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information I had to have. I had to resist the force of that unending drumbeat—What happened to Richard? Why did Richard die?—and maintain my composure. A desperate, anxious woman frightens people, shuts them up. I kept my words even, my tone level.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. I don’t have an appointment. Please give my card to Mr. Dugan.”
    â€œHe’s in conference. I doubt that he’ll see you.” The words were quick, bored, the patter of a well-trained gatekeeper.
    I had to get Dugan’s attention. I turned my card over, thought for a moment, knowing this was the only chance I might have. Quickly, I scrawled: “CeeCee Burke’s murderer is on Kauai. Now.” That was all.
    It was enough. One minute later, I entered Stanley Dugan’s office.
    He stood behind a battered oak desk, a huge, homely, rawboned man. About six-seven. Small on a basketball court, overpowering here. His face looked as if it had been hacked out of hardwood by a nearsighted sculptor, the features oversized and a bit askew. And tough as rawhide. Shiny, thick-lensed glasses magnified cold gray eyes. All of a piece, except for his exceptionally well-tailored light wool suit. I’d have expected a rumpled, cheap suit. But it was a signal to me to remember that no one is all of a piece.
    His big gray eyes scanned me like a laser. I saw the judgment: Money. Savvy. Doesn’t look like a nut.
    I wonder what he read in my eyes, because I wasn’t missing much either. I knew I was facing a tough opponent.
    Opponent. That’s what I felt in this room, that I was going to engage in a mind to mind struggle with a powerful, determined, unpredictable adversary.
    So it didn’t surprise me when he attacked before I could say a word. He held up my card and it looked tiny between his massive thumb and forefinger. “What the hell does this mean?” His eyes were hard, suspicious, combative. He came around the desk, walked close to me.
    I had to prove I wasn’t horning in on a notorious case for money or sensation or malice. “Right now everyone in Belle Ericcson’s family is at Ahiahi—and one of them killed your fiancée.”
    He took two big steps and was staring down at me, pressing so close I could see a tracery of tiny broken blood vessels in his ruddy face, smell talcum, feel the throbbing tension in his huge body. “Who? Damn you, who?”
    â€œOne of them. I don’t know which. CeeCee Burke disappeared from Belle’s lakefront home. One year later my husband—Richard Collins—went to Kauai because he’d learned who killed CeeCee.” I knew this had to be true. Something that Johnnie Rodriguez told Richard revealed the kidnapper. If all went well, I’d have the same knowledge after I talked to Johnnie Rodriguez. “They said Richard fell to his death. I think he was pushed.”
    He flipped my card, glanced at the name. “Collins. The newspaper guy. Belle’s pal.” His eyes sought mine. “You got identification?”
    I did. Driver’s license. Social security card. Credit cards. Library card. Oh, yes, I had identification.
    He riffed through the cards, handed them back to me, glared at me. “What did your husband know?”
    â€œThis last week, I looked through Richard’s daybooks.” That was true. But I didn’t owe this man anything. I had no intention of revealing Richard’s true entry, not until I talked to Johnnie Rodriguez. That had to come first. But I wouldsay whatever I had to say to win information from Stan Dugan. “In his last entry, Richard wrote: ‘CeeCee’s killer will be at Ahiahi. I have to tell Belle.’” Yes, I made it up.
    â€œChrist.” It was an expletive. He grabbed my shoulders in a vise-tight grip. “Who? He must have said. Tell me who.”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s all Richard wrote. That was his last entry.”
    Dugan released me,