She was dressed casually staring into the computer screen. Her denim shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was cryi...g. ‘Paul McCartney called. He’s been detained at Heathrow. He wants you.’ I kept walking to my office. ‘Tell Mr. McCartney I’ll take the next flight, post his bond, and tell him I expect him in my office tomorrow. And why are you crying?’ Paul McCartney was actually James Paul Beatie, aka, Jimmy Beetle. Heathrow was wherever the authorities were. She unlocked the door, stepped in and turned around. She had a look in her eye that told me she was unsettled, and she was still shaking. “Please come in for a moment, I don't want to be alone. I'll make some coffee.” I agreed, and stepped into her kitchen. She looked at me, and I asked her if she was scared. “No, I was confident I could take care of myself.” “But,” I said, “you are shaking and you look out of sorts.” She stepped closer to me, looked up at me with doe eyes, “You have no idea. More

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