Page 70 of No Offense

Chapter Twenty-Four

John

“The phones have been ringing off the hook” were the words with which Marguerite greeted John as he stepped into the office. “Everyone—and I meaneveryone—on this island has seen Dylan Dakota.”

“His name is Larry Beckwith.”

“You know who I mean.”

“Great.”

John couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired. He felt weary down to his bones. All he wanted to do was crawl back into his bed, pull the covers up over his head, and sleep for eight hours. Maybe ten.

But unfortunately he couldn’t, because he had a criminal to catch.

Dylan Dakota had been seen at Frank’s Food Emporium buying beer.

Dylan Dakota had been seen at Ron’s Place drinking rum.

Dylan Dakota had been seen at an art gallery opening Thursday night admiring a watercolor by Bree Beckham and had even asked its price, though in the end he hadn’t bought it.

Dylan Dakota had been seen near the bight admiring city planner Randy Jamison’s yacht, and a few people had even thought he might try to steal it, but by the time deputies arrived, he was gone.

Dylan Dakota had been everywhere and seen by everyone, and yet no one seemed to know where he was right now.

John sat at his desk and rubbed his face. He wondered what he’d done to deserve a thorn like Larry Beckwith in his side. He wondered what he could do to get Molly Montgomery to like him again and to put Larry Beckwith in jail forever. He wondered if he was too old to quit law enforcement and go pitch for the Miami Marlins.

Marguerite knocked on his office door then opened it without waiting for him to say “Come in.”

“Chief, I’ve got Dorothy Tifton on the phone, the lady whose house got robbed?”

John regarded her wearily. “I know who she is, Marguerite.”

“Well, she says she has to talk to you, and you only. I told her you were busy, even though it doesn’t look to me like you are, actually. But she said it was important. I bet it’s something about her insurance. What do you want me to do?”

John waved a hand. “Put her through.”

“Right, Chief. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like crap, Chief.”

“Why, thank you, Marguerite. That is so kind of you.”

“Just letting you know, Chief.”

Marguerite closed the door on her way out. The call from Mrs. Tifton came through a few seconds later.

“Hello, ma’am,” John said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible and knowing he was failing. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“Sheriff.” Mrs. Tifton’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “I want you to know, I’ve got him.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I can barely hear you, Mrs. Tifton. Can you speak a little louder?”

“No, I can’t. Because I’m on the tail of that animal who broke into my house, and if I speak any louder, he might notice me.”

This caused John to sit up a little straighter in his chair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tifton. Did you say—are you—are you with Dylan Dakotaright now?”

“If you mean the High School Thief, that’s right,” the old woman whispered. “Only that’s not the name he told me. He told me to call him Larry.”

John was so excited that he stood up behind his desk. Stood up and threw his stapler as hard as he could at his office door. The stapler broke the glass in the center of his doorframe, on which the wordsSheriff John Hartwellhad been written. Now, thanks to the stapler, there was only a gaping hole—a gaping hole soon filled by the face of Marguerite Ruiz, wearing an incredulous expression and mouthing the wordsWhat the hell?