Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"How?"

"Pinched the top of his hand." She grinned. "Hard. With my nails."

"He didn't react," I said.

"Nope, just kept on talking and cooled the hand on his beer bottle."

I remembered that. "Bastard."

"Forget it, Alex. I know the type. He won't try it again."

"Someone else noticed you," I said. "At the airfield. Skip Amalfi's buddy, that wild-haired guy. Now that I think about it, both he and Skip were probably ogling you the minute we stepped off the boat."

"Probably a woman shortage. Don't worry, I'll stick close to home. Work on my pinching."

"Don't you think Creedman's behavior is pretty risky for a small place like this? You should have seen Ben's face when he talked about Creedman coming on to his wife."

"Maybe that's his kick," she said. "That stupid thrill-of-the-hunt thing. Or maybe Aruk's such a peaceful place that the locals are able to laugh him off as a fool."

"It certainly doesn't seem to be high-crime. The police chief's unarmed."

"I noticed that. Probably why everyone was so sure the murderer was a sailor."

"Does the murder bother you?"

"I didn't love hearing about it, but one homicide a year is heaven compared to L.A., right?"

"According to Ben, it wasn't the reason for the blockade."

"What was?"

I thought back. "He didn't say."

"He's an interesting fellow," she said.

"In what way?"

"Nice, but a bit… hard, don't you think? Like the way he reacted to the crash. Angry at Picker, no sympathy."

"Picker gave him a hard time," I said. "But you're right, it was cold. Maybe it's his training as a nurse. Struggling to save people and then watching someone take what he thought was a stupid risk. Or maybe he's just one of those perfectionists incapable of suffering fools. He seems awfully meticulous. Proprietary about Moreland and Aruk, too. Now Moreland's getting old and Aruk's having problems, so he could be under stress."

"Could be," she said. "Aruk's definitely having problems. All those businesses boarded up, and did you see the gas ration sign in town? How do you think people make a living?"

"In his letters, Moreland said fishing and some crafts. But I haven't seen much sign of either. Ben's educated, could live anywhere, so perhaps he stays here because of some special commitment."

"Yes, it must be hard for him." She snuggled closer. "It is lovely, though. Look at those mountains."

"Want to try diving tomorrow?"

"Maybe." She closed her eyes.

"I'd like everything to go smoothly for you," I said.

"Don't worry. I'll have a great time."

"How's your wrist?"

She laughed. "Much better. And I pledge to go to bed on time and drink my milk."

"I know, I know."

"It's okay, honey. You like to take care of me."

"It's not just that. For some reason, after all these years, I still feel I need to court you."

"I know that, too," she said softly, and slipped her hand under my shirt.

The phone woke us up.

Moreland said, "Oh… were you sleeping? I'm terribly sorry."

"No problem," I said. "What's up?"

"Picker's accident- I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"It was a shock but we're fine."

"I tried to warn him… I want to reassure you that it was a freak event. The last crash we had was in sixty-three, when a military transport went down over the water. Nothing since. I just feel terrible that your welcome has been interrupted by something like this."

"Don't worry about it, Bill."

"I dropped in on Mrs. Picker, gave her some brandy. She's resting peacefully."

"Good."

"All right then, Alex. Sorry again for disturbing your rest." He paused. "We can start working whenever you're ready. Just give me a call downstairs."

Robin sat up and yawned. "Who is it?"

I covered the phone. "Bill. Do you mind if I work a bit?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to get up, too."

"I've got some time right now," I told Moreland.

"Well then," he said, "I could show you your office. Come down when you're ready. I'll be waiting."

We found him sitting in an overstuffed chair near a picture window, drinking orange juice. His legs looked so thin they seemed to fold rather than cross. He wore the same type of plain white shirt. This time the baggy pants were gray. The chained glasses rested low on his nose. He stood, closed his book and put it down. Leather-bound copy of Flaubert's L'Éducation sentimentale.

"Have you read him, son?"

"Just Madame Bovary, years ago."

"A great realistic novel," he said. "Flaubert was excoriated for being realistic." Bending slowly, he petted Spike. "I've set up a little run for this fellow, in a shaded area behind the rose garden. That is, if you feel comfortable leaving him alone."

"Is there a problem with his coming along?"

"Not at all. No zoo this morning. Come, let me show you the smaller library."

He led us through the dining room, pale blue with Chippendale furniture.

"We rarely dine here," he said. "We go outside whenever we can."

The former silver room was on the other side of a mahogany door. He opened it halfway. Salmon moirÉ walls, two dark bookcases, carved moldings, crystal lamps. Dried flowers on the verge of disintegration sprouted from a huge famille verte vase.

He closed the door. "As I said, you'll probably have little use for it."

We continued through a waxed-pine breakfast room, yellow pantry, industrial kitchen, past wall-freezers and out the rear door, ending on one of the rock paths. The closest bungalow was the same light brown as the main house, the roof tiles replaced with asphalt shingles.

Inside the bungalow was a small, cool room paneled beautifully with red-gold koa and set up with an old but flawless walnut desk topped by a leather blotter, a sterling silver inkwell, and an electric typewriter.

Another ceiling fan, desultory rotations. On the opposite wall was a brown couch and matching armchair, some tables and lamps. A carved Japanese motif ran along the top of the paneling. Seashells and corals rested on high shelves. Below hung more of Mrs. Moreland's watercolors.

Two small, open windows let in the breeze and offered a long view of the entry to the estate. The spray from the fountain sparkled like Tivoli lights. Between Spike's heavy breathing, more of that same narcotic silence.

"Very nice," I said.

Behind the desk was a door that Moreland opened, revealing a much larger room with four walls of ceiling-high bookcases. The floor was crowded with high stacks of cardboard cartons- brown columns rising nearly to the ceiling.

Hundreds of boxes, nearly filling the space, randomly separated by narrow aisles.

Moreland shrugged apologetically. "As you can see, I've been waiting for you."

I laughed, as much at his flamingo awkwardness as at the enormity of the task.

"It's shameful, Alex. I won't insult you by making excuses. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down to figure out some system of classification only to get overwhelmed and give up before I began."

"Is it alphabetized?"

He rubbed one sandal against his shin, a curiously boyish gesture. "After my first few years in practice, I tried to alphabetize. Repeated the process every few years. But somewhat… haphazardly. All in all, there are probably a dozen or so independently alphabetized series." He threw up his hands. "Why pretend- it's virtually random. But at least my handwriting's not bad for a doctor."

Robin grinned and I knew she was thinking of my scrawl.

"I don't expect miracles," said Moreland. "Skim, peruse, whatever, tell me if anything jumps out at you. I've always tried to include psychological and social data… Now permit me to show you your atelier, dear."