by Tyler Colins
At 6'2”, the muscular insurance adjuster was easy on the eyes, a cross between Shemar Moore and Boris Kodjoe. Cousin Reynalda liked her eye candy and this was one sweet piece.
“Whatever my lady prefers.” He bowed regally and stepped to the window. “Is my boss around?”
“Isn't he always?” Ald smirked. “How does he do it, arrive so quickly on the scene, no matter where or when? Do you know? He won't tell me.”
“He won't tell me, either,” Xavier grinned. “Must be the insomnia. It keeps him anxious and shuffling.”
“So, what had you so busy today besides 'meetings and missions'? That dishy redhead I saw you with at La Mer last month?”
“She's history.” He feigned sadness. “Some women don't appreciate the complicated life of an insurance adjuster.”
“If there was no 'she' tonight, you must have been out doing good deeds, huh, Mr. Do-Gooder?”
Rey, Linda and I eyed Xavier curiously.
“Do-gooder? Me?”
“That's the scuttlebutt,” Ald said. “I hear you keep certain Oahu neighborhoods and parks safe. Coach youth and adults with drug and alcohol issues. Help little old ladies. You're rumored to be a mix of Superman, Sir Galahad, and Great Kahuna. Any truth to that?”
“I'm just a humble insurance adjuster. I save Conwind Assurance and its subsidiary CON Hawaii Security Systems crap-loads of money. And, occasionally, I help find the police super bad-ass bad guys.”
Leaning into a wall, he pulled out a slim Davidoff carrying case from his shirt pocket. Within were two Short Coronas.
“No smoking,” Linda said cheerily as she grabbed two coffees and brought him one.
He eyed the brown cylinders longingly, sighed wistfully, and put the case away. Accepting the coffee with a resigned smile, he was about to take a sip when the snap of a whip announced a call. He yanked out a Smartphone from a pants pocket. “Yeah?”
Linda nibbled a glazed cruller as Ald marched to a corner and made a call. Grabbing cups, Rey and I gazed back out the window.
Several seconds later, Ald cursed softly. “They found another one tucked under turned-over trash cans at back exit of James-Henri's gallery—and this one's crisper than our pal Lou's kalbi ribs after he's sucked back too many brews.”
* * *
While the detective hurried back to the crime scene to view the body before it was transported to the morgue, the four of us stood before the window and chewed.
“Looks like the curious are finally going home,” Rey murmured through a mouthful of chocolatey sweetness.
“Even the reporters are dispersing,” Linda concurred and gulped coffee.
“I wonder who the two victims are,” I wondered aloud as I watched Ald converse with an officer and a paramedic.
“Hopefully not Carlos or James-Henri,” Xavier stated broodily. “Not that anyone should have died.”
“How well did you know them?” Rey asked.
“Fairly well. I met James-Henri at an NYC exhibit when I was studying business there in 2005 and Carlos—through James-Henri—in 2008. Since we'd gotten along from the onset, we remained casual friends.”
“What're their stories?” Rey prodded.
“James-Henri and Carlos had met in the late 90s and ended up in Paris with an art consultancy business, advising collectors, the au fait and the neophyte. Most of the time, James-Henri told friends what not to buy rather than buy while Carlos tracked down promising new artists. Eventually, the two became lovers. They lasted two tumultuous years, split up, but got back together again.” Staring into the past, he chuckled.
“Do you know a lot about their early years?” I asked. “I got the impression—those few times we'd chatted with them—that those were happy days.”
Xavier nodded as he drank coffee. “After the consultancy biz started to show promise, and they'd developed a loyal client base, James-Henri bought his first gallery—a derelict warehouse.” He chuckled again and drank more coffee. “While he was getting the gallery going, Carlos was serving as a curatorial aide to a couple of small museums. Those guys worked 24/7 and absorbed knowledge like sponges.
“Anyway, very long story short, Carlos managed to acquire the financial support of an established dealer, and invested in James-Henri's warehouse gallery. With their own exhibition space, they were able to graduate from middlemen—negotiating among artists and dealers and collectors—to representing artists on their own terms.”
“It sounds like Lady Luck was on their side,” Rey said.
“Lady Luck certainly favored them to a degree, but the guys had serious smarts, and a select group of up-and-coming and established artists.”
“So they've been together all these years? That's got to be true love,” Linda said.
“Those two have had an unusual on-off-on relationship for eons but, at some point, one always ends up following the other.”
“Tell us about you and James-Henri and Carlos,” Rey requested.
“In 2007, I'd moved to Chicago and started working at Conwind. James-Henri ended up there not long after. We had a mutual friend in the entertainment business, so we'd bump into each other at exhibits and screenings. I first met Carlos when he visited James-Henri in 2008. He settled in Chicago in 2009 and stayed two years before returning to Cali, and then Hawaii.”
“Did James-Henri move to Oahu to start up the relationship again?” I asked.
“Yes. You know, Carlos hails from Maui originally, but lived here with his cousin for a few years when his parents split. He eventually moved to the Mainland to pursue art and photography. He still has a lot of friends and contacts there.”
Rey sighed softly. “It's a shame they've lost the galleries—and so soon, too. They only opened—what?—three months ago?”
The insurance adjuster nodded solemnly. “Nine weeks ago today, to be exact.”
“Why two galleries?” Linda asked.
“Besides the fact that Carlos has always been into studio galleries—that is, having a single artist work there and exhibit—and James-Henri more interested in art boutiques—small, temporary exhibits—they're too aware of their volatile history. It's as inevitable as lava spewing from Kilauea they'll break up at some point. That means they won't talk to—or stand—each other for weeks, even months.” He smiled wryly. “But they'll make up and all will be good again.”
“Here's hoping all is good,” Rey said somberly.
“God willing,” Xavier said quietly, scanning the street.
“They'll rebuild,” Linda affirmed.
Chapter Two
Ten a.m. found the three of us in Xavier's fifth-floor office at Conwind. He was leaning into a textured wall beside a tall, wide window overlooking the busy sun-drenched intersections of Bishop and South King. As always, he was dressed in clean, pressed business casual attire—this time, double-pleated cotton pants and a Robert Graham paisley sport shirt. Handsome Ferragamo designer loafers adorned size twelve feet.
We, on the other hand, looked like triplets, dressed in boyfriend jeans and frilly, low-cut peasant blouses. Evidently, when we'd left at different times this morning to run personal errands before convening at the office, we'd experienced some sort of telepathic accord.
We'd brought the coffees this time, industrial-sized and sugar-loaded, which we all drank quickly and gratefully: caffeine boosts were a must after only three hours sleep. Having arrived ten minutes ago, we'd chitchatted about the weather and our health, and were about to discuss the fire, when administrative assistant Cindy Castaňeda strolled in, clutching a fat file folder. A fashionable dresser, the twenty-two-year-old was tuned in to an iPod and carrying a decorative beaded bag from which a tiny fluffy Pomeranian, sporting a raspberry-red sequined bow and matching top hat, peeked.
“Oh my goodness,” Rey all but squealed. “Who's the cute little bugaboo?”
Linda and I exchanged amused glances. Ever since my cousin had become Bunny Mom a few months back, she'd taken an interest in all things fuzzy. Her bab
y, Bonzo, was a Checkered Giant rabbit that had belonged to a young man murdered during The Gruesome Twosome Case. Oddly enough, my cousin had requested—demanded, implored, and pressured as only Reynalda Fonne-Werde could—that the rabbit be placed in her “custody” when she'd heard he'd be removed to an animal shelter. She'd never been much of an animal/pet person previously and what had changed her mind, and heart, I'd never know. But God bless her. Home to Oahu the rabbit came.
“Twinkie.” The tiny, pretty woman's toothy smile disappeared when she sighted Angus Kale Kapua'ula hovering in the doorway.
“For heaven's sake,” the fifty-year-old Senior Manager growled. “That's a guy dog. If you're gonna dress the puff-ball up, make him G.I. Joe, not Barbie. And how come you get to bring that thing to work?” A beefy hand flew up. “Never mind. President's pet. And we're not talking about the dog, right?”
Twinkie barked and Cindy stuck out her tongue as Angus turned and greeted a lanky lady stepping from one of three wide-front elevators. Dropping the folder on the corner of the desk and high-fiving Xavier, the admin assistant rushed into the hallway as a man of thirty hastened in.
“Howzit?” Of medium height and build, he sported an expensive flashy suit and bright, funky glasses that would have made a young Elton John proud. Wavy, highlighted cocoa-brown hair framed an angular face that was smooth and soft, and gave the impression he'd been born with a silver spoon in that small, lipless mouth.
“Ekeka, I'd like you to meet the gorgeous Triple Threat Investigation Agency ladies.” Xavier motioned the three of us seated on a long merlot-colored leather couch. “Reynalda Fonne-Werde's the tall beautiful one with the intriguing wheat-and-lemon-streaked hair. Linda Royale's the lovely athletic one with the vibrant raspberry-red layers. And fit and pretty JJ Fonne's the chocolate-and-honey haired one.”
“That's our ever-so suave and not too subtle Francis Xavier Shillingford.” Ekeka spoke with a pseudo British accent that sounded muddled, as if it encompassed various regions. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ekeka's one of three junior adjusters.”
“That's an unusual name,” Rey commented.
“It means 'wealthy', doesn't it?” Linda asked. She'd been studying Hawaiian from a book and CD the last few weeks. It took up some of the void that had been previously filled by ex-beau Makaio Johnson Mele, or Makjo for short. He'd flown to Japan for two weeks to attend a wedding and reconnect with relations, and had fallen head-over-heels in love—with the bride-to-be. The couple had run off to Fiji to get hitched and was still there. At least he'd had the decency to text Linda, even if the announcement was pithy: Linda, I've found the real deal. Isn't that awesome!? My sweetie and I are getting married. Wish us luck. xox
Getting Linda to focus on Hawaiian lessons had been Rey's idea. The gruesome voodoo dolls her best friend had been crafting, with pins in the eyes and private parts, had started to creep her out.
His smile displayed small, blinding-white teeth. “It does. My grandmother on my mother's side nicknamed me that when I was three and it stuck.”
“Because you were blessed to be born wealthy in family, health, and luck?”
“Because I was—still am—a rich daddy's boy,” he said with a shrug. “A, I got an urgent call from Esther Val—”
“Not now.” Xavier held up a long, muscular hand. “I need you to get hold of Jester Risco and have him call me.”
“Jester Risco?”
“Crispy.”
“Ri-ight. The arsonist-slash-informant and your new buddy, courtesy of the boss.”
“His newfound pyro-nut, lighter-sporting pal in the know,” Angus snickered, chewing a large candy with obvious enjoyment. The scent of caramel wafted across the room as the sizeable bonbon shifted like hamster-hoarded nuts from one cheek to the next.
We'd not noticed his return. The flabby man stood in the doorway holding a huge mug bearing a hand-painted cross-eyed raccoon giving the finger, er, paw. With a smirk, he tramped on.
Ekeka glowered, nodded, and raced down the hallway.
“Crispy?” Rey asked, curious.
“Jester?” Linda appeared bemused.
“Luigi Risco had planned to name his son after beloved Cousin Chester,” Xavier explained. “But when Proud Papa viewed the newborn, his first thought was that the kid had the face of a joker … like he was laughing at the world.”
“So Papa Risco named the kid Jester,” Linda concluded.
The insurance adjuster nodded. “The fact is, the kid's never taken life seriously. He truly is a 'jester'.”
“And where does 'Crispy' come from?” I urged.
“Camping and barbecues, volcanoes and pyrotechnics were obsessions from a very young age. In his early teens Jester had posters of blazing skulls, spewing volcanoes and gas explosions on the bedroom wall, which should have triggered alarm bells.” He shook his head. “He wasn't caught setting fires until he was eighteen. Not realizing that dynamite was inside a shed when he'd torched it, he'd stuck around to admire his work. He ended up maiming his right hand and 'crisping' three fingers.”
“Ouch.”
Xavier smiled pensively. “A kind-hearted judge sentenced him to one week so he'd get a taste of what prison life entailed and, hopefully, be deterred from a crime-laden future. On day one, Belching Bart granted the moniker 'Crispy' to the young pyro.”
Rey looked aghast. “Belching Bart?”
“A career criminal whose specialty was robbery. He had a love-hate relationship with cream soda.”
“He sounds as much a character as Risco,” Linda grinned.
“That he was, all three-hundred pounds of him.” Xavier chuckled softly and pushed back from the desk. “If anyone can tell us what went down last night, Crispy can.”
* * *
Rey, Linda and I met Xavier at the corner of Kapahulu and Kanaina just before two. While we'd stopped off at home to change before the meeting, he was wearing the same attire, with the addition of a crocheted raffia straw trilby.
“I can't wait to meet your flame-loving pal,” Rey said gaily as the four of us strolled to the popular Rainbow Drive-In.
“That's him.” He pointed to a shaggy-haired man in his early twenties seated at a picnic table several feet ahead.
Dressed in boot-cut jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, with a small silver crucifix hanging from a thick neck sporting a thin 4” scar beneath the right ear, Crispy was, in a word: unattractive. The poor fella. Dull cola-brown eyes, set deep in a worn face scarred by acne, were fixated on a Smartphone screen. While he managed to fork a sizeable chunk of hamburger steak between boxy lips without piercing anything, a jumbo soda nearly toppled onto a bed of fries.
“How's Crispy doing on this gorgeous Wednesday afternoon?” Xavier slipped alongside.
“Friends call me Mr. Crispy, yeah?” A wide smile displayed two tiny front gold teeth.
Rey, Linda, and I parked ourselves on the other side of the table after Xavier introduced us as freelance insurance investigators.
With the barest of nods and an expression devoid of emotion, Crispy popped a couple of fries into his mouth as he peered from one face to the next.
“So, Mr. Jester Crispy Risco, tell us what you know about the two gutted dwellings that up until early last night served as art galleries. They were torched, right? Were Carlos Kawena and James-Henri Ossature the targets? Or were the two bodies collateral damage?”
Jester picked at the hamburger steak with child-sized fingers, three of which were horribly disfigured, like brittle twigs. The rest of the right hand resembled a spider's web. A long twining scar on the left hairless arm had me wondering if it was another “reminder” of bad deeds gone wrong.
Xavier stole a fry and eyed him closely.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft yet prickly, like pine needles. “They know for a fact it was them two?”
“No.”
He drew a long, steady breath. “Ain't heard anything—as you would say—noteworthy.”
&n
bsp; “What's un-noteworthy then?” Rey asked casually.
The lover of hot and fiery things eyed her for several seconds. Again, there was no emotion. “Not frickin' sure. Not yet.”
“Per our call earlier, have you started asking around?” Xavier prodded.
“You know me, A. I'm a man of my word. But you also know my contacts are bat people; they love the night. They don't take kindly to being bugged early in the day.”
“It's two o'clock,” Linda pointed out.
His flat face finally conveyed emotion: amusement.
“For these folks, two is early in the day.” Xavier smiled patiently and turned back to his informant. “Call me when you get something.”
“And if you can't get a hold of A, get a hold of us.” Rey slipped an ivory embossed card into his breast pocket.
Crispy shoveled gravy-slathered meat into his mouth and gave a thumb's up, and the four of us sauntered towards Xavier's car, parked in a lot so close to the Honolulu Zoo you could hear an animal concerto.
“What's next?” I asked.
Before he could respond, the crack of a whip announced a call.
Rey laughed. “Is that a not-so-subtle jab about your job?”
He winked and leaned into a freshly washed four-door black 2014 BMW 328 as he took a call that lasted barely a minute.
“I'm expecting photos and preliminary fire details late this aft. You're welcome to meet me at the office later—say half past four. Afterward we can discuss the case over drinks.”
“It's an official case, is it?” Linda looked hopeful.
“I believe it is,” he said wryly. “And it's going to be, as they used to say, a lollapalooza.
Chapter Three
We entered Xavier's office at 4:25 to find him on the phone, standing by a window and staring contemplatively across the intersection. Linda motioned the sofa and she and Rey sat, while I chose to lean into a seashell-colored wall, alongside a stunning mixed-media Noe Tanigawa floral painting.
