Cold Dark Matter. Alex Brett
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tucked it into my briefcase.
Once outside, we stood for a moment on the sidewalk. It was still grey and dark, the freezing rain driven by blasts of wind.
"Do the kids know about their mom?" I asked.
He shook his head. "They were too young when she left. What do you tell them? Sorry kids, but your mom preferred a job to having you so she took off without a word? I don't think so." He put his hand on my arm. "If you need to get in touch, land lines only. And don't call me at home."
I stood for a minute trying to work out what this all meant, but he'd turned and was now at his car. I watched as he pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door. He was just climbing in when he caught sight of me observing him. We locked eyes, his slender hand resting on the roof of the car. "Morgan …" He hesitated then said, "Watch your back."
A moment later he'd pulled into the traffic and was headed to Parliament Hill.
The first thing I did when I got home was pick up the phone and call Lydia. I caught her just before she was leaving for class.
"I have your first assignment. You interested?"
Lydia had recently left the Council on early retirement and, at my suggestion, had gone back to school to get a diploma in policing and public safety. From there she would write her PI exams. Even over the phone I could feel her BS sensors homing in on me. She'd be a good investigator. She answered carefully.
"That would depend on the nature of the work. I am not yet licensed, as you know, and the examiners look unkindly upon an applicant with a criminal record."
"It's completely aboveboard. Some searching of public records, maybe making some use of your old friends in the minister's office. Good practice really."
I could hear the smile in her voice. "What, pray tell, are you up to now?"
This was the hard part. "I need information," I paused briefly, "on Duncan."
Her voice sagged with disappointment. "Morgan. How could you?"
"It's not what you think. His ex-wife. Do you know anything about her?"
"He never spoke of her to me. And frankly, Morgan, I didn't ask."
"Well, it's too bad we didn't, because now she's back in the picture and she's suing him for custody." I hurled that like a barb.
"Oh," was her only response.
"So we have to help him out, whether he wants it or not."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
"By hiring you. I want to know who she is, where she's living, and what she's been doing for the past four years, and if any of it doesn't feel right — if any of it could be used against her in a custody hearing — then we decide, both of us together, what to do with the information."
She was silent for a minute, obviously mulling it over. Then she said quietly, "Are you sure you've thought this through? Duncan's life is none of your business, not unless he wants it to be. I'm wondering if, perhaps, your interest in the situation is more … personal."
Of course it was personal. Duncan was my friend, and his kids were a gas. I even had their picture in my wallet, a goofy portrait of the three of us taken at the Children's Museum. Then the implied meaning caught me. "You mean am I interested in Duncan, as in romantically interested in Duncan? Lydia! Of course not."
Her voice was still quiet. "And the children? You're awfully fond of them, I know. Are you sure — "
"I'm worried about Duncan. End of story."
"And I suppose if I don't do it you'll find another way."
"I suppose I will."
She sighed. "All right then, I'll do it, but on one condition. You hold to your promise that we decide together how best to use any information I obtain."
"Agreed." I was a little miffed that she'd question my integrity, but the tone of my voice was lost on her.
"One more question, Morgan. Have you stopped to consider what might be in the best interests of the children? My ex-husband Ralph was, in my opinion, a worthless husband and a useless father, but the girls love him and I have no business intruding on their relationship with him. Think about that."
I promised I would, mumbled something about missing my plane to Hawaii, and promised to give her a call in a couple of days to see what she'd dug up. We'd almost completed our goodbyes when I remembered the other thing.
"Do you still have contacts in the minister's office?"
"His executive assistant and I are still on excellent terms."
"Could you take her out for lunch? Find out what's going on with the FrancoCanadian Telescope? Just the general scuttlebutt."
"Do I bill you for that one separately?"
"Ingrate."
chapter three
I'd just managed to drop off to sleep when the cabin attendant bustled by to collect the pillows and blankets. I checked my watch, and she informed me that it was almost 7:00 a.m. local time. Beneath us was still an endless turquoise blue, but as the nose of the plane dipped to begin the descent I caught my first glimpse ahead of the chain of emerald islands erupting from the sea.
Twenty minutes later when I finally arrived at the airplane's open door I couldn't help but stop and gape. I'd left Ottawa in sleet and snow with the temperature hovering below zero. Here, even in the early morning, the waves of heat were so intense that the background behind was a blur of greens.
I took the steps down to the tarmac slowly, trying to take it all in. The airport itself was small with the planes landing out on the tarmac. The buildings resembled a series of attached Polynesian huts right down to the simulated thatch roofs, but there were no walls to enclose the structure, something incomprehensible to my Canadian sensibility. And everywhere around me clumps of palms rattled and swished in the wind. I moved my bag to the other shoulder. There was no doubt about it. If one had to work this was the place to do it.
Detective Donald Benson of the Hawaii County Police Department leaned back in his chair. His legs stretched out so far that his shiny brown loafers poked out from beneath the desk and almost touched my feet. With his hands laced behind his head he observed me with what appeared to be casual interest, but I suspected was anything but.
"O'Brien, right?" I nodded. "Where'd you say you were from?"
I'd called Benson from the Kona airport just before picking up my rental car. As the lead investigator on Grenier's death he'd have more useful information than all the astronomers combined, and he'd been surprisingly helpful. Instead of the usual suspicion, stonewalling, and runaround, Benson had told me to come right over. He'd even offered me a cup of coffee. His behaviour put me on edge.
I pulled out my passport and my National Council for Science and Technology ID card, identifying me as an investigator. He pulled them over and glanced at them but didn't look impressed.
"So you investigate what exactly?"
"Research fraud, embezzlement, occasionally murder or manslaughter if it's related in some way to research." Then I added carefully, emphasizing theory over practice, "But in those cases I'm there to help the police."
He tossed my papers on the desk, leaned back again, and ran his hands over the fine bristle of dark hair that barely obscured his scalp. As he lifted his arms the olive T-shirt beneath his pale linen jacket stretched across muscle. "You got law enforcement experience?"
"RCMP."
His face brightened. I had connections to the brotherhood. "I know a couple of Mounties. Good guys. I met them at a conference in Atlanta a couple years back."
I leaned forward, pulled a Post-it off his desk, wrote down the names of two officers — one a detective with the local Ottawa police, the other