He hid his face again.
Pam left and returned with Gladys, who carried a bottle of brandy and glasses.
Seeing Moreland in that state frightened the housekeeper.
"Dr. Bill-"
"Please go back to bed," said Pam, "we'll need you in the morning."
Gladys wrung her hands.
"Please, Gladys."
Moreland said, "I'm fine, Gladys," in a voice that proved otherwise.
The old woman chewed her cheek and finally left.
"Brandy, Dad?"
He shook his head.
She filled a glass anyway and held it out to him.
He waved off the liquor but accepted some water. Pam took his pulse and felt his forehead.
"Warm," she said. "And you're sweating."
"The room's hot," he said. "All the glass."
The windows were open and scented air flowed through the screens. Chilly air. My hands were icy.
Pam wiped Moreland's brow. "Let's get some fresh air, Dad."
We moved to the terrace, Moreland offering no resistance as Pam put him at the head of the empty dining table.
"Here, have some more water."
He sipped as the rest of us stood around. The sky was blue suede, the moon a slice of lemon rind. Droplets of light hit the ocean. I looked out over the railing, watching as lights switched on rapidly in the village.
I poured brandy all around.
Moreland's eyes were fixed and wide.
"Insane," he said. "How could they think it!"
"Do they have evidence?" said Jo.
"No!" said Moreland. "They claim he- someone found him."
"At the scene?" I said.
"Sleeping at the scene. Convenient, isn't it?"
"Who found him?" said Jo.
"A man from the village."
"A credible man?" Something new in her voice- scientist's skepticism, an almost hostile curiosity.
"A man named Bernardo Rijks," said Moreland. "Chronic insomniac. Takes too many daytime naps." He looked at the brandy. "More water please, kitten."
Pam filled a glass and he gulped it empty.
"Bernardo takes a walk late at night, has for years. Down from his home on Campion Way to the docks, along the waterfront, then back up. Sometimes he makes two or three circuits. Says the routine helps make him drowsy."
"Where's Campion Way?" I said.
"The street where the church is," said Pam. "It's unmarked."
"The street where Victory Park is."
Moreland gave a start. "Tonight when he passed the park he heard groans and thought there might be a problem. So he went to see."
"What kind of problem?" I said.
"Drug overdose."
"The park's a drug hangout?"
"Used to be," he said angrily. "When the sailors came into town. They'd drink themselves silly at Slim's or smoke marijuana on the beach, try to pick up local girls, then head for the park. Bernardo lives at the top of Campion. He used to call me to treat the stuporous boys."
"Is he credible?" said Jo.
"He's a fine gentleman. The problem's not with him, it's-" Moreland ran his fingers through the white puffs at his temples. "This is insane, just insane! Poor Ben."
I felt Robin tense.
"What happened then?" said Jo. "After this Bernardo went over to check the moaning?"
"He found…" Long pause. Moreland began breathing rapidly.
"Dad?" said Pam.
Inhaling and letting the air out, he said, "The moaning was Ben. Lying there, next to… the foul scene. Bernardo ran to the nearest home, woke the people up- soon a crowd gathered. Among them Skip Amalfi, who pinned Ben down until Dennis got there."
"Skip doesn't live nearby," I said.
"He was down on the docks fishing and heard the commotion. Apparently he now fancies himself the great white leader, taking charge. He twisted Ben's arm and sat on top of him. Ben was no danger to anyone. He hadn't even regained consciousness."
"Why was he unconscious?" I pressed.
Moreland studied his knees.
"Was he on drugs?" said Jo.
Moreland's head snapped up. "No. They claim he was drunk."
"Ben?" said Pam. "He's as much a teetotaler as you, Dad."
"Yes, he is…"
"Has he always been?" I said.
Moreland covered his eyes with a trembling hand. Touching his hair again, he twisted white strands. "He's been completely sober for years."
"How long ago did he have an alcohol problem?" I said.
"Very long ago."
"In Hawaii?"
"No, no, before that."
"He went to college in Hawaii. He had problems as a kid?"
"His problem emerged when he was in high school."
"Teenage alcoholic?" said Pam, incredulous.
"Yes, dear," said her father, with forced patience. "It happens. He was vulnerable because of a difficult family situation. Both his parents were drinkers. His father was an ugly drunk. Died of cirrhosis at fifty-five. Lung cancer got his mother, though her liver was highly necrotic, as well. Stubborn woman. I set her up with oxygen tanks in her home to ease the final months. Ben was sixteen, but he became her full-time nurse. She used to yank off the mask, scream at him to get her cigarettes."
"Poor genetics and environment," pronounced Jo.
Moreland shot to his feet and staggered, shaking off help from Pam. "Both of which he overcame, Dr. Picker. After he was orphaned, I put him up here, exchanging work for room and board. He started as a caretaker, then I saw how bright he was and gave him more responsibility. He read through my entire medical library, brought his grades up, stopped drinking completely."
Sadness had replaced Pam's surprise. Jealousy of his devotion to Ben or feeling left out because it was the first time she'd heard the story?
"Completely sober," repeated Moreland. "Incredible strength of character. That's why I financed the rest of his education. He's built a life for himself and Claire and the children… you saw him tonight. Was that the face of a psychopathic killer?"
No one answered.
"I tell you," he said, slapping the tabletop, "what they're claiming is impossible! The fact that it was a bottle of vodka near his hand proves it. He drank only beer. And I treated him with Antabuse, years ago. The taste of alcohol's made him ill ever since- he despises it."
"What are you saying?" said Jo. "Someone poured it down his throat?"
The coolness in her voice seemed to throw him off balance. "I- I'm saying he has no tolerance- or desire for alcohol."
"Then that's the only alternative I can see," she said. "Someone forced him to drink. But who would do that? And why?"
Moreland gritted his teeth. "I don't know, Dr. Picker. What I do know is Ben's nature."
"How was Betty killed?" I said.
"She… it was… a stabbing."
"Was Ben found with the weapon?"
"He wasn't holding it."
"Was it found at the scene?"
"It was… embedded."
"Embedded," echoed Jo. "Where?"
"In the poor girl's throat! Is it necessary to know these things?"
Robin was squeezing my hand convulsively.
"The whole thing is absurd!" said Moreland. "They claim Ben was right next to her- sleeping with her, his arms around her, his head on her… what was left of her abdomen. That he'd be able to sleep with her after something like that is- absurd!"
Robin broke away and ran to the railing. I followed her and covered her shoulders with my arms, feeling her shivers as she stared up at the bright yellow moon.
Back at the table, Jo was saying, "He mutilated her?"
"I don't want to continue this discussion, Dr. Picker. The key is to help Ben."
Robin wheeled around. "What about Betty? What about helping her family?"
"Yes, yes, of course that's…"
"She was pregnant! What about her unborn child? Her husband, her parents?"
Moreland looked away.
"What about them, Bill?"
Moreland's lips trembled. "Of course they deserve sympathy, dear. I ache for them. Betty was my patient- I delivered her, for God's sake!"
"Whooping cough," I said.
"What's that?"
"I spoke with her yesterday. She told me you treated her for whooping cough when she was a kid. She considered you a hero."
He slumped and sat back down. "Dear God…"
No one talked. Brandy got poured. It burned a slow, cleansing trail down my gullet, the only sensation in an otherwise numb body. Everyone looked numb.
"Anyone know the time?" I said.
Pam shot the sleeve of her kimono. "Just after four."
"Rise and shine," said Jo, softly. "I still don't see why we're all locked up here."
"For our own safety," said Moreland. "At least that's the theory."
"Who's out to get us?"
"No one."
"Ben is closely identified with this place," I said. "So people may start talking."
Moreland didn't answer.
Jo frowned. "Staying cooped up just makes us sitting targets. You've got no security here- anyone can walk right in."
"I've never needed security, Dr. Picker."
"Do you keep any weapons around?" she said.
"No! If you're concerned with your safety, I suggest you-"
"No problem," said Jo. "Personally, I'm fine. It's the only good thing that came out of losing Ly. When your worst fantasy comes true, you find out you can handle things."
She got up and shuffled toward the living room, tightening the belt of her robe, big hips shifting like the pans of a balance scale.
When she was gone, Robin said, "She's got a gun. A little pistol. I saw it in an open drawer of her nightstand."
Moreland's mouth worked. "I despise firearms."
Pam said, "Hopefully she won't shoot someone by accident. Is there any way you can get some rest now, Dad? You're going to be needing your strength."
"I'll be fine, dear. Thank you for your… ministrations, but I believe I'll stay up for a while." He leaned over as if to kiss her, but patted her shoulder instead. "Hopefully when the sun comes up, cooler heads will prevail."
"There are some things I'd like to discuss with you," I said.
He stared at me.
"Things we never got to last night."
"Yes, certainly. In the morning, right after I call Dennis-"
"I'm staying up, too. We can talk now."
He fidgeted with the neckband of his nightshirt. "Of course. What say we leave the terrace to the ladies and move to my office?"
I squeezed Robin's hand and she squeezed back and sat next to Pam, who looked baffled. But the two of them were already talking as Moreland and I left.
"What's so urgent?" he said, flicking the lights on in the bungalow. The newspaper clippings were gone from his desk. So were all his other papers; the wood surface gleamed.
"We never talked about A. Tutalo-"
"Surely you can see why that wouldn't be a priority at this time-"
"There are other things."
"Such as?"
"Murder. Ben. What's really going on with Aruk."
He said nothing for a while, then, "That's quite an agenda."
"We've got nowhere to go."
"Very well." He pointed crossly to the sofa and I sat, expecting him to settle in a facing chair. Instead, he went behind the desk, lowered himself with a grimace, opened a drawer, and began searching.
"You don't believe Ben could have done this," he said. "Do you?"
"I don't know Ben very well."
He gave a small, tired smile. "Psychologist's answer… Very well, I can't expect you to follow me blindly; you'll see, he'll be vindicated. The notion of his butchering Betty is beyond ridiculous- all right, trivial things first. "A. Tutalo.' You couldn't find an organism by that name because it's not a germ, it's a fantasy. A local myth. The "A' stands for "Aruk.' "Aruk Tutalo.' An imaginary tribe of creatures who live in the forest. Goes back years. A myth. No one's believed it for a long time."
"Except Cristobal."
"Joseph hallucinated. That's not belief."
"You convinced him he hadn't seen anything?"
Pause. "He was a stubborn man."
"Have there been other sightings?"
"None since I've lived here. As I said, it's a primitive idea."
"Creatures from the forest," I said. "What do they look like?"
"Pale, soft, hideous. A shadow society, living under the forest. Nothing unique to Aruk; all cultures develop fantasies of fanciful, lustful creatures in order to project forbidden desires- animal instincts. The minotaurs, centaurs, and satyrs of ancient Greece. The Japanese have a saucer-headed anthro-creature called the kappa who lurks by forest streams, abducting children and pulling their intestines through their anuses. Witches' rituals use animal masks to hide the faces of participants, the Devil himself is often thought of as the Great Beast with goat feet and a serpentine tail. Wood-demons, anthro-bat vampiric creatures, werewolves, the yeti, Bigfoot, it's all the same. Psychological defense."
"What about the catwoman-"
"No, no, that was something totally different."
"A response to trauma."
"A response to cruelty."
"Worm people," I said.
"There are no mammals native to Aruk- one uses what's at hand. "Tutalo' is derived from an ancient island word of uncertain etymology: tootali, or wood-grub. From what I've gathered they're large, humanoid, with tentaclelike limbs, slack bodied but strong. And chalky white. I find that particularly interesting. Perhaps a covert indictment of colonizers: white creatures "appearing' on the island and establishing brutal control."
"Demonizing the oppressor?"
"Precisely."
"Was Joseph Cristobal politically active?"
"On the contrary. A simple man. Illiterate. But fond of drink. I'm sure that had something to do with it. Today, your average villager would laugh at the notion of a Tutalo."
"He was your gardener. Did he sight the Tutalo here?"
He licked his lips and nodded. "He was working on the eastern walls, tying vines. Working overtime, everyone else had gone home. It was well after dark. Fatigue was probably a factor as well."
"Where did he see the creature?"
"Making its way through the banyans. Waving its arms, then retreating. He didn't tell anyone right away. Too scared, he claimed, but I suspect he'd been drinking and didn't want to be thought of as a drunkard or old-fashioned."
"So he suppressed the vision and began hallucinating at night?"
"It began as nightmares. He'd wake up screaming, see the Tutalo in his room."
"Could the original sighting have taken place as he slept?" I said. "Could he have dozed off on the job and made up the vision to cover up?"
"I wondered about that, but of course he denied it. I also wondered if he'd fallen off his ladder and hurt his head, but there were no bruises or swellings anywhere on his body."
"Was he an alcoholic?"
"He wasn't a raving drunk but he did like his spirits."
"Could the visions have been alcohol poisoning?"
"It's a possibility."
"Bill, exactly how endemic is alcoholism on Aruk?"
He blinked and removed his glasses. "In the past it was a serious problem. We've worked hard at education."
"Who's we?"
"Ben and myself, which is why what's happened tonight is madness, Alex! You must help him!"
"What would you like me to do?"
"Speak to Dennis. Let him know Ben couldn't have done it, that he simply doesn't fit the profile of a psychopathic killer."
"Why would Dennis listen to me?"
"I don't know that he would, but we must try everything. Your training and experience will give you credibility. Dennis respects psychology, majored in it in junior college."
"What profile don't you think Ben fits?"
"The FBI's two forms of lust-killer: he's neither the disorganized, low-intellect spree-murderer nor the calculating, sadistic psychopath."
The FBI had earned a lot of TV time with patterns of serial killers obtained from interviews with psychopaths careless enough to get caught. But psychopaths lied for the fun of it, and profiles rarely if ever led to the discovery of a killer, occasionally confirming what police scut work and luck had already accomplished. Profiles had been responsible for some serious fallacies: Serial killers never murdered across race. Till they did. Women couldn't be serial killers. Till they were.
People weren't computer chips. People had the uncanny ability to surprise.
But even if I'd had more faith in the orderly nature of evil, Ben wouldn't have been easily acquitted.
Right after Lyman Picker's death, Robin and I had discussed the hardness of his personality, and I recalled the cold, impersonal way he'd jabbed needles into the arms of the schoolchildren.
Family history of alcoholism.
Rough childhood, probably abuse from the "ugly drunk" father.
A certain rigidity. Tight control.
Outwardly controlled men sometimes lost it when under the influence of booze or drugs. A high percentage of serial killers committed their crimes buoyed by intoxication.
"I'll talk to him," I said. "But I doubt it'll do any good."
"Talk to Ben, too. Try to make some sense of this. I'm shackled, son."
"If I'm to succeed with Dennis, I need to be impartial, not Ben's advocate."
He blinked some more. "Yes, that makes sense. Dennis is rational and honest. If he responds to anything it'll be the rational approach."
"Rational and honest," I said, "but you don't want him dating your daughter."
It had slipped out like loose change.
He recoiled. Sank heavily into the desk chair. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, resigned voice:
"So you despise me."
"No, Bill, but I can't say I understand you. The longer I stay here, the more inconsistent things seem."
He smiled feebly. "Do they?"
"Your love for the island and its people seems so strong. Yet you tongue-lash Pam for hanging around Dennis. Not that it's my business- you've devoted your life to Aruk and I'm just a visitor."
He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.
"I know that this situation with Ben is terrible for you," I said, "but if I'm to stay here I need to know a few things."
Looking away, he said, "What else troubles you, son?"
"The fact that Aruk's so cut off from the outside world. That more of your energies haven't been spent opening it up. You say there's hope, but you don't act hopeful. I agree with you that TV's mostly garbage, but how can the people ever develop when their access to information is so limited? They can't even get mail on a regular basis. It's solitary confinement on a cultural level."
His hands started to shake again and spots of color made his cheeks shine.
"Forget it," I said.
"No, no, go on."
"Do you want to respond to what I just said?"
"The people have books. There's a library in the church."
"When's the last time new books came in?"
He used a fingernail to scrape something off the desktop. "What do you suggest?"
"More frequent shipping schedules. The leeward harbor's too narrow for big craft but couldn't the supply boats sail more often? And if the Navy won't allow planes to land on Stanton, why not build an airfield on the west side? If Amalfi won't cooperate, use some of your land."
"And how is all this to be financed?"
"Your personal finances are none of my business, either, but I've heard you're very wealthy."
"Who told you that?"
"Creedman."
His laugh was shrill. "Do you know what Creedman really does for a living?"
"He's not a journalist?"
"He's worked for a few minor papers, done some cable television work. But for the last several years he's written quarterly reports for corporations. His last client was Stasher-Layman. Have you heard of them?"
"No."
"Big construction outfit, based in Texas. Builders of government housing and other tax-financed projects. They put up ticky-tack boxes, sell the management contract for high profits, and walk away. Instant slum. Creedman's scribblings for them made them sound like saints. If I hadn't thrown the reports out, I'd show them to you."
"You researched him?"
"After we caught him snooping I thought it prudent."
"Okay," I said. "So he's a corporate hack. Is he wrong about your wealth?"
He pulled on a long, pale finger till it cracked. Righted his glasses. Brushed nonexistent dust from the desk.
"I won't tell you I'm poor, but family fortunes recede unless the heirs are talented in business. I'm not. Which means I'm in no position to build airports or lease entire fleets of boats. I'm doing all I can."
"Okay," I said. "Sorry for bringing it up, then."
"No apology necessary. You're a passionate young man. Passionate but focused. It's rare when the two go hand in hand: "I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and the life, whose fountains are within'- Coleridge said that. Another great thinker; even narcotics didn't still his genius… Your passion even comes through your scientific writing, son. That's why I asked you to join me."
"And here I thought it was my experience with police cases."
He sat back and let out another shrill laugh. "Passionate and observant. Yes, your experience with criminal behavior was a bonus because to me it means you have a strict sense of right and wrong. I admire your sense of justice."
"What does justice have to do with analyzing medical charts?"
"I was speaking in an abstract sense- doing things ethically."
"Are you sure that's it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Has the cannibal murder remained on your mind, Bill? Have you been more worried about recurrence than you let on? Because if that's it, you're going to be disappointed. I've gotten involved in a few bloody things, mostly because of my friendship with Milo Sturgis. But he's the detective, not me."
He took time to answer. Staring at his wife's watercolors. Twisting his fingers as if they were knitting needles.
"Worry's too strong a word, son. Let's just say the possibility of recurrence has remained in the back of my mind. AnneMarie's murder was my first real brush with this kind of thing, so I read up on it and learned that recurrence is the norm, not the exception. When I learned you had some experience with murder in addition to your scholarly achievements, I felt a great sense of… appropriateness."
"How similar is Betty's murder to AnneMarie Valdos's?"
"Dennis claims there are… similarities."
"Was Betty cannibalized?"
"Not…" He tapped the desk. The flutter of wings outside a window made us both start. Nightbirds or bats.
"Not yet," he said. "Nothing was missing. She was…" He shook his head. "Decapitated and eviscerated, but nothing had been taken."
"What about the long bones?"
"One leg was broken- hacked but not severed."
"What kind of knife was used?"
He didn't reply.
"Bill?"
"Knives," he said miserably. "A set of surgical tools were found there."
"Ben's?"
Headshake.
"Yours?"
"An old set I'd once owned."
"Did you give it to Ben?"
"No. It was kept here- in the lab. In a drawer of this desk."
"Where Ben had easy access."
He nodded, almost crying. "But you must believe me, Ben would never take anything without permission. Never! I know it sounds bad for him, but please believe me."
"AnneMarie had a drinking problem," I said. "You implied Betty did, too."
"Did I?"
"Back in the house you said she used to smoke and… Then you trailed off and said she'd been taking excellent care of herself during her pregnancy."
"The poor thing's dead. Why besmirch her memory?"
"Because it may be relevant. She's beyond hurt, Bill. Was she an alcoholic?"
"No, not an alcoholic. She was a… friendly girl. She smoked and drank a bit."
"What does friendly have to do with it?"
"Friendly," he said. "To the sailors."
"Like AnneMarie. One of those girls who went up to Victory Park. Was it common knowledge in the village?"
"I don't know what's common knowledge. I heard it from her mother."
"Her mother complained about Betty's promiscuity?"
"Ida brought Betty in to be treated for a venereal infection."
"Gonorrhea?"
He nodded.
"When?"
"A year ago. Before she became engaged. We kept it confidential from Mauricio- her boyfriend. Tested him, too, under a false pretense. Negative. Eventually they married."
"Maybe he found out anyway and reacted."
"This? No, not Mauricio. What was done to her was beyond… no, no, impossible. Mauricio's not a… calculating sort. He'd never have thought to incriminate Ben."
"Not smart enough?"
"He's simple. As was Betty."
I remembered Betty's open manner and easy smile. Trusting me enough after meeting me to talk about herself. No bra under the tank top…
"Simple and trusting," I said. "A drinker, overly friendly with the boys. Sounds like a perfect victim. What was Ben's relationship with her?"
"They knew each other the way everyone on the island knows each other."
"Did Ben know about her gonorrhea?"
He thought. "I didn't discuss it with him."
"But he could have found out- read it in the chart."
"Ben was busy enough without sticking his nose where it didn't belong."
"Maybe he came across it by accident. We both know you're not a compulsive filer."
No answer. He got up and paced, twisting his fingers again, bobbing his neck.
I said, "Learning that, he could have assumed she was easy."
"I didn't record the diagnosis in my notes. I made sure to protect her."
"What did you write?"
"Just that she had an infection that required penicillin."
"Someone with Ben's medical sophistication could have figured it out, Bill. And what about the lab tests? Did you destroy the results?"
"I- don't believe so… but still it's not possible. Not Ben. Why are you thinking in these terms?"
"Because I have an open mind. If that upsets you, we can end the discussion."
He gritted his teeth. "This isn't the last time I'll be hearing these kinds of speculations. I might as well get used to it. Let's assume- for the sake of argument- that Ben did know she'd been infected. Why in the world would he murder her?"
"As I said, it could have led him to believe she was easy. One scenario is that they'd had a relationship for a while, or even that last night was a one-night stand. In either case, they went up to the park, got drunk, and things got out of hand."
"That's ridiculous! You saw him with Claire tonight. He loves her, they've got so much going- the children."
"Lots of psychopaths lead double lives."
"No! Not Ben! And he's not a psychopath. He didn't kill AnneMarie and he didn't kill Betty!"
"Does he have an alibi for AnneMarie's murder?"
"He was never asked to present one. But I remember the way he reacted to the murder. Utterly revolted!"
"Did you tell him AnneMarie had been cannibalized?"
"No! Only Dennis and I knew. And now you."
"But once again, Ben had access to the information. And Dennis knows AnneMarie's murder file is here. So even if Ben does develop an alibi for the first murder, Dennis may suspect he read up on the case and pulled a copycat. To disguise murdering Betty."
"He's not a premeditated killer! This whole line of reasoning is spurious!"
"No one else knew about AnneMarie's wounds."
"The killer knew- a killer who isn't Ben."
"What about the fishermen who found AnneMarie's body?"
"Alonzo Rubino and Saul Saentz," he said. "They're even older than I. Saul's downright frail. And they didn't know the details."
"Leaving only Ben, who might have."
"You were at dinner tonight, son. Was that the demeanor of a cannibal butcher? Do you mean to tell me he drove Claire home, tucked her in bed, and left to commit murder?"
"He was in the park. What's his explanation for that?"
"Dennis hasn't interrogated him. Refuses to until there's an attorney present."
"Ben's still free to offer an explanation. Has he?"
He paused. "After Dennis and I had words, he was less than forthcoming."
"When will Ben have an attorney?"
"Dennis has wired to Saipan for a court-appointed lawyer."
"There are no lawyers on the island?"
"No. Until now that's been a plus."
"How long will it take for the appointee to get over?"
"The next boat's due in five days. If the base allows a plane to land, it could be sooner."
"Why would the base cooperate all of a sudden?"
"Because this is just what they want. Another nail in Aruk's coffin." He made a fist and regarded it as if it belonged on someone else's arm. The fingers opened slowly. The bandage on his hand was soiled.
"Why is the Navy waging war on the island, Bill?"
"The Navy's a branch of the government, and the government wants to rid itself of responsibility. Ben's arrest is yet another reason to abandon ship: murderous savages. Cannibals, no less. And if the fiend who murdered AnneMarie was a Navy man, he's now off the hook, so Ewing's got a vested interest in having Ben prosecuted."
"I thought you believed the killer had moved on."
"Perhaps he left and returned. Corpsmen fly in and out all the time. A look at Navy flight records would be instructive, but try obtaining them. There's more than one kind of barricade, Alex."
"You said Dennis never discovered any similar murders during the interim."
"That's true. As far as it goes. But some of the places in the region- I've heard there's a restaurant in Bangkok that serves human flesh. Perhaps apocryphal, perhaps not. But there's no doubt things go on we never hear about."
He rubbed his head. "Aruk has been abandoned, but I won't abandon Ben."
"Does Senator Hoffman also have a vested interest in Aruk's decline?" I said.
"Most probably, strip away the veneer of political correctness and you've got a strip-mall builder."
"In cahoots with someone like Creedman's employer- Stasher-Layman?"
"The thought has occurred to me."
"Creedman's an advance man?"
"I've thought about that, too."
"At dinner, Creedman and Hoffman acted as if they didn't know each other. But during the discussion of colonialism, Creedman rushed to defend Hoffman's point of view."
"The fool." He looked ready to spit. "That book of his. No one's ever seen it and he won't be pinned down on details. Why else would Hoffman invite him to that abysmal dinner? Nicholas does nothing without a reason."
"Have you found any connection between Hoffman and Stasher-Layman?"
"Not yet, but we mustn't get distracted. We must focus on Ben."
"When Ben caught Creedman snooping, what was Creedman after?"
"I have no idea. There's nothing to hide."
"What about the AnneMarie Valdos file? And not necessarily for nefarious reasons. Creedman's the one who told me about the murder. Said you did the autopsy, had the details. He sounded regretful. Maybe he smelled a good story."
"No. As much as I'd like to attribute something malicious to him, he was snooping before AnneMarie's murder. Now let's-"
"One more thing: after you came back from speaking to Hoffman alone, you looked dejected. Why?"
"He refused to help Aruk."
"Is that the only reason?"
"That's not enough?"
"I just wondered if there was some personal issue between the two of you."
He sat straighter. Stood and smiled. "Oh, there is. We dislike each other immensely. But that's ancient history, and I simply can't allow myself to be drawn into nostalgia. I acted stupidly with Dennis and now I'm persona non grata. But he may allow you to speak to Ben. Please call the police station tomorrow and ask his permission. If he grants it, use your professional skills to offer Ben psychological support. He's living a nightmare."
He came around and rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Please, Alex."
We hadn't gotten into his lie about being part of the Marshall Islands compensation, the nighttime boat rides. And he'd avoided explaining his reaction to Pam and Dennis's friendship. But the look in his eyes told me I'd taken things as far as I could tonight. Maybe there'd be another opportunity. Or maybe I'd be off Aruk before it mattered.
"All right," I said. "But let's get something straight: I'll give Ben the benefit of the doubt till the forensics come in. Unless I get into that cell and he tells me he murdered Betty- or AnneMarie. That happens, I'll march straight into Dennis's office and swear out a statement."
He walked away from me and faced the wall. One of the watercolors was at eye level. Palms over the beach. Not unlike the one where Barbara Moreland had drowned.
Delicate strokes, washed-out hues. No people. A loneliness so intense…
"I accept your conditions," he said. "I'm glad to have you on my side."