Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 12

  “There’s our shooter,” I said under my breath.

  Scanlon struggled from the backseat. The absence of blood on his clothes showed he hadn’t been hit by Buckingham’s wild firing. Then from behind the back seat another passenger got out.

  Silva took the girl’s bare arm with his left hand—pistol still in his right—and led her into the Windward Sands.

  Lehua.

  thirty

  Buckingham tiptoed up to me like a two-hundred pound ballerina, wool cap pulled over his brows.

  “Scanlon’s inside the apartment,” I said. “And Spyder Silva. And . . . Lehua.”

  “Lehua?” He reached into his sweats for his snub-nose.

  Before I could respond we saw the blue light of a police cruiser turning into the alley. Buckingham’s snub-nose disappeared back into his sweats. The cruiser pulled up, stopped, and the officer got out. He took a good long look at Buckingham. If the officer recognized him, as he could hardly help doing, he was discreet enough not to ask why Hawai‘i’s most famous pitchman was out at this hour dressed the way he was.

  “May I see your ID, sir?” he said to Buckingham. Then he turned to me. “You too.”

  After we handed over identification, the officer got back into his car. His fingers danced on the keyboard of a laptop mounted above the transmission hump. He studied images on the screen. I wondered if Detective Fernandez had put out an APB on me.

  The officer then got out of his car and handed our licenses back. “You have a good evening, gentlemen.” He nodded and turned away. I guess I hadn’t yet made HPD’s most wanted list.

  I waited until the blue light on the cruiser disappeared down the street before turning back to Buckingham. The situation had become too dicey for me to follow through on my first impulse. It didn’t take me long to decide—as I usually do—that working without the help of law enforcement was the better choice. We would get Lehua out of there ourselves.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said. “We’ll wait for Scanlon and the others to go to sleep. I’ll go in and you’ll stay in the car ready to haul us out of here. Turn it around so you’re facing the street. When I come out with Lehua, we’ll need to hurry.”

  “But shouldn’t I go with—”

  “We have to do this right,” I cut him off. “We can’t risk another incident like at Sand Island. She could be in the cross-fire this time.”

  “But—”

  “Silva has a Berretta and he’s already used it. He’s who was firing back at you.”

  “Right, then.” The pitchman seemed reconciled. He returned to his car and turned it around toward the street. I sat with him in the Rolls for awhile and then walked back toward the Windward Sands. Silva’s corner apartment had two outside walls, with high jalousie windows. They were open wide on that warm night.

  A distant streetlight cast a faint glow against the glass. I stretched to peek in. The first room was a hollow shoebox except for two single beds. One was empty. The other contained a man whose tattoo-covered arm hung over the sheet. Silva. His Berretta lay on the floor, next to the bed.

  The second small room held two beds and two occupants, only their long hair visible on each of their pillows. The carrot-colored hair had to be Lehua’s. And the darker, I guessed, was Reiko Infante. It didn’t appear that Silva was taking turns with her watching the girl. He’d left that entirely to the one woman in the gang. Or maybe she didn’t trust him with the job.

  With Silva and Infante accounted for, that left Scanlon. The old man must have been in the living room—sleeping or awake, I could only guess. If I entered through a bedroom window, I could probably exit the front door without much trouble from him. I’d have to hope there were no other accomplices.

  I peered through the second bedroom window again. Infante still slept soundly. I began quietly removing slats from the louvered window.

  Breaking and entering. I could lose my license. But by the time we could convince HPD that Lehua had been kidnapped—even if her father would agree to that—she might be harmed or taken somewhere we couldn’t track her.

  After removing the last jalousie I could reach, I saw Lehua move. I couldn’t understand how she could sleep after being kidnapped. Infante lay stone-still. A good time to move. I needed to climb up to the window ledge and then hoist myself in. Not easy, alone.

  Scanning the dim yard, I spotted an empty planter box a few yards away. Not ideal, but it should work. I got it and flipped it over beneath the open window. Cautiously standing on its edges, I gained just enough height to lift myself up and over the ledge. Rolling down into the room, I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

  I tried to approach Lehua quietly, to keep her from making a sound. But it was dark, and she couldn’t see who I was. She screamed as my hand went to her mouth, muffling the sound. Infante groaned and rolled over, her back to us.

  “Lehua, get up,” I whispered. “It’s Kai. We’ve got to get you out of here. Now!”

  “But my mom,” she whispered back in terror. “They’ll kill her.”

  “They don’t have your mom,” I said. “Let’s go.” It was a hunch, and seemed to convince the girl.

  Noises started coming from elsewhere in the apartment. Either Scanlon or Silva, or both, must have been awakened by our voices. I took Lehua by the arm and started to lead her out of the room. Somebody was coming down the dark hall. I pulled Lehua back behind the bedroom door.

  Someone burst into the room. I swung the door into him and saw the old man go down on the floor. I almost felt guilty knocking over the old fellow, until I saw the hatred in his eyes and the kitchen knife in his hand. I kicked the knife across the room.

  “Wake up, Spyder!” Scanlon screamed from the floor in a shrill, thin voice that hardly carried beyond the room. “You damn druggie, wake up! Your girlfriend is worthless.”

  Silva didn’t respond. Nor did his girlfriend, though she was only steps away. I didn’t bother to point my .357 at Scanlon. He wasn’t getting up soon.

  “She’s not dead, you know.” The old man looked up at me.

  I glanced at Lehua, then back at Scanlon, and shook my head. “Obviously.”

  “Not her,” he said, “her mother.”

  “Where is she?” I asked Scanlon, taking a shot in the dark.

  Then wished I hadn’t. Lehua’s eyes started to fill with tears.

  “I bloody well don’t know,” the old man said. “If I did, don’t you think I’d’ve cashed her in by now?”

  He had a point. Why kidnap a former wife and then hold her for months on end without trying to gain advantage?

  “You want to know where she is, mate?” Scanlon said. “Ask her father.” He pointed to Lehua. “He’s the one who knows.”

  Now the girl was crying.

  “See yah later.” I led her by the arm out of the room, keeping the gun on Scanlon.

  Buckingham was waiting in his Rolls. The engine was running. Lehua climbed into the front seat and her father hugged her. She quickly broke free and moved as far from him as she could, huddling against the passenger door.

  As Buckingham drove toward Tantalus Drive, he tried to talk to his daughter. She wasn’t buying any of it.

  thirty-one

  It was almost 3 a.m. on Monday morning when I pulled into the Waikīkī Edgewater, rode the elevator to my studio, and fell onto my bed. I didn’t undress. But beat as I was, I couldn’t get the case out of my mind.

  Bringing home the famous surfing dog would close my first (and definitely last) missing pet case, but it would hardly tie up all the loose ends. No way Abe Scanlon would stop blackmailing Buckingham, a.k.a. Billy Brighton. My rescuing his daughter would only make the old man gouge the gold dealer all the more. He had not seen the last of Abe Scanlon.

  Then there was Buckingham’s missing wife, Cheyenne Sin. According to Scanlon, she was still alive. But had the old man kidnapped her for his ultimate ransom? Or had Buckingham himself, as his neighbor Mrs. Gum alleged, done away with he
r? I wondered again why he hadn’t hired me to find his wife, and instead sent me after his lost dog. And finally there was the crushed skull of Moku Taliaferro—a crime Detective Fernandez was still trying to pin on me.

  Kula’s disappearance was the tip of the iceberg. But all the rest of it beneath the surface wasn’t my job. Once I brought home the golden retriever, Barry Buckingham would have to find another P.I. I was done with him. His rotten side had begun to stink. After collecting my fee, I would say goodbye to Wonderview. Forever.

  * * *

  My so-called sleep was interrupted by some crack-of-dawn fools drag-racing down Ala Wai Boulevard. I dozed off again until the sun flooding my apartment and the roar of morning traffic forced me out of bed. Still in my street clothes. My aloha shirt had climbed up under my armpits like a life vest. My khakis were so wrinkled I almost tossed them in the trash.

  Trying to revive myself, I walked to my closet-sized kitchen and pulled down a package of old-fashioned oats. My parents had New England roots and I can still remember my mother telling me to start the day off right with a good breakfast. To her, that meant hot oatmeal. To me, it was a lot of fuss. Why dirty a pan and wait around for the oats to boil when you could pop open a box of cold cereal? I don’t know why I kept oatmeal around. I never ate it. Well, almost never.

  I sat a pan on one of my two burners, put in some water and a pinch of salt, and waited till it boiled. Then I put in a cup of oats. And waited some more.

  “I might need my strength today,” I told myself.

  The kitchen steamed up. I got down a spoon and bowl and some honey. My mother used brown sugar, but I didn’t have any. Once the oats were cooked, I cover the pan and let them stand, as she used to say. Then I spooned the steaming glop into my bowl.

  The first spoonful reminded me how right she was. The oats warmed me all the way down.

  The phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I let the answering machine take it.

  “Kai Cooke,” said the quavering old Aussie voice, “don’t think for a minute, mate, I’ll forget or forgive. You are no better than Billy. And your fate will be no better. I know where you live.”

  How did Scanlon get my number? Did he have my address too? Or was he bluffing? If Buckingham was right, and Scanlon’s god was money, my part in last night’s adventure couldn’t have endeared me to him. One more reason to watch my back.

  * * *

  At my office there were more phone messages concerning Kula: erroneous sightings, useless tips, and a distraught pet owner begging me to find her beagle. There was also a message from Frank Fernandez—we had reached his Monday deadline. No grizzly-bear mood this time. Teddy-bear instead, which concerned me even more.

  “Reiko Infante,” Feranadez said. “Remember her, Kai? You tracked her to Kailua on your lost dog case.” His tone changed. “She’s dead. Somebody climbed through her window last night and smothered her with her own pillow. We’re checking for fingerprints, but for now we’re holding her boyfriend, Silva. And guess who he says did it? You . . . That’s two murders connected to you, Kai. Don’t make me come get you.”

  Fingerprints? mine would be all over Infante’s windows and her bedroom. I couldn’t call Fernandez right now. If he took me in, I might not come out.

  I reluctantly gave Buckingham a call. His voicemail answered. I left a message that I was planning to bring Kula home on Tuesday and asked for the retriever’s license and AKC papers. I also asked if Lehua could go with Maile and me. I didn’t mention Reiko Infante.

  Then I crossed Maunakea Street to C & K Diner and brought back a teriyaki chicken plate lunch to my office. I ate alone at my desk, picking over the chicken with a plastic fork. Until Buckingham returned my call when his radio show ended at four, I was just marking time. And trying to stay clear of Frank Fernandez.

  No-brainer. I went surfing.

  * * *

  At Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park, a few blocks from my office, I checked out the edgy break by the Kewalo Channel called Point Panic. The swell was forming into sweet green barrels that rolled about forty yards and then slammed into lava-rock boulders fronting a seawall. A half dozen bodysurfers were carving it up. They milked each wave to its last drop, pulling out a split second before crashing into the rocks. Daredevils only.

  Point Panic got me thinking again about the case. Though I don’t consider myself a daredevil, and seldom panic, I felt as if I were riding a big wave and a wall was coming fast. My gut told me that Buckingham’s charcoal suits and black hair were only a surface manifestation of a darkness that lay deeper inside the man. Bad things do happen to good people. But sometimes bad things happen to bad people too. That was Buckingham.

  Point Panic—despite its provocative name—was not for longboards. The sign posted by the break reads: Bodysurfing Only. Board riders there can get arrested. But a short walk ewa, near the channel to Honolulu Harbor, leads to a less edgy break called Flies that does welcome the rest of us. Flies produces a mushy right when the swell runs, like today, about knee-to-chest-high. Only four riders were out.

  I paddled toward the lineup and hopped on the first wave of an inside set. It fizzled. I paddled farther out and waited. Had I known about Buckingham’s history, not even my Impala running on fumes would have made me work for him. Kula, Lehua, and I were all pawns in the chess game he was playing with Scanlon. Not to mention Cheyenne Sin.

  * * *

  When I returned to my office, Buckingham had left a message. I could pick up Kula’s papers at six, but he said nothing about his daughter coming with me. I called Maile and asked, a bit awkwardly, if I could spend the night on her couch. I don’t know why I didn’t ask Tommy Woo. Tommy lives closer than Maile and I’d sacked out in his place before.

  Maile didn’t hesitate. “If you don’t mind sharing the couch with the cats. . .” She paused. “Well, maybe not Lolo.”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” I said, “but the bad guys found out where I live. This case is getting kind of hairy and I don’t want anything to stand in the way of our trip tomorrow to Maui.” I didn’t mention that the good guys now seemed to regard me as a bad guy. And they too knew where I lived.

  “Whatevah,” Maile shrugged it off. “How about dinner?”

  “You’re sure it’s no trouble?” Truth is, a home-cooked meal sounded way good.

  “We’ll have something simple. How about pasta?”

  “Fine. What can I bring?”

  “Red wine would be nice,” she said.

  “Red it is.”

  Maybe I was wrong, but it sounded like a date.

  thirty-two

  At a quarter to six I drove once again to the summit of Tantalus.

  Buckingham buzzed me through and I climbed the granite steps to his koa doors. One swung open and there he stood in his charcoal suit—tie askew. His bloodshot eyes suggested he’d slept even less than I had. He handed me Kula’s papers documenting his pedigree and ownership.

  “And what about Lehua,” I asked. “Can she come with me and my assistant to get Kula?”

  “Lehua has just endured a traumatic ordeal, as I’m sure you can imagine. She best stay here . . .”

  The way he said this convinced me he hadn’t consulted his daughter.

  “It may be more difficult without her, but I’ll do my best . . .” I paused to gather my thoughts. “There is another way you could help the investigation along. I’ve already used the retainer you gave me to locate Kula. A second retainer, sir, would help pay for travel expenses to Maui and for Kula’s safe return.”

  The gold dealer winced. “Rest assured, Mr. Cooke”—out came his smooth-as-silk voice—“you will be rewarded handsomely. In addition to your normal fee, I have decided to give you the reward I offered for Kula. You found him. You deserve the reward.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir. It’s just that there will be expenses tomorrow morning that . . .”

  “Mr. Cooke”—a dark shadow crossed Buckingham’s face—“I have given you $1,000
in advance for Kula’s safe return. That’s nearly what I paid for him as a puppy. You have located him, so you tell me, but you have yet to bring him home. Now, I trust you are a man of honor, and I trust you believe I am too . . .”

  “Of course, sir.” I stopped myself from reminding him that I had single-handedly rescued his daughter at considerable risk to myself. For that, he would get a separate bill.

  “I will make arrangements to have your check ready when you return with Kula, including the reward.” Then he said, “Cheers.” The interview was over.

  Something told me I would never see that check.

  * * *

  Driving to Maile’s that night for dinner I remembered something that happened the summer I spent in Hawai‘i before my senior year. Maile, her boyfriend Karl, and some other friends and I went to a movie. I can’t remember what movie or where, but I do remember that Karl and I sat on either side of Maile. It was no coincidence that I sat next to her. Toward the end of the film, as if to punctuate a climatic scene, she put her hand on mine. It seemed like just a playful thing between friends, and it probably meant more to me than it did to her. What did I know? I was seventeen and had never had a girlfriend. I looked over at Karl. He was engrossed in the film. He wasn’t paying attention to Maile. Her hand felt warm and seemed to bond to mine. We held hands for I don’t know how long. After awhile I got scared and I guess she did too. Our hands went back into our own laps. And Karl was still watching the film.

  Maile and I never talked about that time at the theatre. She left with Karl and I didn’t see her much again that summer. Funny I should think of this after so many years. Maybe because it was the closet thing to a date I’d had with her before tonight?

  * * *

  No restaurant in Honolulu ever served a more memorable meal than she did that night in her Mānoa cottage. Homemade pasta. Sauce from scratch. Fresh-baked bread. The supermarket Chianti I brought was hardly up to her cooking, but it put me in a mellow mood. Not to mention the candlelight reflecting in Maile’s eyes.