by Tyler Colins
“I'm thinking Alan Wong's—one of those outstanding prix-fixe dinners with wine pairings.”
A Reynalda-Fonne water-buffalo snort escaped. “You're becoming quite the food and wine snob.”
“I'm honoring my deceased brother's last wish,” he said wryly.
His twin brother, an advertising exec, had died late last year of pleomorphic liposarcoma, a cancer belonging to soft-tissue sarcomas (or tumors); both rare and challenging to treat, it had ended his life within twenty months of discovery. As there'd been no other family—his wife had died a decade ago—Ald was the sole beneficiary, receiving a three-bedroom Florida condo and sizeable savings account. A letter had also requested that Ald endeavor to learn more about fashion, wine and food, art and culture so he might appreciate the finer things in life.
After another sip, he leaned back and folded strong hands over a chest that appeared to have become broader the last few months. “You're looking for updates on the fire and victims.”
“I am.”
“Alan Wong's?”
Information had a price, evidently. I nodded in agreement.
“Dinner tonight—eight works for me.”
“If I can swing a reservation, sure,” I said dryly.
“You'll swing one,” he affirmed with a breezy smile.
I shifted on the uncomfortable chair. “What do you have?”
“As you know, Mr. Charcoal-Broiled has been identified as Carlos Kawena.” Sadness flashed in those striking Mayan-blue eyes. “The second victim was a once rising queenpin known by many names, including Metro Montana.”
“Montana in honor of Tony?”
“As in Mr. Scarface himself,” he replied glibly as he removed a haupia-filled malasada and eyed it circumspectly.
“There's no arsenic.”
Ald's full lips pulled into a brash smile and he took a bite.
“What other names did she go by?”
“Peppa Stone in Dallas and Lila Deadwood in L.A. She was born Mary-Louise Crabtree. Other than she wasn't using any of those names here, we don't yet know anything about her doings here.”
“Was Carlos into drugs or something criminal?” I asked disbelievingly.
“Not likely, but as you often say, never say never.” He smiled darkly.
An eyebrow arched.
“We're checking the guest list. Only one artist was present at the 6-tu-8, a guy named Bizz Waxx, real name Theodore Grubb. He's into guerilla art. I don't get it myself, but he appears to have quite a following.”
“Had Crabtree surrendered the aspiration to be a queenpin? Or was she hoping to set up shop here?”
“It's unclear, but I'm going to say it's unlikely. She took two bullets to the chest eighteen months ago. Apparently, from a detective I just spoke to in L.A., it was a wake-up call.” He pulled a dossier from the topmost drawer and passed it.
Inside were several photos of Metro-Peppa-Lila-Mary-Louise during the latter years of her young life. In her late teens, she was a slim and pretty bottle-blonde, but hardness had already started to form around close-set olive eyes and small lips that bore a sullen cast. A brunette in her early twenties, Mary-Louise sat on a mud-splattered ATV, scowling at the camera; the hardness had deepened. In her mid-twenties, the rising queenpin was a brassy blonde, twenty pounds heavier, with a long thin scar on the upper left cheek. Standing at a beachside bar, a mix of emotions—anger, regret, sadness—crossed her sunburned oval face.
Selecting a sugar-dusted malasada, I nibbled as I collected thoughts. “Rumor has it Carlos had financial issues.”
“He'd borrowed heavily to open the gallery.”
“I was under the impression he had money.”
“According to a source that shall remain nameless,” he disclosed with a don't-dare-pursue-it stare, “Carlos had made a couple of bad stock-market decisions last year, a field he had limited experience with.”
“He didn't have a broker?”
“The word of a business associate had seemingly been enough,” Ald stated dryly with a shake of the head. “Add to that a negative cash flow and mismanaged funds, and yeah, he had financial issues. Oh, there was a residence in California and one on Maui, a humble abode that I believe belonged to the parents. He was trying to sell the one on the Mainland, but there were snags. Something to do with a former un-happy partner.”
“As in a lover 'partner'?”
“As in.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
Gauging from the smug smile and gaze, he wasn't going to provide it. I sighed and sipped my latte.
“You don't seem your usual focused, cocky self.”
I glared. “I'm far from cocky, Hives.” The name “Hives” had been bestowed upon the detective by our last client, Buddy Feuer. She and Gerald Ives had gotten along as well as a Hatfield and McCoy.
He chuckled. “You and your colleagues have done okay in past. The case has only started. You'll be on your meandering, fixated paths before long.”
Hopefully.
“Have you heard from Ricky J?”
“No,” came my crisp response.
“Good. He's dirt, Fonne.”
“So you've repeatedly said.” I met his concentrated gaze. “Could I get a guest list for Carlos' 6-tu-8, please?”
“Lucky you. I happen to have one handy.” He pulled it from a drawer, glancing at a blue-dial Citizen watch as he did so. “I have a meeting. Call me with a dinner time as soon as you know it.”
Hopping to his feet, he scanned my face, almost smiled (or had a facial tick thing going), and hastened into the corridor.
* * *
Gail Murdock, Administrative Specialist at HPD, entered as I was tucking the box of malasadas into a plastic bag. What had started out as a professional association had evolved into friendship. In fact, she often jokingly (or maybe not) asked if she could join the agency roster that currently consisted of Rey Linda and I, and Eddy Galazie.
Eddy, formerly nicknamed “Red Head” due to an amazing head of radish-red curls, was the nephew of the aforesaid deceased entrepreneur, Jimmy Picolo (also reputed loanshark and racketeer, in case I'd neglected to mention this). He was also what some might call “challenged”. The poor kid had suffered a head injury at the age of eight, which slowed him down in some respects, but not from him giving his all to every task.
He worked for the agency three half days a week, cleaning, organizing, and running errands. Sometimes he'd go to the condos to feed Button and Bonzo, staying longer than necessary, but we were fine with that because his fondness for, and devotion to, animals was appreciated.
“Did he give you a hard time again?” The reedy woman of fifty leaned into the doorframe, sparkling eyes peering over the rims of round, black-rimmed glasses. Today, they were olive, her natural color; other times, they were emerald or cobalt. As always, she sported bright funky clothes: cranberry capris, a lemon-yellow blouse with a red-rose theme, and strappy canvas sandals. Glossy beet-red lips matched spiky beet-red hair.
“To be honest, I'm not sure.” I tossed my half-empty latte cup in a trash can under an L-shaped desk of nondescript wood. “But it's costing me dinner at Alan Wong's.”
“Fan-see.”
“Pri-see.”
“But damn tast-tee.”
I grinned and grabbed a faux-leather Guess satchel bag from the corner of the sofa. “How was your sister and Santa Monica?”
“Sara-Lee's doing well, as always, and Santa Monica's awesome as ever.”
“It's always great connecting with family,” I said wistfully, thinking another trip to North Carolina to visit with Mom and Quincy, my nephew, might be in order soon.
“Rumor has it you're working on the galleries-arson case.”
I nodded.
“Need help?” she asked with a pretty, toothy smile.
“We can always use your stupendous researching skills,” I grinned. “How about checking into Carlos Kawena's financial history for the last couple of year
s, to start? And you may as well poke around James-Henri Ossature's, too.”
“I'm on it.”
Chapter Six
On the way to the office, I dropped by to see Xavier (I preferred Xavier to “A”, which I'd recently learned meant “new house or bright”).
Seated at the desk with long legs outstretched, he was focused on a 24” LED TV positioned in a combination cabinet-bookcase. A local news station was featuring a breaking story about a three-alarm strip-mall fire on the North Shore.
“Can't get enough of me?” he winked.
“Never,” I winked in return. “I was heading to the agency and figured I might as well drop in instead of calling.”
“There's not much new. Franklin's come down with a twenty-four-hour bug. James-Henri has disappeared, but I believe it's because he's devastated by what's happened. Even if he and Carlos had an 'ugly' break-up, he has to be feeling the loss.” He stretched his arms and arched strong shoulders. “Jester and I keep playing telephone tag.”
I told him about Crispy's call. “On this end, Rey has left a few messages for James-Henri and an associate is working on Carlos' financial information. I'm going to see what I can find out about Victim #2, also known as Mary-Louise Crabtree. Given a very dicey past, she'd had to have a few enemies, which would explain why she wasn't using her real name or known aliases. Maybe one of them chose to get even that evening and Carlos happened to be in the way.”
The tall, attractive man frowned. “Possibly, but they weren't exactly found in the same room. Let me walk you to the agency. I could do with some fresh air.”
Before we could leave, Cindy entered with a handsomely gift-wrapped bottle and Twinkie at her feet, sporting a sequined top hat and bow tie. She greeted us with a toothy smile. “A courier just dropped this off.”
Xavier looked at the dog and chuckled. “You really are the President's pet.”
“Only because he believes they're good for company morale and happens to own five Twinkies himself.”
“And lucky for Valance Connors, the real Twinkie adores him.”
Cindy tossed back long, loose auburn hair, her laughter sounding like a high-pitched, ringing triangle.
Crouching, Xavier coaxed the Pomeranian and Twinkie raced forward, flopping at his feet in anticipation of a tummy rub.
“He's pretty fond of you, too.”
“Me and dogs, we got an understanding.” With a chuckle, he reached for the gift, and unwrapped it. “A 1976 Chateau de Millet Vintage Bas Armagnac. Impressive.”
I stepped alongside as he opened a small embossed card that read: I hear you're good at what you do, Mr. Adjuster. Let's see how good. Salud.
“A new girlfriend?” Cindy asked with a blithe smile.
He smirked. “There aren't any new ones.”
I smiled drolly. “Then an old one?”
He took another look at the card, shrugged, and tossed it into a tray. Placing the bottle on the desk, he dropped onto the sofa. His furry fan hopped onto his lap.
“Oh, your pyro pal called.”
“Yeah?”
“He's weird.”
He chuckled. “And?”
“He recalled a case five years ago where a Kahala gallery was torched. The owner was found dead by his desk.”
Xavier and I exchanged uneasy glances, and I asked, “Did he sustain a head injury, as if he fell and hit his head?”
She looked surprised. “Are you mind reading? Or is history repeating itself?”
He sat rod-straight, prompting the Pomeranian to jump off. “Was the guy murdered?”
Cindy looked from Xavier to me and back again. “He'd been drinking and smoking, and passed out. One thing led to another. It was deemed an accident.”
“Drinking and smoking and passing out, sadly, are not that unique a chain of events,” I stated. “Why did 'Pyro Pal' believe this one was worth mentioning?”
“The owner was partners with James-Henri Ossature before he partnered with Carlos.” Cindy's expression grew grim. “Or should I say, re-partnered?”
* * *
After leaving Xavier at Maunakea Marketplace, eyeing abalone as possible dinner fare, I parked near Ala Moana and Ward, and called Rey.
“… That's what he told Cindy.”
Sitting behind the steering wheel of a new radish-red Jeep Wrangler, I adjusted the audio; my cousin sounded as if she were talking into a tin can attached to a long string. (My lovely Nissan Cube, alas, had been “decubed”, thanks to a bomb blast during our last case when one psychopath took out another.) “Why don't the three of us drive to James-Henri's?”
“Linda called to say she'll be delayed,” Rey advised over the phone.
“Until?”
“Unknown.”
Linda had been evasive about the morning errand. Was there a new beau perhaps? Given her recent men-are-jerks rants, unlikely. So what was she up to? “Be at the southwest corners of Bethel and S Pauahi in five. You and I'll head over.”
“I'll pack Tasers.”
* * *
It was close to half past eleven when Rey and I parked six doors down from James-Henri's four-bedroom Mediterranean-style house in Portlock. The upscale locality, fairly close to Honolulu and Waikiki, had amazing views of Diamond Head, Maunalua Bay, and the Kahala coastline.
Why hadn't anyone heard from the gallery owner? Was he upset over his ex-partner's death and seeking solitude? Or because he was responsible for his ex-partner's death and avoiding contact?
“That puppy had to set him back a couple of mill.”
“At the very least.” I scanned a well-landscaped 5,000-square-foot property situated a few yards from the beach.
“We should buy a house.”
I eyed my cousin as if she'd grown a third eye.
“Why not? You, Linda and I are almost always together and the pets would love grass to run around on. And a pool and lanai would be nice for relaxing and entertaining.”
“Hawaii doesn't allow for lotteries,” I said dryly. “And we'd need to win big to afford a house with a pool.”
“It's not that impossible—hey!” She punched my thigh and nodded.
A very toned, bald man of medium height dressed in various shades of white peered left and right, then forward and behind. Finally, he hastened past dense-foliaged Alahee that lined a narrow walkway from front to rear.
“Where's Mr. Egghead headed?” She started to open the passenger door.
“Hang on!” Noticing an adjacent side street several yards over, I whipped the Jeep around faster than you could say “torcher” five times.
Rey woo-hooed as I gunned it like Domenic Fast & Furious Toretto engaging in the street race of his life.
Stopping at the end of the next street, we saw our man in white dive into an onyx-black Jaguar XK. The female driver's face was obscured by huge vintage Chanel sunglasses and a silky scarf draped around the head. A slender unlit cigarette lay perched in the center of a glossy, full lips.
Like a bat out of hell, the handsome Jag shot ewa (or west as they would say on Oahu, designating the direction of Ewa Beach).
Keeping the vehicle in sight, I asked my cousin if she was up for an adventure.
“Always, Cousin Jilly, always. Hit the gas, honey-bun; we don't want to lose the prey.”
* * *
“Why do you suppose he's not returned calls?” Rey asked as we followed the Jag along Kapiolani, five cars behind. “Guilt? Sadness? A combination of?”
“Only he can answer that.”
“Who's the woman looking very Audrey Hepburn?”
“The same one I've seen twice already.”
“But who is she?”
“Your guess is—”
“As good as mine, yeah.”
“Xavier mentioned a half sister. Maybe that's her.”
“From what little I've seen, there's absolutely no resemblance. James-Henri has a dumpling nose and a donut-round face.”
“And he has hazel eyes while hers are powder-blu
e,” I added. “I did say 'maybe'.”
“She's certainly very attractive. And that designer red lipstick is awesome.”
The sporty car pulled into one of three empty spaces before a row of unexceptional townhouse-condos near Ward and Prospect. Most had once been dusty pink and were now just plain dusty. I maneuvered into a parking spot on the street.
Rey scanned stores and checked her cell. “That's Carlos' place.”
“Really?” I looked at her, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Gail emailed just before you picked me up. She told me she'd be researching the two as soon as she got home, but had done some preliminary stuff and came across this address. Given his background and everything, she found it weird.” She appeared perturbed. “Not what you'd expect a successful gallery owner-slash-consultant to live in, is it?”
“He did have financial issues according to Ald.”
She gestured the duo. “They don't appear to want to do much but yak and watch.”
“Maybe they know we're back here.”
“Then why stop?”
“You got me,” I replied with a fleeting smile, keeping a vigilant eye on the two lest they shot off again.
“He must have a key.”
I concurred.
“It's odd that Carlos lived here and James-Henri there. I mean, they were lovers, at least until recently. I can't imagine one allowing the other to live in such a … a blah place.”
“Blah?” I grinned.
“Ugly. Cheap. It's not in keeping with the lifestyle or persona he was projecting.”
“You mean successful gallery owner?” I asked dryly, noting that neither sportscar occupant appeared anxious or concerned.
Rey grunted into her cell when taiko drumming announced a call. “We got James-Henri and an Audrey Hepburn wannabe in sight. What's up? You at the office?” She glanced at me and shrugged. After a few uh-huhs, she disconnected. “Lindy-Loo wants us to head home when we're able.”
“Is she all right?”
“She's something, that's for sure,” my cousin replied flatly and gestured. “Our prey aren't doing much.”
