Free Twenty Blue Devils by Aaron Elkins Page B

closet and sat down on the bed to slip them on. Still a little drowsy, he stretched and yawned, then lay back against the headboard and closed his eyes for a moment.
    When he awakened the sun was streaming hotly through the windows and John was pounding at the door. “Come on, Doc, wake up already! It's nine o'clock! You gonna sleep all day, or what?"
    * * * *
    Beneath the outrigger canoe suspended from the ceiling in the Shangri-La's dining room they breakfasted on guava juice, croissants, crullers, and fragrant slices of pineapple, papaya, and the lime green grapefruit of the South Pacific.
    Afterward, over coffee, they sat in the breeze of an open French window, gazing contentedly at a reef-rimmed lagoon as blue and brilliant as a swimming pool, at fork-tailed seabirds floating above the cliffs on the warm wind, at the fantastically shaped, impossibly green mountains of Moorea twelve miles away over the water.
    Aside from the soft plash of the ocean, the only sounds were the slap-slap of thong sandals from the waitress, a broad-beamed middle-aged Tahitian matron with a pair of harlequin glasses on a lanyard around her neck, a gardenia in her black hair, and her stocky body swathed in a flowered pareu , the all-purpose, wraparound Tahitian garment somewhere between a sarong and a muumuu.
    There were only a few other people breakfasting in the big room: a crabby French couple having their morning squabble and two Japanese men who gazed about them in discouragement, as if convinced that they were in the wrong hotel.
    The Shangri-La, romantic the night before, looked a bit grubby in the bright morning light, a little timeworn, the arms of the rattan furniture greasy with use, the cushions on them sunken and stained, the straw mats on the floor ground-down and shabby. Despite the benefits of exclusive arrangements with the party-loving tour groups of Chile, it seemed clear that the Shangri-La had seen better days.
    "What I think,” John said, disposing of yet another croissant, “is that we ought to drop in on the local police this morning."
    Gideon looked at him. “We?"
    "Maybe Nick's not giving us a runaround about exhuming Brian, maybe it's just red tape like he says. Maybe we can help clear it up."
    "Maybe,” Gideon said without conviction.
    "Besides, wouldn't you like to have a look at the police report on Brian before you get started? I mean, we're not doing anything anyway, we're just waiting around."
    "I suppose so, but what are we supposed to do, walk in and ask?"
    "Sure, why not?"
    "Why not? Because we're a couple of nosy foreigners who are here to do some Monday-morning quarterbacking on a case that's closed as far as they're concerned, and cops can get a little funny about that, if you haven't noticed. We're here at Nick's request, and he's the one who should be dealing with the police, John. Or Therese. But not us; we don't have any status here."
    "Yeah, that's true,” John said. He went to the buffet table, came back with a sugar-encrusted cruller, tore off a third of it, shoved it into his mouth, and gestured with the remainder. “But what the hell, I'm an FBI agent, aren't I? I'm visiting a foreign country, aren't I? Why shouldn't I pay a courtesy call on my fellow law enforcement officers?"
    "No reason at all. Fine, you have my blessing. I'll see you when you get back."
    John laughed. “No dice, these guys speak French. I need a translator."
    Gideon drank the last of his coffee and sighed. “All right, let's go.” He stood up reluctantly. “But I'm not going to like this."
    John got out of his chair, finishing the last of the cruller and licking sugar from his fingers. “You're gonna love it. Trust me."
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    Chapter 11
    * * * *
    "Good day,” Gideon began in his slow, careful French. “We are Americans. My friend is a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—"
    "And does your friend possess identification?” asked the civilian clerk without discernible