Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “I'll take all the numbers you can get,” Rey said gaily. “Jollie's in twenty.” She disconnected and leaned back with a sigh. “The things a P.I.'s gotta do.”

  We laughed and Linda punched in the next number, belonging to Ray Tabernac, a mechanic.

  He sounded annoyed.

  “Mr. Tabernac, my apologies for calling at this late hour,” Linda delivered in a smooth, businesslike voice. “My firm has been attempting to locate Bob D'anger all day. He's in arrears, so it's vitally important we speak.”

  “He's what?”

  “The man has several sums unpaid.” She lowered her voice as if speaking with a fellow conspirator. “I shouldn't be sharing this information, but I need you to understand the urgency of connecting with your boss.”

  “I should have known,” he grumbled. “D'anger's a good schmoozer, but not much else. Is he gonna lose the business? Should I be looking for a new job?”

  Linda glanced from Rey to me. “Let's just say … you may want to consider a new career down the road.” She extended both hands in a “whatever” gesture.

  “Damn. Oh well, I didn't much like the guy.”

  “Bad boss?” she asked casually.

  “A hot-air boss. Talks too much for shit.” He sighed. “Here, I think I've got a number—he just changed it.”

  “We understand he's been harassed and that's why he changed it?”

  “I think he just wanted to avoid someone. Not that that's doable when you have a business. The person you're trying to avoid can just come over.”

  “Very true.”

  “Okay, got it.” He provided the number and, after wishing Linda good luck, hung up.

  She tried Bob and connected with a gruff-sounding VM message.

  “No message?” Rey asked.

  “I couldn't think of a compelling one to leave. Besides, I think we should get that Kapolei pal's number and address—”

  “And head out there?” my cousin asked excitedly.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed?” I grinned, starting the Jeep. “Okay Rey, let's get you to your date. Charm the pants off of him—figuratively speaking, of course—and get those numbers a.s.a.p. so we can move on to Bob a.s.a.p.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  While Rey chatted with Terry Moola over white wine, Linda and I lingered at the crowded bar, sipping club sodas. The plan was to get the numbers and amscray. The conversation across the venue, however, seemed to be transpiring pleasantly, so we waited for the exchange to play itself out.

  “She's smiling and laughing.” Linda frowned into her glass. “She must like him.”

  “She's acting.”

  “That's not B-actress Rey; that's I'm-kinda-interested-in-this-hunky-dude Rey.”

  I elbowed her lightly. “Evidently, he's as nice as he's good-looking.”

  “If you're into the rugged, mountain-man look.”

  Moola stood a burly 6'2” and did indeed remind you of someone into hiking and hunting, and gracing the cover of Backpacker magazine. A short, boxed beard complemented a handsome, unblemished face of forty years. When he laughed, thick short curls bounced.

  Linda glanced impatiently at a large wall clock. “We've been here fifteen minutes.”

  “She can't slug back the rye and ginger, and run.”

  “Why not?” she grumbled, draining her glass and pushing it away.

  “He's passing a piece of folded paper.”

  Linda looked over. “And she's giving him a good-bye hug.”

  “Maybe we're witnessing a soon-to-be budding romance.”

  “That's just what she and I need.” Linda swore under her breath and plonked a sawbuck on the counter. “As they used to say, let's shake this pop stand.”

  * * *

  “Looks like Bob and pal are still up,” Rey murmured.

  Parked three dwellings down on a well-lit street, we'd been watching Brewster Friche's two-story Kapolei townhouse since arriving ten minutes ago. Misty rain and wispy fog had disappeared after we'd passed Pearl, so visibility was excellent. The front room on the first floor glowed amber beyond sheer, white roller shades. At 11:15 Bob and pal were likely relaxing and chatting or watching TV.

  “Should we head over before they call it a night?”

  “We probably should.” I pulled out a Taser and tucked it into my jeans, under my jacket.

  Rey mirrored my moves and Linda slipped a hunting knife into a deep blazer pocket as she clambered from the passenger's seat.

  “Where'd you get that?” Rey demanded.

  “I bought it.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Protection.”

  “We've got Tasers for heaven's sake. JJ even has a gun—say, why didn't you bring your Beretta?”

  “We're not going to shoot the guy. Besides, I'm still not that comfortable with guns,” I confessed.

  “You should get back to the range,” Rey advised, squaring her shoulders as she eyed the house.

  “Maybe we should tell someone what we're doing,” Linda suggested. “Just in case.”

  “Hives still isn't answering and Gail will only tell us to steer clear until she arrives,” Rey responded dryly.

  “Let's have at it then.” Linda gestured ahead. “Here's to a successful—and peaceful—Q&A.”

  Paint fumes grew thicker as we ambled to the door. Obviously, the men had been busy. We eyed each other before Rey gave a thumb's up and rang the doorbell.

  A dim porch light went on and a short, squat man dressed in paint-flecked jeans and a worn Slayer T-shirt opened the recently shellacked door. Small bug-round eyes peered questioningly from face to face.

  “We're here to talk to Bob,” Rey announced with a fleeting smile. “He still here?”

  “Who can I tell him is asking?”

  Before we could answer, freshly-scrubbed Boy-Toy Bob slipped alongside Brewster. He flung wet locks from his forehead. “Who's this?”

  The tall, muscular man was indeed very good-looking, but harshness in gauging olive-brown eyes—like a thief surveying a potential mark—detracted from the attractiveness.

  “We're from the Triple Threat Investigation Agency.” I stuck a sneakered foot beyond the threshold. “We wanted to chat with you about Loretta-Lee.”

  “What about her?” he asked suspiciously. “She's in the hospital in a coma.”

  “Considering she's your girlfriend, shouldn't you have paid a visit by now?” Rey asked sarcastically.

  He met her steely gaze with one of his own. “I don't like hospitals. They creep me out.”

  “You didn't even send flowers, Mr. Nice-Guy-Not.”

  He swore. “What does she need flowers for if she's in a frigging coma?”

  “Are you the reason for it?” Linda asked snidely, marching inside.

  He stepped so close, he and she were toe-to-toe. “Listen lady, somebody—her ex-hubby, I understand—took a bat to her. Go pester him.”

  I scanned him from top to toe and back again. Lots of muscle and power were there. A tight black T-shirt clung to strapping arms and shoulders like a wetsuit to a diver and designer jeans adhered to sturdy thighs like glaze to a donut. A stainless steel Tiffany watch was the only jewelry worn.

  “We've bothered these two enough. Let's go hear what Angus has to say.” I gave Rey a nudge when she peered back balefully. “Pardon us—oh, what a gorgeous watch. Understated but handsome and classic.”

  He glanced at it and shrugged. “Everyone needs to buy themselves a gift now and then.”

  I concurred and chuckled. “Another southpaw, I see.”

  He nodded absently. “Night, ladies. Brew, show them to their car, will you?”

  Rey loomed over the 5'8” man. “Brew, hon-bun, I think we have a question or two more for Bobby-Boy.”

  Friche's apple-round face paled when he felt a Taser poke his fleshy belly. “I'm grabbing a beer and heading to my room.” Fat bare feet transported him down a long, narrow hallway.

  Keeping the wea
pon from Bob's view, Rey asked gaily, “You wanna talk here or outside?”

  He glowered. “You think you're tough or something?”

  “I know I'm tough.”

  “I could break you in two without batting an eye,” he sneered.

  “I bet you could.” Rey stuck her face in his. “A guy like you enjoys keeping women in line, huh?”

  Bob's expression grew dark. “You going somewhere with this?”

  The tip of her nose touched his. “Like maybe you get off beating up females when we do something you don't like, Bobby-Boy.”

  Sneering, he took two strides back. “If you're looking to rile me, you're out of luck.”

  He wasn't having it, which was just as well. I didn't want to scrape my cousin off a wall or have to rush her to the ER to have that perfect Hollywood nose reconstructed.

  “I'm not looking to rile you,” she purred. “But here's some advice: if you're going to take a bat to someone, you should make sure they don't see you.”

  Bravado withered like a Poinsetta from a deficiency of post-holiday cheer.

  “Loretta-Lee may not be talking … but Angus is.”

  That came out of left field, but Rey wasn't about to let the guy off the hook. I refrained from giving a supportive slap to the back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Angus is speaking as we stand,” Linda affirmed smugly. “It won't be long before the folks in blue come to collect you.”

  “You're nuts. He didn't see a thing, because there was nothing to see—”

  “Because you came from behind, with your face covered,” I threw out on a whim (what the hell).

  It appeared Bob had grown weary of [or uneasy about] the conversation, because he attempted to bolt—but Rey had already aimed the Taser.

  The next thing Boy-Toy Bob was as horizontal as the hardwood floor he bussed.

  “Dang. That was cool.” Linda high-fived Rey.

  I did the same. “So very cool.”

  * * *

  The three of us, Brewster Friche, and Detective Hunt watched a patrol car with Bob D'anger in the back drive into the night.

  It hadn't taken [that] much to get the cussing man to confess taking a bat to Loretta-Lee and Angus. The former had p'o'd him when she'd said she wanted some “me time” to reassess their relationship. The assault on Angus had been solely on impulse.

  Bob was already seething because of a business deal that had gone very sour, never mind that his “main squeeze” no longer wished to be cuddle-close. Storming out of the really-going-bad business meeting, he'd observed Angus leaving a Makiki store. Suddenly, he'd seen red and logic melted like ice in hot coffee. Bob had followed and the next thing he knew, he'd grabbed a sturdy coffee-table leg from a garbage bin and whacked the insurance man silly. Yes, it had been a crazy-stupid thing to do: one, the action removed the veil of guilt from Angus' head and two, he'd not confirmed Angus was dead.

  “You still need us?” Rey asked with a stifled yawn.

  Hunt shook a sparsely-haired head. “We'll have questions down the road, but we're good for now.”

  “Where is Ald these days, anyway?” Linda questioned as he walked us to the sidewalk. “He's not picking up or answering.”

  “He's in touch regularly, at least with us, but he had urgent family business on the Mainland. He won't be gone much longer.”

  “His brother's passed, but he has a nephew, doesn't he? Is everything okay?” I asked worriedly.

  “It's not for me to share,” he replied with an apologetic smile.

  I nodded and turned to my colleagues. “I'm ready for bed. You?”

  “I'm ready to put this crazy-deadly arson case to bed,” Rey answered dully.

  Linda sighed wearily. “We're working on caffeine-infused adrenalin right now. We really need some serious sleep.”

  Rey inhaled slowly. “What we need is to get in Cholla Poniard's head.”

  “That could prove a very chilling if not disturbing place.” I pulled out car keys. “But I've always kind of enjoyed scary movies and thrill rides.”

  Rey grinned and draped an arm around my shoulders. “It can't be more terrifying than a haunted mansion, a real live ghost, or a cracked serial killer.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sleep arrived as soon as my heavy head had hit the pillow and there I'd remained for nine straight hours—until three the following afternoon, to be exact. I suspected my colleagues were still embracing pillows and blankets with unequivocal rapture.

  After calling Eddy to request he watch the fuzzies at least another couple days, to which he'd jubilantly agreed, I plodded into the lanai with a tablet, giant filled-to-the-brim mug, and two cranberry-bran muffins.

  I slugged back half the coffee like a caffeine addict that had been stuck on a deserted island for a week and then shoved a chunk of muffin into my mouth … and nearly spit it forth when my eyes were drawn to the headlines. A sailboat had exploded not far from Honolulu Channel, off Sand Island Beach. A search-and-rescue op had been initiated just after midnight, but there was no word yet re victims.

  I sensed, knew, that the boat was Cholla's. Quickly, I called Gail.

  She answered on the first ring. “I've been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?”

  “Dead to the world with all modes of communication turned off,” I replied wryly. “Speaking of dead, I just saw the news about a sailboat. By any chance, was it Cholla Poniard's La Nuit Noire?”

  “That's the scuttlebutt my vigilant ears picked up this morning,” she replied. “Hunt's on it, but no bodies have been recovered yet. An explosive device appears to be the cause.”

  “A larger-scale version than the one that took out Bayat Alexandre,” I stated flatly.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That she rigged it to make—and conceal—a quick escape. Or maybe she had someone do it. But if that's the case, they'll end up like Bayat.”

  “That's one cold, scheming lady. But why make a quick escape? She has the most amazing luck of anyone I've ever known.”

  “Maybe she felt it would soon run out. She knows the three of us aren't going to give up,” I put forth. “I'm guessing the only things to be found will be the clothes and jewelry she was seen wearing around the marina last night.”

  “She can't dupe us that easily.”

  “She's exceptionally good at what she does.”

  Gail murmured reluctant agreement. “What are you three up to?”

  “I'm having a very late breakfast. Rey and Linda are probably still sawing logs. When we convene again, we'll have to figure out how best to locate our missing femme fatale.”

  “Do you think she'd stick around Oahu?” Gail sounded dubious.

  “I think she faked her death so she could remain here and get even. She's very smart, calculating, and crazy. 'Vengeance' is her middle name.”

  “I thought 'Can't-Have-Enough-Bucks' was.”

  I chuckled.

  “Whatever you ladies have planned for later, I want to be part of.”

  “Head over here for Thai around six and we'll determine a course of action.”

  * * *

  Evening news had confirmed the boat belonged to Cholla Poniard, who was missing and presumed drowned. Search-and-rescue had evolved into search-and-recovery.

  Over Thai, the agreed-to “determined course of action” was to nose around the next morning and discover what people had witnessed. At ten a.m. Wednesday, Linda and I were at the marina, Rey and Gail in Cholla's neighborhood.

  Under a heavily clouded sky, Linda and I went from boat to boat, kiosk to kiosk, clubhouse to café to ascertain if anyone had actually observed Cholla Poniard take out La Nuit Noire Tuesday evening.

  Confirmed: Cholla had spent considerable time at the marina. Upon arrival around seven, she'd been seen chatting with several persons, having drinks on a few neighboring boats, and openly flirting with two men. A colorful floral-print blouse, apricot silk scarf, and cherry-red je
ans were hard to miss—so were a Rolex watch and flashy diamond-heavy gold anchor pendant with matching earrings. The woman had made certain to be seen and remembered.

  Of the fourteen folks we spoke to, three provided interesting—if not jaw-dropping— feedback.

  * * *

  Deena Parler owned two boats on the marina: a 46' cruiser yacht and 52' powerboat. The former she could be found on most evenings (and sometimes mornings) and the latter was rented to wealthy tourists looking for an alternative to a hotel.

  We lucked in as she'd taken the day off to perform “spring cleaning”. She invited us on deck for coffee, which we happily accepted (the more caffeine, the better). The woman was tall and lanky, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Elizabeth Hurley, save for short spiky tangerine hair. Evidently, she enjoyed the sound of her lilting voice because she prattled about everything and anything.

  After learning about two divorces, a successful son in the publishing world, and a planned trip to Tibet, she was ready to talk about Cholla. She stated how sorry she was to hear of the woman's untimely death, but revealed very little of note … until the snippet about how their fair-weather friendship had formed. Entranced by underwater sea life, the two had literally bumped into each other while scuba-diving off the Ko Olina coast.

  “Was she an excellent scuba diver?”

  “For someone who'd only taken it up two months before, she was very good.”

  “And you dove together often?” Linda asked casually, accepting a shortbread cookie.

  “Only three times.” She sipped and smiled. “We weren't close and didn't have much to share, save for our love of the water. You know, I had the impression she tolerated me, but just.”

  * * *

  “She talked while you rechecked the seating plan for the anniversary party,” Linda repeated.

  The clubhouse manager, Marcus Praten, nodded and opened a bottle of water as we sat in a small, cluttered office painted an eye-squinting persimmon-orange. Having had to fulfill two roles this week, he'd presided over a party for a couple celebrating forty years of marriage.

  “She popped in around seven, looking a bit sad.”

  “Sad about what?” Linda asked nonchalantly. “Did she say?”