Twenty Blue Devils

On top of that, John's faith in Gideon's ability to find signs of murder, if murder there was, was flattering but overblown.

There were a lot of things that could kill you without leaving a road map on the skeleton. Most things, actually. The chances were good he would come away from the analysis shaking his head, with nothing to say one way or the other about the cause of death. Or let's say that there were indications that it had been due to a fall, which seemed the most likely thing he would find; a fractured skull or pelvis or some crushed vertebrae. Fine, but what would that prove about murder or the absence of it?

And on top of that he and John were on their way to a foreign country with the sole and express purpose of second-guessing its official law enforcement authorities. This, he had learned long ago, was unlikely to be a rewarding experience.

And finally, on top of everything else—or maybe underlying everything else—he was going to be away from Julie for almost a week and already he missed her

John, untroubled by morbid doubts, was stretched out in the seat next to him, headphones on, contentedly watching the end of the new James Bond movie on the screen. As the closing credits began to roll, he took off the headphones and smiled at Gideon. “Good show. You should have watched.'

'I've been thinking.'

'Worrying,” John said. “Okay, what's bothering you now?'

'A lot. How did you talk me into this anyhow?'

But they both knew the answer to that. John had called and asked him on the previous Wednesday, the day after the news about Brian's death had come. Gideon had promptly ticked off his reservations and John had listened patiently.

When Gideon had finished, John had finally spoken.

'I'm asking you as a favor, Doc,” he said simply. “This is my family.'

That had been enough; he and John were old, good friends. They had worked on a lot of cases together and had been in some difficult situations together. They had saved each other's lives.

'I can't get away till the end of next week,” Gideon had grumbled for form's sake. “I have a seminar I can't palm off on anybody else.'

'Is that gonna hurt the bones? A week or two one way or the other?'

No, Gideon had admitted, it wasn't likely to hurt the bones. Speaking personally, the older the better, as far as he was concerned. He would have preferred them about ten thousand years older, in fact, brown and dry and clean. Still, the air of Oceania was notoriously warm and humid, and a week or ten days out-of-doors there might already have done a pretty good job of getting down to the bare bones of things, so to speak. And the additional time in the ground wouldn't hurt either. Or so he hoped.

Well, then, there wasn't any problem, John had pointed out. Moreover, Nick Druett had offered to pay Gideon's top consulting fees (Gideon had refused) and to fly them out first-class, put them up at the Shangri-La, a nearby beach resort, and pick up all expenses (Gideon had accepted).

The flight attendant came down the darkened aisle with the cognac bottle, paused attentively beside them, and at their nods topped off the glasses. The flight had left Los Angeles forty-five minutes late and the attendant, apparently taking personal responsibility for the delay, had been extraordinarily solicitous of the few first-class passengers ever since.

'Ahh.” John resettled himself luxuriously, sipped from the brandy glass, and smacked his lips. “Does this beat the hell out of government travel, or what? Listen, I've been doing a little digging. I found out some interesting stuff.'

Gideon turned toward him.

'Remember I told you Nick wasn't the only guy to file a deposition with the U.S. attorney at that first kickback trial? Two other growers had the guts to do it too?'

Gideon nodded.

'Well, one was from Java, the other one was from the Kona Coast. And they're both out of business now. The Hawaiian guy died falling mysteriously out of a hotel window in Honolulu and what used to be his coffee farm is now the King Kamehameha Shopping Village. The Javanese guy just threw in the towel after three fires on his farm. The place is up for sale.” He raised his eyebrows.

'And you think the Mob's behind it all?” Gideon asked.

The question made him feel faintly ridiculous. Most of the six or seven forensic cases he took on in a typical year were everyday, garden-variety murders, sordid and simple: the prostitute's body dragged out into the woods and hurriedly covered with leaves and dirt; the drug dealer cut down in some deserted, filthy house and left where he fell; the victim of revenge or jealousy or domestic rage tossed into the Dumpster in a black plastic garbage bag —or in three or four plastic bags. Only once had he been involved with organized crime, and then from a distance. “The Mob” was something melodramatic and unreal, a million miles away from his everyday professorly concerns with Pleistocene Man and hominid locomotion.

Besides, could anyone be expected to take seriously three guys named Nutso, Zorro, and Nate the Schlepper?

John shrugged. “I just think it's interesting. Something to be considered.'

'All right, tell me this: Here was Brian on this ten-day camping trip on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific. How would Nutso and the boys know where to find him? How would anybody know where to find him?'

'Good question,” John said amiably as he finished his brandy.

The attendant, as sensitive to every movement of his charges as an auctioneer watching for bidding signals, was back with the cognac bottle. Gideon shook his head; John accepted a refill.

'You know,” Gideon said after a few minutes of near-dozing, “now that I think about it, I think I remember