On the way back to the office he said, "Have fun?"

"A real blast," I said. "Next time, I bring streamers and funny hats."

He let me in. Dennis was at his desk. He put the phone down, looking annoyed.

"Time well spent?" he asked me.

I shrugged.

"Well, the screws are already turning. Dr. Bill doing his thing."

"What thing is that?"

"I just got a call from Oahu. Landau, Kawasaki and Bolt. High-powered law firm, senior partner's some motormouth named Alfred Landau. Flying over in a couple of days- scratch the public defender."

"Flying into Stanton?"

"Nope, into Saipan by chartered jet, then a private yacht's taking him the rest of the way. If it can't fit into the keyhole harbor, I'm sure they'll find a way of getting him to shore." He drummed the phone receiver. "Must be nice to be rich. Let me take you back."

As we stepped outside, Tom Creedman intercepted us. He was wearing a white polo shirt, white shorts, and tennis shoes. All that was missing was a racquet. Instead, he carried a thin black attaché case in one hand, a pocket tape recorder in the other. The crowd on the waterfront had dispersed somewhat. A few stragglers remained on the south end. Among them were Skip Amalfi and Anders Haygood. Skip pointing to the spot where AnneMarie Valdos had been found.

"Going to Wimbledon, Tom?" said Laurent.

"Yeah, me and the queen- got a minute, Dennis?"

"Not even half of one- come on, doctor."

Creedman blocked me. "See the suspect, Dr. Delaware?"

"Let's go," said Dennis, moving to his car.

Creedman didn't budge. "Care for some coffee, Dr. Delaware?"

"Sure," I said.

Surprising both of them.

"Great," said Creedman. "Let's boogie."

"I'm taking him back," said Dennis. "For his safety."

"I'll take him back, Dennis."

"No way-"

"I'll take the risk," I said.

"It's not your risk to assume," said Dennis.

"No?" I said. "What law are you invoking to restrict my movement?"

He hesitated for a beat. "Material witness."

"To what?"

"You spoke to him."

"With your permission. Let's call Mr. Landau and see what he has to say about it."

Dennis's huge shoulders spread even wider. He touched his belt, looked up and down Front Street.

"Fine," he said savagely. "You're on your own."

Creedman and I walked past Campion Way to the next unmarked road. Past angry stares and mutters.

"Ooh," he said. "The natives are restless."

"You're pretty relaxed about it."

"Why not? I have nothing to do with good ol' Dr. Bill. On the contrary, the fact that he evicted me works in my favor."

He grinned, then continued, "You, on the other hand, need to watch your back. But I'm here to stand up for you, buddy." Unzipping the attachÉ, he peeled back a flap and revealed a chunky chrome automatic.

"Sixteen shots," he said gaily. "I'm sure that'll do the trick in the event of civil unrest. Very few of the natives own arms. Safe place and all that."

"Do you usually carry?"

"Only during periods of stress."

"Bring it over with you?"

"Bought it in Guam, bargain price. Owned by an Army lieutenant who ran up some debts. Took beautiful care of it."

He zipped the case. "I'm just up the hill."

"Pretty close to the murder scene."

"Not close enough."

"What do you mean?"

"By the time I got there the crowd was thick- no chance to get close. I would have liked a close look at Mr. Romero's face right after they caught him. Editors like that kind of immediacy. The emptiness in a psychopath's eyes."

"I'm sure you can make something up."

His smile died. "That's not very kind, Alex."

I winked.

His round face stayed angry, even after he restored the smile. "But I understand. The cognitive dissonance must be painful for you. Coming here expecting Pleasure Island and getting Auschwitz. Did Ben have anything exculpatory to say?"

"Nothing an editor would be interested in."

"What a sicko," he continued. "Cutting them up, then eating them."

"Ever see that kind of thing before?"

The road had taken on a steeper slant, and though he kept up an athletic pace his breathing got louder. "See what?"

"Cannibalism."

"On other islands? No."

"I meant back in the States, when you were on the crime beat."

"Did I say I was ever on the crime beat?"

"I think you did. The first time we met."

"I think I didn't. Not my meat- pardon the joke. No, Alex, I did politics. Dog eat dog." He laughed. "Have you seen it before?"

I shook my head.

"First time for everything," he said.

We progressed up the hill, passing small houses, children, dogs, cats. Women with frightened eyes drew the children closer as we neared. Window shades lowered suddenly.

"Tsk, tsk," he said. "Paradise lost."

29

His house was at the top, where the street dead-ended, a pale blue cottage with a full ocean view, hugged by pink oleander and yellow hibiscus. A Volkswagen bug sat at the end of a shattered-stone driveway. Much of the surrounding property was overrun by ivy and flowering vines. The nearest house was a hundred feet away, separated by a splintering wooden fence.

Inside was a different story: freshly painted white walls, black leather couches, oriental rugs that made the vinyl floor look better than it was, limited-edition posters, teak and lacquer furniture. In the closet-kitchen next to the dining area, a cast-iron ceiling rack bore expensive copper pots. German cutlery in a wooden case adorned a counter. All the appliances were European and they looked brand-new.

"Let me fix you a drink," said Creedman, heading for a portable brass-and-glass bar.

"Just a Coke."

He poured the soda and fixed a double scotch for himself. Johnnie Black. Ice from a small, chrome-faced Swedish freezer.

I looked around. The main space was an office-living room. Computer and printer, thousand-watt battery pack, brass reflector telescope, stereo set, CD rack, German twenty-inch TV hooked up to a beefy cable that ran up through the ceiling.

"Had a dish," he said, "but a wind blew it down."

"Looks like you've settled in for the long run."

"I like to live well. Lime with that?"

"Sure."

He brought the drinks and we sat down. The ocean was framed beautifully through a wide window.

"Best revenge," he said, sipping. "Living well."

"Revenge against who?"

"Whoever deserves it." He took a long, slow swallow and emptied his glass. Sucking in an ice cube, he moved it around his mouth.

"So what can I do for you?" I said.

"Nothing, Alex. Just trying to be friendly. Fellow ugly Americans, and all that. Too bad we didn't get much time together before you left."

"Who said I'm leaving?"

He smiled. "Aren't you?"

"Eventually. How about you?"

"I've got no schedule- one advantage of freelancing."

"Sounds nice."

"It is."

We drank and he emptied his glass. "Can I get you another one?"

"No, thanks."

"Don't mind if I do."

He poured himself a taller scotch and returned.

"It's really something, isn't it, this blood fest. Guess I am on the crime beat now. Back in D.C. it never appealed to me because the vast majority of criminals were total shit-for-brains. The police and the prosecutors were no rocket scientists, either."

"Are politicians smart?"

"Some of them." He laughed. "A few."

"Nicholas Hoffman?"