"Right… but we don't understand the ins and outs of the trade in legitimate therapeutic drugs, whether they're stolen, black market, copied, or otherwise."

"Okay, but you agree that the Gordons stealing this vaccine sounds implausible?"

She replied, "No. It's plausible. I just feel it's a lie."

"Right. It's a plausible lie."

"A terrific lie."

"A terrific lie," I agreed. "It changes the case."

"It sure does. What else?"

"Well," I said, "there's the chart book. Not much there, but I'd like to know what 44106818 means."

"Okay. And how about the archaeology on Plum?" she asked.

"Right. That was a complete surprise to me and raises all sorts of questions," I said.

"Why did Paul Stevens give us that?"

"Because it's public knowledge, and we'd hear about it soon enough."

"Right. What's the meaning of the archaeological stuff?"

"I have no idea." I added, "But it has nothing to do with the science of archaeology. It was a cover for something, a reason to go to remote parts of the island."

She said, "Or, it may be meaningless."

"It may be. And then we have the red clay that I saw in the Gordons' running shoes and which I saw on Plum. The route from the main lab, into the parking lot, onto the bus, then to the dock has no place where you could pick up soft red clay in your treads."

She nodded, then said, "I assume you took some of the clay when you went to tinkle?"

I smiled. "As a matter of fact, I did. But when I got dressed in the locker room, someone had been kind enough to launder my shorts."

She cracked, "I wish they'd done the same for me."

We both smiled.

She said, "I'll request soil samples. They can decontaminate them if they get hung up on the 'Never Leave' policy." She added, "You tend to take the direct approach, I see, such as filching the financial printouts, then stealing government soil, and who knows what else you've done. You should learn to follow protocols and procedures, Detective Corey. Especially since this is not your jurisdiction or your case. You're going to get into trouble, and I'm not going to stick my neck out for you."

"Sure you are. And by the way, I'm usually pretty good with the rules of evidence, suspects' rights, command structure, and all that crap when it's just regular homicides. This could have been-could still be-the plague-to-end-all-plagues. So I took a few shortcuts. Time is of the essence, the doctrine of hot pursuit, and all that. If I save the planet, I'm a hero."

"You'll play by the rules, and you'll follow procedures. Do not do anything to compromise an indictment or conviction in this case."

"Hey, we don't even have half a suspect and you're already in court."

"That's how I work a case."

I said, "I think I've done as much as I can here. I'm resigning my position as town homicide consultant."

"Stop sulking." She hesitated, then said, "I'd like you to stay. I may actually be able to learn something from you."

Clearly we liked each other, despite some run-ins and misunderstandings, some differences of opinion, dissimilar temperaments, differences of age and background, and probably blood type, and tastes in music, and God knew what else. Actually, if I thought about it, we had not one thing in common except the job, and we couldn't even agree on that. And yet, I was in love. Well, okay, lust. But significant lust. I was deeply committed to this lust.

We looked at each other again, and again we smiled. This was silly. I mean, really dopey. I felt like an idiot. She was so exquisitely beautiful… I liked her voice, her smile, her coppery hair in the sunlight, her movements, her hands… and she smelled soapy again, from the shower. I love that smell. I associate soap with sex. That's a long story.

Finally, she asked, "What useless land?"

Huh…? Oh, right. The Gordons." I explained about the check-book entry and my conversation with Margaret Wiley. I concluded "I'm not a country boy, but I don't think people without bucks spend twenty-five Gs just to have their own trees to hug."

"It's odd," she agreed. "But land is an emotional thing." She added, "My father was one of the last farmers in western Suffolk County, surrounded by subdivisions of split-levels. He loved his land, but the countryside had changed-the woods and streams and the other farms were gone, so he sold. But he was not the same man afterward, even with a million dollars in the bank."

She stayed silent a moment, then said, "I suppose we should go speak to Margaret Wiley, take a look at that land, even though I don't think it's significant to this case."

"I think the fact that the Gordons never told me they owned a piece of land is significant. Same with the archaeological digs. Things that don't make sense need explaining."

"Thank you, Detective Corey."

I replied, "I don't mean to lecture, but I give a class at John Jay, and sometimes a line or two slips out like that."

She regarded me a moment, then said, "I never know if you're pulling my leg or not."

Actually, I wanted to pull her leg-both legs, but I let that thought go and said, "I really do teach at John Jay." This is John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, one of the best such schools in the country, and I suppose she had a credibility problem with John Corey as professor.

She asked, "What do you teach?"

"Well, certainly not rules of evidence, suspects' rights, or any of that."

"Certainly not."

"I teach practical homicide investigation. Scene of the crime, and that kind of thing. Friday nights. It's the ultimate murder mystery evening. You're welcome to sit in if I ever get back into it. Maybe January."

"I might do that."

"Come early. The class is always overflowing. I'm very entertaining."

"I m sure or it."

And I was sure Ms. Beth Penrose was finally considering it. It.

The ferry was slowing as it approached the dock. I asked Beth, "Have you spoken to the Murphys yet?"

"No. Max did. They're on my list for today."

"Good. I'll join you."

"I thought you were quitting."

"Tomorrow."

She took her notebook out of her bag and began perusing the pages. She said, "I need from you the computer printouts that you borrowed."

"They're at my place."

"Okay…" She scanned a page and continued, "I'll call fingerprints and forensic. Plus I've asked the DA for a subpoena for the Gordons' phone records for the last two years."

"Right. Also, get a list of licensed pistol holders in Southold Township."

She asked, "Do you think the murder weapon might be a locally registered weapon?"

"Maybe."

"Why do you think that?"

"Hunch. Meanwhile, keep dredging and diving for the bullets."

"We are, but that's a real long shot. Pardon the pun."

"I have a lot of tolerance for bad puns."

"Let me guess why."

"Right. Also, if you round up the hardware on Plum Island, make sure the county does the ballistics tests, not the FBI."

"I know."

She detailed a bunch of other odds and ends that needed doing, and I could see she had a neat and orderly mind. She was, also, intuitive and inquisitive. She only lacked experience, I thought, to make a really good detective. To make a great detective she had to learn to loosen up, to get people to talk freely and too much. She came on a little grim and strong, and most witnesses, not to mention colleagues, would get their defenses up. "Loosen up."

She looked up from her notebook. "Excuse me?"

"Loosen up."

She stayed quiet a moment, then said, "I'm a little anxious about this case."

"Everyone is. Loosen up."

"I'll try." She smiled. "I can do impersonations. I can do you. Want to see?"

"No."

She got all slouchy and wiggley, shoved one hand in her pocket, and scratched her chest with the other, then spoke in a bass voice with a New York City accent, "Hey, like, what the hell's goin' on with this case? Ya know? What's with this bozo, Nash? Huh? The guy don't know a cow pie from a pizza pie. Guy's got the IQ of a box of rocks. Ya know? The guy's-"