LITMIR.BIZ

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water glass. Given the colour of the powder, a pale silver-grey, it had to be the glass. I pulled out my geologist's loupe, held the flashlight to the glass, and did a careful examination. I could see the smears where it had been wiped. I looked more carefully. There were no prints on the sides and no lip marks on the rim, just a few silver flecks around the base. Dusting powder: lightning grey. Someone had lifted my prints.

      I switched off the flashlight and sagged against the bed. If they wanted my prints it could mean only one thing. They had official status and access to the fingerprint databanks. Whether they could get into the ones where my prints were stored would depend entirely on who and what they were.

      I didn't even bother checking my watch. I needed some answers now.

      Duncan picked up on the first ring. "Yes," he said abruptly.

      "It's me."

      He hesitated. "I can't talk. I'm waiting for a call."

      "Who's on the ground here, Duncan?"

      There was silence for a minute, then he said, "I'm not sure."

      "Well I've had unexpected company and they lifted my prints. And while we're at it, where did you —"

      Then I heard little Peter cry in the background and the plaintive voice of Alyssa calling for her father. His voice changed back into Duncan my friend. "Morgan, I'm sorry, but I just can't talk right now."

      The connection went dead.

      I sat there for a moment, stunned. I'd just been abandoned in Hawaii on some screwball mission for the minister without all the cards. On the other hand, Duncan had his own problems right now and I was a big girl. I'd have to work it out myself. I struggled to my feet. Best to stick to the plan, and the plan for now was to take a little ride.

      I headed back down the Saddle Road and at its base turned toward Kona. About halfway down I took the turnoff to Waikoloa Village. It was dark as all get-out, no lights at all along the road, but as I neared the development I could smell the change in vegetation. The dry grassland transformed into swaying palms, lush gardens, and perfectly manicured lawns, the joys of irrigation. Behind the tropical paradise, though, were the same condos and double-car garages seen in every development across North America.

      Grenier, I could see from my map, lived on a crescent. As I came up to his street I slowed and made the turn. It was a street of detached single dwellings with the houses nicely separated by vegetation or high fences. Grenier's house was a two-storey detached with fencing on either side. I kept moving slowly along and took in the neighbourhood. The only light from the houses was the occasional blue glow of late-night TV, and the driveways were packed with cars, often three or four to a house. There were some cars parked on the street, so my vehicle wouldn't look out of place.

      When I reached the end of the crescent, I didn't loop back immediately but took some time to cruise the area and work out several escape routes. Occasionally another car pulled in behind me, but it inevitably deked around to pass. Other than that, the neighbourhood was dead. I drove back to the main street that fed onto Grenier's crescent and parked my car. I slipped my briefcase out of sight, did a final check of my tools, and quietly shut the car door behind me.

      At this elevation, close to sea level, it felt more like postcard Hawaii. It wasn't brutally hot, but hot enough for me to start sweating in my leather jacket. And the air was damp and fecund, smelling like a mixture of chlorophyll and peat. I did one slow walk by Grenier's house to test the dog barking potential, which, fortunately, turned out to be low, then I looped back around, crossed his lawn, and moved into the shadow of the recessed door.

      Through the sidelight the hallway looked dark and abandoned with a pile of mail lying on the carpet beneath the door. A set of stairs ran up the right-hand wall, and the hallway itself continued back to what looked like a kitchen in behind. I could see the edge of a glass door that must open onto a patio in the backyard.

      Somewhere down the street a dog barked, then two cones of light appeared. I moved into the corner, confident that I couldn't be seen. The car didn't slow, just continued out the other side of the crescent. Maybe it was a security guard or, for that matter, a cop. It was time to move. I stepped off the portico and crossed to the side of the house. A narrow path squeezed between the house and the high fence next door. Halfway down I heard a siren wail somewhere in the distance, and it added to the eerie cacophony of night sounds: birds screeching, the rustle of big-leafed plants, the clicks and croaks of the lower phyla.

      At the end of the path I stopped and glanced around the corner. A grouping of cheap outdoor furniture sat on a small cement patio, and this was surrounded by a border of ill-kept greenery. A high fence enclosed it all. I pulled out my flashlight but kept it off. After another minute of listening I left my corner and crossed the cement, aiming for the door. It wouldn't take me more than a minute to pick that lock and walk inside.

      Then I felt something crunch underfoot, glass being ground into cement. I flicked my flashlight on, ran it across the patio door, and quickly turned it off. I wouldn't be needing those lock picks after all. Someone had been here before me, but they'd used a crowbar instead. I wondered, as I crouched low, if they were still inside.

      I waited ten, fifteen minutes, straining to hear any noise from the house. Finally, when I was confident that I was alone, I stood and stepped into the kitchen. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor, drawers were upturned, even bags of food had been dumped out on the counter. What once were light fixtures were now gaping holes. The fixtures themselves dangled below, an uncanny reminder of Grenier's death. Despite the crow-bar entry this didn't look like a smash and grab. This looked like someone searching for drugs. Or money. Or hidden diaries.

      In the hallway I stopped again and listened. Straight ahead was the front door, to my left the staircase and open archway, and to my right a closed door. Grenier's home office, where, Mellier had told me, Yves Grenier had kept a neat row of his old diaries. I started to move forward then saw something in my peripheral vision, a movement in front of the stairs. I froze. It was near the floor, then without warning it burst up the stairs, white and fluffy and scared. Then I connected something I'd smelled in the kitchen: the odour of drying cat food.

      I forced myself to relax and moved forward. At the door to Grenier's office I caught a glimpse of the street through the sidelight. There were way more cars out there now than when I came in. I'd have to be careful with lights. I gave the knob a tentative wiggle. It wasn't locked, so I pushed it open with caution, and when I was sure I was still alone I stepped inside.

      The office had been searched with no attempt to hide it. Drawers were pulled open, but not emptied as they had been elsewhere. Books had been pulled out of the bookcase but some still remained standing. I did a quick scan just to confirm that the diaries weren't there, then started with the phone. Who was on Grenier's speed-dial, and who was listed in his directory. I clicked through the speed-dial and wasn't surprised to see Elizabeth Martin, Andreas Mellier, and several other astronomers from the observatory. Shelton Aimes wasn't there, nor was Edwin Eales. The other numbers were for the computer room, the observing room, and the doctor, dentist, and InfoSurf line.

      I moved on to the directory. Would I find Eales under E? St. James under S? But the very first entry under C stopped me cold. Carmichael, Duncan, at home and at work. My heart missed a beat and I reached forward to brace myself against the desk. Duncan never told me he knew Grenier, so why was his home number here? I yanked the phone off the hook and jabbed the dial button. There were several clicks and buzzes as the signal passed through the satellite links. I looked through the window to see a car in front of the house that hadn't been there before. It was a new model sedan, dark and the size of a tanker. The phone connected through. I heard a soft click somewhere behind me, but just then Duncan picked up.

      "Carmichael," he said.

      I felt cold metal touch my neck just behind my ear. "Drop it," a voice said quietly.

      "Who's there?" Duncan demanded.

      The barrel was pushed harder against my skull. "Drop the phone now."

      The line went dead, I let go of the phone, and I placed my hands on the top of my head.

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