Twenty Blue Devils

reading about that kickback case. Didn't one of their goons turn state's evidence? Bingo...Bongo...'

'Klingo Bozzuto,” John said, laughing. “They called him that because one of the bosses thought he looked like a Klingon.” Reflectively, he rolled some brandy around his mouth. “He did too, sort of. But he wasn't a goon, exactly, he was a Mob accountant. Way handier for state's evidence than some gorilla who could barely write his name.'

'Are you serious? An accountant named Klingo Bozzuto?'

'Yeah, it'd look great on a business card, wouldn't it? Klingo Bozzuto, CPA: a name you can trust.'

'Well, tell me this. What happened to old Klingo? Did the bad guys go after him? Because if they didn't bother with the guy who broke the case—their own stooge—I don't see them hunting down your cousin.'

'No, they didn't go after him,” John said.

'All right, then—'

'They didn't go after him because they couldn't. The Bureau got him into a witness protection program. That was part of the deal. Changed his name, resettled him in the Midwest somewhere, and found him some kind of job with the railroads. As far as I know, he's still at it.'

'Mm,” Gideon said.

'Listen, Doc,” John said earnestly, “I'm not saying the Mob had anything to do with this. How would I know? I just don't want to rule anything out. Right now, all I want is for you to look at what there is. After you see Brian's body we'll worry about who did what to who.'

And that was another thing that was bothering Gideon. “If it is Brian,” he said, knowing it would set John off.

It did. John's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Doc, he had his wallet on him His watch was lying a few feet away, busted. His wife identified it. Only about six people live on the goddamn island, who else could it be?'

They had been through this more than once, and Gideon was no more convinced than he'd been before. “But his wife didn't identify him,” he pointed out.

'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.'

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Chapter 9

* * * *

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.