Chapter 10: The Art Dealer's Extra Room
The storage unit smelled like dust and old paint and something I couldn't name — the particular scent of secrets that have been sitting in the dark for too long.
Marcus Reyes's primary storage space had been thoroughly processed by SBPD forensics. The stolen artwork was catalogued, the jewelry from the Hendricks case recovered, and the art dealer himself was facing charges that would keep him occupied for the foreseeable future. Standard resolution. Case closed.
Except.
"Shawn." Gus's voice came from the back corner of the unit, where the lighting was worst and the dust was thickest. "There's a wall here that doesn't match the others."
I crossed the space carefully, stepping around forensic markers that were still in place from yesterday's processing. Gus had his hand pressed against the back wall — plywood, painted to match the surrounding concrete but obviously a different material when you looked closely.
"False wall?"
"I think so." He knocked. The sound was hollow. "Either Reyes built this himself or the storage company has seriously lax construction standards."
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — MANUAL TRIGGER]
Three highlights shimmered into existence. The edge of the plywood panel, where a faint seam indicated it could be removed. A scuff mark on the floor suggesting the panel had been moved repeatedly. And something behind the wall itself — a glow I'd never seen before, brighter than normal highlights, pulsing with a color closer to gold than the usual soft yellow.
"The system thinks whatever's back there is important."
"Help me move this."
Gus hesitated. "Shouldn't we call forensics first?"
"Forensics already processed the scene. They missed this because Marcus Reyes built it to be missed." I found the edge of the panel and pulled. "If there's something back here that implicates him in more crimes, we should document it before it somehow disappears."
The panel came free with a screech of cheap wood against concrete. Behind it was a space roughly six feet wide and four feet deep — more of an alcove than a room, carved out of the storage unit's back wall.
And inside the alcove were filing cabinets.
Three of them. Standard office furniture, completely out of place in an art dealer's storage unit. I pulled open the nearest drawer and found folders. Dozens of folders, each one labeled with addresses and dates and a company name I'd never heard before.
Garrett Baxter Development LLC.
"Who's Garrett Baxter?" Gus asked, reading over my shoulder.
"I don't know."
The thought hit harder than it should have. For two weeks, I'd been operating with a safety net — meta-knowledge of the show providing answers to questions before I had to ask them. The Ramos kidnapping. The spelling bee stalker. The cat case. Every mystery had come with a built-in cheat sheet, even if the system penalized me for using it.
But Garrett Baxter wasn't from any episode I remembered. This name, these documents, this entire hidden cache of financial records — none of it matched my database of eight seasons and three movies.
The world had content I didn't know about.
[NEW THREAD DETECTED: GARRETT BAXTER DEVELOPMENT LLC][META-KNOWLEDGE STATUS: UNAVAILABLE][SYSTEM RECOMMENDATION: DOCUMENT EVERYTHING. YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN.]
I photographed the documents systematically while Gus kept watch at the storage unit entrance. Property acquisitions in Santa Barbara and surrounding areas. Loan agreements with terms that seemed predatory even to my non-expert eye. And in the back of the third cabinet, a folder labeled "CONCERNS" containing handwritten notes about inspectors who asked too many questions and city council members who needed "encouragement."
This was corruption documentation. Someone — probably Marcus Reyes, given the location — had been keeping records of a real estate developer's questionable business practices.
"We need to report this," Gus said when I showed him the highlights. "This is way beyond art theft."
"I know." I closed the cabinet and pocketed the memory card from Shawn's phone — personal copies, just in case. "We're going to report it. But I want you to understand something first."
"What?"
"This is the first case I've seen that I don't already know the answer to." The admission felt strange, but Gus deserved some version of the truth. "The spelling bee, the cat case — I had... strong psychic impressions about how they'd turn out. This one?" I gestured at the filing cabinets. "Static. Nothing. Whatever Garrett Baxter is involved in, I'm going to have to figure it out the normal way."
Gus studied my face for a long moment.
"You look worried."
"I don't like surprises."
"Since when?" His voice carried genuine concern. "You used to live for surprises. Jump first, check for water later — that was your entire personality."
"That was Shawn's personality. I'm someone who spent thirty-four years as a data analyst who liked spreadsheets and predictable outcomes."
"Maybe I'm getting old," I said instead. "Come on. Let's go give Lassiter a present he didn't ask for."
The SBPD bullpen was its usual organized chaos when we arrived. Phones ringing, officers moving between desks with the particular efficiency of people who'd learned to navigate the same space for years.
Lassiter looked up from his desk when I approached. His expression cycled through its standard greeting sequence — irritation, suspicion, and the faintest hint of curiosity about why I was there.
"Spencer. We already processed the Reyes storage unit."
"You missed a wall." I dropped the photographs on his desk. "False panel in the back. Behind it were three filing cabinets full of financial documents related to a company called Garrett Baxter Development LLC."
Lassiter's hand stopped halfway to his coffee cup.
"Baxter Development?"
"You know them?"
"Everyone in Santa Barbara knows them." He picked up the photographs and started flipping through them with an intensity that suggested I'd hit something unexpected. "Garrett Baxter has been developing commercial properties in the county for fifteen years. Shopping centers, office parks, residential subdivisions. The mayor cut the ribbon on his last project."
"So he's connected."
"He's connected, successful, and the kind of citizen who makes generous donations to police charity events." Lassiter set down the photographs. "What exactly are you suggesting these documents prove?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm reporting that I found potentially relevant evidence in a location connected to an active investigation, exactly like a responsible consultant should." I kept my voice neutral. "What you do with the information is your call."
Lassiter's eyes narrowed. This wasn't the behavior he expected from the psychic who'd made theatrical accusations in front of spelling bee audiences.
"Why are you handing this to me?"
"Because you're the detective. I'm the guy who notices things and waves his hands around." I shrugged. "You want me to do a psychic dance about the filing cabinets? I can do that. But these documents are going to require actual detective work to understand, and that's your department."
[SOCIAL ENGINEERING CHECK: SUCCESS. LASSITER PROCESSING NEW INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR APPROACH.]
Behind me, I heard the distinctive click of a notebook closing. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Juliet.
"Detective O'Hara." I half-turned. "I assume you'll be cross-referencing the Baxter documents with existing case files?"
She held my gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "I assume you'll be available if we have follow-up questions?"
"Always happy to help the SBPD." I smiled. It probably came out weird. "The Psych office number is on the card I left last week."
Gus and I left the station with the particular walk of people who'd done their civic duty and now wanted to be somewhere else. The Baxter photographs sat in my jacket pocket like a weight I couldn't explain.
"You seem unsettled," Gus said once we were in the Blueberry. "For someone who just handed the police a major lead, you're not doing the victory lap."
"I told you. I don't like surprises."
"And this Baxter thing is a surprise?"
"Yes. The kind of surprise that means the world is bigger than I thought, and I can't predict what's coming next."
"It's just new," I said. "Give me a day to process it."
Gus nodded, accepting the non-answer with the particular patience of someone who'd known Shawn Spencer for twenty-five years.
The Psych office was quiet when we arrived. I checked the answering machine — no new cases — and pulled up the SBPD bulletin board on Shawn's laptop, scanning for anything that might distract me from the Baxter problem.
One posting caught my eye immediately.
DEATH AT CIVIL WAR REENACTMENT — LEAD DETECTIVE: C. LASSITER
The reenactment murder case. Lassiter's spotlight episode from Season 1. A case where his Civil War expertise would make him both brilliant and blind, and where Shawn's theatrical interventions would eventually save the day.
A case I knew the answer to, where the system wouldn't penalize me for playing backseat.
"New case," I said, pointing at the screen. "Civil War reenactment. Someone died."
"Civil War?" Gus made a face. "Those reenactment guys are weird."
"They're also murder suspects now. Pack your Union uniform."
"I don't have a — why would I have a Union uniform?"
"We'll improvise."
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