Bascomb leaned over his desk to extend his hand, remembered Matthias didn’t like to be touched. He turned the motion into a shuffling of papers as Matthias sat in a wingback chair across from Bernard’s ample oaken desk. Matthias set the rattling brown briefcase down by his side.

“Excuse the clutter, Kurt. My needs exceed my space. A man of your distinction must have had a much larger office. I mean, must, uh, have a much larger office.” Bascomb reddened at using the past tense.

“Everyone knows I’m retired from the university life. I’m working for a private concern. And, of course, I have several patents that provide a bit of income.”

“Good for you, Kurt. We haven’t been face to face since…when? The symposium in Lucerne? Eight years back? You were still advising on the Human Genome Project, Kurt. I remember your monograph on the A allele and genetic drift. A triumph.”

Matthias backhanded the praise away, a man swatting a fly. “At the time. But the field evolves so fast. Unlike us, Bernard. We get stuck in…” Matthias paused, seemed on the verge of saying more, demurred, changed the subject. “Your email of last week said you were able to get the research I requested?”

“What there was. You’ve been seeking the same sort of research in Australia, I expect?”

“There’s a decent body of research over there,” Matthias said. “The Aborigines, you know. I also had a secondary interest in the country’s Asians. You know there’s a Chinatown in Sydney? A rather expansive one?”

“The Dixon Street area. You were there, I take it?”

“I had to do field research in the vicinity. As well as in the outback.”

“Who was your contact in Australia, Kurt? Marnick at the AGRF? Or someone from the U of Queensland?”

Matthias’s eye hardened. “I’ll keep that name confidential at present, Bernard. I hope you’ll understand. I intend to do the same with yours.”

Bascomb shrugged and looked away, thinking it perhaps wasn’t such a bad idea, given past events. He reached to the corner of his desk, pulling a four-inch stack of papers in front of him. “Some of your specifics, especially race-mixing, are not an area of official governmental inquiry, at least not in decades. There are some rather surreptitious references on miscegenation with the Aborigines, data acquired on the QT. But there’s a hefty dollop of other information. Bureaucrats love to amass data, don’t they?”

Matthias nodded. “Sometimes it’s even useful. Is there much on the Maori? Their diseases in youth and the infirmities of age?”

“Including some revisionary medical history. It was thought that Maoris didn’t suffer the ravages of diseases of the aged, but now it’s suspected that’s because the Maori don’t live to a ripe old age, statistically. Those that do have a significantly higher susceptibility to degenerative diseases.”

Matthias leaned forward. “Any personal thoughts on the racial anomaly, Bernard? Between the Maori and the European races?”

Bascomb tented his hands in front of his lips, sighed across his fingertips. “The Maori suffer from poor quality of overall healthcare, mainly. Another theory is that the European influx brought all manner of unfamiliar and destructive diseases to the native peoples. The diseases still affect the Maoris as a race; those with more Maori blood, naturally, suffer the most.” Bascomb pushed the file across his desk. “Anyway, you may wish to agree or disagree once you read the findings. Here’s everything from the Ministry of Health, plus information from the district health boards in Maori-heavy districts. Some of it’s confidential – bureaucrats again – and I blanked out the official letterhead so you’re not stopped at the airport and suspected of smuggling out state secrets. Though I expect you’d be in more trouble if the files pertained to breeds of sheep rather than humans.”

“Breeds of human,” Matthias whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Matthias said, waving away the question. “Just tasting a turn of phrase.” He tapped the sheaf of papers. “Individual health reports are defined by race?”

“Yes, almost always.”

“That will be helpful. Now, let’s talk a moment about ports, Bernard.”

Bascomb smiled. “The wines or –?”

“The ship sort. I currently live near Mobile, Alabama, a very old port city. I’m interested in New Zealand’s ports, particularly the older ones. Where the European immigration occurred. Any immigration, actually.”

Bascomb shrugged. “Most of our English immigrants sailed from Liverpool. I’d guess the majority came ashore here in Auckland. But there’s New Plymouth, Port Chalmers, Wellington, and half a dozen other ports. You’d have to speak with a historian for exact dates and numbers of the influx. I can quickly connect you to one at the university.”

“Thank you, Bernard, that will be helpful. It’ll set me up for a few days of simple field work, collecting various samples.”

“Can you give me more input on your particular aspect of study, Doctor?” Bascomb asked.

Matthias tapped his fingers on his knee. He seemed to retreat into himself for a long moment, then stood abruptly, picking up the dark briefcase.

“It’s probably safest that you don’t know, Bernard.”

“Kirkson was lying about Bailes having the Big C,” Harry said, rolling a pencil between his palms, taking a full minute to absorb the results of the autopsy. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“He wasn’t,” I argued, leaning forward, planting my arms on my desk. “You know me, I can spot a con’s lie before he even makes it up.”

Harry paused his rolling. Started it again. Said, “Usually.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means we all have good days and bad days.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” Harry stopped, blew out a breath. “Never mind.”

“Why would Kirkson lie?” I prodded.

Harry ticked off three answers on his fingers. “Because he didn’t know anything. Or to get you out of his face. Or to jerk you around. Or all three.”

The idea that a piece of talking excrement like Kirkson had lied to me sent a hot wave through my gut. I felt my fists tighten. I slammed one on my desk, sending a stack of files to the floor.

Harry studied the fallen paperwork. “Carson, you ever think about a vacation? Taking a couple weeks and running off to the Caribbean or something?”

“Why?”

Harry’s cellphone rang. He stared at the files on the floor and yanked the phone from his pocket. Spoke for a few seconds, then dropped the phone in his pocket and looked at me.

“That was Glenn Watkins in forensics. They need to see us right now. It’s about something at Scaler’s death scene.”

“Sea water?” I said to Watkins, standing in his office in the main lab at forensics. “How can you be sure?”

He passed over the report, a simple one-page sheet. “Standard-issue sea water, judging by algal composition and salinity. We’ve also got decent hits on petrochemicals, gasoline, oil. The water came from somewhere near boats, I expect. Marina, shipyard.”

“You were right, Carson,” Harry said. “It was sea water I slipped in at the cabin. Great catch.”

I’d been right, but had no idea what it meant. I shook my head and turned for the door. I remembered a question I was going to ask when I first saw Glenn on the scene.

“I thought you were semi-retired, Glenn, and just working in the lab a couple days a week.”

Glenn sighed, shook his head. “You didn’t hear about Al?”

“Al Bustamente?”

“He got jumped a couple days ago, beaten bad. Somebody snuck up behind him in the carport at his apartment complex. It was night. The assailant worked Al over with a pipe or blackjack, then ran off with his wallet. Broke both wrists, some teeth.”

“Keee-rist,” I whispered.