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.
I don’t do missing persons. I do missing reasons. Boyd wasn’t lost. He was hiding. And hiding people leave a smell: stale alibis, fresh lies, and just enough cologne to make you think they still care. Magnum P.I.
Inside: diesel, shadow, and Boyd. He was sitting on a crate of frozen mahi-mahi, holding a glass of something that wasn’t juice. “You Magnum?” “Depends. Are you worth finding?” He laughed. It was the laugh of a man who’d spent his last good idea three drinks ago. “Tell Celeste I’m dead.” “You don’t look dead.” “That’s the con, isn’t it?” Her name was Celeste
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.’” I don’t do missing persons
He set the glass down. His hand shook. Mine would too, if I’d run that far into a lie.