crossed to my room door and closed it, then I looked around again. Someone had been here, but nothing seemed to be disturbed. I turned on all the lights and began a methodical search for anything out of place. My clothes were hanging as I'd left them; the bed may have been further rumpled, but it was hard to say. I bent down and pulled my suitcase out from under the bed. It was still locked, but there were telltale scratches around the locks. I pulled out my key and opened it. Everything was as I'd left it.
At the bathroom door I stood for a moment and studied the position of my hairbrush, the placement of my shampoo, the exact angle of my toothbrush, all those things that I make myself aware of before I leave a hotel room. Nothing was out of place, and that made me nervous. Whoever had been in here was no amateur. Still, Locard's Law of Exchange had to apply. Whoever had been in my room must have left something behind and taken something away. Hopefully they would have left something behind more macroscopic than a carpet fibre, a strand of hair, or a trace of DNA. I didn't exactly have a crime lab at my disposal.
I pulled out my flashlight, returned to the main room, and threw my leather jacket on the bed. I was sure my suitcase had been opened so I started there. With the flashlight held obliquely to carpet, I ran it over the area where the suitcase had been, then swept out from that point. I'd arrived at the base of the bedside table when I found something: a few flecks of a fine silver powder just around its base. I kept my breathing even. I didn't want to jump to conclusions. I ran the flashlight beam up the side and caught a few flecks there as well. Now I was sure enough to cut to the chase. I pulled myself up so I was kneeling in front of the bedside table. There were two obvious choices: the phone and the water glass. Given the colour of the powder, a pale silver-grey, it had to be the glass. I pulled out my geologist's loupe, held the flashlight to the glass, and did a careful examination. I could see the smears where it had been wiped. I looked more carefully. There were no prints on the sides and no lip marks on the rim, just a few silver flecks around the base. Dusting powder: lightning grey. Someone had lifted my prints.
I switched off the flashlight and sagged against the bed. If they wanted my prints it could mean only one thing. They had official status and access to the fingerprint databanks. Whether they could get into the ones where my prints were stored would depend entirely on who and what they were.
I didn't even bother checking my watch. I needed some answers now.
Duncan picked up on the first ring. "Yes," he said abruptly.
"It's me."
He hesitated. "I can't talk. I'm waiting for a call."
"Who's on the ground here, Duncan?"
There was silence for a minute, then he said, "I'm not sure."
"Well I've had unexpected company and they lifted my prints. And while we're at it, where did you —"
Then I heard little Peter cry in the background and the plaintive voice of Alyssa calling for her father. His voice changed back into Duncan my friend. "Morgan, I'm sorry, but I just can't talk right now."
The connection went dead.
I sat there for a moment, stunned. I'd just been abandoned in Hawaii on some screwball mission for the minister without all the cards. On the other hand, Duncan had his own problems right now and I was a big girl. I'd have to work it out myself. I struggled to my feet. Best to stick to the plan, and the plan for now was to take a little ride.
I headed back down the Saddle Road and at its base turned toward Kona. About halfway down I took the turnoff to Waikoloa Village. It was dark as all get-out, no lights at all along the road, but as I neared the development I could smell the change in vegetation. The dry grassland transformed into swaying palms, lush gardens, and perfectly manicured lawns, the joys of irrigation. Behind the tropical paradise, though, were the same condos and double-car garages seen in every development across North America.
Grenier, I could see from my map, lived on a crescent. As I came up to his street I slowed and made the turn. It was a street of detached single dwellings with the houses nicely separated by vegetation or high fences. Grenier's house was a two-storey detached with fencing on either side. I kept moving slowly along and took in the neighbourhood. The only light from the houses was the occasional blue glow of late-night TV, and the driveways were packed with cars, often three or four to a house. There were some cars parked on the street, so my vehicle wouldn't look out of place.
When I reached the end of the crescent, I didn't loop back immediately but took some time to cruise the area and work out several escape routes. Occasionally another car pulled in behind me, but it inevitably deked around to pass. Other than that, the neighbourhood was dead. I drove back to the main street that fed onto Grenier's crescent and parked my car. I slipped my briefcase out of sight, did a final check of my tools, and quietly shut the car door behind me.
At this elevation, close to sea level, it felt more like postcard Hawaii. It wasn't brutally hot, but hot enough for me to start sweating in my leather jacket. And the air was damp and fecund, smelling like a mixture of chlorophyll and peat. I did one slow walk by Grenier's house to test the dog barking potential, which, fortunately, turned out to be low, then I looped back around, crossed his lawn, and moved into the shadow of the recessed door.
Through the sidelight the hallway looked dark and abandoned with a pile of mail lying on the carpet beneath the door. A set of stairs ran up the right-hand wall, and the hallway itself continued back to what looked like a kitchen in behind. I could see the edge of a glass door that must open onto a patio in the backyard.
Somewhere down the street a dog barked, then two cones of light appeared. I moved into the corner, confident that I couldn't be seen. The car didn't slow, just continued out the other side of the crescent. Maybe it was a security guard or, for that matter, a cop. It was time to move. I stepped off the portico and crossed to the side of the house. A narrow path squeezed between the house and the high fence next door. Halfway down I heard a siren wail somewhere in the distance, and it added to the eerie cacophony of night sounds: birds screeching, the rustle of big-leafed plants, the clicks and croaks of the lower phyla.
At the end of the path I stopped and glanced around the corner. A grouping of cheap outdoor furniture sat on a small cement patio, and this was surrounded by a border of ill-kept greenery. A high fence enclosed it all. I pulled out my flashlight but kept it off. After another minute of listening I left my corner and crossed the cement, aiming for the door. It wouldn't take me more than a minute to pick that lock and walk inside.
Then I felt something crunch underfoot, glass being ground into cement. I flicked my flashlight on, ran it across the patio door, and quickly turned it off. I wouldn't be needing those lock picks after all. Someone had been here before me, but they'd used a crowbar instead. I wondered, as I crouched low, if they were still inside.
I waited ten, fifteen minutes, straining to hear any noise from the house. Finally, when I was confident that I was alone, I stood and stepped into the kitchen. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor, drawers were upturned, even bags of food had been dumped out on the counter. What once were light fixtures were now gaping holes. The fixtures themselves dangled below, an uncanny reminder of Grenier's death. Despite the crow-bar entry this didn't look like a smash and grab. This looked like someone searching for drugs. Or money. Or hidden diaries.
In the hallway I stopped again and listened. Straight ahead was the front door, to my left the staircase and open archway, and to my right a closed door. Grenier's home office, where, Mellier had told me, Yves Grenier had kept a neat row of his old diaries. I started to move forward then saw something in my peripheral vision, a movement in front of the stairs. I froze. It was near the floor, then without warning it burst up the stairs, white and fluffy and scared. Then I connected something I'd
