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 mean everyone—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 Dakota right 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 words Sheriff John Hartwell had 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 words What the hell?

John pointed at the phone receiver he was holding to his ear. We have him, he mouthed. Aloud, he said, “So where are you, Mrs. Tifton?”

“I’m at 24 Hour Fitness,” Mrs. Tifton whispered. “I don’t normally work out here, but I might change gyms, because they were very nice just now about letting me bring my dog in—you met my dog, didn’t you, Sheriff? My dog, Daisy?”

“I did meet your dog,” John said, while scrawling 24 Hour Fitness on a pad near his phone and holding it up for Marguerite to see. She nodded, then spoke quietly into her shoulder radio. “Your dog, Daisy, is lovely.”

“She is, isn’t she? Anyway, I was walking Daisy this morning, like I usually do, and thought I’d stop by the Cuban coffee place, because they make the best café con leches, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” On the pad, John wrote, NO SIRENS. DO NOT SPOOK HIM and showed it to Marguerite. She nodded and again spoke quietly into her shoulder radio.

“Well, I was there ordering my coffee, and who do I see but this boy, also ordering coffee, and he starts petting my dog—everyone loves to pet my dog because she’s just so cute, if I do say so myself. And I think to myself, ‘Well, this boy looks just like the boy from the photo in the paper this morning.’ Only he’s wearing a baseball hat, maybe as a disguise, but I think, ‘Well, that’s not a very good disguise, because you can still see all the tattoos and the ear thingies.’ And do you know what, Sheriff? I could smell him. And this boy smelled exactly like the hooded shirt you all found at my house! Not only that, but do you know what he said to me?”

“I do not,” John said.

“He notices me looking at him and he says, ‘I bet you’re thinking I’m that guy from the paper today.’ Well, I couldn’t have been more shocked, because that’s exactly what I was thinking! And I said to him, ‘As a matter of fact, I do. You know that boy robbed me and also vandalized my library.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Oh, that was your library? I thought it was the people’s library.’ And I said, ‘It is, but I’m the person who donated all the money to renovate it.’ And he said, ‘Well, thank you for that. We need more libraries in this world. I’m sorry my friends and I did that to your library. But you know it technically belongs to the people, and we’re the people, so we have the right to do what we want.’ And so of course I said, ‘Young man, respectfully, I disagree.’”

John could feel himself beginning to sweat, even though he kept the air-conditioning at the sheriff’s department—as opposed to his home—at a strict seventy degrees. He was clutching the phone so tightly, he thought it might break in his hand.

“And he has the nerve to smile at me and say, ‘Well, you’re not going to turn me in, are you?’ And do you know, Sheriff, I was so scared—I mean, he scared me! Something in that smile! And his eyes—like he was dead inside. So I said, ‘Of course not. You’re kind to dogs, so how bad can you be?’ Because he was standing right there! Petting my dog! He could have broken little Daisy’s neck! What else could I do?”

“You did exactly the right thing, Mrs. Tifton,” John said into the phone. Covering the mouthpiece, he said to Marguerite, “How many?”

“We’ve got one car in the area, two on the way. The one in the area should be there any second.”

“Who is it?”

“Martinez.”

“Good.” To Mrs. Tifton, he said, “So how did you end up at the gym, ma’am?”

“Well, I figured I should follow him, see where he’s staying.” John almost rolled his eyes. No wonder the widow and Molly Montgomery got along so well. The two of them had both read way too many detective novels. “And it turns out, it’s the gym.”

Of course. Of course it was. Beckwith could rent a locker for his stuff, have all the hot showers and clean towels and soap he needed, get in a good workout, and probably even sleep there in some dark space if there was no one else around—and if the night staff was female or gay, he could charm them into letting him stay, depending on how susceptible they were to his charms—all for only twenty dollars a day. It was so much cheaper than a hotel room and so much more convenient than crashing in some vacant house or building.

John could have kicked himself for not having thought of it before.

“And you’re sure he’s there now, Mrs. Tifton?”

“Well, I’m watching him right now on the elliptical—Oh, there’s a sheriff’s deputy coming in—did you send him?”

“I did. Listen, Mrs. Tifton, I want you to stay out of the way. You’ve done an absolutely amazing thing, but I can’t afford to let you get hurt.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Sheriff. I’m a tough old bird. Ooh, your deputy is arresting the boy! He’s putting handcuffs on him!” Mrs. Tifton wasn’t bothering to whisper anymore. “I can’t wait to tell all of my friends!”

“Tell them what, Mrs. Tifton?”

“That Daisy and I caught the High School Thief, of course!”

“Neither can I, Mrs. Tifton,” John said, feeling better than he’d felt in a long time. “Neither can I.”