5 Murder at Volcano House Page 7

  Ransom’s death yesterday brings the number to three. The men’s connection with the controversial geothermal project in the Wao Kele O Puna rainforest has not been lost on devotees of Pele, legendary goddess of fire and volcanoes.

  “Pele get her revenge,” said one lifelong Puna resident who asked not to be identified.

  But a Park Service spokesman explained that steam vent deaths are not unexampled. “This has happened before,” said Ranger Benjamin Cabato, referring to a park volunteer who died from a fall into a steam vent in 1992.

  The young woman in red. She’s not mentioned. Just as Pele devotees saw the goddess in the grey-haired old woman with her white dog climbing into Karl Kroften’s BMW before it crashed, so too would they see the goddess in the young woman who appeared before Rex Ransom fell.

  But I have no time to dwell on the newspaper. I have to put Ransom’s death out of my mind. The Pali case needs attention.

  I take the orange shag stairs down into the flower shop. Blossom is not there. But Mrs. Fujiyama is, tidying a refrigerated display case filled with fragrant pīkake, plumeria, and white ginger lei.

  “Morning, Mrs. Fujiyama.” I whiff the perfumed air. Lucky you live Hawai‘i. Where else can a PI hang his shingle above a lei shop?

  “Good morning, Mr. Cooke.” She glances at me over her half glasses, always politely formal, and smiles. If she’s still worried about Junior, she’s not showing it.

  I hustle to my parking garage. Maunakea Street is in peak form as I step onto the early morning sidewalk. The floral scents of the lei shop are soon replaced by other aromas of Chinatown: the reek of the open dumpster against Mrs. Fujiyama’s building, the tropical tang of mangos on a fruit vendor’s cart, the earthy scent of bok choy and other Chinese cabbages at a vegetable stall, the sweet-sour smell of char siu hanging in a lunch counter window, the pungent waft of the morning’s catch in the fish market; and the cheap perfume of a lady of the evening strolling home from her night’s work on Hotel Street.

  Before long I’m leaving Chinatown behind, driving down Maunakea to Nimitz Highway. I turn right and glance back at the Aloha Tower—no Pride of Aloha today. Donnie Ransom’s tenant, Jeffrey, and his friend Byron no doubt by now have disembarked at Nāwiliwili Harbor and retrieved their landlady at Lihue Airport. I’m off the hook because of those two guys. And glad the whole Ransom mess is behind me.

  I turn off Nimitz Highway on Māpunapuna Street, drive a few blocks mauka, and pull in front of HPD’s contract vehicle impound lot, operated by Stonehenge Recoveries. On any given day on the island of O‘ahu more vehicles are towed than can be accommodated on police property. So one lucky towing company wins the lucrative contract to perform this function. I got a green light from my friend in blue, Creighton Lee, to visit Stonehenge Recoveries.

  Stonehenge. Curious name for a Honolulu wrecking yard. Does the name allude to that prehistoric circle of mammoth stones outside London town, in the direction of Dartmoor? Never been, but would like to go. Maybe the tow company wants patrons to think solid and reputable and enduring?

  The yard itself is not much to write home about. A double-wide trailer, with a couple of wrecked cars in front of it, serves as an office. The office has two windows where you can pay your fine and liberate your car. By the windows are instructions in big red letters telling you what forms to fill out and how to pay.

  Speaking of luck, as I step from my car some unlucky guy is standing at one of the windows, arguing with the unlovely woman on the other side. She looks okay. What’s unlovely about her is her tongue. The poor guy whose automobile she holds hostage is getting an earful. She’s grown thick skin, I guess. Dealing with irate motorists day after day can do that. She’s telling him he owes not only a fine, but also a towing and a storage charge. She’s telling him he must pay it all in full and in cash before he sees his car again.

  He objects. She has an answer for everything: You think the charges are unfair? Fill out a complaint form. You want a copy of your completed form? Sorry, no copies. You’ve heard complaint forms mysteriously disappear? Can’t be. We carefully file every form and act on it promptly. Any other questions?

  Now he’s fuming. Soon the unlucky guy at the window and the woman on the other side are really going at it. She doesn’t even see me as I slip by the doublewide trailer and walk behind it into the impound lot. Despite my friend in blue’s assistance, technically I’m not supposed to be here. But I don’t let that stop me. I’m poor at following rules and regulations.

  It’s a clear March morning and the metallic paint on dozens of impounded cars sparkles in the sun. The car I’m looking for won’t have much sparkle left. It won’t have much of anything left. Vehicles involved in serious accidents are typically winched onto a flatbed truck, sometimes in pieces. That’s what happened in the Pali crash, after the Honda Civic plunged from the cliff. I’ve seen photos of the wreck, but not the actual vehicle. Until now.

  I’m not a curious onlooker or morbid spectator hovering over a wreck that killed three people. My mission is different. I’m looking for material evidence for a civil trial, much the same sort of evidence I looked for at the scene of the crash: cash register and credit card receipts, bottles (intact or broken), clothing or pieces of clothing, shoes, slippers, fluid and other stains—anything that might pertain to the accident. Like that Hawaiian bracelet belonging to Ashley. She still hasn’t returned my calls. So I still have no explanation why her bracelet rode in the doomed car when she didn’t.

  The deeper into the yard I walk, the more desperate the shape of the cars. There must be a hundred here, easy. At the very back are the worst cases—whose makes and models are almost impossible to determine. This is where I find the remains of the metallic red Honda, looking less like a car than a coffin.

  Why am I always on the trail of death?

  Fireball really did a job. The only way to tell that this mangled mess is a Honda is a bent badge on what remains of the hood. The car’s sides are sheared almost flat from slamming the walls of the Pali tunnels. Its roof is crushed nearly to the windowsills. Its windshield pillars flattened to the dashboard. All the glass is gone.

  Inside is a world of hurt. Two deflated airbags sag to the floor, dotted with dried blood. Bloodstains on the passenger seats must belong to the birthday twins; stains on the driver seat to Fireball.

  I reach into the car, wishing I was wearing latex. Gingerly I run my fingers across the discolored seats, looking for anything. Then I stretch into the foot-wells, trying to follow my fingers with my eyes. I come up empty. No receipts. No bottles. No clothing or swatches of cloth.

  I turn to the glove box—covered now by one of the deployed airbags. I fold the stained bag up onto the dash and try the glove box’s door. It won’t budge. No surprise. The Honda has been twisted and torqued by its catastrophic collision. Bare hands won’t do. I scan the surrounding wrecks for something to pry open the box. Under an old Pontiac, a classic almost as old as my Impala, I see a piece of broken trim—metal, not plastic—about a foot long. I grab it, wedge it in the uneven seam surrounding the glove box, and pry the door open.

  I find what you might expect—an owner’s manual, service records, a pen, a little bong pipe. I pull everything out. Nothing is left in the empty box. Except for one thing. A slip of paper. A cash register receipt

  Bingo! But there’s not enough readable print on the receipt to tell much. However, there is a phone number on the back. It’s written in a woman’s hand. No name. Just the number. And it’s not a Hawai‘i number. Area code 303.

  I have no idea where 303 is. But I’m going to find out.

  sixteen

  Back in my office I get a call from Tommy Woo. I’m sure the first topic of conversation is going to be the death of Rex Ransom at Volcano House.

  I’m wrong. Tommy starts off: “Hey Kai, did you hear the one about the sushi bar on Bishop Street that caters exclusively to lawyers?”

  “No, Tommy.” Another lawyer joke?

 
“It’s called Sosumi,” he says. “You get it? So sue me.”

  After Tommy reels off a few more I finally bring up the Ransoms. “I wonder how Donnie will make out.”

  “Just fine,” Tommy says. “Ransom had lots of money and Donnie has lots of time to spend it.”

  “They seemed devoted,” I say. “Well, she and the old man did have their moments.”

  “You’re a choir boy, Kai. How do you make it as a private dick? Ten bucks says she’s got a young stud on the side. Watch The Garden Island for a wedding announcement.”

  “What do I know about women?” I admit. “Or weddings?”

  “Speaking of weddings,” Tommy says, “I’m going to ask Zahra to marry me. What do you think?”

  Zahra is Tommy’s new girlfriend—a ravishing exchange student from Kenya about half his age whose visa is about to expire. That’s probably the reason for the sudden wedding plans.

  “I dunno, Tommy,” I say. He’s been married twice and both marriages were disasters. “You’ve known her, what, about a month?”

  “I knew all I needed to know from day one.” Tommy sounds defensive. “Women from Africa have souls a mile deep.”

  I just listen. I don’t want to dig myself deeper. Plus I’m sure Tommy is savvy enough not to get taken in by an immigration scam.

  “Sorry I brought it up.” Now Tommy sounds hurt.

  I try to recover. “You have my blessing—I wish you two every happiness.”

  “Shibai,” he says and hangs up.

  And I’m thinking: What crazy things people do for love.

  After Tommy’s call I try the number I found in the glove box of Fireball’s crushed Honda. But first I look up the area code—303. It’s Denver.

  Ashley. She flew to Denver on the night of the accident.

  It’s not her cell number—I check—which has a Hawai‘i area code—808.

  When I dial the 303 number I’m thinking I may get lucky and Ashley will be on the other end. I really need to talk to her.

  The number rings and rings. Finally voicemail kicks in. “Hi, this is Ethan,” says a twenty-something male voice. “Please leave me a message.”

  “Hi Ethan,” I say. Who the heck is Ethan? “My name is Kai Cooke. I’m a private detective in Honolulu. I’m trying to locate a girl named Ashley who may be able to help me with a case I’m working on—an auto accident on O‘ahu that killed Heather and Lindsay Lindquist. Do you know Ashley or the twins? Yes or no, either way, would you please give me a call?”

  I leave my phone number and hang up—hoping I’m getting closer to the elusive Ashley.

  On my way out of the office later that day I stop in the lei shop and ask Blossom how things are going. She’s a good kid and I fear for her.

  “Junior scares me.” She trains her luminous eyes on me. “Sometimes he hurts me.”

  I gaze upon her reed-like figure and long brown hair thinking, No woman—young or old—deserves that punk.

  Mrs. Fujiyama overhears our conversation and steps to the lei table.

  “Junior—bad man,” she says. “He keep coming back. What I can do?”

  I try to reassure her. “A TRO may help.”

  “TRO—what that?” she asks.

  “Temporary Restraining Order,” I explain. “It’s a legal document that will forbid Junior to come near Blossom or your shop.”

  “Piece of papah,” she says. “What good dat? How one papah stop angry man?”

  I see her point. “I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I say.

  No sooner do I say that than a dusty black pickup truck with big knobby tires screeches to a stop in front of the shop. Junior storms in. A floral funeral wreath on a tripod awaiting a bereaved family comes crashing down. Mrs. Fujiyama watches in horror as perfectly arranged flowers break loose and roll across the floor. A silken banner—OUR BELOVED MOTHER—twirls in the air on its way down.

  Blossom’s ex has a scowl on his face and he’s coming fast. Blossom grips me. Does he think I’m her new guy?

  Blossom screams. Mrs. Fujiyama runs for the shop phone. Then I realize Junior’s not coming for Blossom. He’s coming for me.

  He takes a jab at me with his right fist. Since my arms are shielding Blossom, all I can do is turn away. He catches me on the side of my face, just above my left eye. It’s a glancing blow but breaks the skin. The results are instantaneous. My blood drips onto Blossom’s hair.

  I release Blossom, rise from the table, and start for him. Mrs. Fujiyama comes back with the phone in her hand. “Police,” she says in a surprisingly calm voice.

  When Junior sees Mrs. Fujiyama talking on the phone, he runs for the door. Then he turns back and glares at me. “Nex’ time I kill you.”

  He jumps into his black truck and tears away, smoking the tires down Maunakea Street.

  Blossom collapses on the lei table. Mrs. Fujiyama comforts her. I’m not seeing so well, as blood fills my left eye. I grab for my handkerchief and daub the wound. The broken skin only stings. But the volume of red is amazing. It must look worse than it feels because Mrs. Fujiyama calls my name repeatedly: “Mr. Cooke! Mr. Cooke!”

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  I barely get these words out when I hear sirens and then two HPD officers charge into the shop. They look at me and one says to the other, “Call EMS.” I try to talk them out of this, but the other officer takes my arm and sits me down in one of the lei girl’s chairs.

  “Take it easy, sir,” he says. “Help is on the way.”

  I don’t bother to dissuade him. I just sit and wait. Somehow one of the officers produces a small towel and I bury my bloody face in it.

  “What happened here?” the first officer asks Mrs. Fujiyama and her girls.

  They start to explain. I try to talk, but the officer who handed me the towel puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “You can give a statement later.”

  So I just listen. Mrs. Fujiyama explains and fills out a witness statement. Junior is in trouble. He’s looking at assault and battery, terroristic threatening, and property damage. In addition to outstanding warrants, he’s also violated the terms of his parole, which stems from arrest and incarceration for domestic abuse of his girlfriend before Blossom. When HPD catches him, he’s going back to jail. No question. But while he’s still on the outside he’s going to be all the more desperate and dangerous.

  Another siren. Soon through my clouded vision I see flashing lights in front Mrs. Fujiyama’s shop. Two medical techs rush in, see my bloody hand towel, and kneel down in front of me.

  “We better get that looked at by a doc,” one says.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “We can’t take you against your will, sir,” says the other, “but you really should have it looked at.”

  I nod.

  They put me on a gurney, wheel me to the ambulance, with Mrs. Fujiyama and her lei girls looking on. I should feel like a hero.

  Before long we’re at Queens Medical Center emergency room. The good thing about coming to the hospital in an ambulance is that you get to see someone immediately. I’m quickly processed and put on an examination table behind drawn curtains. A nurse has me remove my bloody shirt and then a doc looks me over. The nurse cleans the wound. Whatever she uses makes it sting again. Then the doc shines a floodlight on it and looks closely.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” he says. “An adhesive strip should do the trick. No stitches today. Unless you want some?” He cracks a smile.

  What’s with the humor of ER doctors? I almost say

  “Stay out of the ocean for a few days,” he says. “You’re a surfer, right?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Those teeth marks on your chest,” he says. “Dead giveaway.”

  My shark bite. I don’t like his choice of words. But I repeat: “Stay out of the ocean.”

  After a cab ride I’m back at the office with more adhesive strips and ointment and a list of instructions. When I check mys
elf out in the mirror in the closet-sized bathroom used by Mrs. Fujiyama’s five office tenants, I’m surprised that the strip the nurse put on my forehead camouflages the entire wound.

  I get off easy. But I keep hearing Junior’s menacing voice inside my head: “Nex’ time I kill you!”

  seventeen

  By Friday Ashley still hasn’t returned my call. Neither has the guy named Ethan. Does nobody in Denver return calls? I’m wondering even harder now why Ashley’s Hawaiian bracelet was at the scene of the accident when she wasn’t riding in the doomed car, and why Ethan’s phone number was in the glove box. I could leave each another message, but in my experience too many messages can make witnesses less willing to talk. In-person interviews are always best, but difficult when the persons are in Denver and I’m in Honolulu.

  So I face a stack of papers on my desk begging to be filed, and prepare a bill for Donnie Ransom. I have feelings about billing her so soon after her husband’s death—a death I was hired to prevent—but I get over them. The charge on my credit card for the three-day rental for the Boxster alone is over a grand.

  Before Friday is a-over, the bill is in the mail to Kāua‘i and I’m glad to put the Volcano House case behind me.

  On Saturday, against my own advice, I leave two more voicemails for Denver. I don’t expect to hear soon from Ashley and Ethan, given recent history. But I’ve got to make something happen. Even if I have to resort to something unorthodox—like hiring an undercover operative.

  A young guy I know named Nicholas, an apprentice carpenter, really likes his beer. Nicholas is a big guy and looks older than his years. He’s just shy of twenty-one, the legal drinking age in Hawai‘i. Since it’s Saturday, he’ll be knocking back a few. I give him a call and make him an offer he can’t refuse. Today Nicholas is working for me.