He’d spent the morning on his other job, driving his route as a salesman for Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, and every stop had been better than the last. The company had introduced a new version of its popular cholesterol drug, and while the pill was different from its predecessor only by virtue of its higher price tag, it came with an entirely new set of pens, notebooks, tote bags, T-shirts, and miscellaneous logo swag to distribute. Which meant that even when he couldn’t get in to see a doctor, every nurse, admissions clerk, and parking attendant acted as if he were their best friend in the world. Gus knew that people were only treating him so well because they were desperately excited to get their hands on a stainless steel commuter mug with ZOMBIA emblazoned across it, but it still made his morning rounds a happy occasion.

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.