Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Read online

  A tall, very thin woman opened the door of the cottage and walked toward us. She was a vegan, according to Maile. I guess that accounted for her thinness. She had long silver-flecked black hair that reminded me of sixties folk singer, Joan Baez. I expected Deirdre to launch into “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”

  “Deirdre Osteen.” She reached out her hand. “And you must be Maile? And Kai?”

  “Thanks for helping us on such short notice.” Maile shook her hand. Then it was my turn. The hand was graceful and lean, like the rest of her. And warm.

  “Anything I can do,” Deirdre said. “As you can see, I’m just getting started here. I had to leave LA in kind of a hurry.”

  “You mentioned that on the phone,” Maile said. “But Kai hasn’t heard the story.”

  “I’ll tell you about it . . .” Deirdre said “about” with the long “o” of Canadian English. “But first, come on inside and get out of the sun.”

  We walked with her to the cottage. The rusty Golf was parked by the door and my eye caught its bumper sticker: BIO-DIESEL: NO WARS NEEDED. Deirdre must have seen me gawking at it.

  “The Golf is a TDI,” she said. “It runs on one-hundred percent recycled vegetable oil. The fuel is made right here in Hawai‘i.”

  “Your car is a vegan,” I said, “just like you.” I meant it to be funny, but she didn’t take it that way.

  “The big oil companies are almost as bad as animal abusers. They’ve fought saving the planet every step of the way, and they’re scheming to run the bio-fuel industry out of business.”

  “Not if you can help it.” I thought about the gas-guzzling V8 in my old Impala and wondered if I should turn over a new leaf.

  Inside the place was basically one room and looked more like a camp than a home. The windows were open and a little breeze flowed through. There were a few cots and some beach chairs and a folding table. The only lamps I could see were battery powered, but not turned on at this time of day. From the personal gear piled in corners of the room, it looked like Deirdre might have a companion, but he or she wasn’t around at the moment. And she didn’t mention that anyone else was living there. We pulled three chairs into a small circle and sat.

  “Jasmine tea?” Deirdre asked. “It’s herbal. No caffeine.”

  Maile accepted and I passed. Deirdre went for a jar with a brownish liquid inside and several teabags. She poured glasses for Maile and herself and returned.

  “It’s sun tea. The electricity isn’t hooked up yet,” Deirdre said. “So I serve it at room temperature. I’m kind of keeping a low profile for now.”

  “Tell Kai what happened,” Maile said and sipped her tea.

  Maile had already told me that Deirdre Osteen was an animal rights activist from Ontario, Canada, who had spent the last few years in Los Angeles, heavily involved with ALF. But what Mailed didn’t say, and Deirdre now did, was that she had been with a cell of ski-masked comrades that ransacked a university research lab and released dozens of caged monkeys, then spray-painted “Meat is Murder” on every available surface at four fast-food restaurants, and finally were about to hit a high-end furrier on Rodeo Drive when three of her comrades got nabbed.

  “Before the day was out,” Deirdre said with that long “o” again, “I was on a plane to Kona. I have some friends there and I stayed with them while I looked for land to set up a sanctuary. I decided my days with ALF were over. I’m committed to animal rights but I can’t be effective if I’m in jail. So I hit on this idea. A no-kill shelter.”

  “How much land do you have here?” I asked.

  “About twenty acres,” she said. “I got a good deal on it. It’s far from any town or village, as you saw, and access to the property isn’t exactly, well, a super-highway.”

  I wondered how she could afford to buy so much land on the Big Island, but didn’t ask. From her nonchalance and quiet confidence she struck me as a child of privilege.

  “You’re out in the middle of nowhere,” Maile said.

  “That’s perfect for the shelter,” Deirdre replied. “No one around to complain about animal smells and noises. Plus I’m starting a garden out back. By the way, do you want something to eat? I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of meat or dairy, but lots of raw vegetables and tofu.”

  “I’m good,” I said, wishing I could sink my teeth into a cheeseburger.

  Maile nodded in agreement.

  “Well, about your mission,” Deirdre said. “I’ve heard rumors about the man you’re going to see.”

  “Sammy Bob Picket,” I said. “We’re not going to see him. I’ve done that already. Once is enough. He’s got a shotgun and likes to wave it around.”

  “We’re going to case his property,” Maile said. “See his animals and how he keeps them . . . or how he abuses them.”

  “I’ve heard he’s unstable and prone to violence,” Deirdre added. “And like I told you, Maile, I’m willing to take his animals. I’ll do the best I can with what I have so far, which isn’t much.”

  “They’ll be ten times better off,” Maile replied.

  “I wish I could help you rescue them,” Deirdre said. “I’m sorry. My heart is with you, but I can’t run this shelter from jail. I need to lie low for a while.”

  We declined her offer of ski masks, but listened to everything she could tell us about raiding a facility. When she walked us back to the van she spotted Maile’s rifle through the window.

  “ALF is a nonviolent organization,” she said. “They might break the law when they liberate animals, but they don’t condone firearms. I’ve left the organization, but I still feel that way.”

  “The rifle is just a precaution. We’re dealing with an armed and dangerous man,” Maile said. “Tonight we’re just going to survey the site and figure out the best way to free his dogs. But if he pulls his shotgun, we will protect ourselves.”

  * * *

  It was twilight by the time I drove the white van into Laupāhoehoe. In growing darkness, I turned onto the dirt road I had taken before to the shadowy undergrowth of Picket’s hideout. As I parked, Maile grabbed her Remington.

  “Do we really need that just to look around?”

  Maile put her hands on her hips. “OK. Between you and Deirdre, I’m outnumbered. But if anything happens, it’s your ‘ōkole.”

  “My ‘ōkole will be just fine,” I said.

  As Maile put the gun back into the van I had second thoughts. No doubt that Pickett was dangerous. And pet theft, even for a good cause, was still theft. We were already guilty on one count.

  In the moments before complete darkness we hiked into the jungle that surrounded Picket’s shack. It wasn’t long before we heard the faint mournful moans and whiffed the stink.

  Rounding a bend, we could clearly see the place. It was dark inside, but a naked bulb on a pole outside cast a harsh glare. I pointed out the fire pit in front where, on my earlier visit, I had seen charred dog collars and blackened tags and licenses. The absence of light inside suggested that either Sammy Bob wasn’t at home or had turned in early. Or maybe just passed out drunk.

  In the clearing beyond fire ring, at the edges of light, we glimpsed the dark shapes of dozens of dogs, still chained to rusting vehicles and cast-off appliances, or cobbed-together wood crates. Nearer to the shack his two pit bulls slept, well illuminated and secured by their thick leather leads. I hoped they slept soundly.

  Gazing upon this dismal scene, Maile’s expression registered something between disgust and awe.

  “I’ve seen enough here,” she said matter-of-factly. “Let’s hike the perimeter and survey the site from other angles.”

  We kept our distance as we hiked so the dogs wouldn’t see or smell us. Maile stopped every so often studying each new angle of that dog ghetto. When we returned to the fire pit, Picket’s hovel was still unlit.

  Maile tiptoed into the center of the ring and scanned the charred collars and tags. She looked around until she found something that interested her, th
en reached down and picked up a metal fragment. She held it in front of her for a long time, tilting it this way and that in the harsh light, focusing intently.

  Suddenly her head bowed, as if she were praying. She shoved the blackened memento into one of her pockets and stepped abruptly away from the fire pit. She marched past me, her eyes glistening.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as she headed in the direction of the van.

  “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the darkness.

  forty-two

  I walked toward the fire ring to check it out myself, stepping over and around the charred logs scattered on its boundary. I should have known better. In the darkness my foot caught one of the logs. I went down. I hit the ground with a thud hard enough to knock the wind out of me and make the stitches in the back of my head throb. And loud enough to wake the pit bulls.

  Uh-oh. They growled and pulled against their leather straps. From my position flat on my face in the dirt I looked up and saw right into their empty yellow eyes. One by one, other dogs woke up and started barking.

  A light went on inside Picket’s shack. The door banged open. He stumbled out bare-chested, his flabby gut hanging over a pair of jeans half tucked into hunting boots. A shotgun trembled in his hands.

  “Whut ‘n hell yah do’n ta mah dogs? Ah gonna shoot yo’ ass!”

  I was too close to him to run.

  Sammy Bob Picket peered down at me with bloodshot eyes. A surprised look came over his face.

  “Geeooorge?” His surprise turned to anger. “Yah sonofabitch! Yah stole that dog on Maui. Didn’t ya? Stole ‘em an’ got me in trouble with the lady. An’ yah nevah paid me that other hundret, either.”

  “You stole the dog.” I caught my breath and slowly got up.

  “Ah didn’t steal ‘em. Ah only give ‘em a good home. A fellah named Spyder done brought me that dog. But Ah ’spect yah know that. Ah ’spect yah kilt his lady friend. An’ now yah come tah git me.” He leveled his shotgun.

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Prepare to meet yo’ maker, boy.”

  Picket cocked his shotgun with a metallic click. There was no sense in running. I stood my ground. I had been hit only once in my life—a small-caliber pistol, that left a superficial wound. A shotgun would be different. Especially at close range. I braced.

  Then I heard a second metallic click in the distance, and four loud pops.

  But the blows never came.

  The pit bulls were loose and sprinting toward me! I suddenly feared a death worse than by shotgun. But the dogs darted past me and went for Picket. He turned back to his shack, as his shotgun fell in front of him and landed in the red dirt.

  Boom!

  The load with my name on it went up into thin air. Sammy Bob swung open the door and tried frantically to pull it closed behind him. But he was too late. One pit bull clamped onto the boot of his trailing leg. The other did the same. It was a strange, savage scene as the pit bulls ripped and tore at the boot still attached to Picket’s foot.

  Soon Maile was standing over me with her Remington, smelling of gunpowder.

  “C’mon, Kai,” she said. “Help me save this scum.”

  “What?”

  Maile pulled a small aerosol canister from her pants pocket.

  “Pepper spray?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Under the circumstances it’s the most humane way.” She handed the Remington to me and approached the two dogs. “Aim my rifle at the dogs. If one attacks me, you know what to do.”

  I pointed in the direction of the crazed pair.

  “On my count,” she said. Then “One—two—three!” Maile leaped in front of the dogs and sprayed the aerosol in their faces. The blasts were short, but the results were instantaneous. Both dogs began flailing about blindly, coughing and gasping for air.

  “It’ll wear off.” Maile said as she stepped back. “I’ll tie them up again before it does.”

  “And I’ll tie up Picket.”

  “Take this.” She handed me the pepper spay.

  I took it in my left hand but kept her rifle in my right. I stepped inside the shack, where Picket was sprawled on the filthy floor, groaning. I could hear whines and barking coming from the closet-sized rooms. I glanced down at the man responsible and wondered why he wasn’t dead.

  “Mah leg,” Sammy Bob moaned and looked up at me blurry-eyed. “Ah can’t walk.”

  He had removed his boot and pulled up his pant leg. There was torn flesh and blood on his lower calf. He also had dark purple bruises around his ankle and foot. But he wasn’t going to die.

  “Yah gonna he’p me, Georgie boy?” he asked in a suddenly kind, slurred voice. He wasn’t just sleepy and hurt, he was also drunk. He seemed to think I’d returned to being his buddy.

  I looked around his shack for something to tie him up with. A half dozen chewed-up leashes were lying in a corner by the door. I grabbed two and rolled Picket over on his stomach. I didn’t need the pepper spray. There wasn’t any fight left in him. I bound his feet, wrapping a towel around his injured ankle. Then I tied his hands behind his back. I didn’t bother to gag him. There was no one out there to hear him.

  “Yah jus’ gonna leave me like this? Ah thought yah wuz my frien’.”

  “I’ll send for help,” I said and closed the door behind me. But I won’t rush to do it, I added to myself.

  Across from the shack, Maile had finished securing the pit bulls. As I walked over, I noticed that their eyes were still dilated and their breathing hoarse.

  “How’d they get loose?”

  “You told me the dogs hated Picket, so I aimed for their leads. It took me four shots and some luck.”

  “Why didn’t you just shoot him? He almost killed me.”

  “He needs to be held accountable for what he’s done.”

  I handed her Remington back to her.

  “You shouldn’t second-guess me, Kai,” she said. “Or maybe next time it will be your ‘ōkole.”

  forty-three

  Deirdre arrived later that night in her biodiesel Golf and, despite her earlier doubts, helped us rescue the dogs. Only afterward did we alert Big Island Police to Picket’s whereabouts. We left the pit bulls and three other dogs we found dead, as evidence of his cruelty. It would be obvious to police that many more animals had been held captive there, though we felt sure Picket wouldn’t admit it.

  The next morning on the plane back to O‘ahu, Maile took out the charred metal piece she had found in the fire pit. She held it in the sunlight streaming through the airplane’s window.

  It was a pet ID tag. Just a fragment, but the name was clear: Rusty.

  Maile had spared Sammy Bob Picket—the man who had caused her so much pain—to bring him to justice. Once a good cop, always a good cop.

  * * *

  I spent Saturday morning in my office, catching up on paperwork and reading the Star-Advertiser. It had another story about Buckingham. And I also saw this:

  * * *

  Mililani Puppy Mill Raided

  Police stormed a townhouse yesterday in Mililani and found 14 malnourished adult golden retrievers and nearly two dozen puppies. The dogs had been kept in unsanitary conditions for many months, said Hawaiian Humane Society spokes-person, Megan Watanabe. The owner of the property, Louise M. Donner, known to neighbors as “Lou,” has been charged with thirty-seven counts of animal cruelty. Neighbors were alerted to problems at the townhouse by what was described as an “awful” smell coming from the home, “as if something had crawled inside and died.” But it was pet detective Maile Barnes and private investigator Kai Cooke who first discovered the maltreated animals when working on another case. The rescued dogs were taken to the Hawaiian Human Society on King Street. Most have been turned over for foster care to the Golden Retriever Club of Hawai‘i in private homes . . .

  * * *

  I wished the paper hadn’t mentioned Maile or me. If Scanlon were still alive, he didn’t need any help linking the two o
f us. We were the pair that had derailed his blackmail scheme. Before I could dwell much on that, there was a knock at my door. I set aside the paper and went for the knob.

  In stepped Madison Highcamp in a low-cut leopard print dress that showed more of her than anybody on the street ought to have the right to see. Her red hair hung down to her shoulders like a sheet of fire. Gone was her usual cigarette. And her cell phone. And her Maltese. But her intoxicating scent of Chanel clung to every part of her.

  “Madison, what are you doing in Chinatown?” She’d never come to my office before.

  “So this is where you work, darling?” She kissed me full on the lips, and then gazed from my desk, in its normal disarray, to my only window overlooking Maunakea Street. “It’s . . . quaint.”

  “Never thought of it that way.” I pointed her to my client’s chair. As she sat down the bounce of her barely concealed breasts hit my nerve ends like a thunderbolt.

  “Kai, you didn’t call me.”

  “I’ve been on a case, Madison. I got back late last night. What’s up?”

  “Us.”

  “Us?” I said. “You and me?”

  She nodded. “I told you I’d been thinking about what you said. Well, I’ve made a decision.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘Have you ever thought of divorce?’”

  “Have you?” I was stalling.

  “After Conrad left I thought about it a lot.” She sat up straight. “I’m going to be brave, Kai. I’m going to file the papers.”

  “But you’ll get nothing. You said so yourself.”

  “That’s true. I will get nothing. I don’t care. Some things are more important than money.” She caressed her long hair and looked into my eyes. “Aren’t they, Kai?”

  “Madison, you may think you don’t need money, but you’ve never lived without it.” That might have been a cruel thing to say at that moment, but it was the truth.