The California sun shone brightly over Santa Barbara.  I felt cold. Colder than British Columbia in winter. I had been uprooted, suddenly, painfully, and brought here---no, sent here!---to restart my life in a place where I had no family, no friends, no contacts. 

Thankfully, my protectors had helped me find a house and had promised to help me pay tuition for the University of California in Santa Barbara. I'd had a scholarship to Washington and Lee, but the circumstances that threw me away from home also threw me away from the college of my choice. I was accepted into UCSB on my own merit, though, which granted me some comfort. 

My new house was conveniently located near a bus station, and fortunately for me, bus routes crisscrossed across the city, sparing me the expense of a car and the nervousness I'd face if I actually had to control a four-wheeled death machine. 

All that was left for me to do in order to "make myself at home" in the Golden State was to find a job---and find a way to cure homesickness. 

I looked through the classifieds and in the shop windows I passed by on my walks through town as I tried to acquaint myself with my new surroundings. Then, after two days  of searching, I finally found what I was looking for: a help wanted ad for a job I actually had the skills to perform. And as an added bonus, it was at one of the safest places I could imagine: the Santa Barbara Police Department. What could possibly go wrong around law enforcement officers with loaded weapons? 

So I wrote an e-mail to the address listed in the ad and secured an interview. I printed out a résumé, did some research, and dressed up in my favorite dress shirt, a silver and black button-up blouse. I arrived fifteen minutes early, chewed mint-flavored gum, and made eye contact with the police chief, who was interviewing me. 

The chief was a tall blond lady, maybe  in her thirties, who looked like a tough nut to crack. The first question she asked me was "Are you sure you would want to be the SBPD secretary?" 

"Yes," I replied. "I need the job. I'm attending UCSB, so that might be a conflict, but I will do everything I can to impress you and do good work. I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of experience, though. I've done a lot of volunteer work, but I've never had a real job before." 

Chief Vick was not impressed. I had a very bad feeling about this interview. I could tell she'd heard this story a thousand times before. I was desperate to salvage the event and cling to any chance I had of getting the job. 

"I could also---" I was interrupted mid-sentence by a pair of men bursting into the office. One had a slight tan, flyaway brown hair, and a careless youthful energy. The other was African-American, also fairly young, but a bit taller and much calmer than his companion, with a shaved head and a professional look. Despite this professional attitude, the first man seemed to be the one in charge of the two. 

Chief Vick looked mildly annoyed. She said to the first man, "What do you need, Mr. Spencer?" 

Mr. Spencer grinned and replied, "Well,  I need many things. But first I'd like an introduction to this nice lady." 
The second man glared at Spencer and said,  
"Shawn! You need to tell her about THIS first!" He pulled a reluctant brown-and-white dog from the hallway. 

Chief Vick sighed and put a hand to her head. I sat bewildered, too nervous to ask for an explanation. Fortunately, I didn't have to. Chief Vick took the cue from my confused look. 

"Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, this is Ms. Rebecca Williams. She's here for a job interview." 
Mr. Spencer interrupted and took over before she could complete the introductions.
 
"Hi, my name is Shawn Spencer and this is my partner, Alakazoom Harum-Scarum." 
"You can call me Gus," Mr. Guster interjected. 
"And I'm a psychic consultant for the SBPD," Shawn finished.
 
By the end of that, I felt like Chief Vick looked---exasperated. I stammered out, "Pleasure to meet you," but I didn't know if the two men had heard me because Chief Vick had begun questioning them about the dog. 

"This dog could be a witness! He might know where the missing man is!" Shawn informed her. 
Vick replied, "Very well, Mr. Spencer, but you cannot keep it in the station while you are investigating." 
Shawn smirked. "No problem. He seems very attached to Gus' car." 
"Yeah," Gus complained, "It keeps jumping on my trunk." 
"Yes, we still can't figure out why. Maybe it likes the junk in the trunk," said Shawn, giggling at his bad joke. 

Chief Vick rolled her eyes. As I said previously, I was getting desperate, so I thought I'd pull up some of my useless knowledge. 
"You might be right, Mr. Spencer. He looks almost like a coon dog. Maybe someone trained him to ride in the back on hunting trips. Have you tried opening the trunk to see if he hops in?" 
Shawn and Gus looked interested. 
"No, we haven't, but you might be right!" Gus mused, "It makes sense!" 
"No it doesn't!" Shawn exclaimed, "But we'll try it anyway. We'll be right back!" 

The two ran out the door. Chief Vick turned back to me. 
"Is he really a psychic?" I asked her hesitantly. 
"Apparently," she replied. "Now, back to you. How---"

She was once again interrupted, this time by a different man, one with black hair and a scowl. He was paler than Shawn, and even more professional than Gus. He carried a handgun in a visible holster on his hip. He yanked open the door to the chief's office, forcibly and angrily.

"Can I not get even a simple interview done without everyone on the force bursting in? What is it, Detective Lassiter?" the chief said to the man. Her voice was acid, and she was clearly annoyed. Just my luck. I had to come on the day when my potential employer was in a bad mood.