CHAPTER
38

The Gulfstream's cabin smelled of fresh flowers, apples, and tequila.

Tristram Wydette's long frame stretched the length of a brocade sofa on the plane's port side, a copy of Hustler tented over his face. Breathing slowly, evenly. One manicured hand brushed the carpet. Near his fingers sat a chrome-plated iPod.

Quinn Glover, larger and heavier in real life, with the bland good looks of a budding politico, sat with his feet up, wearing eyeshades, sucking from a bottle of Silver Patron and bopping in time to whatever tune-buzz his gold-plated iPod was offering.

Both boys wore camouflage cargo pants and tight black T-shirts that showcased muscular builds. Combat boots and dirty white socks littered the aisle.

Uniformed for a mission.

Milo yanked Quinn up first, had him cuffed, belted into his chair, eyes and ears exposed, before his mouth could close.

Tristram remained asleep. Milo flipped him like a pancake, yanked out his earbuds.

Both boys gaped.

Milo said, "You guys watch a lot of TV?"

Blank stares.

"I'm sure you know the drill, but here goes: Tristram Wydette, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to keep your stupid mouth shut, whether or not you talk really doesn't matter squat to me..."

The evolution of each boy's facial expression was as uniform as their getup: drowsy surprise morphing to cornered-animal shock, upgrading to terror, then tears.

Milo called for backup and we watched them sob.

Worth the price of admission.