"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 said.
John's and Gideon's eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror. Not exactly? How did you not exactly exhume a body?
"When, then?” John asked.
"Oh, there are some details,” Nick said airily. “Not to worry. I'll get it all straightened out."
Gideon leaned forward from the back seat. “I only have a few days, Nick."
"Right, don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it.” He gestured out the window at the darkened streets. “Sorry it's so late or I'd point out the sights to you, Gideon. It's a pretty interesting place."
"I know,” Gideon said. “I was here on vacation with my wife three or four years ago."
"Like it?” Nick asked.
"Very much. Well, I did, anyway. Julie's a native Washingtonian. Three days in a row without rain and she gets restless."
"Is that right?" Nick said as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd heard all week. He was certainly working overtime to avoid any talk about the purpose of their coming.
John too had picked up his reluctance. “Something wrong, Nick? Is there a problem with the exhumation?"
"Problem? No, what kind of problem? I filed the papers as soon as I got back. It just takes time to process them, that's all. We have red tape in Tahiti too, you know. But don't get exercised, there's plenty of time. Hell, the memorial service isn't until next week."
"I'll need to be back home before next week,” Gideon said.
"Fine, no sweat. Look, I'll fill you in tomorrow-I'll fill you both in. But first I want you guys to sleep in as long as you feel like in the morning, have a swim, lay around in the sun, and then come on over whenever you want to in the afternoon. I'll give you the grand tour of the plantation-"
"I've had the grand tour, Unc,” John said. “Twice."
"Well, what about your buddy? Don't you want to see a real, live coffee plantation, Gideon? We'll even throw in a free tasting."
"Sure,” Gideon said.
"Good, and then you're both coming to dinner-I have the whole clan over every Monday, you know, and they're all looking forward to-” He threw a narrowed glance at John. “Now you better not start giving me a hard time about this too, pal.” The glance flicked around to take in Gideon as well. “The investigative process isn't going to get compromised because you guys sit down for a friendly meal with the family, is it?"
Gideon smiled. “I guess we can take a chance."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. I'm putting on a real Polynesian feast. Wait'll you see the Twin Terrors, John. Do you realize you haven't seen those little monsters since they were two?"
"I guess that's right, isn't it? How old are they now, four? Can you tell ‘em apart yet?"
The two of them lapsed into family talk while Gideon lay back against the soft leather, not sure if something was really off-tone in the atmosphere, or if it was just the early-morning eggs Benedict catching up somewhere in his system with those late-night brandies.
"This is Dean Parks,” Nick said, introducing the scraggy, elderly man in Western shirt, jeans, and silver-buckled belt behind the Shangri-La's reception desk. “The Texas Kid. He owns the place."
"The whole shebang,” Parks agreed in what was indeed a measured, mournful, East Texas twang. “Mortgage and all."
"Don't let him kid you,” Nick said, “this guy's richer than I am.” He looked at him fondly. “Dino and I go back a long way."
"Unfortunately, I go back longer,” Parks said. “Not, of course, that you'd know it to look at us,"
He was wrong about that. His tanned face was as seamed and dried out as a discarded boot, his throat puckered, his shoulders narrowed with the years, his thin belly sunken. Only his hair was youthfuclass="underline" lank, long, and ferociously black.
"It's clean living as does it,” he explained to Gideon and John.
"That and spending half his disposable income on Grecian Formula,” Nick said.
Parks grinned. “Don't you believe a word of it. Well, welcome to Tahiti, gents. Or as we say here, Ia ora na."
Nick laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “ask him how many other words he knows."
"More than you, anyway,” Parks said. ‘That's for dang sure."
"You're probably right at that,” Nick said agreeably.
The two of them had been friends a long time, he had explained in the car. Private First-Class Nick Druett and Corporal Dean Parks had met during the war, when both of them were in the same platoon, first in the Solomons and then on Bora Bora. Afterward, they had returned individually to French Polynesia to seek their fortunes and had run into each other again. They had talked about going into the hotel business together, but decided to try their luck on their own instead and had enjoyed a friendly competition of sorts ever since.