I squatted down. Eye level. The way you talk to kids and cornered men. “Boyd, she doesn’t want you back. She wants the deed to the catamaran. The one you signed over to a shell company named after your girlfriend’s middle name.” His face went the color of old tuna. “How did you—”
Back in the car, I radioed Higgins from the glovebox phone. Not because I needed to. Because I knew he’d been counting the minutes. “Robin’s Nest, this is Magnum. Case closed. Break out the gin.” A pause. Then: “There is no gin. There is only a very passable London dry, which I will not dignify by mixing with your tropical fruit abominations.” “So that’s a yes.” “That’s a ‘try not to bleed on the driveway.’” Magnum P.I.
He set the glass down. His hand shook. Mine would too, if I’d run that far into a lie. I squatted down
The Ferrari didn’t like the rain. Neither did my hair, but one of us had a choice about it. I slid across the hood—red as a Honolulu sunset, wet as a drowned mongoose—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The leather sighed. So did I. “Boyd, she doesn’t want you back
Her name was Celeste. The husband’s name was Boyd. The real problem’s name was a .45 semiauto I hadn’t seen yet, but could feel—like a barracuda in murky water.