Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  I shrugged. With this information, we could implement Plan B as soon as Alexander and Harris were up. We’d figure out how to get this information turned in anonymously so everyone could be happy, except of course, the bad guys. My bet was that it wouldn’t take long for the cops to arrest Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr. Who knew what crimes he’d committed. Murder—drug running—littering a closed state park with a dead body.

  The palms in the courtyard rustled in a sudden gust of wind. Lono making sure we knew he was still here? Would we get another shower? I stepped outside and listened to the island sounds. Plan B might save Harris’s life. Maybe it would let me keep her as a tenant. And as a—don’t go there. Would it keep Alexander out of trouble, too?

  The sky grew lighter, brightening from the dark shadows of night to blues and pinks and pale grays of morning. Soon, Honolulu would be alive. A half million people would jam the freeways, all eager to get to their day’s destination. Me, I didn’t have to do that because I lived and worked in the same place. Managing this place wasn’t much of a job, but had its perks, like Suzie Wong in #14.

  Suzie Wong’s real name was Julia Lym and, unlike the character in the 60s movie starring Nancy Kwan, Julia was no hooker. I’m not sure when I started thinking of her as Suzie Wong, but Julia was working on a law degree and had a bad-ass belt in karate so, needless to say, I always behaved around her. Still, she was a looker and would be leaving for work soon, so my goal was to be on my lanai to say good morning. That Aloha spirit stuff played well with pretty girls and Harris was still asleep. So, why not?

  On the quiet stroll back to my apartment, I thought again about Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr. What was he involved in? Smuggling? Drugs? The mob? I’d heard news stories indicating that it was alive and well. But, a smart criminal wouldn’t throw a body down a mountain, would he? Why not just shoot the guy or stick a knife in him? Toss the body in a Dumpster in the right area and, just like any other big city in the world, no one would think twice about it. No attention, no risk. Jeez, was that guy they threw out of the plane really dead?

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the courtyard outside my apartment. I opened the door; Alexander sat at the table with a cup and a bowl of cereal. “Hey, brah. She doing okay?”

  “I don’t know. She was asleep when I left. Broke into my cereal, huh?”

  “I can’t believe you eat these little cardboard things.”

  “Corn puffs. They’re corn puffs, not cardboard.”

  “Tastes like cardboard.”

  “It’s gluten-free. I can’t eat that sugary kids’ stuff you like cause its got wheat in it. And gluten—”

  “I know, I know, it’s a protein in wheat. You only told me maybe, what, a thousand times? Hey, about yesterday?”

  “Right, cops and hospital are a problem because you two were breaking the law.”

  “You call this food?” He glanced down to the bowl, then back to me. “No, that wasn’t it—well, yeah, that’s part of it. I shouldn’t have asked you to help her, yah? There’s something about her.”

  A surge of heat raced through my veins. What was he going to tell me? That he liked her? Something had happened between them? Kira would kill him—and me.

  He went on, “She shoulda been afraid when that guy in the plane started shooting.”

  “So?”

  “She wasn’t. Not at all, man. She was cool as they get—until I dropped her, of course.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “So she doesn’t panic. Big deal.”

  He flushed the uneaten portion of his cereal down the kitchen sink drain. “Anyway, she didn’t die in her sleep and you didn’t have to call 9-1-1. I’m outta here. Get me some real breakfast.”

  “You going home?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t show up for a couple of hours and Kira will start to feel bad about blowing up. She might even wanna make up for—”

  “Too much information, Alexander! Way TMI.”

  “Sorry brah. I’ll check on Harris.”

  “Not yet.” I planted my feet firmly, crossed my arms over my chest. Just like the old days, just like Lono, the thrill of making the announcement rushed through my veins. The look on Alexander’s face when he heard the news, the surprise at how little time it had taken to find the information, would make this morning’s efforts all worthwhile. I said, “I know who owns the plane.”

  Chapter 6

  Alexander’s slack jaw and wide eyes gave him away. I had his full attention. On the other hand, my attention was flagging thanks to so little sleep. My primary focus had become staying vertical. Talk about a perfect day to knock down about a gallon of coffee.

  Alexander said, “When did you—”

  “We got the N-Number off the plane from one of Harris’s photos.” Now that I knew the FAA terminology, I could pass off my N-Number knowledge like a professional. “Yours truly did some detective work last night and found the registered owner of the plane. I know where he lives, so we can turn this over to the cops and you two can get on with your lives.”

  “How you know you got the right guy? What if the owner wasn’t the one flying?”

  “If he wasn’t, he’ll know who was. It was easy, I just did a search for the FAA web site, then I—”

  Alexander pointed at me with an accusing finger. “Don’t matter how brilliant you think this is, McKenna, it might not be the right guy.”

  “Lighten up. It’s no different than if your car was used to commit a crime. Unless you’ve got a good excuse, like maybe it was stolen, you’re in a deep pile. Know what I mean?”

  “So you been playing detective for how long?”

  “Not long.”

  “I gonna go check on Harris. She’s back at her place, yah?”

  “Yah. And for the record, this old fart figured out how to find the bad guys before either of you two youngsters.”

  “McKenna, you’re right about one thing, you an old fart.” He gave me the shaka sign. Now, unlike the single-digit hand salute that mainlanders are so fond of, the shaka sign involves the use of the thumb and pinky and has several different meanings, all of them expressing good feelings.

  Well, lah-de-dah. Shaka sign or not, I didn’t need Alexander’s approval. Or Harris’s, for that matter. What I needed was breakfast on the lanai and a good morning smile from Suzie Wong. Maybe she’d wear that little flowered number again. I rushed into the kitchen and got a bowl of the gluten-free cereal Alexander didn’t like, soy milk and juice. Yeah, yeah, soy milk. How come I just couldn’t drink the stuff from a cow, anyway? Gives me gas, that’s why.

  It took only a minute to transport everything outside to the lanai and compose myself for the show. She’d be leaving in about 15 minutes. Suzie usually wore a suit. Which, unfortunately, usually meant pants. But, every now and again she wore the dress. Just the thought made my pulse quicken.

  Suzie had lived here for about three years. A few months back, she took a job with a large law firm. When I’d asked what she did, she’d said, “A day’s work.” She’d given me a quick kiss on the cheek and swayed away. With my libido in limbo, I’d gone back to my place, had a glass of wine and reveled in my manhood for about an hour before I realized that I still didn’t know what she did, just that she always dressed nice—and that she was a helluva kisser—even if it was just a peck on the cheek. My guess was that she was just testing the waters.

  With just enough time to scarf down my cereal, then sit back and look handsome for her pass by my lanai, I shoveled the cardboard pellets from bowl to mouth. I chewed and swallowed with impeccable precision while I contemplated what Alexander and Harris had witnessed. I glanced at my watch. Yikes! Suzie would be leaving in just five minutes.

  My reflection in the sliding glass door telegraphed a big problem, my hair looked like a bird’s nest, all wiry and tangly and standing straight up in back—I looked haggard. That needed fixing, and quick. I grabbed my bowl and the soy milk and took them inside, then rushed into the bathroom and ran
a comb through my hair. It was getting sparse, but there was still enough to cover the top of my head. A little water helped to hold down that nasty cowlick in the back. I splashed more water on my face, dried off, then admired my image. Not bad for an old guy—would Suzie give me another smack on the cheek someday? How about Harris?

  Maybe I should tell Suzie about my detective work? Explain how I’d spent much of the night doing painstaking research? The process, to a novice, could sound complex and difficult. Maybe she’d be impressed enough to give an old man a last wish. Jeez. I’d gone for five years without a woman in my life, and now there were two.

  What if I could get a phone number for Robert M. Shapiro, Jr.? That would make my accomplishments even more outstanding. It was worth a try, so I pulled the phone book from my desk drawer and grabbed the cordless phone. I made it back to the lanai just in time to hear footsteps to my left and see the swish of a flowered skirt disappear around the corner towards the parking lot. Crap! I stared down at the phone and book in my hands. “McKenna, you dumb-ass. You missed her.” My day had gone to hell—and it wasn’t even eight.

  I stood on the lanai, phone book in one hand, cordless phone in the other. What the hell was I thinking? I was over sixty—fine, sixty-two. And Suzie was twenty-eight according to her rental application. I’d done the math many times, and the answer was always the same, thirty-plus years difference between us. She probably thought of me like her father. Or grandfather. Ouch. I should focus on an older woman, like Harris. Her rental application had said that she was thirty-one. She was the best damned looking thirty-one-year-old I’d ever seen in my life.

  There was only one way to resolve this, do something to get my mind off women. I plopped down the phone and the book and began looking for Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr. Why couldn’t he have his own name? It wasn’t really his fault that he’d been saddled with the moniker by his egotistical father, but using his middle initial and that Jr. suffix seemed pretentious to me. Take that, Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr.

  So, where are you, Bob? In a city of a million people, there were just a dozen Shapiros. The 2000 census report classified less than 20% of the population as “white.” It doesn’t take a genius to come to two important conclusions. First, there shouldn’t be many Shapiros in the phone book because the potential population with that name would be fairly small. And, second, I needed a life. When anyone quotes the latest census report, they need some serious social interaction with people.

  With no Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., or a derivative, in the book, I was at a roadblock. For an old hotshot like me, though, that roadblock was nothing more than a speed bump. What about other information? I went inside and woke up my computer, typed Robert M. Shapiro, Jr. into the search box and hit the enter key. It took less than a second for the results to appear. The entry at the top of the list stopped me cold. “Obituaries—The Honolulu Advertiser.”

  There’s no telling how long I stared at that headline. He was DEAD? How? When? I moved my mouse over the link and clicked, then read the story.

  Local News. Posted on Wednesday, May 11, 2011. Obituaries. Advertiser Staff. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., 59, of Honolulu, Oahu, died May 10, 2011. Born in Kansas City, MO. Decorated Vietnam war veteran. Former airline pilot. No surviving relatives. No service. Arrangements by Borthwich Mortuary.

  Because the vehicle that struck Shapiro appeared to have been traveling at a high rate of speed, police suspect the driver might have been under the influence of an intoxicant. Anyone with information about . . .

  It was a standard close for the story, so I hit the Back button and went to the next one, “Local Man Critical After Hit-and-Run.”

  At approximately 9 PM last night, a resident of Kaiulani Avenue said he heard squealing tires, a loud roar and a scream. The resident, who asked that his name be withheld, left his apartment and went to the street where he found a neighbor, Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., lying in the gutter.

  “He looked like a broken rag doll,” said the resident, “so I called police.”

  Honolulu PD determined that Shapiro was the victim of a hit-and-run. They believe that the accident was caused by someone under the influence of an intoxicant. One investigator speculated that the driver may have been underage, a repeat offender, or did not have insurance and hence did not stop.

  This article also did the standard blah, blah close and asked for people with information to call the police. Wow. Shapiro was really, really dead. Road kill. Poor bastard. And he’d been dead for a week.

  A knock on my front door interrupted my ruminations. I squinted through the peephole. Alexander and Harris stood at the doorway, so I let them in and greeted them with the news. “Robert Shapiro’s dead.”

  The two exchanged a glance that said, “Old fart’s lost it.”

  Alexander asked, “Who’s Shapiro?”

  “The owner of the plane.”

  “Oh, him. How’d it happen? Old age? Heart attack? Massive stroke?”

  “Hit and run. A car ran him down just outside of his apartment last week, smart ass.”

  Harris limped past me and sat on the couch. Her crimson and pearl face, along with the way she held her side, told me that she was still in pain. “McKenna, are you saying that the owner of the plane used to drop that body was murdered?”

  Alexander threw his hands in the air. “Oh, not you, too! Harris, there’s a ton of accidents in this town. Probably every day someone smacks into something. Don’t get caught up in McKenna’s drama.”

  “Hey! I didn’t say the M word.”

  However, now that the word had been introduced, the room was filled by a rousing round of silence. Alexander and I turned to Harris, who stared off into space. Lost in thought about her sister, perhaps? She nodded, as if she’d resigned herself to something, then said, “You don’t find it the least bit odd that somebody dropped a body from the sky using this guy’s plane, then tried to kill us because we witnessed them disposing of the evidence?”

  Alexander held up both hands. “Okay, okay. It’s all kine—unusual. But, you hired me to be a guide. I did that. And remember, if the cops learn that we were in that park, we’re both in big trouble. Some bureaucrat might decide to pull my permits. Now, I gotta get back to my life. And you two gotta leave me outta this. I got a wife. Kids. A job. Nobody can know I was there. Besides, my wife she not gonna speak to me for three days cause I didn’t come home last night.”

  “I thought you said she’d want to—“ I shot a glance at Harris, who was smiling at me, “Uh, you know—if you showed up in a couple of hours.”

  He shook his head. “I lied. Wanted to make you feel better. You gotta vouch for me, McKenna; otherwise, it might be a week.”

  “Me? Kira hates me.”

  “Nah. She just enjoy giving you a bad time. You so easy.”

  Harris snickered. So did Alexander.

  My face felt hot with the irritation simmering inside. I was easy? Well, this pushover was going to push back. “I know I said I’d call her, but that’s a mighty big favor you’re asking. Kira’s got quite a temper; I wouldn’t want to jeopardize—”

  “What you want, McKenna?”

  I fingered my chin and glanced around the room. “What makes you think I want something?”

  “What, McKenna? Don’t play me coy, you no good at it.”

  “A boat ride.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds, as if he were trying to register the request. “You want a boat ride.”

  “Actually a snorkel trip for me and Harris.”

  Alexander’s jaw dropped. Harris did a double take. Alexander glanced at Harris. Harris shrugged.

  Alexander rolled his eyes, “I’m bringing the kids.”

  Harris eyed me as though I was a steak at the meat counter. “Sounds good to me, honey.”

  Wow, I had a date. “Perfect! A family outing. I love it. You set it up and let us know when. We’ll be there. Now, you go home to your lovely wife; I’ll call her in a few minutes.” And say what?


  Alexander said, “Speaking of making calls. How you gonna notify the cops without letting them know it was me and Harris in the park?”

  “I don’t have that figured out yet. Can’t call 9-1-1, they’d know the address.”

  Alexander shook his head. “And the business number’s out. They’d probably just blow you off as a quack. Oh, wait. They’d be right.”

  I faked a half-smile. “Ha, ha. You’re a riot. Isn’t there some number to call when you don’t want to get involved?”

  Harris said, “Do you guys have CrimeStoppers here?”

  Alexander’s face lit up. “Yah! That’s right, they got that anonymous tip line.”

  Now, we were making progress. We had a way to get the ball rolling while keeping my friends out of trouble. “I think I’ve seen their ads. I’ll look them up.”

  Alexander waved. “Great, I’m outta here.” With that, he made a hasty exit, leaving me alone with Harris.

  Suddenly, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. What was I doing? Reporting the crime would be easy, but Harris was watching me with that hunger in her eye again. I wouldn’t mind having her jump my bones, but, jeez, I was out of practice. And her obvious desire made me nervous. “Well, guess I’d better get to finding out how to contact CrimeStoppers.”

  Harris nodded. “I guess so.”

  She ran her hand over the back of her neck. I felt my temperature rise a couple of degrees. If the room got any hotter, I’d have to fetch an ice pack from the fridge. “Yeah, CrimeStoppers.”

  Harris put her hand on my arm just as I started toward my computer. Oh, shit, she wanted it here. Now. Maybe even in the living room. Would my plumbing still work? I needed to lock the door. The neighbors. Oh, crap, what do I do?

  “McKenna?” She stared at me expectantly.

  I gulped, barely able to keep from peeing my pants. Some letch I was. “Yah?”