the early morning, the waves of heat were so intense that the background behind was a blur of greens.
I took the steps down to the tarmac slowly, trying to take it all in. The airport itself was small with the planes landing out on the tarmac. The buildings resembled a series of attached Polynesian huts right down to the simulated thatch roofs, but there were no walls to enclose the structure, something incomprehensible to my Canadian sensibility. And everywhere around me clumps of palms rattled and swished in the wind. I moved my bag to the other shoulder. There was no doubt about it. If one had to work this was the place to do it.
Detective Donald Benson of the Hawaii County Police Department leaned back in his chair. His legs stretched out so far that his shiny brown loafers poked out from beneath the desk and almost touched my feet. With his hands laced behind his head he observed me with what appeared to be casual interest, but I suspected was anything but.
"O'Brien, right?" I nodded. "Where'd you say you were from?"
I'd called Benson from the Kona airport just before picking up my rental car. As the lead investigator on Grenier's death he'd have more useful information than all the astronomers combined, and he'd been surprisingly helpful. Instead of the usual suspicion, stonewalling, and runaround, Benson had told me to come right over. He'd even offered me a cup of coffee. His behaviour put me on edge.
I pulled out my passport and my National Council for Science and Technology ID card, identifying me as an investigator. He pulled them over and glanced at them but didn't look impressed.
"So you investigate what exactly?"
"Research fraud, embezzlement, occasionally murder or manslaughter if it's related in some way to research." Then I added carefully, emphasizing theory over practice, "But in those cases I'm there to help the police."
He tossed my papers on the desk, leaned back again, and ran his hands over the fine bristle of dark hair that barely obscured his scalp. As he lifted his arms the olive T-shirt beneath his pale linen jacket stretched across muscle. "You got law enforcement experience?"
"RCMP."
His face brightened. I had connections to the brotherhood. "I know a couple of Mounties. Good guys. I met them at a conference in Atlanta a couple years back."
I leaned forward, pulled a Post-it off his desk, wrote down the names of two officers — one a detective with the local Ottawa police, the other a sergeant with the RCMP — and pushed it across the table.
"Give them a call." I nodded to the paper. "They'll tell you I'm legit."
He picked up the paper and fingered it, obviously trying to decide if he should make the calls before giving me any information. Finally he looked up. "So you understand all this science shit?"
"That's my job. And if I don't understand it and it seems relevant, I have contacts who help me out."
"And this Grenier guy, he was one of yours?"
"We paid his salary."
He gave a little shrug. "So what's the problem? People commit suicide all the time. They don't send in the government troops."
I'd thought about this, how to explain my presence. Benson was the fastest route to information. With him on my side I wouldn't have to waste time on preliminaries. He would have done that for me. He could also give me access to sources of information that would otherwise be closed to me as a foreign national, so to make this work I had to cast myself as an asset, not a liability. But how to do that without mentioning the research diaries? If he didn't know about them I wasn't about to tip him off. The best route, I reasoned, was a partial truth, which is so much easier to weasel out of than an outright lie if things begin to fall apart.
"Some of Grenier's data is missing," I said, keeping my voice neutral, "and it belongs to us."
He came forward in his chair. "Really. Now why didn't any of those pointy heads let me in on that?"
So they hadn't mentioned the diaries. That in itself was interesting. "Maybe you didn't ask the right questions, or maybe you asked the wrong person. Not everyone would know."
"Why the interest?"
"His work represents a substantial investment on the part of the Canadian government."
He'd picked up a pencil and absently tapped the eraser on his blotter while his eyes stayed riveted to mine. "It must, to send you all the way here to get it."
He was analyzing my every twitch, tick, and squirm, and I was careful to keep my eyes level with his and my hands neatly folded in my lap, but I felt the heat. I needed a diversion. "How solid is your suicide?"
It took a second, then Benson frowned and threw down his pencil. "I hate friggin' suicides. This one? I've got a note, I've got no physical evidence to back up anything else, and I've got several witnesses saying that Grenier'd been a bit bizarre over the past two weeks. Add to that no motive for murder, not that we could dig up anyway. Let's just say it's hard to commit resources on that basis."
"But the case isn't closed."
He sighed, and shook his head. "Unless something else comes up," he motioned to the pile of folders on his desk, "I've got other cases, and the brass wants it shut."
I smiled to myself. Any self-respecting detective would rather solve a murder than declare a case a suicide. I lowered my voice a couple of tones, giving it seductive edge. "Maybe we can make a deal."
I could see the corners of his mouth turn up, almost against his will. "And what kind of deal would that be?"
I leaned in a bit and tilted my head down, so I was looking up at him through my lashes. In wolves this would be called a submissive posture, designed to reduce any sense of threat. It usually worked, particularly on men. "You tell me what you've got and whatever I find I turn over to you. Consider me the hired help, except you don't pay a thing."
He broke out into a smile of brilliant white teeth. "Simple as that, huh?"
I nodded.
He eyed me for a minute, his teeth almost glinting against the tan, then he gave a little nod in my direction. "The Hawaii County Police Department is always happy to help a neighbour." He leaned forward and reached for the phone. "How are you with pretty pictures?"
"It's not my first choice of entertainment, but I won't puke on your floor."
"Good," he said, banging in a number, "because Bunny wouldn't like that." Then he turned slightly away from me. "Bunny, get me Star Boy's forensic file to interview 6 please."
Benson led me down a corridor lined with interview rooms. He was a pleasing sight to follow, tall and nicely muscled, but not overdone, ostentatious. I knew we'd struck a deal, and I also knew that Benson didn't trust me any more than I did him: a good cop's instincts. But even with the flow of information censored it would still be better than what I could get working it alone.
The door to interview room 6 was open when we got there. Whoever Bunny was, she was efficient. There was a file on the table and a video player and monitor beside it. Benson sat in one chair, I sat down beside him. He pulled a video from the file, shoved it in the machine. Then he unbuttoned his jacket, crossed his legs, and hit play on the remote. His belt, I noted, matched his shoes.
"No narration,"
