burning from the effort. Shawn needed him.

The tiny peonies still swayed innocently in their planting boxes as Shawn began to fall.

While Gus and Lassiter wrapped up their garbage sorting in the basement of the Laguna St. apartment building, O'Hara, Buzz, and Shawn had entered the elevator and been carried smoothly to the fourth floor, where O'Hara had rapped sharply on the door of Mr. Steven Burnett.

"Mr. Burnett? It's the SBPD. We'd like to talk with you."

The sound of shuffling could be heard inside and just as O'Hara was considering a more forceful approach the door opened and Burnett glared out at them with bloodshot eyes. "What more do you people want?"

"There's just a few more details we need to clear up," O'Hara said, her voice carrying an undertone of malicious happiness. "May we come in?"

Burnett stepped back and opened the door to allow them inside. Burnett indicated Shawn with a nod of his head. "Isn't he the guy that killed the lady across the hall?"

"Actually," McNab explained, "Shawn works as a psychic with the Santa Barbara Police Department."

"A psychic?" Burnett sputtered. "You must be joking."

O'Hara shook her head. "No joke. He's actually quite good."

Shawn nodded. "That's right, Jack. How else could I know your internet history is filled with scantily clad photos of David Hasslehoff?"

Burnett's face turned red. "That's not true!"

"Okay maybe not Hasselhoff. Maybe I'm getting William Daniels, the voice of Kitt."

"This man is insane!" Burnett protested.

"Quite possibly," O'Hara allowed.

As Gus appeared in the hall outside, Shawn pointed dramatically toward the door. "Oh!" he shook a leg, and took two staggering steps toward the door. "The restless spirit of Samantha Perez is calling me to the murdered woman's apartment!"

Buzz McNab strode forward, slit the fresh sealing tape, and unlocked the door.

"After you, Mr. Burnett" O'Hara gestured for the suspect to go ahead of her. "Hello, Gus," she said pleasantly, spotting the pharmaceutical salesman in the hall outside. As the smell of the garbage hit her she raised a hand to her nose. "My god, is that you?"

Gus nodded and hung his head. "Yeah. Just, don't even."

"I won't." With her nose buried in her palm, she entered the apartment, opened the windows and patio door, and then moved to block the exit to the hall.

Shawn leaned against Samantha Perez' desk and slipped the letters Gus had given him from his back jeans pocket onto the desk. With his audience standing expectantly in front of him, Shawn turned to the desk and looked surprised. "Why hello. What's this?" He snatched the letter to her mother from the desk and held it against his head. "I sense that this contains details about Samantha Perez' love life." He cocked an ear. "What's that, Samantha?" He pointed at Steven Burnett. "You!" He winked at Gus. "She says you sent her flowers on Sunday."

Burnett crossed his arms defensively. "I send lots of women flowers."

Shawn put two fingers to his temple. "You were having a romantic affair with her," he said. "I see her in a simply negligee, opening the door to you, unaware of the danger that you posed."

You must be talking about yourself," Burnett said, smiling at Shawn with even white teeth. "I saw you flee the crime scene."

"He's talking about you." Gus moved toward Burnett. "You killed Samantha Perez and tried to frame Shawn for the murder."

"That's right. She suspected you'd already—" As Gus came within range Shawn grimaced, stuck out his tongue and moved his mouth wordlessly for a moment, gagging. He turned to Gus. "Sweet Bluebeard's ghost, Dude! Is that smell coming from you?"

Gus stepped back. "Yes, Shawn. I smell. That happens when you spend hours sorting through a suspect's garbage. For you, I might add!"

"Go!" Shawn waved his hands dismissively. "You smell like corndogs left in the sun. Stand by the window." Gus moved to the open patio door, but Shawn continued to direct him away. "No good. Try the other side of the room."

"Very well." Gus strode to the far window and stood with his back to it, fanning fresh air onto his shirt.

"Where was I?" Shawn asked, turning back to Burnett. "Oh. Right. Samantha suspected you had killed Kevin Chow. "

Buzz raised a hand. "Uh, who's Kevin Chow?"

"Ooh! I know this one!" O'Hara piped up. "He's the developer Burnett was hoping would buy his property." She nudged Buzz. "McClellan from IA told me about it. "

Shawn nodded. "The two of you had dinner at Beefeaters Saturday night." His memory ran back over the details of that night, and to the autopsy report Woody had supplied. "I see a Chinese man in a grey suit. And you, attacking him in an ally with a tire iron." Burnett looked gratifyingly alarmed. "And after you bludgeoned him you came back to Beefeater's, tore out the page containing your reservation, and stole all the business cards from the raffle, destroying any chance I might have had of getting a 2 for 1 meal deal."

"And that's where you got Shawn's thumbprint!" Gus declared, jabbing the air from afar with an accusatory finger. "Which you later planted to frame him!"

"Frame him? I don't know what you're talking about." Burnett was smirking, but Shawn was close enough he could the sweat beading at his temples.

"So if we search your apartment," Gus asked, "there's no way we'll find Shawn's fingerprints made out of wood glue?"

Burnett swallowed but said nothing.

"You shot Samantha Pérez," Shawn said triumphantly, "and you planted my hair on the victim!"

Burnett leaned against the wall, the sun slanting through the patio door putting half his face into shadow. "And I just happened to have your hair hanging around, did I?"

"You could have followed him and stolen it," Gus cut in. "Humans shed fifty to one hundred hairs every day."

Burnett smirked. "Good luck proving that."

Gus looked offended. "You can check with the American Academy of dermatology."

"He means you can't prove he planted the hair," O'Hara explained.

"Oh."

"But I can prove it," O'Hara said, her eyes burning into Burnett. "We found your fingerprints in the Psych office, Mr. Burnett. Care to explain how they got there?"

"I, uh, I…" Burnett stammered.

Shawn raised a hand and clapped it onto Burnett's head. "Oh! I sense that the camera at the weird bank across the street picked up your creepy skulking and illegal entry."

"There's nothing weird about Banco Populare." Gus objected.

"It's in Spanish," Shawn pointed out, "That's kind of weird."

"Latinos make up 35% of the Santa Barbara population," Gus said. "They have to bank somewhere."

"That's immaterial," Shawn said. He held a hand to his head, and briefly imagined himself as Kim Carnes in the We Are The World video. Then he pointed dramatically at Burnett. "I see you, at beefeaters with Kevin Chow at 6:00pm. He's having a porterhouse…" Shawn saw the confident grin slip from Burnett's face. "…greenbeans," he added, remembering Woody's description of the victim's stomach contents, "and mashed…no, garlic mashed potatoes." He basked in what he assumed was Burnett's 'how did he know that?' face.

"You can't prove any of that," Burnett said uneasily.

"Did you pay with a credit card?" Shawn asked. Seeing the panic flash across the suspects' face he added, "I bet you did."

"Easy enough to find out," O'Hara said. "We'll just check Beefeater's receipts."

"You were hoping Chow would fund your land deal," Shawn said. "But when he dropped out, you got angry. And when you get angry, you hit people with a crowbar."

"Not always." Burnett's lip curled and his grey eyes were like stones. "Sometimes I shoot them." In a flash of movement he pulled a gun and moved to grab Shawn. Then several things happened at once. O'Hara and Buzz pulled their weapons. Gus emitted a series of high-pitched screams and threw himself behind the comfortably bouncy couch of the late Samantha Perez, and Shawn leaped sideways, out the balcony door.

Shawn's sweaty grip slipped on the iron grill of the balcony and he gasped as he went into free-fall. His life began to flash before his eyes—mainly episodes of Chips and John Hughes films. Then suddenly he was enveloped by strong arms, and he collapsed onto the lawn in a tangle of limbs.

"Oh Lassie!" Shawn embraced the detective in a crushing hug and peppered his face with kisses. "You saved me! You're amazing." Then he suddenly released his grip and recoiled. "And you reek!" He rose unsteadily and took a step back. "Why does everyone I care about suddenly smell like a hobo's boot?

Lassiter remained on the lawn, dazed, his favourite sunglasses lying in fragments on the grass. "You care about me?"

"Well, duh!" Shawn extended a hand and helped pull the detective to his feet. "I did time for you, man."

Lassiter half smiled as he dusted grass clippings from his pants. "You spent a day in holding because all the evidence pointed at you."

"Oh please!" Shawn put his nose in the air. "I could have alibied out. Spilled the beans. Let the cat out of the bag. Dropped a dime."

"But you didn't." For a moment the two men just stood, blue eyes meeting green. Shawn took a step forward, ignoring the smell.

"Everyone okay down there?"

Lassiter looked up to where Juliet O'Hara and Burton Guster was peering anxiously from the window and patio door of Samantha Perez' apartment.

"S'okay." Shawn shouted back. "How's Burnett?"

"Disarmed, bruised, and in custody. We'll be right down." O'Hara and Gus disappeared back inside.

Shawn looked up at the empty windows, then back at Lassiter.

"Come here, you filthy animal!"

After what seemed like an eternity of illicit public lip locking, Lassiter pulled back. "I'd better see if they need any help."

As they entered the foyer the elevator opened and O'Hara thrust a dejected and handcuffed Burnett ahead of her.

"I think you broke my cheek," he complained.

"You pulled a gun on officers of the law. You're lucky that's all I broke." She propelled him toward the door. As Burnett passed Shawn noticed that the man was developing one hell of a shiner.

"It was beautiful!" Gus crowed. "You should have seen the way she took him down. Bam!" He mimed throwing a punch. "Just like that."

O'Hara's face flushed. "I have been doing a lot of boxercize lately."

Buzz shook his head regretfully. "You should have let me sweep the leg."

"Next time," she assured him.

"I swear to God, I had no idea Burnett had another gun," Shawn declared the next morning. The group was gathered in the kitchen of the SBPD, drinking coffee and eating celebratory donuts. "My psychic powers just didn't pick it up. Evil intentions, yes. Bad dress sense, most definitely. A gun? No."

"Well I'm just glad nobody got hurt," O'Hara said. "It's a good thing Lassiter was there to break your fall."

Shawn looked at Lassiter, starry-eyed.

"I've been falling a long time, Lassie. I'm just glad you finally caught me."

Lassiter blushed and tugged at his collar. "Yes, well, I was just doing my job."

McClellan entered, crossed to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. "I just heard about your collar in that double homicide," he said. "Nice work, everyone."

"We just followed the evidence," O'Hara said, smiling behind her coffee cup.

The IA man looked at Shawn. "I guess you're not a blood-sucking parasite on the skin of the SBPD after all. You're…okay."

"Would you mind if we used that in our upcoming ad campaign?" Shawn asked. McClellan declined to reply.

"What I still don't get," Buzz said, "is why Burnett stole the business cards from the restaurant."

"Chow and Burnett had both entered their business cards in the Beefeater's contest," Gus explained. "After he killed Chow, Burnett was in a panic to erase any trace of their meeting. So he went back and stole the business cards."

"And he tore a page from the reservation book." Shawn added. "Getting my print on the card was just a bonus. In fact, that's probably how he decided to frame me in the first place."

Gus looked at his watch. "We'd better go. Beefeater's gave us a coupon for two free lunch entrees." He and Shawn bumped fists. "I'm sensing Famous Fish Fries in our future."

O'Hara watched as Shawn and Gus strolled toward the door.

"I still wish I knew what Shawn's secret alibi was," she said.

Lassiter smirked. "I guess we'll never know."

O'Hara tilted her head and looked up at her partner. "You know," she said, "when I was questioning Shawn about his alibi he mentioned having a taco at the El Pescadero's truck that morning. Isn't that just around the corner from your place?

"Is it?" Lassiter took a gulp of coffee. "I wouldn't know."

O'Hara's spine tingled.

THE END