"Give them a call." I nodded to the paper. "They'll tell you I'm legit."
He picked up the paper and fingered it, obviously trying to decide if he should make the calls before giving me any information. Finally he looked up. "So you understand all this science shit?"
"That's my job. And if I don't understand it and it seems relevant, I have contacts who help me out."
"And this Grenier guy, he was one of yours?"
"We paid his salary."
He gave a little shrug. "So what's the problem? People commit suicide all the time. They don't send in the government troops."
I'd thought about this, how to explain my presence. Benson was the fastest route to information. With him on my side I wouldn't have to waste time on preliminaries. He would have done that for me. He could also give me access to sources of information that would otherwise be closed to me as a foreign national, so to make this work I had to cast myself as an asset, not a liability. But how to do that without mentioning the research diaries? If he didn't know about them I wasn't about to tip him off. The best route, I reasoned, was a partial truth, which is so much easier to weasel out of than an outright lie if things begin to fall apart.
"Some of Grenier's data is missing," I said, keeping my voice neutral, "and it belongs to us."
He came forward in his chair. "Really. Now why didn't any of those pointy heads let me in on that?"
So they hadn't mentioned the diaries. That in itself was interesting. "Maybe you didn't ask the right questions, or maybe you asked the wrong person. Not everyone would know."
"Why the interest?"
"His work represents a substantial investment on the part of the Canadian government."
He'd picked up a pencil and absently tapped the eraser on his blotter while his eyes stayed riveted to mine. "It must, to send you all the way here to get it."
He was analyzing my every twitch, tick, and squirm, and I was careful to keep my eyes level with his and my hands neatly folded in my lap, but I felt the heat. I needed a diversion. "How solid is your suicide?"
It took a second, then Benson frowned and threw down his pencil. "I hate friggin' suicides. This one? I've got a note, I've got no physical evidence to back up anything else, and I've got several witnesses saying that Grenier'd been a bit bizarre over the past two weeks. Add to that no motive for murder, not that we could dig up anyway. Let's just say it's hard to commit resources on that basis."
"But the case isn't closed."
He sighed, and shook his head. "Unless something else comes up," he motioned to the pile of folders on his desk, "I've got other cases, and the brass wants it shut."
I smiled to myself. Any self-respecting detective would rather solve a murder than declare a case a suicide. I lowered my voice a couple of tones, giving it seductive edge. "Maybe we can make a deal."
I could see the corners of his mouth turn up, almost against his will. "And what kind of deal would that be?"
I leaned in a bit and tilted my head down, so I was looking up at him through my lashes. In wolves this would be called a submissive posture, designed to reduce any sense of threat. It usually worked, particularly on men. "You tell me what you've got and whatever I find I turn over to you. Consider me the hired help, except you don't pay a thing."
He broke out into a smile of brilliant white teeth. "Simple as that, huh?"
I nodded.
He eyed me for a minute, his teeth almost glinting against the tan, then he gave a little nod in my direction. "The Hawaii County Police Department is always happy to help a neighbour." He leaned forward and reached for the phone. "How are you with pretty pictures?"
"It's not my first choice of entertainment, but I won't puke on your floor."
"Good," he said, banging in a number, "because Bunny wouldn't like that." Then he turned slightly away from me. "Bunny, get me Star Boy's forensic file to interview 6 please."
Benson led me down a corridor lined with interview rooms. He was a pleasing sight to follow, tall and nicely muscled, but not overdone, ostentatious. I knew we'd struck a deal, and I also knew that Benson didn't trust me any more than I did him: a good cop's instincts. But even with the flow of information censored it would still be better than what I could get working it alone.
The door to interview room 6 was open when we got there. Whoever Bunny was, she was efficient. There was a file on the table and a video player and monitor beside it. Benson sat in one chair, I sat down beside him. He pulled a video from the file, shoved it in the machine. Then he unbuttoned his jacket, crossed his legs, and hit play on the remote. His belt, I noted, matched his shoes.
"No narration," he said, his eyes on the screen. "But I'll lead you through it."
The video began from a small dirt parking area that faced the FrancoCanadian observatory dome. It was a mammoth structure, like a giant golf ball sitting on a squat tee, glistening white against a deep blue sky. Even more imposing than the dome, though, was the terrain around it. The camera panned slowly to the left through a landscape so desolate, so bereft of life, that it could have been an image relayed back to Earth from the Mars lander. We appeared to be standing on an island of red rubble poking through an endless sea of soft white cloud. The camera picked up several more domes in the distance, majestic on their contours of rock, then the image shuddered and the camera switched direction, this time moving to the right of FrancoCanadian observatory. On a hill just above it sat an even bigger dome, silver, with a rough track connecting the two. The road followed the narrow spine of a ridge, and it dropped on one side into the bowl of the ancient volcano, on the other into the clouds. That image held briefly, then the camera shuddered and jerked, as if the cameraman himself teetered on the edge of the cliff.
"That's the wind," said Benson. He glanced over at me. "Hope you brought those Canadian long johns."
Then he hit fast-forward, and the camera moved along into the observatory, picking up details of the entryway and first set of doors. We were now in a small foyer with two doors at its base, one leading to the right, one to the left.
"What time was this?" I asked.
"We got the 911 at around 5:00 a.m. By the time we got up there it was 6:00, and the Ident guys didn't arrive until 7:00." He hit the slow button as the camera came through the first set of doors into a narrow corridor. It panned to the left getting a full shot of an in/out board with all the staff members listed. Grenier's magnet was "out."
"And that's how you found it?" I asked.
"No. We pushed it to ‘out' when we knew he was dead."
I twisted around. His face was blank and his eyes were studying the screen. Just when I began to wonder if I'd actually heard him correctly, his glance slid from the screen to me; he raised an eyebrow, then went back to the screen. He was jerking my chain. "It tallies with what Aimes, the telescope operator, told us. Grenier left with him but must have returned alone. Since he was alone he didn't bother moving his magnet."
I watched carefully as the camera slowly made its way up a tiny, cramped elevator. Benson, too, was leaning forward as if hoping to catch some detail he'd missed.
"Who called in the 911?"
He kept his eyes on the screen. "A guy named Pexa. Native Hawaiian. Good guy. He's head of maintenance up there. He was at the Astronomy Centre halfway up the mountain getting ready to start his day when he got a call from an astronomer who'd seen the suicide note. Star Boy sent it by e-mail. Can you believe it? So Pexa goes right up and sure enough finds Grenier hanging from the telescope. Fortunately for us he's a sensible guy, ex-Navy. He didn't try to get him down, didn't tamper with the scene, just backed out and called us." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This is where it gets interesting."
The camera had arrived at a set of swinging doors labelled "Observing Floor." They were pushed open by an unseen hand to