In his hotel room he turned off the air conditioner; the droning died, the air went warm and stale, penetrated with the rank smell of sofa cushions. Sharkey sat on the bed, feeling helpless again. It was midafternoon in Hawaii. He thought of calling Olive, but he didn’t want to report another defeat, and besides, she was probably saving someone’s life in surgery. Then he remembered how, hearing “hairdresser,” he had laughed—great loud healing laughter—and he smiled at the memory. It had been a beautiful moment, and all the better for having those two people as witnesses. Yes, it probably spoiled everything, but it was wonderful, an assertive statement of belief. He was vindicated, knowing that his friends would have laughed, Hunter would have laughed, and he was sure that Max Mulgrave would have laughed.

He flung open the French windows to the small lanai attached to his room and stood, considering the ocean—the familiar voice of water on the move, threshing the shoreline, and was soothed by its whisper, as though by a hit of weed.

Then what he took to be an answering sound—the ding-dong of recognition—was the telephone by the bed.

“Yes?”

“I’m in the lobby.” It was a woman. Who? She sighed and said, “Bring the paper.”

“Be right down.”

She was standing by a pillar, wearing a long coat, probably to look inconspicuous, but all it did was make her stand out. It was pink, and her hair was tucked into a big blue hat. When Sharkey got near her, she reached out and clutched his arm and drew him closer. In this harsh lobby light she looked older, lines visible beneath her makeup. It seemed she’d been crying and the traces of the tears had aged her.

“Let’s sit.”

Beside her on a sofa by the wall Sharkey said, “Where’s your dog?”

“I left Corazon at home.” She touched his nose, a teasing gesture. “You’re afraid of him. Funny. Max was afraid of dogs too.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was a bitch to him. I was a bitch to you. Never mind Cesar. To him, Max was a freak. He doesn’t know I’m here. Where’s the paper?”

Sharkey unfolded it and smoothed it on the arm of the sofa. “Here’s a pen.”

She read it through, murmuring, “‘Shall be disposed of in the following manner,’” then signed it, adding her address and her phone number.

“Where’s this place”—she put her finger on a line—“Waimea?”

“A beach. A bay. A surf break. A wave,” Sharkey said. “Sometimes monster.”

“And what’s the idea—scatter his ashes?”

“Something like that, with prayers, with flowers.”