The house was locked behind an electric gate at the end of an elevated, curving driveway. There were only a couple of lights on, so I could tell it was a classic split-level Malibu-style beach house, in this case shaped like a pile of blocks with lots of balconies and windows, and that was about all. I carried my suitcases, hesitating a moment on the flagstone walk to appreciate the clean salt breeze. It tasted sweeter than creosote and ash. Inside, the walls alternated through the pastel spectrum of blue to green to salmon. Granite tiles and reed mats were flanked by fountains that sluiced over beds of split stone. Tropical plants and ferns and hanging lamps lent the space a jungle-at-night ambiance. Too dark to tell whether my room had a view or not. Clean and a large, firm bed were the sum of my wants and needs right then. Beasley promised to wake me for breakfast as he departed. I stuck a chair under the doorknob and fell onto the bed. A tapestry of a Pacific island paradise hung on the wall over the headboard. That island might be where my soul wandered for the next ten hours. I don’t recall. Gods, angels, and even Whiro let me sleep in something akin to peace.

■■■

Rain slicked the windows when I reentered the land of the living a quarter of an hour past the rosy side of dawn. For the sake of California’s citizens and its hapless animal population, I hoped the storm was moving southeast. The accommodations were spacious and on the pampered-playboy side of the tracks. Nobody had lived in the room anytime recently; I got a whiff of phantom mildew that seeps into empty, neglected habitations. I showered, dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, and sallied forth to explore my surroundings.

The house didn’t rival any mansions I’d seen of late; large enough to wander in, to lose one’s bearings, though. Daylight confirmed a smashing view of the ocean and that nearly every room, every hallway, was decorated with plants and polished rocks. Scents of frying bacon led me by the nose to the kitchen. Beasley was preparing breakfast for Dr. Campbell. A cozy yet roomy space, brimming with muted gray light.

“Hey, I was fixing to come kick your bunk.” Beasley toiled at a range loaded with frying pancakes. “Sit, eat. Dr. C, this is our guest, Isaiah Coleridge. The detective.”

“Poseidon requests bacon and eggs,” Dr. Campbell said. “Best hand it over before he tears this place down.” The scientist sat rigidly upright; his features and hands were stiff as sun-scarred leather. Heat boiled from the range, yet he wore a Norwegian sweater and wool pants and appeared comfortable. His glasses were an antiquated horn-rimmed model popular during the Apollo Space Program era. Everything about him screamed black-and-white TV, unfiltered cigarettes, and nightly news broadcasts crackling through the speakers of a Philco AM radio.

Beasley poured coffee and slid a plate of hotcakes in front of me.