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 hung up. Smiled. Drove toward the sunset with one hand on the wheel and one problem less.
I left him there. Some men don’t need arresting. They need the quiet realization that the floor they’re standing on is actually a trapdoor. Magnum P.I.
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.
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?” Back in the car, I radioed Higgins from the glovebox phone
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I turned the key. The 308 GTS coughed once, then remembered it was Italian and purred like a satisfied cat. Through the gates of Robin’s Nest, past the tidepools where the crabs don’t pay rent, onto the Pali Highway with the wind peeling back the years. “Robin’s Nest, this is Magnum
Higgins would be watching from the main house. Binoculars. Probably a cup of Earl Grey, judging the angle of my exit like I was docking a battleship. Let him.