by Tyler Colins
Frankie Avalon's “I'll Wait for You” took us both by surprise. I glanced at the rear seat. Why had I thought Cholla had destroyed our cell phones? Ah, because she'd said so. That was smart—not.
I glowered and she smiled prettily. “Grab it.”
She gazed from me to the flare gun and shrugged. “You grab it.”
“I'll shoot you.”
“No you won't.”
“You're right, I won't, hon. I'll hit you, you stupid cow.” I smacked her head hard and she passed out.
Chapter Forty-Five
Blood trickled down Cholla's temple. Was she really unconscious?
With the flare gun firmly pressed to her forehead, I strained to grab the bag from the back seat. Success—and a strained shoulder—arrived thirty seconds later. The cell phone had stopped ringing, but the screen showed that the caller had been Rey and that the cell was at 38% capacity. Pressing the call icon, I hoped for the best.
My cousin all but shrieked, “It's you!” Then she faded.
The impulse was to shout in response. “I'm with Cholla in the middle of who knows where! Linda should be contacting you soon, I so-o hope.”
“She did. Hives got … fix … not that long ago …”
“I can barely hear you!”
“We just got hold of Hives … you were missing … but when we …”
“It's hard to hear you, Cousin Reynalda.”
“Are … is she …”
That's all she wrote. Swearing under my breath, I eyed Cholla, who was starting to stir. Probably the best thing to do was sit tight. If Ald had a “fix” on the cell, then all would be okay—as long as Cholla was within handy sight and reach.
“That hurt,” she hissed, fingering the wound. “You're mean, JJ.”
“I didn't shoot you, did I?”
Scowling, she shifted. “I'm not going to be arrested. You know that, don't you?”
“Of course you are. We're going to sit here, nice and quiet, and wait for the folks in blue.”
She tilted that Roman nose high in the air. “Merde.”
In some strange way, I was mildly amused. “You really can't expect me to let you go?”
As if collecting thoughts, she regarded something beyond my shoulder. “I won't go to prison. Orange is not my color.”
I had to chuckle. “Don't tell me you'd rather die than wear orange the rest of your life?”
“I'd rather not do anything.” She caught me under the chin with a surprisingly strong sock.
The back of my head smacked the window and I saw more stars than dangled in the sky just then, and there were a heckuva lot.
Cholla sprang from the car and I woozily struggled after. It took everything I had to focus on—and pursue—the shadowy figure darting around the vacant warehouse. She was surprisingly spry, but then if I were in her army boots, I'd be sprinting as if Poseidon's razor-sharp trident were poking my backside.
“Stop Chollla or I will shoot!”
She screeched something in French I was pretty sure shouldn't be translated.
The flare whizzed past her ear into a cluster of saplings and took a few out before exploding into a vibrant disco ball. Unfazed by the loud bang or miniature fireworks display, she disappeared into the darkness.
As I continued pursuit, oblivious to slapping snapping branches and boughs, I haphazardly jammed another cartridge into the gun.
* * *
Stopping beside wizened shrubs, all that was audible besides the winds was my labored breathing. She was nowhere to be seen or heard. I dropped and placed my ear to the ground (something I'd seen in a movie), but all the action resulted in was dirt coating my ear, hair, and clothes. No running footfalls could be heard, though my heartbeats seemed rather loud. I sat up and scowled. The bitch had escaped.
Lights from the warehouse were no longer viewable, but sunrise couldn't be that far away. Slapping the ground, I rose slowly and started walking back in the direction I thought I'd come. Besides feeling chilled, my head hurt like hell, and I was royally p'o'd.
A couple minutes later, beating rotors grew increasing louder—a helicopter was drawing near.
I fired the flare gun and a brilliant red-orange streak swirled high in the sky.
* * *
“We'll find her.” With a grim nod, Ald gulped back coffee from an industrial-sized cup.
“Of course we will,” Gail agreed, adjusting a roomy cashmere sweater as she settled on the sofa.
It was 6:00 a.m. and no one in Ald's office had had any sleep, except maybe Ald—for three hours on the flight home. I was slugging back strong French-Roast coffee like there was no tomorrow, Linda was watching the interrogation of James-Henri from behind mirrored glass on the other side of the building (courtesy of Ald's sometimes partner, Devoy Hunt), and Rey was perched on the sofa armrest, nibbling a macaroon as she kept a close [suspicious] watch on our detective. Given neither she nor Gail had had any sleep, they looked awake and fresh; Linda and myself were dirty, bruised and wounded, and sporting big ugly bags under glazed eyes.
To backtrack a bit, Rey and Gail had gone to Gail's condo after dinner at Zippy's to readdress unanswered questions that—with extra digging—might actually be answered. The two hadn't immediately fretted over not reaching Linda or myself because the “serious snooping” text suggested we might be engaged for some time. But when 1:00 a.m. rolled around and there'd been no word, they became uneasy. By 2:00 a.m., they were downright antsy and Gail endeavored to locate Ald.
As for Linda's escapade while I was dealing with Cholla, she'd moored at a small marina. Leaving James-Henri bound on the deck, she'd searched for assistance and found it in Mr. Henry G. Heppelwhite, the insomniac owner of Big Ben-Boo, a 52' powerboat. He radioed for assistance and it arrived within fifteen minutes.
I'd had my first helicopter ride (and vowed never to have another) and upon landing, was escorted to the station where Ald and Hunt were waiting. Personnel had been dispersed to the area where I'd lost Cholla, but it was a sure thing the search would yield nothing. Not only was she smart and calculating—and dangerous—she was damn lucky.
“Do you think James-Henri is spilling all?” Rey asked.
“Given she tried to blow him up along with us, I'm certain he is. He'll want to save his neck,” I replied flatly.
“It didn't sound like he'd committed any major crimes, until she sucked him into her ugly little world.” Gail shook her head. “The guy should have walked away the moment she shared.”
“She's family—blood—but you're right. As soon as murder entered the scene, he should have hopped off the stage.” Rey grabbed another freshly baked cookie from a big box, courtesy of a rookie's unscheduled run to Leonard's.
The door swung open and Linda sauntered in, appearing less fatigued than when she'd joined Hunt a half hour ago.
Rey jumped to her feet. “Did he admit to anything? Does he know where she is?”
Linda laughed and held up a hand. “Detective Hunt said he'll be here in five. But yeah, James-Henri told him pretty much what he'd told us. She has a lot of money stashed away for easy access, in case of a necessary, hasty departure and thinks she'll head off the island as quickly as possible.”
I shook my head. “She won't leave that quickly. She likes to have the upper hand and the last laugh.”
Gail frowned. “We'd better be primed.”
Ald rose as weary-looking, clothes-crumpled Hunt entered.
Gail jerked a thumb toward the door. “Time to exit, ladies. I'll buy breakie.”
* * *
“I'm too wired to sleep,” Rey declared, dropping onto the lanai three-seat sofa. She grabbed a steaming mug of coffee and a cranberry-lemon muffin from the glass table, which Gail had purchased at a new happening bakery at the corners of S King and Bishop. There were enough muffins, croissants, and egg salad to feed a repertory company.
It was 9:30 a.m. and “wired” was right—thanks to adrenalin surges and mega doses of caffeine. Showers had rous
ed fading spirits; in fact, the chilling wetness had sent shivers up my spine and a shriek through the condo.
Linda, fresh from a quick pool dip, dropped alongside her BFF and adjusted a towel around her head. “Do we officially wrap up this case?”
I gazed from her to Rey to Gail and shrugged. “Technically, we have all the answers.”
“We just don't have the perp.” Rey gnawed the crispy muffin top like a hungry hamster.
Grabbing a fat croissant, I ripped it open and spooned on egg salad. “They'll find her eventually.”
Gail grunted. “Yeah. Twenty years from now, when she returns from that lush tropical island she claimed as her home.”
“Do you think she's already off Oahu?” Linda asked.
“She'd be a fool to stick around,” I replied dryly, taking a bite.
“But as you said, she likes to have the last laugh,” Gail stated. “She may want to exact some vengeance before taking flight.”
“Do you think James-Henri will make bail?” Rey asked her.
“More than likely, if he hasn't already,” she smiled darkly. “When I stopped by a colleague's office before we left, his lawyer had arrived. Sherman F.R. Audster's exceptionally good at what he does.”
Rey nodded. “In his twenty-five-year career, he lost maybe three cases.”
“Like I said,” Gail murmured. “He's very good.”
Twenty minutes later, we decided to walk along the beach to soak in fresh air and sunshine. As we ambled past the Hilton Lagoon, Gail received a call. Upon departure from the station, James-Henri Ossature had been struck by a speeding car.
Cholla's half-brother was now a hit-and-run fatality.
Chapter Forty-Six
With chin perched on bent knees, Rey watched children and parents frolic in the shallow salt water of the Hilton's Duke Kahanamoku Lagoon. For the third time, she muttered, “Unbelievable.”
Stunned by the news, the four of us had silently sauntered a few yards and dropped onto sun-kissed sand by a makeshift surfboard-rental kiosk not far from the Hilton Rainbow Tower.
“Unbelievable that James-Henri was run over by a car?” Linda asked flatly. “Or that Cholla got him?”
“That she'd have the balls to bulldoze him down in broad daylight.”
Leaning back, Gail supported herself on both elbows. “That's one plucky lady.”
“I'd like to pluck her,” Rey grumbled.
Gail and I chuckled. Linda merely sighed.
Rey cast a dubious eye. “Are we sure she did it?”
“If she didn't, she had someone do it,” I said.
“Another lover?” Linda asked dryly.
“Why not? She has a knack for enlisting men's aid once they've been charmed.”
Linda sighed again.
“I wonder if they'll luck in tracking down the white van that hit him.”
“White according to one witness, yellow according to two, and gold per two others.” Gail smiled grimly. “An old company van with 'Limited' on the side, a new family SUV with a sun decal on the rear, and a small panel truck with foreign lettering on the side and rear.”
Rey released a dramatic exhalation.
“Microscopic fragments from his clothes will assist in determining the actual color and make—”
“When?” my cousin all but wailed.
“It's being given top priority,” Gail assured her. “They'll check roadway cameras, review sketches and photos, check auto-body shops, although in this case it's unlikely the vehicle will be brought in for fixing… This rock's locked up tight. They'll catch her.”
“Only if she attempts to escape via the usual routes, but she's way too smart for that,” I stated.
“So what are you thinking?” my cousin asked curtly. “That she's gonna kayak to some other island and escape from there?”
“I'm inclined to think she'll lay very low for a while.”
“I'm inclined to agree,” Linda stated. “She'll create an awesome disguise and blend in.”
“That accent can't be easy to camouflage,” Rey said.
“It's not that strong,” I pointed out. “If she focuses and speaks slowly, it won't be very noticeable, if at all. She's talented enough that she may even adopt another accent.”
My cousin scowled.
Gail reminded us what Ald had said over the phone. “They'll have a photo of her on the news shortly.”
“She'll be a brunette or redhead before then—sporting new make-up and a new look.”
We released simultaneous sighs.
“Surely there has to be some way of locating Cholla Poniard?” Linda finally asked.
“Maybe we should focus on a white-yellow-gold van that features a sun, the word 'Limited', and displays foreign or unique writing,” I suggested with a cynical smile.
Rey sniffed. “That'll narrow it down—not.”
“Let's do a composite based on similarities,” Linda proposed. “Like a small truck … cream colored with 'Limited' in the name … has odd or unique lettering … and a sun on the rear and/or sides, which may possibly be part of a company logo.” She turned to Gail. “Why don't you call Ald and see if any recent stolen vehicle reports came in?”
“While you work that search-engine magic of yours?” Rey asked, brightening.
* * *
A couple of hours later, we were seated at a shaded picnic table on Magic Island by Ala Moana Beach Park with two tablets and four icy sodas. Interestingly enough, three vans and two trucks had been reported stolen since yesterday evening, but none remotely matched the descriptions or colors provided by James-Henri's hit-and-run witnesses. That didn't stop us from keenly searching the Internet for companies that had business vehicles matching the various descriptions.
Three came close. Sunny Son's Super Saimin Suppers Limited had three ocher delivery minivans. Slavering Sweets Limited had two white-smoke vans with a logo of yellow daffodils that resembled perky little suns. And Stu's Fake-Steak Delights Limited had a frolicking cow with a sunny visage and huge fluttery eyelashes on its two linen-white vans. None of the company's owners or employees, however, claimed any had been missing or stolen.
“That doesn't mean one hasn't been 'borrowed',” Rey chirped. “Maybe one of the owners is Cholla's 'friend'.”
Gail glanced over the addresses that Linda had jotted on a notepad. “Sweets and Delights are a few blocks apart on Sand Island Access Road, while Sunny Sun's is mauka of the H1 and ewa of Kahauiki Stream.” She glanced at a stainless-steel Fossil watch. “It's nearly quarter to one. We could cover them by three, so why don't we check them out?”
“We've got no other leads at the moment.” Rey hopped to her feet and glanced eagerly from Gail to Linda to me.
I closed the notebook and tucked a tablet under my arm. “Let's take the Jeep.”
“And let's be prepared,” my cousin warned with a wry smile.
“That means Cousin Willy's B&E kit, right?” Linda slapped her BFF's back playfully. “As well as stun guns, JJ's Beretta, and binoculars.”
“Not to mention working cell phones,” Gail grinned.
* * *
While a visit to Slavering Sweets netted no info, it did provide a bulky bag of red-bean mochi (purchased to satisfy sugar cravings) and sizeable pineapple-papaya squares with poi buttercream (a thank-you for dropping by).
As round and hirsute as a coconut, owner Lance Dulce proved as jovial and easy-going as a comedic character. “No, sistahs, ain't seen nothin' out of the bakery-catering norm. But, here, have some scrumptious calories.”
Stu Bohnen's vans were recent company additions—as in two-weeks fresh-from-the-dealership new. Scarecrow thin and flaccid, the 6'2” businessman had nothing to offer except an earnest “good luck ladies” and four sample packets of puck-thick vegan burgers.
Sunny's was closed when we arrived. Gold lettering on a carved wooden office door advised that Friday hours were 6:00 a.m. – 2:00 p.m. Two minivans were parked a hundred yards to the right of the office, in
side a lean-to by a small iron-gray plant with recently power-washed aluminum siding.
Pensively, Linda strolled from one to the other, and declared, “Given the funny sun, 'Limited', and Gigi font, one of Sunny's minivans might well be the hit-and-kill vehicle.”
“”I can certainly see how there'd be different descriptions, given the thing was speeding super fast before and after hitting James-Henri. Everybody's eyes'd have been rooted on the pulpy mess on the boulevard,” Rey stated matter-of-factly before ambling around one.
Gail frowned. “Where's the other? … We should have called back and told Haloa we were dropping by.”
Franklen Haloa had answered Gail's call a couple of hours ago when she'd initially inquired about the company vehicles. Despite a gravel-gruff voice, he'd seemed quite pleasant.
“Let's look around.” Hooking an arm around Gail's small shoulder, I eyed my cousin closely. “Look.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we were back in the Jeep and surveying Sunny Son's deserted three-acre operation. The only other dwelling within view was a partially burned-out building. Given the dangling yellow tape and toppled barrier board, the fire had been recent. The locality was unusually quiet, but then it was Friday and who wouldn't want to indulge in an early start to the weekend?
“The other minivan could be in the plant.” Rey eyed the unremarkable building.
“The plant's not that big,” Linda said.
“Either is the minivan.”
She shook her head. “Why pollute your food processing plant by parking a vehicle in it? That makes no sense.”
“The owner takes it home for weekends … or maybe an employee's making deliveries.” Rey slid down the passenger seat, looking weary and a trifle bored.
“It's possible,” Gail concurred.
“Sure. Cheap advertising. Why not?” Rey cast a critical eye over at the plant and office. “Do we have a home address for Sunny?”
Linda turned on her tablet and searched. “No luck re an address, but the owner's name is actually Giuseppe Ramen-Sun.”
I chuckled. “Surely you jest?”
