Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Read online

  “You’re afraid of commitment,” she shot back. “You want me when it suits you, but otherwise you never call.” She fumbled nervously with her Gucci handbag, her fingers digging inside the saddle leather.

  “You can’t smoke here.”

  “Damn!” She slammed down her bag. “I’m trying to quit. But I need one right now.”

  “I haven’t got any, Madison.”

  She searched my eyes.

  “Hey, where’s your faithful companion?” I tried to change the subject. “You don’t go anywhere without Twinkie.”

  “She’s at the doggie boutique getting groomed,” Madison said, softening. “That girl’s hair is more expensive than mine. Oh, that reminds me . . .” Her mood lightened. “Twinkie’s groomer said one of her clients lost her Lhasa Apso. I told her you found that missing surfing dog. Her client is desperate.”

  “No more pet cases,” I said. “But I know someone else.” From my top desk drawer I pulled one of Maile’s cards and handed it to her. “She can give it to her client.”

  Madison scanned the card. “Is she good?”

  “She is,” I said, “She helped me rescue Kula.”

  “She went with you to Maui? And the Big Island?”

  I nodded.

  “Just the two of you?” Madison sounded suspicious. I was starting to regret giving her Maile’s card.

  “It was a case, Madison.” Luckily the phone rang just then. I picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Kai, did you hear the one—”

  “Hang on a minute, Tommy?” I said into the phone. I turned to Madison. “It’s my attorney. This may take awhile.”

  She frowned and started for the door. “Call me tonight.”

  “OK.”

  forty-four

  I didn’t call Madison that night. And she didn’t call me.

  A few mornings later, and more than two weeks after Barry Buckingham had first hired me, I was sitting in my office scanning the Star-Advertiser when I saw this:

  * * *

  Gold Dealer Indicted for Murder, Fraud

  Radio pitchman Barry Buckingham, recuperating at Queen’s Hospital from injuries suffered when his yacht, Golden Hinde, ran aground at Point Panic near Kewalo Basin last Tuesday, has been indicted on two counts of murder in the first degree and multiple counts of fraud. H.P.D. Homicide Detective Frank Fernandez announced at a news conference yesterday that Buckingham has been charged in the murders of Waimanalo resident Moku Taliaferro and Reiko Infante of Kailua.

  Buckingham made a name and fortune for himself as the charismatic host of “The Gold Standard” daily radio program on KGHO, where he pitched and sold precious metals. Several former clients have filed lawsuits against him. Attorney Michael R. Holstein, who represents one of those clients, told the Star-Advertiser: “Barry Buckingham is a classic con man. Court records will show that he has defrauded island residents out of millions of dollars . . .”

  * * *

  The case of Barry Buckingham—my first and only pet case—was officially closed. The story made no mention of Abe Scanlon or his sidekick Spyder Silva. If Buckingham hadn’t managed to kill both before his arrest, I hoped Scanlon and Silva would be laying low. I didn’t want trouble from either of them.

  * * *

  A few nights later I had a date with Maile at Ah Fook in Chinatown to celebrate wrapping up the case. We planned to meet at six. I arrived fifteen minutes early. There wasn’t much of a crowd at that hour, so I waited outside alone on River Street.

  At 6:00, a few customers wandered up and went inside. By 6:15, she still hadn’t shown. Patrons were filling the tables inside, so I left my name with the hostess. It didn’t seem like Maile to be late.

  When 6:30 came and went, I called her cell phone. “Hi, you’ve reached Maile Barnes, tracer of missing pets. How can I help?”

  “Maile, it’s Kai. I’m at the restaurant. Are you OK? Call me on my cell.”

  I called her home phone too, but she didn’t answer there either. I left the same message.

  I waited until 7:00, then I called both numbers again. Still no response. I was worried. I left Ah Fook without eating and drove up to Mānoa.

  On the way I got a sinking feeling, pulled over, and called Madison.

  “Helloooo,” Madison slurred. She’d evidently had a few martinis at the club.

  “Madison, it’s me. Did you call Maile Barnes?”

  “Yooo gave me her card, darling.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  Silence.

  “What did you say?”

  “I tol’ her the truth, honey, that we’re talking about getting married.”

  I was speechless.

  “Kai?”

  I hung up.

  By then it was dark. And I was disoriented. Instinctively I punched in Maile’s number. Of course she didn’t answer. I left a message:

  “Maile, it’s me . . .” I started rambling. “Madison lied. We’re not getting married. We’re not even dating. I stopped seeing her after I met you—” I could have gone on, but what was the use? Maile wasn’t going to answer.

  I drove to her cottage thinking I’d just blown it with the girl of my dreams. Never mind that Madison had lied. Never mind that it wasn’t really my fault.

  The damage had been done.

  forty-five

  Driving into Mānoa I recalled when I first saw Maile again after so many years. She was in her jogging togs and her face was flushed. She looked terrific. But I was too hung up on Madison at the time to really see Maile. When I told her the last man I interviewed for the case died, she didn’t even ask about Dr. Carreras. But that was her way. Take things in stride—like a good cop.

  When I pulled up to her cottage a few lights were on. Maile’s car was parked out front, so I naturally assumed she was home. I walked to the door and knocked. No answer.

  I wasn’t surprised. If Maile thought I betrayed her, why would she come to the door?

  I knocked again.

  Then I tried the knob.

  Unlocked. I walked into the familiar room—comfortable and easy-going and island-style like Maile herself. Open jalousies admitted a balmy breeze. Rattan furniture sat on Oriental rugs. But the three cozy cats that usually warmed the cushions were in hiding. Maybe Peppah and Coconut had taken after Lolo? The two gregarious cats weren’t afraid of me, and by now should have been nuzzling me and climbing my pant leg. I expected a cool greeting from their mistress, but not the cold shoulder from them. And where was Kula?

  “Maile?” I said.

  No reply.

  I looked around. Kula’s water and food dishes, bearing his name in fancy gold lettering, sat on the kitchen floor. Both were full with drink and kibble. By the dishes lay a yellow tennis ball, bringing back memories of Maui. In the kitchen I saw Peppah hiding under the dining table. That wasn’t like him. He made eye contact with me, but didn’t dash in my direction. He didn’t even move. What’s going on here? The cats seemed to be sensing something was wrong.

  I turned from the Angora and scanned Maile’s photo collection—snapshots of her past life. Her husband Nestor in police blues, Maile herself with her rifle, and her dog Rusty—missing and never found. During the course of our investigation on the Big Island she had stumbled onto evidence of Rusty’s theft. And she had spared the thief. It’s a wonder she hadn’t blown Sammy Bob Pickett’s head off, considering what he’d done to her.

  I was looking at Rusty’s photo when I heard what sounded like light footsteps on the porch. Suddenly the front door pushed open and Kula walked in, dragging his leash. He was huffing and panting, his gold fur was in wild disarray. He looked like he’d been in a chase or a fight. I petted him and felt moisture. His coat was wet.

  “Where have you been, boy?” I asked him. “And where’s Maile?”

  He barked. If only dogs could talk.

  I tried to piece together what might have happened. Kula was on leash because Maile had taken him for an evening walk or run. Som
ehow, the two of them got separated and Kula came home alone. But why would Maile leave Kula on his own? That wasn’t like her.

  I decided to stay put and wait to see if she returned. It was a dark, moonless night and I didn’t expect she’d stay out long. I sat in one of the rattan chairs; Kula walked to the kitchen and took a long drink from his water dish. He came back and lay down beside me, panting a little less than before. Peppah emerged from the kitchen, but kept his distance from Kula. Coconut peeked out from under a rattan chair. Lolo was nowhere in sight. At least she was acting normal.

  I waited fifteen minutes. Maile didn’t show. By then it was eight o’clock. I’d waited long enough.

  “C’mon, Kula,” I gently roused him. “Let’s go find your master.”

  The dog got up right away like he knew exactly what I was saying. He led me to my car and jumped in the front seat beside me.

  I drove through the dark narrow streets surrounding Maile’s cottage. When I didn’t find her there, I tried the main street into the valley, East Mānoa Road. Then its side streets. Kula looked anxiously out the passenger window. We were getting nowhere and the night was wearing on.

  My cell phone rang. Caller ID said: MAILE BARNES.

  “Maile, are you OK?” I asked.

  “Now listen up, mate,” said the quavering old Aussie voice, “if you want to see this girl again you best bring the gold dog to the Mānoa Chinese Cemetery.” It was Abe Scanlon. “Come alone and bring the dog. Even exchange. The dog for the girl.”

  “Scanlon, you’re out of your mind,” I said. “The dog’s worth nothing to you now that Buckingham’s locked up.”

  “Here . . .” the old man said, “maybe she can talk some sense into you.”

  “Kai,” Maile took the phone. “He thinks he can turn Kula into a fortune. I don’t know why, but you’re not going to change his mind.”

  I knew why. Scanlon had built his life around revenge. Now that Buckingham was beyond his reach, his old boss had become desperate and unbalanced. In better times he and Spyder Silva had dog-napped and held Kula, expecting to cash in big. But Maile and I had spoiled that. Now in Scanlon’s twisted mind he had a second chance both to cash in on Kula and to strike back at Maile and me.

  “Is Silva there?” I asked Maile. “Is he holding you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Does he have his Berretta?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Silva and Scanlon intercepted you while you were out with Kula?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And they wanted Kula, but somehow he got away, so they took you instead?”

  “Yes.” She spoke hurriedly.

  “They watched your cottage, waiting for his return. They saw me arrive first, then Kula.”

  “Y—” Her voice cut off.

  Scanlon grabbed the phone. “Chinese cemetery at ten. Bring the dog, mate.”

  He hung up.

  forty-six

  I called my attorney friend, Tommy Woo, hoping against hope that he didn’t have a gig and he’d drop everything on short notice. Thank God he answered. But before I could get a word in, Tommy said: “Hey, Kai, did you hear the one about the sushi bar on Bishop Street that caters exclusively to lawyers?”

  “Can it, Tommy. I need your help and I need it fast.”

  “It’s called Sosumi,” he said.

  “What?” Once he got rolling there was no stopping him.

  “The sushi bar for lawyers is called Sosumi.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Are you free tonight?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Can you meet me in my office in fifteen minutes?”

  “Well, I’m not dressed . . . but I could throw on something.”

  “It’s an open air gig, so dress appropriately. At the Chinese cemetery in Mānoa. We may have to hike a bit.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  I could have met Tommy in Mānoa and saved the quick trip to my office, but I needed to pick up something there before I faced Silva in the cemetery.

  * * *

  Tommy, dressed as usual in black, was waiting for me outside the flower shop, which was closed that time of night. Kula was leading me on his leash.

  “What’s with the dog?” Tommy asked.

  “Buckingham,” I said.

  “Oh, I remember . . .” He brushed back a gray lock.

  I let us in through the back entrance. We climbed the stairs to the second floor and found our way to my office door: SURFING DETECTIVE: CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS—ALL ISLANDS.

  “Have a seat, Tommy,” I said as I opened the door. He took my client’s chair. Kula led me in and sat next to my desk. I petted him. His coat was nearly dry. His warm fur and renewed calm was reassuring. He seemed to have confidence in me, even if I didn’t. I cracked my window overlooking Maunakea Street. The evening bustle of Chinatown’s eateries, tourist shops and galleries was winding down. I looked across my desk at Tommy.

  “Now here’s what we’ve got,” I said. “Maile Barnes is being held hostage by the scums who stole Kula. There’s two of them: an old Australian named Abe Scanlon and a local pet thief named Spyder Silva. I’ve dealt with them before in the Buckingham case. Silva is a sleazy character and the old man is out of his head. He thinks Kula is worth a fortune and he wants to trade Maile for the dog at ten tonight at the Chinese cemetery in Mānoa.

  “That’s nuts,” Tommy said.

  “I know, but there it is,” I said. “I’m going to approach them in the cemetery alone, as Scanlon specified. I won’t have the dog. You will. And since Silva has his Berretta, I’ll have my .357.” I pulled the Smith & Wesson from the top drawer of my desk. Tommy was unimpressed.

  “What do I do with the dog?” Tommy asked. “I’m a cat person, you know. I don’t know much about dogs.”

  “Don’t worry. You don’t need to know much about dogs. All you need to do is keep Kula with you and keep him quiet. You two will be in my car, which I’ll park a block away from the park. I’m going to tell Scanlon the dog is there with my assistant, but that Scanlon has to release Maile first before I give him the dog. He may not like it. But Scanlon, at his age, is not a physical threat. And I can handle Silva.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m going to take Maile and bring her back to the car.”

  “And the dog?”

  “Kula stays in the car with you. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “You’re sure you want to walk into that cemetery alone at night?” Tommy asked.

  “Scanlon wants the dog badly. I’m his ticket to gold. He’s not going to jeopardize his chances out of the spite he may feel for me. As for Spyder, he’ll do what Scanlon tells him to.”

  “Shouldn’t I cover you?”

  “With what?”

  Tommy pulled from a his black pants a Derringer pistol, bright chrome, and about the size of a cell phone. “It’s only .22 calibre,” he said, “but it can do the job.”

  “You never told me you had a firearm, Tommy. I thought it was against your principles.”

  Tommy adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses. “It’s against my principles to get mugged. I’m out late on gigs, in the wee hours, and sometimes not in the best part of town. I’m not about to let somebody whack me on the head and walk off with my keyboard and my car. This little beauty . . .” he caressed the Derringer, “fits right into my pocket. And nobody knows. Well, except you.”

  “You shouldn’t need it tonight. But if you hear a gunshot, you can leave Kula in the car and come running.”

  “Right on.” Tommy grinned.

  forty-seven

  I closed my office window, locked the dead bolt behind us, and we descended the outside stairs and piled into my Impala—two grown men and a dog. Neither of us said much on the ride from Chinatown to Mānoa. Kula was in back with his head out the window, tail wagging and enjoying the ride. By the time we neared the Chinese cemetery it was almost ten. I parked on East Mānoa Road, a hu
ndred yards down, left Tommy and Kula, and hiked to the cemetery. Scanlon didn’t say exactly where I was supposed to meet them, but it’s not a huge place and it slopes up the valley, so you can take in the whole view of the place from the lower corner, where I was headed.

  But I didn’t enter. I stopped and did a quick scan. The cemetery was smack in the middle of the upper Mānoa valley, which ran nearly a mile across. Two small pagodas with jade tile roofs and pillars with Chinese characters in gold stood at the lower and upper entrances. Their marquees said: MANOA CHINESE CEMETERY. The pagoda at the lower entrance, near where I stood, was flanked by royal palms and scrubs that in daylight ranged in color from bright green to flaming red. But at night they were black—like everything else. Behind the pagoda the darkened headstones and plots were carefully tended, showing the Chinese honor and respect for their dead. The cemetery happened to be the oldest and largest of its kind in Hawai‘i and during its long history had been the subject of more than a few ghost stories. I couldn’t allow my imagination to get started on that. Besides I didn’t see any ghosts. Or any sign of Scanlon and Silva and Maile either.

  I walked along one edge of the cemetery, staying out of sight and watching for Scanlon and company. The homes bordering the park were huddled close together. Mānoa wasn’t Tantalus, and none of the properties resembled palaces on the hill like Wonderview. I scanned a maze of headstones, then reached into my pocket. The cold, hard surface of my Smith & Wesson felt good to the touch. I was glad it was there.

  Up the street near the top of the park I spotted a bronze Chevy Tahoe–the same one used in Lehua’s kidnapping. Inside were three dim profiles. That was them, all right. The Tahoe was positioned high, in view of the entire cemetery. Scanlon was watching and waiting, expecting me to make the first move. I wouldn’t disappoint him.

  I backtracked to the lower slope of cemetery and started walking up toward them, in plain view. I wound my way through the headstones, stepping around grave markers to avoid bad luck. I didn’t need that. As the land gradually rose, I walked toward the second pagoda at the top of the cemetery. Behind its pillars and jade roof was a huge kukui or candlenut tree whose limbs stretched thirty feet in every direction.