"His bad-joke day. Exactly what kind of research does this guy do?"

"Nutrition. Predatory behavior."

"He sounded a little spacey when I talked to him."

"How so?"

"Taking the message, but somewhere else."

"He thought you were a pleasant fellow."

"That proves he was somewhere else."

I laughed. "What kind of things are you working on?"

"You really want to know?"

"Intensely."

"Four armed robberies, one with hostages in a meat locker and a near fatality. One drive-by of a drug dealer slash rap artist that we probably won't solve, aw shucks, and the beauty that's been keeping me up late: sixteen-year-old girl out in the Palisades shot her father to death while he sat on the can. She claims long-time molestation, but the mother says no way and she's been divorced from the old man for years, no love lost. The kid has a history of naughty behavior, and Daddy had promised her a brand-new Range Rover for her birthday if she passed all her classes. She flunked, he said no go, and friends say she got mighty pissed."

"Any evidence of molestation?"

"Nope, and friends say she was a big fan of those two little shits with shotguns from Beverly Hills. She's got dead eyes, Alex, so who knows what was done to her. But that's not my concern, right now. She retained a mouthy lawyer with dead Daddy's dough… but enough, Ishmael. You set sail to escape all this barbarism."

"True," I said, "but allow me to raise your cynicism quotient even higher. Even Eden has its problems."

I told him about AnneMarie Valdos's murder.

He didn't answer.

"You still there?"

"Cracking her bones to eat the marrow?"

"That's Moreland's hypothesis."

"You go to Paradise and outdo me in the grossness department?"

"According to Moreland, cannibalism's pretty common across cultures. Ever come across it?"

"He an expert on that, too? Tell me, is there some huge guy stomping around the estate with a bad haircut and bolts in his neck? Marrow… no, thanks, dear, I'll pass on that breakfast steak and stick with the veggie plate."

"Funny you should say that. Moreland's a vegetarian. His daughter says he saw things after the Korean War that made him never want to be cruel again."

"How sensitive. And no, I haven't personally come across any bad guy gourmets. But there are a few years left to retirement, so now I've got something to live for."

"How's Rick?"

"He says, changing the subject. Doing the workaholic thing as usual, night shift at the ER… Marrow? Why do I keep hearing jungle drums going oonka loonka? Come across any missionaries in a pot?"

"Not yet, and Moreland says not to worry. There's no history of cannibalism here. Both he and the chief of police see it as a sicko killer trying to look exotic. Local opinion pins it on a Navy man who moved on."

"Moreland's a crime sleuth, too?"

"He's the only doctor on the island, so he handles all the forensics."

"Cannibalism," he said. "Does Robin know about this?"

"She knows there was a homicide, but I haven't given her the details. I don't want to make too big of a deal about it. Other than that, there's been no serious crime here for years."

" 'Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play.' Why a Navy man?"

"Because the locals aren't violent and the killer seems to be transitory."

"Well," he said, "I was Joe Army, so you won't get any big debate from me. Okay, hang loose, don't eat anything you can't identify, and stay away from jokers with bones in their noses."

"A creed to live by," I said. "Thanks for calling, and good luck on your cases."

"Yeah… all bullshit aside, I'm really glad you guys got to do this. I know what last year was like for you."

A phone rang in the distance and he grunted.

"Other line," he said. "More sludge. Sayonara and all that, and if you see a bearded French guy painting ladies in flowery muumuus, buy up the canvases."

Robin napped and I took a walk, crossing the rose garden and descending the sloping acres of lawn. Four men in drive-and-mows were working on the turf. The rotting-sugar smell of cut grass brought to mind childhood Sundays.

So had Victory Park, I realized. The war memorial in my Missouri hometown had been only slightly larger. Sunday meant my mother bundling my sister and me off to the park when my father chose to drink at home. Bologna sandwiches and apple juice, climbing the cannon, pretending to fire, Mother's sweet, forced smiles. When she died, Dad's drinking stopped, and so did the rest of his life.

Shaking off melancholy, I continued down to the fruit groves, stepping among fallen oranges and tangerines and a popcorn spray of citrus blossoms. The meadow Moreland had created out of wildflowers was brilliant. A collection of miniature conifers had been trimmed surgically and a boxwood knot garden was as intricate as any maze I'd encountered in graduate school. Then the greenhouses, every pane spotless, and trees full of orchids, the plants tucked into the folds and hollows of branches like hatchlings. I kept going till I spotted patches of granite and the brown, thorny fuzz of rusty barbed wire.

The eastern border. Plumbago and honeysuckle and wisteria covered most of the high stone walls, softening the wire but not hiding it.

On the other side, the banyan tops formed a greener-gray awning, aerial roots shooting through the canopy like the tentacles of a beast in pain. From what I could see, the tree trunks below were stout and kinked cruelly, whipsawing in a struggle for space.

For a second, the entire forest seemed to be moving, tumbling down on me, and I felt myself losing balance.

After I restored equilibrium, a tight spot remained at the base of my throat.

I looked up at the trees again.

Robin had mentioned a subtle coolness drifting over the walls, but all I felt was an internal chill.

I hiked along the border, listening for sounds from the other side but hearing nothing. When I stopped, the same illusion of movement recurred and I placed both hands on the stone and breathed in deeply.

Probably low blood sugar. I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

I headed back. When I got to the grove, I picked up an orange, peeled it, and finished it in three bites, letting the juice run down my chin the way I'd done as a child.

Back in my office, I tackled another carton of medical files. More routine; the only psychological diagnoses Moreland had noted were stress reactions to physical illnesses.

I pulled down another box and found myself growing bored till a folder at the bottom made me take notice.

On the front cover Moreland had drawn a large, red question mark.

The patient was a fifty-one-year-old laborer named Joseph Cristobal, with no history of mental disorder, who began to experience visual hallucinations-"white worms" and "white worm people"- and symptoms of agitation and paranoia.

Moreland treated him with tranquilizers and noted that Cristobal did have "a fondness for drink but is not an alcoholic." The symptoms didn't abate.

Two weeks later Cristobal died suddenly in his sleep, the apparent victim of a heart attack. Moreland's autopsy revealed no brain pathology but did discover an occluded coronary artery.

Then the doctor's final remark in large, bold print, the same red color as the question mark: A. Tutalo?

I figured that for a bacterium or virus but the medical dictionary he'd provided me didn't list it.

A drug? No citation in the Physicians' Desk Reference.

I returned to the storage room, squeezed my way past the columns of boxes, and searched the bookshelves.