Twenty Blue Devils (7 page)
"Well, how could she? He was lying out in the sun for a week. They shipped him back to Tahiti in a body bag inside a box. Therese wouldn't even open it."
Gideon shuddered with real empathy. “Who would? But it still means he's never been positively identified."
"So who's arguing with you, but who else could it be?” he demanded again. “It's common sense, that's all. Brian went there and he never came back, right? They found his body right under the, what do you call it, the plateau where he was camping, right?” John's arms had begun to flail dangerously near his brandy glass. “The local police say nobody else is missing, right?"
"Right, don't get so excited. It probably
is
Brian. But ‘probably’ and ‘definitely’ are qualitative distinctions—"
"Doc, Doc, don't do this to me. You know what Charlie says about you?"
Charlie was Charlie Applewhite, John's boss, and Gideon knew exactly what the special agent in charge of the FBI's Seattle office said about him. Applewhite had said it to his face not long ago after reading a report that Gideon had turned in.
"Dr. Oliver,” he had said matter-of-factly, his small, square hands folded on the gleaming surface of his desk, “I have often wondered why it is that whenever we call you in on what gives every indication of being a simple and straightforward case, it always seems to end up being such a wondrously, stupendously, mind-bogglingly, screwed-up mess."
It had pricked Gideon's temper. If the FBI wanted a cursory analysis from him the next time, he had replied, one in which he accepted things on their surface and told them what they wanted to hear, just let him know and he would oblige. He would even adjust his fees downward.
"Look, John,” he said now, “the only way I can work is to start with what I
know
and go from there. I'm not going to accept something as a given because it's common sense. You ought to know that. What do you want me to do, base my findings on what people think?"
"Hell, I don't know what I want,” John said, yawning. “I just want you to find out what there is to find out, okay? I'm sorry I said anything. Whatever you come up with is fine with me."
"Fine. That's what I want too."
"Fine. Great.” He tipped his seat all the way back and settled down, then cocked one eye open. “Just keep it simple, will you?"
And with that he was asleep, not a man to give a second thought a second thought. Gideon sighed, turned off the overhead light, kicked off his shoes and lay back for a couple of hours of sleep too.
"Good news, everybody,” he was informed by the pilot's folksy voice as he began to drift off. “We seem to have picked up a tailwind, so it looks as if we might be arriving in Papeete at a pretty reasonable hour after all."
But there is no such thing as a reasonable hour at which to arrive in Papeete. By balsa raft, maybe, but not if you're coming by scheduled airline service. International flights over the South Pacific are overnight affairs, geared to arrive on the far side of the ocean—in Auckland, or Los Angeles, or Santiago—at a decent hour of the morning, which means they touch down in Tahiti at midnight if you're lucky, or 3 A.M. if you're not.
John and Gideon weren't. They arrived at Papeete's Faaa Airport at 2:45 A.M. Gideon was not at his best. When he traveled he generally tried to follow the rules laid down by his old professor, Abe Goldstein, in his field anthropology course. Rule One was: never arrive in a strange place at night on an empty stomach. “In the dark and with a low blood sugar level,” Abe had warned with somber emphasis, “new places don't look so hot."
Well, there was nothing wrong with his blood sugar level. The breakfast of eggs Benedict served just before landing had been wonderful, and he had amazed himself by eating all of it a bare three hours after dinner, but with less than two hours of sleep in between he was queasy and unsettled. And that second cognac, which had seemed like a good idea at the time, didn't seem like one now. In addition, there was the surreal jet-age shock that came from having stepped into an upholstered canister in funky, familiar L.A., relaxing for the duration of a couple of good meals, and then stepping out of it into a place where everything was abruptly exotic: the snatches of conversation in liquid French and soft, rhythmic Tahitian, the smells, the noises, the way people walked and gestured, the moist, tropical air as thick as cream.
They walked through the marble-walled, open-air lobby, past groups consisting mostly of excited, handsome, bronze-skinned Tahitians, many of the women with flowers in their hair and flower leis in their hands, waiting to greet returnees. At the curbside in front, where Nick had promised to have someone on hand to pick them up, hotel and travel agency vans were lined up with open doors. Beside them, staff members, mostly French or American, were marking off their clipboard checklists in the light of the street lamps, greeting their travel-dazed charges with only slightly forced smiles, and loading them efficiently into the vans, docile and subdued, each with a lei now draped over his or her slumping shoulders.
John looked on with narrowed eyes. “If anybody tries to put a lei around my neck,” he told Gideon, “they're dead meat. I'm telling you.” John had had three cognacs after dinner, not two, and he was clearly regretting it.
"It looks as if you don't have anything to worry about,” Gideon said, scanning the names on the vans.
Tahiti Nui Travel, Sofitel Maeva Beach, Tahitian Odyssey Adventure, la Orana Tours, Aroma Travel..."
There's nothing here from the Shangri-La."
"There's gotta be. If Nick said he arranged—"
"Johnny! Over here!"
Shambling toward them from the lobby was a large, loose-limbed man in his sixties, wearing shorts, tank top, and thongs. Even from forty feet away, Gideon could see the fuzzy mat of light hair that covered his shoulders and arms.
John brightened. “Nick! What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."
"Well, hell, I thought I'd take one more crack at convincing you to bunk at my place. There's all kinds of room. You too, Dr. Oliver.” He stuck out his hand. “Nick Druett. Nick."
Gideon shook the offered hand. “Gideon."
"What do you say, John?"
John shook his head. “Wouldn't work, Unc. I already explained why."
"Explain it again, would you? I didn't quite get it the first time."
"Because,” John said, “when you're coming to look into a fishy death in the family, the last place you want to stay is the family homestead. It cramps your style."
"But why? We wouldn't get in your way, you know that."
"That's not the point, Nick,” John said patiently.
"Well, what is the point?” Angrily, Nick pushed shaggy, thinning hair somewhere between blond and white from his forehead. “You can't actually think that anyone in the family had anything to do with it, can you?"
John looked uncomfortable. “It's been known to happen."
Gideon was surprised. Not once had John mentioned the possibility of his family's involvement in Brian's death. That was like him, though; he would have felt disloyal bringing up family suspicions to an outsider, even to Gideon. But he was a good cop too; he wouldn't have discounted them either.
Nick made a grumbling noise. “Well, that's a hell of a note, is all I can say. Tell me, who do you suspect? Celine? Therese?” He stuck out his chin. “The twins, maybe?"
"Come on, Nick,” John said. “I'm just trying to do it right.” He appealed to Gideon. “Am I right, Doc?"
"Yeah,” Nick demanded, “is he right, Doc?"
Gideon hunted for the right words. He wasn't happy about being in the middle of a family dispute before he even got out of the airport. “Well, it's not so much a question of suspecting any particular person, Nick,” he said carefully, “it's just that, um, the investigative process can be compromised if it's not carried out in an environment of strict impartiality and disinterest."
John vigorously nodded his agreement. “That's what I said."
Nick's laugh was much like John's, a sudden, sunny burble that lit up his face. “You
wish
that was what you said.” His smile took in Gideon too. “I always did like professors."
He reached over and ruffled John's hair, something Gideon had never seen the big FBI agent submit to before, and placed his other hand easily on Gideon's shoulder. “Okay, you win. Come on, guys, I'll drive you over to the Shangri-La."
On the way to the car, he said: “So, should I be calling you ‘Doc'? Is that what people call you?"
"Only one,” Gideon said with a nod in John's direction. “In all the known world."
John shrugged. “Hey, can I help it? To me he looks like a ‘Doc.’ “
"He sure talks like one,” Nick said.
"What kind of car do you drive, Gideon?” Nick asked as they pulled away from the airport onto Highway 5, which like Highways 1, 2, 3, and 4 was something of a euphemism. There was only one “highway” in Tahiti, the coastal road that almost but not quite encircled the island, simply (and inexplicably) changing its name every now and then. The Shangri-La was fifteen miles south of the airport along this road, about a half-mile before Nick's house at Papara.
"Not an Infiniti,” John answered for Gideon. “He works for the government too. Did they exhume Brian's body yet, Nick?"
"Uh, no, not exactly,” Nick said.
John's and Gideon's eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror. Not
exactly?
How did you not exactly exhume a body?
"When, then?” John asked.
"Oh, there are some details,” Nick said airily. “Not to worry. I'll get it all straightened out."
Gideon leaned forward from the back seat. “I only have a few days, Nick."
"Right, don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it.” He gestured out the window at the darkened streets. “Sorry it's so late or I'd point out the sights to you, Gideon. It's a pretty interesting place."
"I know,” Gideon said. “I was here on vacation with my wife three or four years ago."
"Like it?” Nick asked.
"Very much. Well, I did, anyway. Julie's a native Washingtonian. Three days in a row without rain and she gets restless."
"Is that
right?"
Nick said as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd heard all week. He was certainly working overtime to avoid any talk about the purpose of their coming.
John too had picked up his reluctance. “Something wrong, Nick? Is there a problem with the exhumation?"
"Problem? No, what kind of problem? I filed the papers as soon as I got back. It just takes time to process them, that's all. We have red tape in Tahiti too, you know. But don't get exercised, there's plenty of time. Hell, the memorial service isn't until next week."
"I'll need to be back home before next week,” Gideon said.
"Fine, no sweat. Look, I'll fill you in tomorrow—I'll fill you both in. But first I want you guys to sleep in as long as you feel like in the morning, have a swim, lay around in the sun, and then come on over whenever you want to in the afternoon. I'll give you the grand tour of the plantation—"
"I've had the grand tour, Unc,” John said. “Twice."
"Well, what about your buddy? Don't you want to see a real, live coffee plantation, Gideon? We'll even throw in a free tasting."
"Sure,” Gideon said.
"Good, and then you're both coming to dinner—I have the whole clan over every Monday, you know, and they're all looking forward to—” He threw a narrowed glance at John. “Now you better not start giving me a hard time about this too, pal.” The glance flicked around to take in Gideon as well. “The investigative process isn't going to get compromised because you guys sit down for a friendly meal with the family, is it?"
Gideon smiled. “I guess we can take a chance."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. I'm putting on a real Polynesian feast. Wait'll you see the Twin Terrors, John. Do you realize you haven't seen those little monsters since they were two?"
"I guess that's right, isn't it? How old are they now, four? Can you tell ‘em apart yet?"
The two of them lapsed into family talk while Gideon lay back against the soft leather, not sure if something was really off-tone in the atmosphere, or if it was just the early-morning eggs Benedict catching up somewhere in his system with those late-night brandies.
"This is Dean Parks,” Nick said, introducing the scraggy, elderly man in Western shirt, jeans, and silver-buckled belt behind the Shangri-La's reception desk. “The Texas Kid. He owns the place."
"The whole shebang,” Parks agreed in what was indeed a measured, mournful, East Texas twang. “Mortgage and all."
"Don't let him kid you,” Nick said, “this guy's richer than I am.” He looked at him fondly. “Dino and I go back a long way."
"Unfortunately, I go back longer,” Parks said. “Not, of course, that you'd know it to look at us,"
He was wrong about that. His tanned face was as seamed and dried out as a discarded boot, his throat puckered, his shoulders narrowed with the years, his thin belly sunken. Only his hair was youthful: lank, long, and ferociously black.
"It's clean living as does it,” he explained to Gideon and John.
"That and spending half his disposable income on Grecian Formula,” Nick said.
Parks grinned. “Don't you believe a word of it. Well, welcome to Tahiti, gents. Or as we say here,
Ia ora na
."
Nick laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “ask him how many other words he knows."
"More than you, anyway,” Parks said. ‘That's for dang sure."
"You're probably right at that,” Nick said agreeably.
The two of them had been friends a long time, he had explained in the car. Private First-Class Nick Druett and Corporal Dean Parks had met during the war, when both of them were in the same platoon, first in the Solomons and then on Bora Bora. Afterward, they had returned individually to French Polynesia to seek their fortunes and had run into each other again. They had talked about going into the hotel business together, but decided to try their luck on their own instead and had enjoyed a friendly competition of sorts ever since.