For the next hour and a half, we were dispassionate scientists, discussing cases, suggesting different ways to organize the data.
Moreland looked at his watch. "Feeding time for Emma and her friends. Thank you for a stimulating afternoon. It's not often I get to engage in collegial discussions."
I thought of his daughter the physician, trained in public health. "My pleasure, Bill."
He strode to the door. "It'll be dark soon, don't work too hard," he said. "I didn't bring you over here to enslave you."
Alone, I sat back and looked out the window at the fountain spitting jewels.
My mind's eye kept focusing on the photos of AnneMarie Valdos's murder scene.
White body on dark rock; the details Moreland and Laurent had withheld.
Probably what Creedman had been after when Ben caught him snooping: ace reporter comes to islands to find himself, finds a gore-fest instead, and phones his agent ("What a concept, Mel!").
Then he came up against Moreland and was cut off from the information. And resented it.
Moreland had concealed the whole truth from his beloved islanders but offered them to me after a forty-eight-hour acquaintance.
Wanting input from me… about human motivation.
More worried about recurrence than he'd admitted?
Couching it in collegiality-a couple of guys with doctorates having a clubby chat about two-legged supper.
A brilliantly colored bird flew past the window. The sky was still a peacock blue I'd seen only on crayons.
I got up and headed for Robin's studio. What would I tell her?
By the time I reached the door, I'd decided on limited honesty: letting her know I'd discussed the murder with Moreland and that he believed it an isolated crime, but leaving out the details.
She wasn't there. Bits of shell were laid out neatly atop the flat file along with a billet of koa and two small chisels.
No dust. Wishful thinking.
I went looking for her, finally spotted her down by the fruit groves, a white butterfly flitting among the citrus trees, Spike a wiggly, dark shadow at her feet.
I jogged to her side, she put her arm in mine, and we walked together.
"So how did work go?" she said.
"Very scholarly. What'd you do?"
"Played around in the studio, but it was a little frustrating not being able to work, so Mr. Handsome and I decided to stroll. The estate's wonderful, Alex. Huge. We made it all the way to the edge of the banyan jungle. Bill must have sunk a fortune into landscaping; there are some beautiful plantings along the way- herbs, wildflowers, a greenhouse, orchids growing on tree trunks. Even the walls are pretty. He's got different kinds of vines trailing down them. The only thing that spoils it is the barbed wire."
She stopped to pick up an orange that had dropped, peeled it surgically as we continued.
"How much of the jungle can you see over the walls?"
"Treetops. And those aerial roots. There's a coolness that seems to make its way over. Not a breeze. Even milder. A subtle current. I'd take you there but Spikey didn't like it, kept pulling away."
"Our little mine detector."
"Or some kind of animal on the other side. I couldn't hear anything, but you know him."
I bent and rubbed behind the dog's bat ears. His flat face looked up at me, comically grave.
"With those radar detectors, it's no wonder," I said. "Finally style and substance merge."
She laughed. "Umm, smell those orange blossoms? This is great, Alex."
I kept my mouth shut.
We decided to dive the following morning and got up for an early breakfast. Jo Picker was already on the terrace dressed in a black T-shirt and loose pants, her hair tied back carelessly, sooty shadows under her eyes. She kept both hands on her coffee cup and stared down into it. The food on her plate was untouched.
When Robin touched her shoulder, she smiled weakly. Spike's licking her hand sparked another smile.
As we sat down, she said, "Ly never liked dogs… too much maintenance."
Her lips tightened, then trembled. She stood abruptly and marched into the house.
We left Spike in the run with KiKo and drove down to South Beach. As I turned off Front Street to park, I looked up the coastal road. The Navy blockade was at the top, a crude wall of gray concrete, at least twenty feet tall. It appeared to be crammed into the hillside. Warning signs applied generously. An extension of chain link and barbed wire snaked up the hill and continued into the brush.
The beach at that point was just a narrow spit and the wall cut across it and continued into the ocean, creating a damming effect. But the water was shallow and still, lapping weakly at the algae-stained base of the sea-barrier. Large chunks of coral were stacked nearby, desiccated and sunbaked: part of the reef had been shattered to accommodate the barrier.
I parked atop the widest section of beach. The sand was as smooth and white as a freshly made bed, the lagoon that same silvery green.
We collected our gear, and as I carried it to the shoreline, I noticed flat, smooth rocks above the tide pools.
The altar where AnneMarie Valdos had been sacrificed.
To what?
We stepped onto the sand. The temperature was holding as mild and steady as Moreland had promised. When I tested the lagoon with my foot, there was no chill, and when I eased in for a swim a soft warmth enveloped me.
"Perfect," I called out to Robin.
We put on our fins and masks and snorkels, flipper-walked the shallows till the water reached our thighs, then knifed in and floated belly down on the surface of the pool. The reef took a long time to deepen, finally reaching eight feet as we neared the brown-red ring of coral that held back the ocean.
The coral colonies grew in wide, flat beds. Despite the lack of current, the reef's living rock seemed to dance, patches of tiny animals sharing space with bio-condos of sea urchins, chitons, feather duster worms, and gooseneck barnacles. Small, brilliant fish grazed, untroubled by our presence: electric-blue damsels, lemon-yellow tangs, confident gray-black French angels, shocking-pink basslets with the stern little faces of tax auditors. Orange-and-white clownfish nested in the soft, stinging embrace of fluorescent sea anemones.
The bottom sand was fine, almost downy, spotted with shells and rocks and shreds of coral. The sunlight made its way down easily, dappling the ocean floor. We shattered the light with our shadows, causing some of the shells to move in reflexive panic.
Drifting in opposite directions, we explored separately for a while, then I heard Robin burble through her breathing tube and turned to see her pointing excitedly at the far end of the reef.
Something torpedo shaped was shooting between us, speeding across the lagoon. A small sea turtle, maybe a foot long, head down, legs compressed, skimming the top of the coral as it headed for bluer pastures.
I watched it disappear, then looked back at Robin, making the OK sign. She waved and I paddled to her, extending a hand. We bumped masks in a mock kiss, then swam together, thrilled and weightless, suspended like twins in a warm salty womb.
When we got back on the beach we were no longer alone.
Skip Amalfi and Anders Haygood had spread a horse blanket thirty feet from our clothes. Skip was lying on his back, eyes closed, belly surging and collapsing as he sucked on a cigarette and blew smoke. Haygood crouched nearby, hairy thighs thick as logs, tongue tip sticking out the corner of his mouth. Concentrating as he pulled the limbs off something huge and ugly.
The biggest crab I'd ever seen. Easily thirty inches from claw to claw, with a knobby, blue, spotted carapace and pincers the size of bear traps. My year for monster arthropods.
Haygood looked up at us and snapped a leg free, watched the juice drip out of it, then held it up and waved it.
"Ma'am. Sir." Again, the gray eyes washed over Robin and I became aware of how she looked in her two-piece, hair dripping over smooth, bare shoulders, hips swelling above the low-cut bottom, the sharp, sweet contrast between bronze skin and white nylon.
She turned her back on them just as Skip sat up. Both men watched her trudge to our blanket. Walking in the sand made her sway more than she intended to.
"Big crab," I said.
"Stoner," said Haygood. "Great eating- can I give you a couple of legs, sir?"
"No, thanks."
"You're sure?"
"Forget it," said Skip. "Old man Moreland don't eat animals."
"That's right," said Haygood. "Too bad. Stoners are great eating. This one liked coconuts- that's why it's blue. When they eat other things, they can be orange. I've seen them even bigger, but he's healthy."
"Mean though," said Skip. "Bite your finger clear off. Best thing is throw 'em in the pot live- how was your swim?"
"Great."
"See any octopus?"
"No, just a turtle."
"Little one?"
I nodded.
"Last summer's hatch. They come in, lay at the breaker line, bury the eggs. The natives dig 'em up- makes a helluva omelet. The suckers that make it swim the hell out of here, but most of them get eaten, too. Sometimes a real stupid one comes back. Musta been what you saw."
"Checking out the old 'hood," said Haygood, laughing. His teeth were widely spaced and white. The sun turned his body hair into dense copper wire.
"Octopus are smart," said Skip. "Those big eyes, you swear they're checking you out." A glance Robin's way.
"Best omelet for my money is tern," said Haygood. "Lays pink eggs. First time people see it they freak out, think it's blood. But pink's the true color. Pink omelet." He licked his lips. "Salty- like duck."
"You can have it, man," said Skip. "Too fuckin' gamy."
Haygood smiled. "Well, I go for the pink."
Skip snickered.
"Shark's good eating, too," said Haygood, "but you have to soak the meat in acid or it tastes like piss- how long are you here for, doc?"
"Couple of months."
"Like it?"
"It's beautiful."
They looked at each other. Haygood snapped off another crab leg.
Skip said, "Rich people would dig this place, right?"
"I guess anyone who likes swimming and relaxing would."
"What about you? What kind of stuff do you dig?"
"All kinds of things."
He dragged on his cigarette and flipped the butt onto the spotless sand. "Me and my buddy Hay here wanna build a resort. But different. Grass huts, like a Club Med. Pay one price up front, get your food, drinks, the works. No TV or phones or video movies, just swimming and digging the beach, maybe we'll bring some girls over to put on a dance show or something."
His eyes got hard. "So what do you think?"
"Sounds good."
"It does, huh?"
"Sure."
He spat on the sand. "I figure rich assholes from the mainland'd go for it in a big way, right? 'Cause otherwise, we'd hafta go for the Japanese tour groups like all the other islands do." He put both hands in front of his face, hooked his upper teeth over his lower lip and flexed his thumbs.
"Take pikcha, crick crick." He laughed.
Haygood smiled and examined the crab's legless body.
"Full of roe," he said. "A girl."
"We wanna get Americans," said Skip. "This is America even though no one in America knows shit about this place."
"Good luck." I started to walk away.
"Wanna invest?" he called after me.
I was about to laugh, then I saw his face and stopped.
"I'm not really much of an investor."
"Then maybe you should start, man. Get in early. Guys who invested in Hawaii after the war are wiping their asses with hundred-dollar bills."
He held out a palm, as if panhandling.
"Hey, the man came here to mellow out," said Haygood. "Give him a break."
Skip flipped him a middle finger and his weak chin struggled for a jut. "Shut the fuck up, man. I'm talking business, here."
Haygood didn't speak, but his wrists flexed and the crab's torso shattered wetly.
Skip tried to stare him down, but the older man ignored him.
"Think about it, man," said Skip, passing some of the anger over to me. "Talk to your lady; she looks pretty smart."
Another glance Robin's way. She'd draped her shoulders with a towel and was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking out at the sea.
A voice to my back said, "Gentlemen," and Skip's dull eyes narrowed. Haygood wiped his hands with a T-shirt but his face didn't move.
I turned. Dennis Laurent stood on the sand in full mirrored sunglasses flashing white light. He looked vast. None of us had heard him approach.
He touched an eyebrow. "Doctor. Got a nice stoner, there, Hay. Must be what, six, seven pounds of meat?"
"Eight at least," said Skip.
"Pull it off a coco?"
"Didn't have to," said Haygood. "Lazy one, sleeping over there." He pointed to the tide pools.
"Nothing like an easy target," said Laurent. "I see you finally got in the water, doc. Nice?"
"Perfect."
"Always is. Have a nice day, gentlemen." He and I walked to Robin. His shoed feet were steady on the sand. Spotting the butt Skip had discarded, he picked it up and pocketed it.
"Those two give you any trouble?"
"No. Are they troublemakers?"
"Not generally, but they've got too much free time and one IQ between them, most of it Haygood's. Skip hit on you for his resort scheme, right?"
"Just before you arrived."
"Club Skip. Ready to call your broker?"
"Got a cell phone?"
He laughed. "Can't you just see Skip greeting a boatload of tourists-"Hey, welcome to fucking Aruk, man."'
"Chamber of commerce should hire him."
"Yeah," he said, "if we had one- hello, Ms. Castagna. How was the water?"
"Warm."
"Always is. Something about the lack of water movement and the insulating properties of the coral. I'm happy to see you two finally enjoying yourselves. Finally got a callback from the Navy: just headed up to the estate to talk to Mrs. Picker. They found the wreckage just inside Stanton. Nothing much left; they'll be shipping the remains back to the States, billing her later for the transport."
"You're kidding."
"Wish I was. Captain Ewing thinks he's being generous because the plane was trespassing on military property. He says he could have filed a complaint, fined Picker bigtime, and the estate would be financially responsible."
"That's despicable," said Robin.
Laurent flicked a speck of sand off his badge. "Yup. How's Mrs. Picker doing?"
"This morning she looked pretty exhausted."
"I'd better leave out the part about the bill for now. Knowing the military- I'm an ex-Marine- they'll take two years just to finish the paperwork, if they even follow through. Trouble is, I'm not going to be able to get her the body. Even if Ewing was cooperative, there's no real mortuary here, just a couple of guys who dig graves for the cemetery behind the church, and no supply boat for another ten days or so. Without proper embalming it could get pretty ripe-"
He stopped himself. "Sorry."
"Why's Ewing so hostile?" I said.
He shrugged. "Maybe it's his nature, maybe he doesn't like being here. He was involved in Skipjack- that Navy sex scandal in Virginia? Got exiled here because of it. But maybe that's just talk… Anyway, I'll just tell Mrs. Picker the Navy's doing her a favor by shipping the body. Ewing asked me to get an address. She can have someone claim it back in the States."
He removed his shades and blew sand off the lenses. His light eyes took in the beach, the harbor. Lingering for a split second on the flat rocks above the tide pools. Or had I imagined it?
"Do you know if Doctor Bill's up at the house?" he said.
"He wasn't at breakfast."
"He's usually up way before breakfast. Goes to sleep late, too. Never met a man who needs less sleep, always moving, moving, moving. If you see him, tell him hi. Pam, too."