Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

X-rayed and patted down.
    I do a warp-speed inventory of what’s in my bag, in case there’s anything embarrassing (feminine hygiene), or illegal (my contraband pepper spray) or both (the Oxycet I hoarded after my last bout with the periodontist). I glance at the young sailor, doing a warp-speed inventory of hisbodybuilder shoulders, steely eyes and white-gloved hands. Wonder if he does the patting?
    “You’re fine, ma’am,” the officer says. You are, too, I don’t say back, even though in a nanosecond I’ve somehow aged from Miss to Ma’am .
    Once the armed services are satisfied we’re not out to bring down the government, Franklin and I push though the brass-eagled handles of the double glass doors, past a series of oil paintings showing stern-faced officers in fancy dress uniforms, and follow a red-white-and-blue arrow down the stairway marked Records. We’re headed underground, I can tell, as the musty smell of basement overtakes the salt air of the high-windowed harborside reception area upstairs.
    A line of olive drab doors stretches out in front of us. Franklin walks determinedly ahead, double-checks the directions, then turns into an open doorway.
    Behind a dingy Formica counter, a uniformed officer, this one looking more like someone’s seafaring grandfather than the movie-star material manning the metal detector, adjusts his glasses and peers at me. His face crinkles into a beaming smile and he gives a little salute.
    “Charlie McNally,” he says. “I watch you every day. Your assistant told me you’d be with him, but I just didn’t believe it.”
    I can almost hear Franklin wince at the A word, but he keeps quiet. No one outside the biz really understands what producers do.
    “Hello, sir,” I say, coming toward the counter. “You’re…”
    “Chief Petty Officer Paul T. Rabb,” he answers, standing at attention and saluting again. “Retired. You did that investigation on port security—got us lots of good new resources. When your assistant called, I thought the least I could do is grease a few skids. You could get this paperwork anyway, eventually, but the red tape’d choke you first.”
    Franklin holds out a hand. “I’m Franklin Parrish,” he says, “Charlie’s produ—”
    Before he can get his title corrected, Rabb hefts a stack of manila file folders into Franklin’s arms.
    “Oof,” Franklin grunts, staggering back a step under the weight. The papers inside threaten to slide out, and Franklin pulls a quick juggle maneuver to keep everything together.
    I twinkle at my new pal. “He’s up for some weight training, I guess,” I say. Franklin will know I’m teasing. I hope.
    “Would you like some coffee while you look at the ownership records?” Rabb offers. “I could show you the officers’ mess.” He’s looking at me, not at Franklin. Of course he’s smitten, but not my sailor boy upstairs.
    “Oh, no, thanks,” I begin. “I’m—”
    “She’d love some coffee,” Franklin says. I get it. Payback for the weight-training crack. “In fact, you two just go have fun, and I’ll look through these.”
     
     
    “You owe me, Franko.” I’m back with my armed-services coffee and I want information. “What are you…?”
    Franklin’s sitting at a government-issue metal table, tucked at the back of the records room; he’s sorting the files as if he’s dealing some oversize game of solitaire. After a moment, he taps the largest pile with his pencil.
    “Carlo Bronizetti of Exotel,” he pronounces. Another tap. “A. Grimes Brown, CEO of Rogers Chalmers Enterprises.” Tap. “The Islington brothers, Alexander and Sam.”
    He looks up at me. “According to these Coast Guard boat registrations, so kindly provided by your very ownsalty dog, they are all co-owners of the sleek sloop Miranda . And guess who the other owner is?”
    I know the answer, of course. A certain arrogant, golf-playing, double-talking CEO.
    “Wes Rasmussen,” I say confidently. “Am I right