Dangerous Flirt(Laytons Book 2)(36)
While Hank waited for Little Elvis to finish a phone call in his office, he flipped through the velvet (of course) covered scrapbook on the reception counter. No matter what people may think of Elvis impersonators, this one was damn good at his job. The man was the spitting image of Elvis—a fat, short Elvis, sure, but Elvis all the same.
Someone coughed softly behind him. Hank glanced over his shoulder to find Little Elvis, dressed in jeans and a red-and-blue striped golf shirt but with his hair in the young Elvis pompadour, standing behind him.
“How may I help you, sir?” he asked in a clipped British accent.
Startled, it took Hank a minute to confirm the voice really did come from the man standing in the open doorway of the office. Who'da thought? Chalking it up to all the weird things life threw at you, Hank strode to Little Elvis and stuck out his hand.
“Thank you for seeing me. I'm Dry Creek County Sheriff Hank Layton and I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
The man glanced at the extended hand, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And where exactly is Dry Creek County?”
Lowering his hand, Hank's best aw-shucks grin tightened. “Nebraska.”
“You're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
That earned him a quirked eyebrow. The man gave him a considering look and his small green eyes stayed locked on Hank's face. “You were here last night. I believe you barged in on the nuptials of a Georgia and Franklin Beauchamp.”
“Yep, that was me alright, and that's why I need to ask you a favor.”
“Mmm-hmmm. It’s always good to have law enforcement owe you a favor, even if he's from as far away as… Nebraska, I believe you said?”
Hank nodded.
“Alright then, sheriff, I'm Alistair Armstrong. Please join me in my office where we can chat in peace.”
Following Armstrong into the office, he stopped dead as soon as he crossed the threshold. The room was as understated as the lobby was garish. Cool blue paint covered the walls, punctuated with a crisp white trim. Large black-and-white candid photos of Elvis backstage preparing for concerts decorated the walls in the few spots where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves didn't take up all the space. The only available seat was a dark-blue wingback chair.
Armstrong walked behind a large oak desk, took a few steps upward and sat down on a full-size black chair. He must have noticed a quizzical look on Hank's face because a slight flush deepened the pink of his round cheeks.
“It's a step stool. The small things make life more convenient, don't you think, Sheriff?”
Hank settled into the wingback chair. “That I do.”
“So, how can I assist you?”
“I'd like a copy of your surveillance video from last night.”
“Really?” He steepled his fingers and tapped them on his chin. “What makes you think I videotape my customers?”
“The right eye of the craft-project Elvis in your lobby looks an awful lot like a camera lens.”
Armstrong chuckled and leaned back in his seat. “Score one for the hick sheriff. Okay, I videotape my customers, for my own protection of course.”
Thinking for a moment of the money that could be made by Las Vegas wedding chapels that sold photos of celebrities making very bad marital choices, Hank laughed. “Uh-huh. Wedding chapels must make excellent pickings for…burglars.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever the reason you use the camera, I need to see the tape.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, actually, it does. You see, this is my chapel and here, I am the king.”
“No pun intended.”
“Of course not. Now, why do you want it?”
Hank sat back. His seat sat lower than Armstrong's, allowing the two men's eyes to be at the same level. Neither's gaze wavered. Taking in the other man's placid, wrinkle-free forehead, Hank realized he had no power here. He couldn't demand the tape or threaten him with jail. Shit, he was lucky Armstrong was even talking to him. Gut churning, he did what no cop liked to do, he told a civilian about his case.
Except for a few raised eyebrows, Armstrong's face showed no reaction to Hank's tale. “So you’re acting knight to the breathtaking senorita’s damsel in distress? How very noble of you.” He paused for a moment. “Why?”
The vein in Hank's temple began to throb. Like everything else that involved Beth, the process of gaining the video evidence wasn't going to be easy. “Because in Nebraska, that's how we're raised.”
“Bollocks.” He slapped his hand down on the desk. “Tell me the real reason.”
Heat rushed up Hank's back and his muscles tensed. This was going all wrong. “What do you care?”