Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  Two minutes later our colleague bid farewell and, with a lackluster smile, motioned the door. “Angus is waiting with photos and details.”

  “What's he all about?” Rey rose onto long, lanky legs. “Ekeka and Cindy don't seem fond of him, and I gotta admit that he doesn't do much for me, either.”

  “Besides the fact that they're scared of him, they don't tend to trust anyone over thirty-five.” Chuckling, he tucked his cell into an interior pocket of an espresso-colored linen-blend blazer.

  “The man looks like a scrapper,” Linda commented. “That nose had to have been broken on a couple of occasions, and those scars on his lower neck look like they resulted from a brawl or two.”

  “He seems to have a lotta bulldog in him,” Rey added.

  “Angus is all right.” Xavier leaned into the lightweight door. “A lot's an act. He's threatened by good looks and intelligence, particularly from women. It's not obvious, but he's very unconfident, so he covers this by being loud and abrasive. As for the nose and scars, they're the result of a car crash he had in his late twenties. Chuck Hansburger, a drunk friend, was driving his Camaro way too fast.

  “He lost control and they hurled across a beach, and crashed into a restroom, but not before bowling over an aiming-to-be-pro surfer, who suffered two broken legs and a fractured collarbone. Hansburger was fine, but Angus had to get two-dozen stitches and hobbled around for several weeks on a broken ankle. He still walks with slight limp now and again, mostly when it's rainy or he's in the mountains.”

  “What happened to luck-bound Chuck Hansburger?” Linda asked.

  “He died three years later when once again driving under the influence. He plowed into a brick wall and probably never knew what hit him—or what he hit, as the case may be.” In the brightly-lit corridor, he motioned to the left. “Angus is known to belt back a few, but he'd never drive after drinking.”

  “Smart man,” Rey murmured and we followed Xavier.

  Ekeka, exiting the men's room, drew up the rear. As we sauntered towards Angus' office, Poison's “Every Rose has its Thorn” grew louder, softer, and louder again. Inside a 15X20 taupe-colored room Angus, red-faced and perspiring, was listening to someone on a Galaxy phone and playing with the volume on a Bluetooth table radio like a zealous teen attempting to maneuver a Wii game.

  “I told you—will you frigging listen, you stupid bitch!” Sighting us, he grabbed a manila folder and courier bag from one of two stacked trays. “Loretta-Lee, you're going to be the death of me—no, make that I'll be the death of you.” Disconnecting, he drew a deep tremulous breath and tossed both items on a corner of the desk. “That soon-to-be-ex of mine is driving me insane!”

  “Divorce is never easy,” Rey commiserated.

  Angus' small, toad-brown eyes scanned her face. “You've been there?”

  “Three times.”

  “Poor you,” Ekeka murmured with a bittersweet smile.

  Angus eyed the young man up and down, visibly appalled by the mode of dress.

  Ekeka, now standing alongside Xavier, scrutinized Angus' prêt-à-porter attire with equal distaste.

  “You have something for us?” Xavier cleared his throat and ushered us inside.

  His boss nodded to the folder and bag. “Preliminary info on the fire and photos from a photographer pal. I also talked to Fire Lieutenant Muraoka a half-hour ago and it's definite the fire was deliberately set. There was accelerant on the clothes of Victim #2. Toluene possibly, given it had a benzene-like odor.”

  Ekeka sat on the edge of a crow-black two-seater. “Toluene? As in solvent in paints and coatings?”

  “And paint removers, and TNT,” Xavier added, moving to a window and perching on the sill.

  “That's nothing out of the ordinary, given your friend Kawena's gallery was part studio. Linseed oil, mineral spirits … he'd have had a whack of accelerants a hop and skip away.” Angus' expression grew grim. “Gas chromatography and mass spectrometry, and the rest, will reveal all soon enough.”

  “What do we know about Victim #2?” I asked, sitting alongside Ekeka.

  “Not much, other a portion of the back of the head was bashed in and there were some odd indentations on the forehead and face. Those injuries suggest foul play … and we know it was a girl.”

  “Girl as in someone under sixteen? Or girl as in grown woman?” Linda asked tartly.

  “We-ell, excuse me.” Angus rolled his eyes and rubbed the flat tip of his boxer's nose. “Sorry if I'm not politically correct: a woman under thirty. Happy, my dear?”

  “How'd you find that out?” Xavier eyed him curiously.

  “What?” he asked, appearing innocent.

  “That Victim #2 was a woman under thirty. In fact, how do you find out what you do, when you do?”

  “Do you have connections we should know about?” Ekeka asked suspiciously.

  “I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Weird-Taste-in-Clothes Junior Adjuster.”

  “At least I have taste,” he said under his breath with that annoying pseudo British accent.

  Angus smirked and before he could respond, Rey interjected, “What about the age? How could they tell? They got an ID already?”

  “No ID yet, but she was wearing brass arm cuffs and ear cuffs. That type of jewelry tends to appeal to a younger crowd. As for Victim #1, Franklin hasn't confirmed the identity yet, but it's looking like a pretty sure thing it's Carlos Kawena.” Angus' rueful smile was fleeting. “You may want to check with Franklin later this evening or first thing in the morning. He's made both top priorities.”

  * * *

  Once settled in McLord's, an Irish pub around the corner from the Conwind offices, drinks and food were quickly ordered. Xavier then opened the folder and solemnly surveyed a dozen photos.

  “You gonna share or keep 'em a secret?” Rey kvetched, but those pretty grass-green eyes sparkled.

  He chuckled. “That's what I like about you, Rey: you always cut to the chase.”

  Scrunching up that lovely expensive nose, she was about to speak when a breathless Ekeka slipped into the booth. “Sorry guys, but I wanted to share something, and not with the old fart around.”

  “He's not that old,” Xavier admonished, acknowledging a pretty waitress as she placed four icy-cold lagers on the table.

  “Get me one, Sheila doll.” Ekeka offered a seductive smile, then leaned into the table and lowered his voice. “You probably know this already, A, but the sprinkler system was off; it was just being installed. Only the main riser was in place. And Carlos had a $5,000,000 policy on his gallery, just like James-Henri did on his.”

  Xavier regarded him closely. “They both deal in high-end art and the properties, with the renos and furnishings alone, were worth a couple of mill.”

  “Who'd have guessed,” Rey said under her breath.

  “I dug around. Carlos had financial issues last year.” Coppery eyes glanced from one face to the next. “He may have set the fire to collect on the policy and, sadly, something went wrong.”

  Linda whistled softly. “Why set up shop in the first place, if finances were tight?”

  “Maybe in hopes of making much needed money,” Rey suggested with a discouraged expression.

  “Art's not the way to make it,” I said.

  Xavier's face darkened.

  “Nearly one out of ten Americans would commit insurance fraud if they knew he or she could get away with it. Twenty-four percent say it's acceptable to pad an insurance claim to make up for the deductible while eighteen percent believe it's fine to pad to make up for past-paid premiums. And ten percent think insurance fraud doesn't hurt anyone.” Ekeka glanced grimly around the booth. “Arson and suspected arson account for almost 500,000 fires a year. You know the stats, A, and I remember my classes and training. Fraud steals $80 billion a year. During 2007-2011, 282,600 intentional fires were reported each year. Did you know that tens of thousands of arsons may go unreported annually? … And many are likely insurance arsons?”


  “I don't and won't believe it,” the insurance adjuster said flatly, curling both hands around a large frosty mug. “I know Carlos. We hung out at the same Chicago dojo. We belonged to the same wine society and attended the same tastings. He wouldn't commit insurance fraud. And he certainly wouldn't commit murder.”

  “I never suggested he murdered anyone,” Ekeka said defensively.

  “Someone put a serious dent in that woman's skull,” he said dully.

  “Her killer has to be the same person who did in Carlos,” Linda said quietly. “If it's Carlos.”

  “The guy was in debt,” Ekeka repeated solemnly. “Big debt. If he owed the wrong people…”

  We eyed Ekeka, waiting for him to continue, but he raised a square-shaped chin and stared at the busy bar.

  “People do desperate things when debt becomes unmanageable.” I squeezed Xavier's hand and leaned back. “You should verify just how badly in the red he was … and see if he owed any dubious characters money.”

  “We like to think the best about our friends, but we also need to be objective,” Linda stated softly.

  Xavier drew a deep breath and nodded. “It's time you ladies started working for CON, like we discussed back in November. Begin by finding out everything you can about Carlos and James-Henri that's not common knowledge. I'm a little too close and non-objective,” he said with a dark smile, staring at Ekeka.

  Sheila placed the junior adjuster's beer on the table and advised that appetizers were three minutes away.

  Ekeka watched long muscular legs carry the server back to the kitchen.

  “She's not quite your type, is she?” Xavier jested with a weak smile.

  The young man looked surprised. “What's my type, A?”

  “Socialite.”

  * * *

  “Pretty gruesome,” Linda murmured. Like the eyes of a Kit-Cat clock, her gaze shifted back and forth between two photos. On autopsy tables, Victims #1 and #2 were so charred, they could have been horror film fixtures. Given how her body had been situated—the face pressed against the base of a step—the eyes and forehead were less burned than the rest. A close-up shot showed the indentations—small partial arcs—that Angus had mentioned.

  “They remind me of Uncle Charly's barbecued meatloaf surprise.” Rey held up a photo to study it closely. “Remember the summer of '98?”

  “Do I,” I replied. “Uncle Charly brought new meaning to the cooking term 'blackened'.”

  “It was like biting into campfire ashes.”

  “Or Great-Aunt Gertrude's 'sautéed' breakfast sausages.”

  Our laughter was cut short by an admonishing look from Xavier, though his eyes twinkled and an amused smile pulled at those full sexy lips. “Franklin Smithers is overwhelmed at the moment, thanks to a couple of coworkers being down with the flu and a triple homicide, so he hasn't verified that Victim #1 is Carlos.”

  “Triple?” Linda appeared awestruck.

  “Triple,” he affirmed somberly. “Courtesy of tanked-up Ninja Turtles and a frat party gone very wild and very bad.”

  We gazed suspiciously at him.

  As Linda started to speak, he held up a muscular hand. “You'd never believe it in a hundred years.”

  Ekeka lined the photos on the large booth table and grimaced. “Shit. What a way to die.”

  Linda lifted her mug. “May they rest in eternal peace.”

  “To eternal peace.” Ekeka toasted.

  “What's next?” I asked.

  “A visit with Franklin first thing tomorrow.” Xavier gazed at the young adjuster. “I hear Joy Rollins is heading the investigation.”

  “She's one of the best fire investigators there is, bar none.”

  “Set up an appointment, will you?”

  “Even if it means a meal at Morimoto's or Nobu's?” he chortled.

  Xavier smiled dryly. “Angus will have our hides if we overdo expenses, but it'll be worth the grumbling and grousing.”

  Ekeka grimaced. “I can hear it now.

  Chapter Four

  In his late 50s, tall and handsome, Dr. Franklin Smithers possessed a smile as easy as his temperament. Smooth, barely lined skin was a luscious Milky-Way brown. His shamrock-green eyes were as striking as Rey's grass-green ones, but I suspected his were real; hers had been pigeon-gray the first two decades of her life.

  A small sky-blue office was sparsely furnished, with beech the wood of choice. Lithographs of water plants and blossoming trees lined the south wall while degrees, diplomas and certificates lined the north. On a small storage coffee table sat a fine white porcelain coffeepot, creamer and sugar bowl, five lovely hand-glazed cups and saucers, and a platter of cheese-flecked buns and fruit-nut scones. The inviting fragrance of freshly brewed dark roast coffee lingered in the air … as did the smells of antiseptic and cleaning products.

  The pathologist gestured the table and Xavier made introductions as he saw to Smithers' bidding.

  Small talk ensued and revolved primarily around weekend plans and upcoming festivals as we picked clean the platter.

  Finally, Smithers rose. “Ready?”

  Rey, Linda, and I glanced at one another and nodded solemnly. We'd viewed enough dead bodies in the last two years, but never at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

  As we sauntered down a dimly-lit corridor painted light army-green, Xavier asked about the times of death.

  “It's not an exact science—yet.”

  “Humor us,” Xavier requested flatly.

  “I'll humor you with fire details.” The forensic pathologist opened a thick metal door and motioned us inside. “It started around 8:15-8:20 in the rear of James-Henri Ossature's gallery and spread to Carlos Kawena's gallery. Two calls came in, both around 8:30, stating that flames could be seen.”

  “So Victim #2 was killed first and the fire set to obliterate clues.”

  “And identity,” Smithers declared.

  “Do we know who called it in?” As I stepped into the cool long room, my gaze fell on a lab assistant of short height and slim build. Gauging from the length of the torso beneath a white cadaver cover on a pedestal autopsy table, the young man was wrapping up work on a child. I swallowed heavily.

  “They found John Doe's upper half early this morning,” he told Smithers grimly. “But we know who he is now, because his wallet was nearby.”

  One of Smithers' dramatic thick eyebrows arched questioningly.

  “Dom Luk's upper torso was in a pineapple field, two miles from where the bottom half had been found. He must have really ticked someone off to end up like this.” With a nod to his boss and a quick “nice to meet you”, he wheeled the unfortunate Mr. Luk into an adjoining room.

  Smithers slipped on a lab coat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted Big Island Candies. “The dark-chocolate manju are a vice, but the mac-nut toffees are damn good, too.”

  Removing one, he offered Xavier the bag, who took a milk-chocolate square, and passed it on. We opted to try the manju and found the Japanese dessert, as Rey might say, nummy.

  “Two people called in the fire. Jack Fong, who owns a floral shop three doors down from the galleries and Doris, a local bag lady. He called from a cell phone as he was driving past in a cab and casually eyeing the street. Anxious, he hopped out to see what was happening. Doris ran into Kurt's All-Night Diner. You must know it, A.” Finally, he bit into the crispy treat.

  Lips wrapped around a sweet, Xavier grunted while Rey and I acknowledged we'd been to the small, popular eatery a couple of times. Adolphus, who'd inherited the place from an uncle (not necessarily his), made great crispy-crunchy fries and juicy herb-infused burgers. He was actually known for deep-fried pig ears accompanied with a dynamite spicy sausage-speckled aïoli, but Rey, Linda and I had never been inclined to try them.

  “Doris is a sweet old gal who ended up here once by accident. I don't know who was more surprised: Doris, me, or Stark the intern, who quickly moved into a new career as cupcake maker.” He chuckled
.

  “Did you check for soot?” Xavier asked as Smithers opened a morgue refrigerator and moved Victim #1 onto a gurney.

  He peered down a long, aristocratic nose, feigning affront. “No. I checked his fingernails to see if he'd had a recent manicure.”

  Appearing humbled, Xavier said, “Sorry, it's just … he's a friend. Was.”

  “So we now know it's Carlos?” Rey asked somberly.

  “We do … though you'd never know by looking at the poor guy.” His expression grave, Smithers wheeled the body over and pulled aside the covering. “Carlos Kawena was a friend of mine too, you know.”

  Seared flesh that had once been a living, breathing human being lay before us. You'd never have known there'd once been a long, aquiline nose, high ruddy cheeks, wide lips, or close-set charcoal-gray eyes.

  The color drained from Linda's face while Rey stared with the barest of flinches. My stomach flip-flopped. “Uh, why check for soot?”

  “If soot had been there, it would have meant Carlos was asphyxiated and died due to lack of oxygen,” Smithers explained. “I took blood samples and Myriam analyzed them faster than my brother-in-law can scarf down a heaping plate of shoyu chicken. She checked for the presence of carbon monoxide, cyanide, and other poisons in the bloodstream, which would have indicated death caused by cyanide poisoning … generally, a result of burning synthetic materials.”

  “Like furniture?” Linda asked.

  Smithers nodded. “Burns on the corpse with inflamed edges—caused by red blood cells attempting to repair burned skin—would suggest a victim died from burns, but that's not the case here.”

  Linda stepped beside the man and peered closely, like a scientist studying the contents of a graduated cylinder. “What about wounds and lacerations? I believe I see some indentations and cuts.”

  “Wounds and lacerations would, in many cases, appear to have been a result of the fire, such as those incurred when trying to escape flames, or jumping through a window or from a balcony, and so forth. In this case, they came before. And signs of underlying bleeding indicate our unfortunate friend was dead before the fire began.”