worry about,” Gideon said, scanning the names on the vans. Tahiti Nui Travel, Sofitel Maeva Beach, Tahitian Odyssey Adventure, la Orana Tours, Aroma Travel..." There's nothing here from the Shangri-La."
"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 wish that was what you said.” His smile took in Gideon too. “I always did like professors."
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.
* * * *
"What kind of car do you drive, Gideon?” Nick asked as they pulled away from the airport onto Highway 5, which like Highways 1, 2, 3, and 4 was something of a euphemism. There was only one “highway” in Tahiti, the coastal road that almost but not quite encircled the island, simply (and inexplicably) changing its name every now and then. The Shangri-La was fifteen miles south of the airport along this road, about a half-mile before Nick's house at Papara.
"Not an Infiniti,” John answered for Gideon. “He works for the government too. Did they exhume Brian's body yet, Nick?"
"Uh, no, not exactly,” Nick
"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 wish that was what you said.” His smile took in Gideon too. “I always did like professors."
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.
* * * *
"What kind of car do you drive, Gideon?” Nick asked as they pulled away from the airport onto Highway 5, which like Highways 1, 2, 3, and 4 was something of a euphemism. There was only one “highway” in Tahiti, the coastal road that almost but not quite encircled the island, simply (and inexplicably) changing its name every now and then. The Shangri-La was fifteen miles south of the airport along this road, about a half-mile before Nick's house at Papara.
"Not an Infiniti,” John answered for Gideon. “He works for the government too. Did they exhume Brian's body yet, Nick?"
"Uh, no, not exactly,” Nick
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