Spider Bones

DNA said he wasn’t.

Army records said Spider Lowery died in Vietnam.

The man talking to Schoon said he didn’t.

I remembered the snapshot of Harriet Lowery standing on a pier. Her sun-fried chest. Her mismatched eyes.

The lone particle was joined by others.

I remembered my conversation with Harriet’s transplant physician. Macken admitted that irregularities had surfaced during testing for tissue compatibility. DNA showed that Harriet could not be Tom’s mother.

Plato and Harriet rejected that.

Tom was Spider’s twin.

I recalled a court case. An article.

The particles coalesced into a full-blown theory.

I stared at the monitor, hardly breathing, willing the man in the mask to look into the camera.

The door opened.

Come on!

Footsteps crossed the room.

Come on!

Lo set a Coke in front of me.

Come on!

On the screen, Schoon entered and placed a white paper bag on the table. The duo from California withdrew sodas, sandwiches, paper napkins. Popped cans. Opened and squeezed packets of mayo and mustard.

Do it, you bastard! Look at me!

Finally, he did.

And I knew who he was.

And what had happened.

I SHOT TO MY FEET.

“I need to get online.”

Ryan and Lo looked at me like I’d said I was joining Al Qaeda.

“Tell Schoon to stall.”

“Why?”

“Just keep this guy talking.”

I hurried to reception and made my request.

Unruffled, Tina led me to an empty office, typed a few keystrokes, and withdrew without query.

Moneypenny was all right.

Logging on, I went to the New England Journal of Medicine, called up an article, and speed-read. Scribbled notes. Moved through link after link until satisfied my understanding was adequate.

Next I entered a name and followed those loops.

A second name.

More loops.

I practically danced my way back to the conference room.

A woman had joined Ryan and Lo. She was tall, with short brown hair and acne-scarred cheeks. I placed her age at midthirties.

Lo made introductions. He didn’t look happy.

The newcomer was Maya Cotton, an ADA with the Honolulu prosecutor’s office.

Cotton and I shook hands.

“Anyway, sorry to spoil your day,” Cotton said.

“Sonofabitch.” Lo whacked a table leg with one foot.

“What?” I asked, not really interested, anxious to share my breakthrough.

“They kicked Pinky Atoa this morning.”

That surprised me. “He admitted to being involved in the Kealoha-Faalogo murder.”