“No one except a psychic,” Gus said, staring through the metal links at the acres of cars. “Too bad neither of us knows one.”

“Gus, Gus, Gus,” Shawn said, “that would have been a truly cutting comment if I actually believed I had psychic abilities. But since we both know I don’t, you’ve got to dig a little deeper.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Gus said. “Almost as useful as the last bit you gave me.”

“I know you loved that fanny pack, but its day was over.”

“I mean about the street signs,” Gus said. “Specifically about the signs that said, ‘No parking-violators will be towed.’ Specifically that we should ignore the signs because meter maids would never patrol outside the courthouse.”

The day had been going so well. After Shawn’s triumph in the courtroom, they were mobbed by journalists. They spent two hours giving interviews that would lead to tons of free publicity. One of the reporters even asked who Gus was.

But when they finally got outside the courthouse, everything started going downhill. First was the shock of finding an empty curb where Gus’ Echo used to be. And then the greater shock of realizing that the curb wasn’t completely empty. Detective Carlton Lassiter was standing there, a grim look on his face.

That wasn’t the real problem. Detective Carlton Lassiter almost always had a grim look on his face. He was the lead detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, and he took his job every bit as seriously as he took himself. Shawn’s easy attitude toward crime fighting had the same effect on him as a roll in a field of poison oak.

The real problem was that Bert Coules was coming up to Lassiter, and his look was anything but grim.

“Look, Gus, your car finally got its wish,” Shawn said. “It’s been turned into a real boy.”

“Close,” Coules said. “Not the boy part, of course. But the turning into what it’s always wanted to be. In this case, a heap of scrap metal.”