Hey, money talks and frankly, I don’t care how they accomplished it, I’m just happy to be out of the wicked wind and frigid rain.
By the time two officers grace us with their presence, we’re drinking hot coffee in a small nook near a fireplace. Near retirement, the older one has permanent grimace lines etched around his lips, eyes and forehead. The other’s green around the gills.
I glare at my husband. “No rambling. I’m not kidding.”
“Yes ma’am.” His grin says the opposite as he eyes the two approaching men.
“Are you Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliff?” The brilliant question comes from the gray-haired man.
No dumbass, we’re the other couple who got chased by Russians, lost in a rowboat, and called nine-one-one.As I open my mouth to express my opinion, Suds pinches my thigh, really hard.
Pushing me behind him, he points as he speaks. “Yes, sir. That would be us. And this here is Lanita Manuel, he’s Dashiell Montclair, and um… he’s just Tony.”
“I’m Sargent Bradly and this is Officer Trent. Would you mind handing over your weapons?”
“Not a problem.” Under my husband’s direction, we all disarm and after, the wide-eyed rooky fills out receipts.
As he gathers up our pistols and knives, the older cop turns to Landy, “And yours, miss?”
She points at our stowaway. “Ask him. He and his pal took my weapons after they kidnapped me.”
The bearded CloudTekToy employee scowls. “She means I disarmed a crazed woman as I saved her from Russian mobsters.”
“No, I meant what I said. You abducted me, you asshole.”
He cowers behind me and mutters under his breath, “You’re welcome, bitch.”
No doubt dreaming of tropical drinks sporting tiny paper umbrellas, the sixtyish cop rubs the back of his neck. “Shut it. You’ll have plenty of time to talk down at the station. Unfortunately, I have only one squad car.”
“Stan, can you help me out?” He directs this question to Jeeves.
“Sure thing, Walt. Just a sec, I’ll need to tell Martha I’ll be gone for a bit.”
While I appreciate their small-town folksiness, I’m also concerned by the size of their force. At the police station, their captain informs us he doesn’t have the resources to deal with our mess, they hand everything over to the FBI, and we end up travelling to Seattle.
As the word gets out, bets take place, and Suds is thrilled. I, on the other hand, would love to bite someone’s head off. A box of Starbucks is no match for Dunkin’s and whoever thought croissants are a substitute for donuts is out of their fucking mind. I am never moving to the west coast.
During our long wait, we all agreed no one would speak without lawyers present. We left an injured man in the cottage, dead Chinese in Long Island, and there’s a small matter of espionage.
Soggy, my wound stinging from salt water, and sand in places I’d rather not mention, the police keep me waiting. Done counting the number of floor tiles, cement blocks, and dots in the ceiling, I cross my arms on the table, lay my head down, and sleep.
I wake in the middle of a nightmare starring Super Special Agent Young and a dark roast blend.
“Want to tell me what the Russians were doing in Blaine?” He pushes the cup closer.
The stuff smells burnt but I drink it all the same. “I have no idea.”
I look around. “Where’s my lawyer?”
“Not here yet.”
“Then, neither am I.”
“How about I talk, and you listen?”
“How about you let me take a shower and give me clean clothes?”
He opens the door, calls out, and grants my request. Refreshed, unsalted, and restored, I return to the room where a harried man holds out his hand. I hate to judge a book by a crumpled suit, but if he is my lawyer, he does not instill confidence.
