by Rob Swigart
“Has she said anything?” Cobb asked, though he knew the answer.
Duvalois merely shrugged and turned his hands out. The gesture spread his shirt, and showed the small automatic held by a De Santis inside-the-pants belt holster. Cobb Takamura, who hated guns, recognized the butt of a Heckler and Koch P7 with the slim eight-round magazine. It was a difficult gun to get used to, since the grip itself had a lever on the front that cocked the gun.
That told Cobb that this man was a professional, a shooter, despite the defensive nature of such a small weapon. And he had no trouble getting through airport security, at least for the domestic flight.
He did not know what authority Duvalois represented.
“You have seen this before?” Duvalois was looking at Chazz Koenig.
“Maybe, but I’m not a doctor.”
“No, of course not. I am referring to possible poisons. Something that would send a simple woman into a homicidal psychosis.”
“Does she have a history?”
“The police have interviewed her family, friends, and so on, of course. She has no close relatives. Very religious in an odd way. Mormon, but she has connections with native religion too, a revival of Tahitian practice. There is some… conflict between the Mormon authorities and the traditional revival. But she has never been violent. Tahitian religion was generally benign, not violent or cruel.”
“Generally.”
“Quite so. Generally. There was a practice of taking a sacrificial victim’s eye, offering it to the chief, who pretended to eat it, before a battle…”
“And?”
“The victim had lost an eye. The police did not find it. Perhaps she ate it.” Duvalois was watching Chazz keenly. His mustache curled over his upper lip into his mouth, and stayed permanently wet. “And then the lacerations… a standing volcanic rock with a very rough surface. Victims were rubbed against the rock, to make more blood, for the birds, you see.”
“I don’t think this is really my area. I’m a molecular biologist, not a forensic psychiatrist. Sounds like the local religion heated up a little. The victim was a judge, wasn’t he? A policeman? A French policeman?”
“Ah, you think there might be a political motive, hien?”
Chazz shrugged and looked away. Dr. Rathé switched on the overhead light, and the high window turned black. The light was too harsh for the room, throwing shadows into the corners.
“Is there more we can learn here?” Takamura asked. “She doesn’t seem to be feeling helpful at the moment.”
“No, of course.”
They returned to the foyer. The Côte d’Azur seemed impossibly far away. “There is a resemblance,” Cobb said. “She is like Tracy Ann Thrasher. Perhaps there is a connection now between what happened to the people on the Ocean Mother and what has happened here.”
Duvalois did not appreciate this notion. “That is not possible. Queneau was killed yesterday. Ocean Mother left weeks ago.”
“You assume they left on the Ocean Mother,” Cobb said softly.
“It is logical, is it not? The people aboard the ship died just outside of Kauai, so I have been told. Much time went by between here and there.”
“Then perhaps the murderer flew back. We think there was an eighth crewmember. That person may be back here now.”
Duvalois was shaking his head. “Not possible. We have been watching.”
“You were in Papeete, not here,” Chazz pointed out.
“Everyone comes through Papeete, Monsieur. She’s been like this for weeks. He set her up to kill in the future and he left. He did this perhaps to make it look like he was still here, eh?”
Dr. Rathé had been standing quietly watching the conversation without participating. He snorted now and nodded once. “Good-bye.” He turned on his heel and vanished through the door. Duvalois shrugged and suggested they find something to eat. It was getting late.
The Chinese restaurant in Uturoa was simple but adequate. Duvalois ate with considerable gusto, packing away two or three dishes on his own. There was about him a fierce concentration when he ate that Cobb Takamura found impressive. The proprietor, a peppery Chinese man with a fixed smile, fussed over them, rushing to the kitchen and rushing back with more rice, more water, more spareribs. He clearly knew the French cop, but it was impossible to say whether he liked him or not.
Chazz did not like him. He had not liked the doctor, either. There was an agenda here he did not understand, and both men had been arrogant and abrupt. LeBlanc on the other hand had made some gestures toward geniality and cooperation, but hostility to the Ocean Mother and her mission underlay everything these men had been saying. The French agenda was for continued atomic testing in the South Pacific. Maintain the balance of power, they said. It was safe. There would be no danger for 500 or 1000 years. No problem, aita pe’ape’a, as they said here. Maintain the balance of terror, the environmental activists maintained. The French government would consider Ocean Mother a noxious interference by outsiders in French internal matters, an affront to national pride, and a dangerous and destabilizing public relations ploy.
Chazz had the sense that these men were happy the crew of the Ocean Mother was dead. Chazz cracked open his fortune cookie. It suggested that he was going to meet strangers. Be wary. “I’m going to try Patria again,” he said, pushing back his chair. The room was decorated mainly in Chinese red, the color of chili peppers. A little night air sounded good.
“The lobby of the hotel has a phone for overseas calls,” Duvalois told him. “Across the street.”
“I might as well check in then, too.” He picked up their two small flight bags.
After he left, Cobb unwrapped a toothpick and examined it. Toothpicks always reminded him of his old partner, Sammy Akeakamai. Sammy was writing the checks for this trip. The toothpick reminded Lieutenant Takamura that he had better come home with some results, or Sammy would be unhappy.
“You do not represent the gendarmes, Monsieur Duvalois,” Cobb said thoughtfully. “I suppose you work for the security forces.”
Duvalois was not surprised at this observation. He shrugged his Gallic shrug: You know how it is.
“Which means,” Cobb went on, “that you are more interested in the fate of the Ocean Mother than you are letting on.”
“Ah, M’sieur,” Duvalois said, snapping his fingers at the proprietor, who dashed instantly to his side. “L’addition.”
“Oui, maintenant.” The waiter dashed away again and was back with the check before Duvalois could speak. The policeman glanced at it and grunted. He initialed it and handed it back. The man disappeared.
“What I was going to say,” Duvalois continued, “is that we are concerned for the public safety and the tranquility of these islands. Polynesia is a remote part of the world, far from everywhere. The social fabric here is delicate, fragile. France pours a lot of money into the economy here. The people of Tahiti are happy about that. There is little crime. But other countries—New Zealand, Australia, New Caledonia— they do not like French policy. They use any excuse to cause embarrassment. You understand, it is most important for us to prevent bad publicity. Of course vessels like this cause trouble. But we are not criminals, M. Takamura. I am interested because it is part of my job. I was not sorry to see the ship leave Polynesian waters, you see, I do not disguise that. Not sorry at all. Some things happened here, on this quiet island, before the ship left, you understand.”
Ah. And what kinds of things were those? Cobb Takamura thought this, but he said nothing. He peeled the paper from the toothpick and examined it closely. It was milled in Japan. There were two grooves carved into the blunt end. He very carefully broke the toothpick at the second groove, leaving a straight pointed section and a short piece with a groove in the middle. He placed the short piece on the table. Then he leaned the pointed end of the toothpick in the groove and put the other end down on the white paper table cover. A built-in toothpick rest. The Japanese think of everything.
“There was
trouble?” he inquired, still looking at the toothpick.
“May I be frank?”
Cobb thought, For a change? But he said, “Yes.”
“The crew of the ship. There were two French citizens.” Duvalois took from his hip pocket a piece of paper. It had been folded several times and was faintly damp along the creases. He unfolded it and spread it on the table. It was a list of the crew, their nationalities and ages.
Russell Tichenor, Canadian, 48
Jeffrey Laurel Hudson, American, 32
Clarence Locke, American, 37
Tracy Ann Thrasher, American, 22
Jacqueline Guillaume, French, 59
Noel Taviri, French, 29
Hans Willem Gottwalls, Dutch, 63
“You see? Noel Taviri, he is from Huahine, over that way, originally, but is a citizen of France. And Jacqueline Guillaume, she is from Lyon originally. Do you know who she is?”
Cobb shook his head.
“She is— was— a celebrity, in France. A radical. It is said she was once the mistress of Jean-Paul Sartre, a communist. She is on television, often in front of demonstrations. To some, she is a saint. To others, a troublemaker, a devil.”
Cobb nodded. “Go on. Does this lead anywhere?”
“How can I say? She is dead, is she not? And someone killed her.” Duvalois sat back as if this explained everything.
“You think the radical left killed her to make it look like the French security services did it? They killed her and everyone else on the ship? Like the Rainbow Warrior? Except the French security forces did blow up the Rainbow Warrior, didn’t they?”
“A mistake, certainly. Unauthorized. Those responsible were punished. We are careful about that sort of thing these days. But it is bad press, back in France, that this woman is dead.”
“What does this have to do with the woman here at the hospital? Or Queneau?”
“I don’t know.”
Chazz entered the restaurant. He was frowning.
“How’s Patria?’ Cobb asked.
“Funny,” Chazz said. “She still doesn’t answer. I tried your house, too, and Kimiko’s cousin’s. Kiki and Kenji are there, but she hasn’t heard from Kimiko.”
“Mmm. Busy, I suppose.”
“I think she should have answered.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’re just out for dinner or something.”
“Yeah. Out for dinner.”
FOURTEEN
A NICE, QUIET NIGHT
It was a fine winter night in the tropics. Scorpio curled through the Milky Way overhead. The Southern Cross tilted on its side a little farther to the west. All the stars were unfamiliar, but the air was soft with the distant surf against the outside of the reef and the after-stirrings of the day’s sunlight rising from the pavement. There was no moon.
“A nice, quiet night,” Cobb said. “Like home.”
“Different stars.”
“Yeah. Different.”
Although it was just a little after nine, the town was somnolent. Cars were infrequent on the main street, rare on the side streets. One or two small restaurants showed lights, the outlines of people inside. The harbor was silent, fishing boats floating on black glass under a single street lamp. No lights in the cabins. Against the outer pier, a large cargo boat was tied. It too was dark.
Duvalois nodded. “A couple of errands,” he murmured. “See you later.” He ambled away to the main street and turned left.
“You suppose he’s staying at the hotel, too?” Chazz asked.
Cobb nodded. “Not that many hotels on this island. A couple of small resorts, a pension or two. This place in town, Le Motu, is more or less it.”
“He seems pretty sloppy for a cop. You think he’s legitimate?”
Takamura laughed. “This is the end of the world. He said so himself. Probably not the most exciting post for a security officer. I imagine they don’t assign their top people to Polynesia. The pace here seems a little… slow? Casual. Maybe he got lazy. It happens on islands.”
“Didn’t happen to you.”
“No. But I was born there.”
They strolled along the waterfront. Across a shallow bay, they could see the hospital, its rooms lit up. It looked like a cruise ship in the night against the black hills.
Suddenly, loud music started up in the middle of town. It stopped a moment, then started again. This time it kept going.
“I’m afraid that’s from our hotel,” Chazz said.
“No!”
“Yes. There’s a disco downstairs.”
“A disco? Where have these people been? I thought disco went out in the seventies.”
“These are the tropics,” Chazz said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh, of course. These are the tropics.” Cobb echoed. They walked on.
“Wait.” Takamura stopped to look at his friend. “Are we too old for disco?”
“Never too old for disco, Lieutenant.”
“A disco might be a good place to meet people,” Cobb suggested.
“And you a married man. Tsk-tsk.”
“Most amusing, Dr. Koenig.” They walked slowly. At the corner they could see a gathering outside the hotel, a surreal mix of Chinese, Tahitians, and Caucasians in assorted clothing. Most, but by no means all, were young.
Four men walked down the street with an unnatural wariness. Chazz watched them go inside. One of them had a thick scar on his neck, under his right ear. The scar connected the lobe to the skin of the neck. They were hard-looking men, trouble, going inside. Then they were gone.
“Military, I’d bet,” Chazz said.
“You noticed? Not friendly, I’d say.” Takamura dismissed them.
They drifted in among the crowd. A few motorbikes were leaning on their stands at the curb. Three more sputtered into town, driven by fiercely mustached young men with flashing smiles and laughing girls seated behind them, arms around the men’s waists. The three couples went inside. The music was deafening, the lyrics in French. A painted sign over the right-hand door declared that this was the Disco Onyx. The sign over the left-hand door said Hotel Le Motu. Both doors were open. The hotel door revealed a flight of stairs. The entire hotel was on the second floor.
“We have the two quiet rooms,” Chazz shouted, all irony lost in noise. “In the back. View of the harbor.”
“I’m sure they’re lovely,” Cobb answered.
Someone touched Chazz on his arm. He pivoted swiftly, stepping back and to one side, his hands rising, a gesture quickly turned into stroking his beard when he saw the complete absence of threat from the small man before him. “Dr. Koenig?” the man said.
He had a gray goatee and thick spectacles. Spindly arms dangled from the flapping short sleeves of a bilious-green shirt, and he seemed to twitch frequently. “I’m sorry, Dr. Koenig. They said you were here. The only one who could be you was you.”
“Oh.”
The man spoke English with a generous helping of Texas. Intelligent eyes glittered behind his glasses, which reflected the garish neon from inside the disco. “You like disco?” he asked.
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Freddie Barrone. Dr. Morgan, from the DRC up in Kauai, he said you’d contact me?”
“Of course. Vitamins and oysters. You have a new process. I thought we were meeting tomorrow.” Chazz stepped aside for a group of clean-shaven Frenchmen here on vacation. They disappeared into the smoke and noise.
“Yes, but I thought since you were here, and I was here anyway, I might look you up tonight. I mean, I heard about Gérard and all, and I thought you might be busy or something, but here you are.”
“Who’s Gérard?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Queneau. Wonderful man, why anyone would want to kill him, I don’t know, he was very helpful to the farm— that’s the oysters, you know. We’re mainly tryin’ to get vitamin E out of the seaweed, but the oysters like to have it around, so we thought we could cultivate pearls too, you know, P
olynesia’s famous for black pearls?”
An overweight man in a T-shirt came out of the disco and started up one of the motorcycles parked in front. They had to suspend the conversation until he roared away toward the airport. Barrone smiled painfully through it.
“So you knew Mr. Queneau?”
“Sure. Everyone knew Gérard. He was the judge, more or less retired of course, but still he acted as a kind of ombudsman, for the people here, you see. It’s difficult sometimes to get through the paperwork in Tahiti, ’specially for a foreigner, an American, I mean. They want to keep people out unless they’re tourists bringin’ money, of course, so to get a residency permit, well, it’s hard, and to set up a business, well…”
“I can understand,” Cobb said.
“Lieutenant Takamura,” Chazz introduced them. The little man shook both their hands.
“What I’m sayin’ is that Mr. Queneau helped a lot. He was real interested in the welfare of the native people, French and Tahitian both. Real interested. Everyone loved him, that’s why it’s such a shock.”
“A native woman killed him,” Chazz said.
“Yeah, I heard that too. Don’t seem likely, you ask me. Not that she didn’t do it, I suppose she did, but it don’t seem likely if you see what I mean.”
The song ended; there was a brief pause, punctuated by the sounds of an argument inside, soon drowned out by the next onslaught of music. Chazz gestured that maybe they should take a short walk up the street, away from the noise. Cobb said he was going inside to “get the feel of the place.”
“It’s not like Takamura,” Chazz told Barrone as they strolled under the overhang along the shops across the street. “Back in Kauai he lives a quiet life.”
“Japanese, is he?”
“American,” Chazz said drily.
“Yes. I’m sorry. Of course. You all are from Hawaii. I got my doctorate at SMU. Botany. My wife’s Tahitian, see, she didn’t care for Texas. Likes it down here, where she’s from, Raïatéa, actually. She works some as a guide, takin’ tourists around the island, see the sights. Love to take you, you got the time. Faaroa, the temples, Temehani, they got some weird flowers grow up there, only place in the world, five petals, called Tiare apetahi, real pretty, make a noise when they open at dawn, bang, bang, white with a semicorolla. Sorry.” He bobbed his head. “Botany, you know.”