“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.”
Chapter
13
As we got back in the Jeep, Skip and Haygood were
walking along the shore,
smoking and flicking ash into the water.
Robin said, “Let’s drive around a bit, explore some of
the smaller roads.”
I turned the vehicle around and she looked up at the
barricade.
“It’s almost as if they wanted it to be ugly.”
“Moreland agrees with Picker that the Navy’s shutting
the island down gradually. I asked him how people live and
he admitted the main source was welfare.”
“End of an era,” she said. “That may be why he’s so
eager to document what he’s done.”
I headed toward the bowed gray pilings of the dock. The
open-air market was closed and the ration sign remained atop
the gas pump.
“Did you talk about the murder?”
“A bit.”
“And?”
“Moreland and Dennis are assuming it’s a one-shot, that
the murderer’s gone. Because he hasn’t done it again in the
region. So it could very well be a sailor who’s transferred
to another base.”
“Meaning he could be doing it in another region.”
“Dennis has been keeping an eye out for similar crimes
and none have come up.”
We were nearing the Chop Suey Palace. Creedman was
outside again, with a bottle and a mug. Looking straight
ahead, I passed him and hung a sharp right onto the next
road, passing more tumbledown houses and empty lots. Then a
small, poorly tended patch of grass housing a World War Two
cannon and a life-size statue of MacArthur shading his eyes.
A wooden sign said
VICTORY PARK, EST. 1945
. The only
obvious triumph was that of birds over bronze.
More shacks and lean-tos and dirt till the crest, where a
narrow white church stood. I stopped. Two stories high,
with a sharply pitched roof, fish-scale trim, and a badly
tarnished copper steeple, the building canted to the right.
The balusters of the front stair rail were intricately
turned but flaking. The five-pace front yard was thick with
high grass edged with leggy white petunias.
“Early Victorian,” said Robin. “It’s sunk a little on
the foundation, but the design’s nice.”
A display board staked in the lawn said
OUR LADY OF THE
HARBOR CATHOLIC CHURCH. VISITORS WELCOME.
A few feet away a
metal flagpole hosted Old Glory. The flag drooped in the
motionless air.
Behind the church was more tall grass squared by a low
picket fence. Rows of white crosses, stone and wooden grave
markers. A few flashes of color. Floral wreaths, some so
bright they had to be plastic.
Next door was a large aluminum Quonset hut labeled
ARUK
COMMUNITY CLINIC.
The old black Jeep Ben had used to pick us
up was parked near the door next to an even older MG roadster, once
red, now faded to salmon. The emergency number on the door
was that of Moreland’s estate.
Just as I started to drive on, Pam came out, removing
her stethoscope. She waved and I stopped again. Taking
something out of the MG, she came over. Handful of plastic-wrapped
lollipops.
“Hi. Snack?”
“No, thanks,” said Robin.
“Sure? They’re sugarless.” Unwrapping a green pop, she
put it in her mouth. “So you guys got to swim. How was it?”
Robin told her about our dive. Through the open door I
could see children, their small faces pinched with fright.
“They seemed okay about the crash,” said Pam, “but still
pretty nervous about their shots, so we decided to get it
over with. Want to come in?”
We followed her into the hut and breathed in the sharp
smell of alcohol. The floor was blue linoleum. Fiberboard
partitions sectioned the interior into cubicles. Cartoon
posters and nutritional charts nearly covered the walls, but
the aluminum fought the attempt to cheer.
Fifteen or so children, all dark haired, none older than
eight, were lined up in front of a long table. Two
chairs sat behind the table, the one on the right empty, the
other occupied by Ben. To his left were steel trays of
bandages, cotton swabs, disinfectant pads, disposable
syringes, and small glass jars with rubber stoppers. A
trash basket near his left foot brimmed with discarded needles
and blood-specked pads.
He crooked his finger and a little girl in a pink
T-shirt and red-and-white paisley shorts stepped forward. Her
hair was waist long; her feet were in beach thongs. She was
losing the struggle not to cry.
Ben unwrapped a pad, picked up a bottle, and jabbed the
needle through the rubber cap with his left hand. Filling
the syringe, he squirted it clear of air, took hold of the
girl’s arm and drew her closer. Cleaning her bicep swiftly,
he tossed the pad in the basket, said something that made her
look at him and flicked the needle at her arm, almost
teasingly. The girl’s mouth opened in pain and insult. The
tears flowed. Some of the boys in line laughed, but none
with enthusiasm. Then, the needle was out and Ben was
bandaging her arm. The whole process had taken less than
five seconds and he remained impassive.
The girl kept crying. Ben looked back at us. Pam rushed over
and unwrapped a lollipop for the whimpering child. When the tears
didn’t stop, she cradled the girl.
Ben said, “Next,” and crooked a finger. A small, chubby
boy stepped into position and stared down at his arm.
Dimpled fists drummed his thighs. Ben reached for a pad.
“All done, Angie,” said Pam, walking the girl to the
door. “You did great!” The child sniffed and sucked her
lollipop and the white paper stick bobbed. “These are some
visitors from the mainland, honey. This is Angelina. She’s
seven and a half and very brave.”
“I’ll say,” said Robin.
The girl wiped an eye.
“These people came all the way from California,” said
Pam. “Do you know where that is?”
Angelina mumbled around the sucker.
“What’s that, sweetie?”
“Disn’land.”
“Right.” Pam tousled her hair and guided her outside,
watching as she ran to the church.
By the time she returned, Ben had vaccinated two more
children, working rapidly, as rhythmic as a machine. Pam
stayed with us, comforting the children and seeing them off.
“School’s still in session,” she said. “They’re in
class for another hour.”
“Who teaches?” I said. “The priest?”
“No, there is no priest. Father Marriot was called back
last spring and Sister June just left for Guam—breast
cancer. Claire—Ben’s wife—was our substitute, but now
she’s the faculty. A couple of other mothers serve as part-time
assistants.”
Another weeping child passed through.
“Guess I should do a few,” said Pam, “but Ben’s so good.
I hate inflicting pain.”
Cheryl was sweeping the entry to the big house, but when
we walked in she stopped.
“Dr. Bill said give you this.” She handed me a scrap of
yellow, lined paper. Moreland’s writing:
Det. Milo Sturgis called 11
A.M.,
Aruk
time.
West Hollywood exchange. Milo’s home number.
“That’s one in the morning, L.A. time,” said Robin.
“Wonder what it could be.”
“You know what a night owl he is. Probably something to
do with the house and he’s trying to catch us at a good
time.”
Mention of the house tightened her face. She looked at
her watch. “It’s two-thirty there, now. Should we wait?”
“If he was up an hour and a half ago, he probably still
is.”
Cheryl stood there, as if trying to follow the
conversation. When I turned to her, she blushed and began
sweeping.
“Is it all right to use the phone for long distance?”
She looked puzzled. “There’s a phone in your room.”
“Is Dr. Bill around?”
She thought. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“In his lab.”
We went back to the run to pick up Spike. He and KiKo
stopped their play immediately and he ran to Robin. The
monkey shinnied up a low branch, then let go and landed
feather light on my shoulder. A small dry hand cupped the
back of my neck. He’d been shampooed recently—something
with almonds. But his fur also gave off a faint hint of
zoo.
We left with both animals. Robin said, “I’d like to
freshen up.”
“I’ll go ask Moreland about using the phone.”
She turned back toward the house; KiKo jumped off and
joined her and Spike. I walked down to the outbuildings and
knocked on Moreland’s office door.
He said, “Come in,” but the door was locked and I had to
wait for him to open it.
“Sorry,” he said. “How was your swim?”
“Terrific.”
He was holding a pencil stub and looked distracted. His
office was the same size as the one he’d given me, but with
pale green walls and no furniture other than a cheap metal
desk and chair. Papers, loose and bound, carpeted half the
floor. The desk was blanketed too, though I did notice one
high stack that had been squared neatly and placed in the
center. Journal reprints. The top one, an article I’d
written ten years ago on treating childhood phobias. My name
underlined in red.
The door to the lab was open. Tables, beakers, flasks,
test tubes in racks, a centrifuge, a balance scale, equipment I
couldn’t identify. Next to the scale was a tall jar full of the
gray-brown pellets he’d used to feed the insects. A smaller
container of some sort of brownish liquid sat beside it.
“So,” he said, taking off his glasses. His tone was
strained; I’d interrupted something.
“I wanted to check if it was okay to use the phone for
long distance.”
He laughed. “Returning Detective Sturgis’s call? Of
course. There was no need to ask. Give him my best. He’s a
pleasant fellow.”
Robin sat there caressing her two hairy pals as I
dialed. The phone rang twice and a cranky deep voice
grunted,
“Sturgis.”
“Hi, it’s me. Still up?”
“Alex.” Milo’s voice lightened. I hadn’t thought much
about his missing us.
“Yeah, wide awake,” he said, reverting to a grumble. “So
how’s Bali Hoo?”
“Sunny and clear. Want to hop over and join us?”
“I don’t tan, I parboil.”
“Thought you were Black Irish.”
“That’s temperament, not complexion. So, you pretty much
settled in?”
“Very nicely. Just got back from diving in a gorgeous
coral reef.”
“Yo, Jacques. There really is a Garden of Eden, huh?”
“My fig leaf says yes. What are you doing up past your
bedtime, sonny boy?”
“Working double shifts and building up the overtime.
Reason I called is the guy who’s handling your house has a
couple of questions. Seems the crown and floor moldings
Robin told him to order have been discontinued. He can get
something similar, a little wider, or go for her exact
specifications and have it custom milled. The difference is
a couple of thou and he wants authorization. Also, the cost
of your alarm is going to be a little higher than estimated.
Something about having to connect up with a power line that’s
outside the basic contractual area. Probably another grand.
It’s never
below
estimate, is it? Anyway, ask the lovely Ms.
C. what she wants to do, get back to me, and I’ll forward the
message.”
“I’ll put her on right now.”
I handed over the receiver. Robin said, “Hi!” and
KiKo’s eyes widened. As she began to speak the monkey stuck
his head closer to the phone and began talking along in a
wordless chittering singsong.
“What? Oh . . . no, it’s a monkey,
Milo . . . a
monkey.
As in barrel
of . . . No, he hasn’t replaced Spikey, we still love
him. . . . No, they’re getting along fine, as a matter
of fact. . . . That’s it in terms of
mammals. . . . What? . . . No, just some
bugs. . . .
Bugs.
Insects,
spiders . . . tarantulas. Dr. Moreland does research
on them. . . . What’s up, detective?”
She talked to him about the construction, then ended
with more small talk and returned the phone to me. “I’m
putting these guys outside again, then running a bath. Love
it if you’d join me when you’re through.”
She left.
“Bugs,” said Milo. “Eden has bugs.”
“God created them, too. What day was it?”
“His bad-joke day. Exactly what kind of research does
this guy do?”
“Nutrition. Predatory behavior.”
“He sounded a little spacey when I talked to
him.”
“How so?”
“Taking the message, but somewhere
else.”
“He thought you were a pleasant fellow.”
“That proves he was somewhere else.”
I laughed. “What kind of things are you working on?”
“You really want to know?”
“Intensely.”
“Four armed robberies, one with hostages in a meat
locker and a near fatality. One drive-by of a drug dealer
slash rap artist that we probably won’t solve, aw shucks, and
the beauty that’s been keeping me up late: sixteen-year-old
girl out in the Palisades shot her father to death while he
sat on the can. She claims long-time molestation, but the
mother says no way and she’s been divorced from the old man
for years, no love lost. The kid has a history of naughty
behavior, and Daddy had promised her a brand-new Range Rover
for her birthday if she passed all her classes. She flunked,
he said no go, and friends say she got mighty pissed.”
“Any evidence of molestation?”
“Nope, and friends say she was a big fan of those two
little shits with shotguns from Beverly Hills. She’s got dead eyes,
Alex, so who knows what was done to her. But that’s not my
concern, right now. She retained a mouthy lawyer with dead
Daddy’s dough . . . but enough, Ishmael. You set
sail to escape all this barbarism.”
“True,” I said, “but allow me to raise your cynicism
quotient even higher. Even Eden has its problems.”
I told him about AnneMarie Valdos’s murder.