island in the middle of the Pacific. How would Nutso and the boys know where to find him? How would anybody know where to find him?"
"Good question,” John said amiably as he finished his brandy.
The attendant, as sensitive to every movement of his charges as an auctioneer watching for bidding signals, was back with the cognac bottle. Gideon shook his head; John accepted a refill.
"You know,” Gideon said after a few minutes of near-dozing, “now that I think about it, I think I remember reading about that kickback case. Didn't one of their goons turn state's evidence? Bingo...Bongo..."
"Klingo Bozzuto,” John said, laughing. “They called him that because one of the bosses thought he looked like a Klingon.” Reflectively, he rolled some brandy around his mouth. “He did too, sort of. But he wasn't a goon, exactly, he was a Mob accountant. Way handier for state's evidence than some gorilla who could barely write his name."
"Are you serious? An accountant named Klingo Bozzuto?"
"Yeah, it'd look great on a business card, wouldn't it? Klingo Bozzuto, CPA: a name you can trust."
"Well, tell me this. What happened to old Klingo? Did the bad guys go after him? Because if they didn't bother with the guy who broke the case—their own stooge—I don't see them hunting down your cousin."
"No, they didn't go after him,” John said.
"All right, then—"
"They didn't go after him because they couldn't. The Bureau got him into a witness protection program. That was part of the deal. Changed his name, resettled him in the Midwest somewhere, and found him some kind of job with the railroads. As far as I know, he's still at it."
"Mm,” Gideon said.
"Listen, Doc,” John said earnestly, “I'm not saying the Mob had anything to do with this. How would I know? I just don't want to rule anything out. Right now, all I want is for you to look at what there is. After you see Brian's body we'll worry about who did what to who."
And that was another thing that was bothering Gideon. “If it is Brian,” he said, knowing it would set John off.
It did. John's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Doc, he had his wallet on him His watch was lying a few feet away, busted. His wife identified it. Only about six people live on the goddamn island, who else could it be?"
They had been through this more than once, and Gideon was no more convinced than he'd been before. “But his wife didn't identify him ,” he pointed out.
"Well, how could she? He was lying out in the sun for a week. They shipped him back to Tahiti in a body bag inside a box. Therese wouldn't even open it."
Gideon shuddered with real empathy. “Who would? But it still means he's never been positively identified."
"So who's arguing with you, but who else could it be?” he demanded again. “It's common sense, that's all. Brian went there and he never came back, right? They found his body right under the, what do you call it, the plateau where he was camping, right?” John's arms had begun to flail dangerously near his brandy glass. “The local police say nobody else is missing, right?"
"Right, don't get so excited. It probably is Brian. But ‘probably’ and ‘definitely’ are qualitative distinctions—"
"Doc, Doc, don't do this to me. You know what Charlie says about you?"
Charlie was Charlie Applewhite, John's boss, and Gideon knew exactly what the special agent in charge of the FBI's Seattle office said about him. Applewhite had said it to his face not long ago after reading a report that Gideon had turned in.
"Dr. Oliver,” he had said matter-of-factly, his small, square hands folded on the gleaming surface of his desk, “I have often wondered why it is that whenever we call you in on what gives every indication of being a simple and straightforward case, it always seems to end up being such a wondrously, stupendously, mind-bogglingly, screwed-up mess."
It had pricked Gideon's temper. If the FBI wanted a cursory analysis from him the next time, he
"Good question,” John said amiably as he finished his brandy.
The attendant, as sensitive to every movement of his charges as an auctioneer watching for bidding signals, was back with the cognac bottle. Gideon shook his head; John accepted a refill.
"You know,” Gideon said after a few minutes of near-dozing, “now that I think about it, I think I remember reading about that kickback case. Didn't one of their goons turn state's evidence? Bingo...Bongo..."
"Klingo Bozzuto,” John said, laughing. “They called him that because one of the bosses thought he looked like a Klingon.” Reflectively, he rolled some brandy around his mouth. “He did too, sort of. But he wasn't a goon, exactly, he was a Mob accountant. Way handier for state's evidence than some gorilla who could barely write his name."
"Are you serious? An accountant named Klingo Bozzuto?"
"Yeah, it'd look great on a business card, wouldn't it? Klingo Bozzuto, CPA: a name you can trust."
"Well, tell me this. What happened to old Klingo? Did the bad guys go after him? Because if they didn't bother with the guy who broke the case—their own stooge—I don't see them hunting down your cousin."
"No, they didn't go after him,” John said.
"All right, then—"
"They didn't go after him because they couldn't. The Bureau got him into a witness protection program. That was part of the deal. Changed his name, resettled him in the Midwest somewhere, and found him some kind of job with the railroads. As far as I know, he's still at it."
"Mm,” Gideon said.
"Listen, Doc,” John said earnestly, “I'm not saying the Mob had anything to do with this. How would I know? I just don't want to rule anything out. Right now, all I want is for you to look at what there is. After you see Brian's body we'll worry about who did what to who."
And that was another thing that was bothering Gideon. “If it is Brian,” he said, knowing it would set John off.
It did. John's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Doc, he had his wallet on him His watch was lying a few feet away, busted. His wife identified it. Only about six people live on the goddamn island, who else could it be?"
They had been through this more than once, and Gideon was no more convinced than he'd been before. “But his wife didn't identify him ,” he pointed out.
"Well, how could she? He was lying out in the sun for a week. They shipped him back to Tahiti in a body bag inside a box. Therese wouldn't even open it."
Gideon shuddered with real empathy. “Who would? But it still means he's never been positively identified."
"So who's arguing with you, but who else could it be?” he demanded again. “It's common sense, that's all. Brian went there and he never came back, right? They found his body right under the, what do you call it, the plateau where he was camping, right?” John's arms had begun to flail dangerously near his brandy glass. “The local police say nobody else is missing, right?"
"Right, don't get so excited. It probably is Brian. But ‘probably’ and ‘definitely’ are qualitative distinctions—"
"Doc, Doc, don't do this to me. You know what Charlie says about you?"
Charlie was Charlie Applewhite, John's boss, and Gideon knew exactly what the special agent in charge of the FBI's Seattle office said about him. Applewhite had said it to his face not long ago after reading a report that Gideon had turned in.
"Dr. Oliver,” he had said matter-of-factly, his small, square hands folded on the gleaming surface of his desk, “I have often wondered why it is that whenever we call you in on what gives every indication of being a simple and straightforward case, it always seems to end up being such a wondrously, stupendously, mind-bogglingly, screwed-up mess."
It had pricked Gideon's temper. If the FBI wanted a cursory analysis from him the next time, he
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