"All that due to Moreland's influence?"

"Probably the military, too. We did that at the same time also. I was an MP in the Marines, he was Coast Guard. Then he got married, kids, all that good stuff. Probably decided it was a good idea to keep the straight life going."

The next sentence came out a snarl: "I liked the bastard."

"Hard to reconcile that with what he did."

He glanced at me and picked up speed. "What're you trying to do? Put me on the couch? Dr. Bill tell you to do that?"

"No. Sometimes I lapse into shoptalk."

He shook his head and put on more speed, turning the final dip to the harbor into a roller-coaster swoop.

The water enlarged as if at the hands of some celestial projectionist, blue, mottled platinum, where the clouds hovered.

Laurent shoved the shift lever hard, yanked it back into neutral, gunned the engine, stopped so short I had to brace myself against the dash. My fingers landed inches from the shotgun and I saw his head swivel sharply. I put my hands in my lap and he chewed his cheek and stared out the windshield.

More people than usual on the waterfront, mostly men, milling around the docks and congregating in front of the Trading Post, which was closed. The only open establishment, in fact, was Slim's Bar, where a few more drinkers than usual loitered, smoked, and swigged from long-necks. I picked out Skip Amalfi's fair hair among the sea of black, then his father, hovering nervously at the back of the crowd.

Skip was animated, talking and gesturing and brushing hair out of his face. Some of the villagers nodded and gesticulated with their arms, slicing the air choppily, pointing up Front Street toward the road that led up to Victory Park.

Laurent put the car into gear and rolled down so fast I couldn't focus on anyone's face. Ignoring the stop sign on Front Street, he made a sharp right and raced toward the municipal center. The parking spaces facing the whitewashed building were all taken. Nosing behind a crumbling Toyota, he jerked the key out of the ignition, freed the shotgun, and got out carrying the weapon against his thigh. His size made it look like a toy.

Slamming the car door, he marched toward the center. Onlookers moved aside and I rode his wake, managing to get inside before the remarks to my back took form.

The front room was tiny, dingy, and hot, filled with the salty-fatty smell of canned soup. Nicked walls were covered with wanted posters, Interpol communiquÉs, lists of the latest federal regulations. Two desks, messy, with phones tilting on mounds of yet more paper. One held a hotplate.

The only spot of color was a tool company calendar over one of the workstations, starring a long-torsoed, pneumatic brunette in a red spandex bikini that could have been used for a handkerchief. A middle-aged deputy sat under sleek, tan thighs, writing and moving a toothpick around in his mouth. Skinny, he had a jutting stubbled chin and a sunken, lipless mouth. Lots of missing teeth. His hair was limp and graying, fringing unevenly over his collar. His uniform needed pressing but his engraved metal nameplate was shiny. Ruiz.

"Ed," said Dennis. "This is Dr. Delaware, the psychologist from the castle."

Ed pushed away from his desk and the legs of the folding chair groaned against the linoleum floor. The skin under his eyes was smudged. A pile of plastic-wrapped toothpicks was at his left hand. He lowered his head to the wastebasket and blew out the pick in his mouth, selected a new one, tore the plastic, rested the splinter on a ridge of bare gum, and laced his hands behind his head.

"Anything?" said Dennis.

"Uh-uh." Ed manipulated the pick with his tongue and watched me.

"No action from the jokers at Slim's?"

"Nah, just big talk." The sibilant voice. He touched the revolver in his belt with his left hand. I thought of something and filed it away.

"Why don't you take a walk up and down Front. Check things out."

Ed shrugged and rose to a slumping five four. Pocketing more toothpicks, he ambled out the door.

Dennis said, "You can sit in his chair."

I took my place under Miss Redi-Lathe, and he settled half a buttock atop the other desk and folded his arms across his chest.

"Ed may not look like much to you, but he's reliable. Ex-Marine. In Vietnam he won enough medals to start a jewelry store."

"Southpaw, too."

He took off the mirrored glasses. His light eyes were clear and hard as bottle glass. "So?"

"It reminded me that Ben's left-handed. I know because I saw him vaccinating the kids at the school. I read AnneMarie Valdos's file. Moreland said the killer was probably right-handed."

"To me, "probably' means not for sure."

I didn't answer.

Laurent's arms tightened and his biceps jumped. "Moreland's no forensic pathologist."

"He was good enough for the Valdos case."

He chewed his cheek again and shot me a close-mouthed smile. "Are you his rent-a-sherlock, supposed to raise doubts about my investigation?"

"The only thing he asked me to do was give Ben moral support. If my being here's a problem, take me back and I'll catch up on my sunbathing."

Another bicep flex. Then the smile widened, flashing white. "Look at that, I pissed you off. Thought shrinks didn't lose their tempers."

"I came to Aruk to do some interesting work and get away from city life. Since I got here it's been nothing but weirdness, and now you're treating me like some kind of sleazeball. I'm not Moreland's surrogate and I don't enjoy being placed under house arrest. When those boats pull up, I plan to be on one."

I stood.

He said, "Take it easy, sit down. I'll make coffee." Switching on the hotplate, he pulled packets of instant and creamer and styrofoam cups out of his desk.

"It ain't Beverly Hills cafÉ au lait. That okay?"

"Depends on what kind of conversation goes with it."

Grinning, he went through a battered rear door. I heard water run and he returned with a metal coffeepot that he placed on the hotplate.

"You want to stand, suit yourself."

I waited until the pot bubbled before sitting.

"Black or cream?"

"Black."

"Tough guy." Deep chuckle. "No offense, just trying to take the tension off. Sorry if I rubbed you wrong before."

"Let's just get through this."

He fixed two cups, handed me one. Terrible, but the bitterness was what I needed.

"I know damn well Ben's a lefty," he said. "But all Moreland said in AnneMarie's case was that the killer was right-handed if she was grabbed from behind and done like this." Tilting his head back, he exposed his Adam's apple and ran a hand along his throat. "If she was cut from the front, it could have been a lefty."

He shifted his weight.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking. We dropped it before it was finished. But it's not like some big city, tons of money to follow every lead."

"Hey," I said, "big-city cops don't always follow through. I watched thugs burn L.A. down while the police sat around waiting for instructions from brain-dead superiors."

"You don't like cops?"

"My best friend is one- seriously."

He stirred creamer into his cup and sipped with surprising delicacy. "I've got a pathologist flying in. Looking at AnneMarie's file as well as Betty's. I don't know if she'll be able to make any determination about how Betty got cut, because her head was taken clean off. Maybe, though. I'm no expert."

Shifting again, he got up and sat behind the other desk, propping his feet up.

"Does your gut tell you Ben's guilty?" I said.

"My gut? What the hell's that worth?"

"My friend's a homicide detective. His hunches have led him to some good places."

"Well," he said, "good for him. I'm just one third of a dinky-shit three-man police force on a dinky-shit island. Ed's my main backup and my other deputy's older than him."