Marine.
“Excuse us, O’Toole,” the sheriff said to his subordinate. “And close the door behind you. Nobody comes in.”
“Yes, sir,” the young officer replied, with military precision.
The sheriff swaggered over.“Mr. Barnett,” he announced in a grave tone, “you are in a truckload of trouble. Someone matching your description, driving your Jaguar, participated in a shootout at a resort in Little River that resulted in the deaths of four persons. A fifth washed up on the shore nearby, but we can’t pin that on you . . . yet. In addition, the Malibu Fire Inspector is interested in questioning you about the possible arson of your private residence.
“For icing,” he continued, “at three o’clock this morning,” he pointed in Archie’s direction, “this gentleman gets the spanking of a lifetime, and his place lights up, and, what do you know, you—Smokey the Bear’s worst enemy— are on the guest list for that, too. And the ten grand in your wallet. You didn’t win that arm wrestling.”
I heard another “mmm” from Archie.
“Now I checked you out,” the sheriff said. “Occupation: stuntman—granted that doesn’t come up every day— California carry license, no priors, not even a ticket for jaywalking. Till about a week ago, you’re Dudley Dooright. I would really appreciate knowing just what in the solar system is going on here.”
The sheriff cinched his belt a sixteenth of an inch and pushed his glasses back up his bulbous nose. “You’re on my turf here,” he said, jabbing a chubby finger at me. “And you’re not going anywhere—not even to the toilet—till I get some reasonable answers. I’ve got a small jail cell and a big temper. You with me?”
As far as both of us were concerned I’d been apprehended.
The door opened behind him. Without looking, he barked, “I told you, no interruptions, Charlie.”
“The name is Beckett,” a voice from behind the sheriff said in an exquisite British accent. The sheriff turned around, and the inspector took a step in my direction.
He wore a charcoal double-breasted suit with a faint blue pinstripe, his Borsalino rakishly cocked to one side of his perfectly coiffed head. A cobalt tie and matching pocket hankie completed the look. He carried my suitcase in one hand and my jacket in the other.
“You’re not allowed in here,” the sheriff blustered. “I’m questioning a prisoner. O’Toole!”
He opened the door hesitantly.
The sheriff said, “Didn’t I tell you—”
“Silence, Sheriff Gullerson,” Beckett said, raising his small but immaculate hand. An emerald parallelogram cuff link glistened on his French cuff.
Sheriff Gullerson probably hadn’t heard that before. “And just who the fuck are you, the Prince of goddamn Wales?”
“I would say, sir,” Beckett said, “that if one added an ‘h’ to Wales, the title would be more fitting of you.” He removed an immaculate leather ID holder from his pocket, flashed it in front of Gullerson’s face, closed it, and replaced it in its home.
Then he pulled a neatly folded paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the sheriff. Gullerson’s brow furrowed. From my vantage point, I could see an embossed blue and gold seal at the top of the letter.
“The White House . . .” Gullerson said with astonishment.
“Neither this man,” Beckett said, pointing at me, “nor I have everset foot in this hospital. Your total cooperation is expected, as is that of your assistant.”
That sounded good to me. Not to the sheriff. His plug of seniority had been pulled.
“You will be rewarded for your silence in due course, sir,” Beckett said. “And I must apologize for my earlier remark. That was unkind. I only wish I could regain a small percentage of the girth you would most likely give away with enthusiasm.”
Gullerson eyed the official paper. “I don’t suppose I can keep this.”
“Correct,” Beckett said, taking the letter back. “Now will you please excuse us, sir.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” The sheriff glanced at me one last time before ushering O’Toole out the door.
When they were gone, Beckett took a step closer. Our eyes swapped as little as they could. I realized he wasn’t after me; he needed me. My concern lessened. I wasn’t the big fish, I was the minnow. I just needed some room to wiggle.
I struggled to a sitting position, dangling my feet over the side of the bed. I could tell I wasn’t ready to stand yet.
“Liked my coat, did you? I recovered it at the Four Seasons.”
“She’s
“I see. Listen to me. I’ve gone to considerable personal risk to free you. Think of it as a very magnanimous gesture on my part following the thrashing my underlings and, particularly, I took in Milan. I ask for no apology, but at least acknowledge your misjudgment.”
“What you told me about Krell, that was all true.”
“Your cynicism got the best of you. Me as well, I admit,” he added, rubbing his chin where I’d nailed him.
“You know about the gunmen in Milan?”
“You mean the bus incident? You are remarkable.”
“How would Tecci have known where we were?”
