Where There's a Will

he’d been expecting. What game were they playing? He felt himself suddenly off-balance. His headache stabbed at him again. “You were—?”

“Young man,” Dagmar said harshly, “will you kindly stop that wiggling? It makes it difficult to concentrate.”

“Wiggling?”

She made a series of irritated gestures toward the ballpoint pen that he was inarguably clicking open and shut, toward his tapping foot, toward the base of his chair, which creaked with every little bobbing movement of his body. Angrily, he made himself be still, but who the hell did this old—

It was time, he decided, to retake the initiative. “Do you also happen to be aware of who chopped off two of his toes to make us think he was Torkel?” he asked brutally.

“Yes,” Inge responded. “That was me.”

“THAT was you,” Fukida repeated stupidly, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Was he supposed to believe her? What were these two up to? Damn those allergy pills; the inside of his skull felt as if it were crammed with cotton balls.

“Uh-huh,” he went on. “You cut off the toes. And what did you use to do that?”

She replied without hesitation. “I used a Swiss garlic-chopper, a sort of tiny little cleaver. And a paperweight— it was the business end of an old branding iron—as a mallet, to drive it through.” She held an imaginary handle in one hand, pretending to tap it with an object in her other hand.

It has to be true, Fukida thought. Who could make up something like that? A Swiss garlic-chopper, for Christ’s sake.

“I think we better get this on the record,” he said. “Let’s go someplace a little more comfortable.”

HAPPILY unaware of what had been unfolding at the police department, Julie, Gideon, and John spent Monday morning acting on their decision of the day before. As Julie had promised, the previous evening she had extricated them from their awkward position at Axel’s and Malani’s without seriously raising anybody’s hackles. And early today they had checked in at the Waikoloa Outrigger, left their bags with the concierge, and breakfasted at the pool-side grill with a guilty but welcome sense of freedom. Then they had rented a Ford Taurus and driven down the South Kona coast to visit a few of John’s favorite places: the hidden-away black sand beach at Ho’okena, the Captain Cook Monument at Kealakekua Bay, the evocative and beautiful Pu’ohunua O Honaunau—the Place of Refuge Historical Park, a city of stone where ancients who had broken laws against gods or kings (who were much the same) could find sanctuary and avoid the all-too-frequent death sentences of the old days.

In the town of Captain Cook, they stopped at a farmers cooperative to watch the processing of macadamia nuts and pick up a few gifts to take home. Never once had the words “Torkel,” “Magnus,” “toes,” or “ring” come up.

On the way back, at Gideon’s urging, they stopped in Kona to visit a place that even John didn’t know about: a lovingly restored Hawaiian compound on a grassy tongue of land on the grounds of the King Kamehameha Hotel. From an anthropological point of view, Gideon told them, this was perhaps the most important site in Hawaii, the Ahu’ena Heiau, where the kind of event beloved of anthropologists had taken place over a century earlier; that rarest of occasions on which an entire society had changed literally overnight. It was here, in the largest and most impressive of the thatched structures, that Liholiho, son of Kamehameha, had sat down to dine in the company of women, thereby turning convention on its head and ending with one stroke a long-standing, strictly enforced tabu, and—eventually—totally changing the relationship of men and women in Hawaii. Gideon wandered about, enchanted: This would have been the lele, where subjects left gifts. Look, this must have been the oracle tower, this must have been... Julie and John trailed patiently along among the buildings and carved statues, making respectful noises until Gideon had his fill.

At a little before one, they were leaving the hotel’s parking lot, looking for a likely place to have lunch, when John, sprawled sidewise in the Taurus’s back seat and reading something that he’d brought along with him from the ranch, let out a yell.

“What?” He sat straight up and excitedly read aloud from the sheets of paper in his hand. “ ‘Among the interesting circumstances associated with them was the presence of a cartridge case partially embedded in the intervertebral fibro... fibrocartilage separating T8 and...’ ” He shook the papers and practically moaned. “Doc, Doc, how could you not tell me about this?”

“John, what are you talking about? Is that the autopsy report? How’d you get it? I thought we weren’t supposed to—”

“This is a copy that clerk made. Sarah. She gave it to us, remember?”

“And you’ve had it ever since?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me about the cartridge case?”

“The case?” He barely remembered reading about it. “It didn’t seem important. Meikeljohn thought it was just some kind of freak accident. I didn’t want to bore you.”

“Okay, okay, never mind. Let’s get back on the highway. We gotta go see Fukida.”

“I thought you were all done—”

“So did I, but I was wrong.”

“Do we have to go right this minute?” Julie said. “I was just thinking that Greek restaurant up on the corner, with the outside balcony tables, looks very appealing.”

“Forget lunch, will you? We can eat later. We gotta go to the CIS.”

“Forget lunch?” Gideon murmured. “We can eat later? This must be serious.”

“You got that right,” John said.

SIXTEEN

“TEDDY,you got a forensics library here?”

They had left Julie in Kona—where she wanted to see the old church and royal palace—and barged in on Fukida, who was having a tuna sandwich on rye and a can of Diet Coke at his desk. He had a mound of files spread