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.
'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
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.
* * * *
