Island of the Sequined Love Nun

SOMMERS, JAMES W. James Sommers was a Presbyterian, according to the dog tag. Somehow Tuck didn't think that a thousand-yard swim was worth finding a pair of dog tags. But there was the swath of fabric still down there. Tuck hadn't gotten a good look at it.
    He tucked the tags into the inside pocket of his trunks and dove again. He kicked down to the swath of cloth, holding his nose and blowing to equalize the pressure on his ears, even as the air in his lungs tried to pull him to the surface, away from his prize. It was some kind of printed cotton. He grasped at it and a piece came away in his hand. He pulled again, but the cloth was wedged into a crevice in the reef. He yanked and the cloth came away, revealing something white. Out of breath, he shot to the surface and examined the cloth. Flying piggies. Oh, good. He'd risked his life for Presbyterian dog tags and a flying piggies print.
    One more dive and he saw what it was that had wedged into the crevice: a human pelvic bone. Whatever else had been here had been carried away, but this bone had wedged and been picked clean. Someone wearing flying piggies boxers had become part of the food chain.
    The swim back to the channel seemed longer and slower, but this time Tuck forgot his fear of what might lurk behind the vasty blue. The real danger lay back on shore.
    And how does one, over dinner, proffer the opinion that one's employers are murdering organ thieves? "Stay on the sly," Vincent had said. And so far he seemed to know what he was talking about.

43 – Boiling the Puppets
    "Oh, come in, Mr. Case. Sebastian is out on the `,, lanai." She wore a white raw silk pant suit, cut loose in the legs and low at the neck, a rope of pearls with matching earrings. Her hair was tied back with a white satin bow and she moved before him like the ghost of good housekeeping. "How do you feel about Pacific lobster?"
    "I like it," Tuck said, looking for some sign from her that she knew that he knew. There was no acknowledgment of her appearance in his room last night or that she had any suspicion of him at all. Tuck said, "I feel like I'm taking advantage coming to dinner empty-handed. I ought to have you and the doc over to my place some evening."
    "Oh, do you cook too, Mr. Case?"
    "A few things. My specialty is blackened Pez."
    "A Cajun dish?"
    "I learned to make it in Texas, actually."
    "A Tex-Mex specialty, then."
    "Well, a fifth of tequila does make it taste a little better."
    She laughed, a polite hostess laugh, and said, "Can I get you something to drink?"
    "You mean a drink or some liquid?"
    "I'm sorry. It does seem constraining, I'm sure, but you understand, you might have to fly."
    She had a large glass of white wine on the counter where she had been working. Tuck looked at it and said, "But performing major surgery under the influence is no problem, right?" That was subtle, Tuck thought. Very smooth. I am a dead man.
    Her eyes narrowed, but the polite smile never left her lips. "Sebastian," she called, "you'd better come in, dear. I think Mr. Case has something he wants to discuss with us."
    Sebastian Curtis came through the french doors looking tall and dignified, his gray hair brushed back, his tan face striking against the gray. To Tuck he looked like any number of executives one might see at a yacht club, a retired male model perhaps, a Shakespearean actor finally finished with the young prince and lover roles, seasoned and ready to play Caesar, Lear, or more appropriately, Prospero, the banished wizard of The Tempest.
    Tuck, still in his borrowed clothes, baggy and rolled at the cuffs, felt like a beggar. He fought to hold on to his righteous indignation, which was an unfamiliar emotion to him anyway.
    Sebastian Curtis said, "Mr. Case. Nice to see you. Beth and I were just talking about how pleased we are with your work. I'm sure these impromptu flights are difficult."
    "Mr. Case was just suggesting that we keep an eye on our alcohol consumption," Beth Curtis said. "Just in case we might have to perform an emergency surgery."
    The jovial manner dropped from the doctor like a veil. "And just what kind of surgery might you be referring to?"
    Tuck looked at the floor. He should have thought this through a little more. He fingered the dog tags in his pocket. The plan was to throw them on the table and demand an explanation. What had happened to the skeleton, the owner of the tags? And for that matter, what would happen to Tucker Case if he threw this in their