“Were we going too fast?” Jacky asked.

“Yes, you were going too bloody fast!” He glared at the maniac driver, a young man with a peach fuzz mustache. “What the bloody hell were you doing? You must have been going sixty kilometers an hour!”

He stared blankly, and Marty knew from his attempt to negotiate the fare earlier (which Jacky eventually settled in Tamil) that the kid barely spoke two words of English.

“Rad, move over,” he said again.

“Sheesh,” she said, but both she and Jacky scooted to the left. He squeezed in, so his thigh and shoulder pressed tightly against Rad. Her dog yapped in protest from the beach bag.

“I feel like a sardine in a tin,” Jacky said.

“Comfy, Marty?” said Rad. “Because we’re certainly not.”

“Get moving,” he grunted at the driver.

The kid stared, uncomprehending.

“Go!” Marty barked, pointing straight ahead. “Drive!”

∆∆∆

The sleepy roads of Mirissa were lined with bars, restaurants, surf rentals shops, pharmacies, a couple of tattoo parlors, hostels and guest houses, and a variety of residences, some of which were rather grand in size and structure (though just as dilapidated as everything else). The main street ran parallel to the beach and was livelier than the others, populated with loitering locals and tourists strolling at the leisurely pace of people with nothing better to do.

“I like the laid-back vibe here,” Jacky said. “It’s romantic. Has Marty ever taken you here, Rad?”

“I wish. He hasn’t taken me anywhere.”

“But you’ve been dating for two years.”

“I told you last night, Jacky,” Marty said, “Rad and I are not dating. We see each other every now and then.”

“I don’t know about you, Marty,” she replied. “But if I eat a sandwich every now and then, I’m still eating.”

The driver swerved across the road and stopped on a patch of gravel before a two-story white building. Marty couldn’t read the teal sign, as the white letters were written in Sri Lankan, but Jacky confirmed this was the Sharks Board Maritime Center, the NGO where the American oceanographer worked.

They exited the trishaw, and Marty’s excitement bloomed.

We’re here. The skull’s right inside that building.

He dug some money out of his pocket and paid the driver what they’d agreed upon, including a little-deserved tip.

He knocked on the building’s glass door. A short, pretty girl in her early twenties opened it. He supposed she was relegated to door duty because she was the youngest female in the office. Misogyny and patriarchy were still entrenched in Sri Lankan society.

Then again, he thought, peering past her into the office and seeing a lot of young women, maybe her desk is simply closest to the door.

The girl placed her palms together and bowed. “Ahyubowan,” she said, a customary greeting that meant Long life. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Jacqueline DeSilva,” Jacky said. “I spoke to Dr. Montero yesterday. She’s agreed to sit for an interview with me. Is she here?”