Alexander examined the name badge on his cousin’s chest. “Hey, you work here?”
“As little as possible.” They both laughed again in unison. “What do you need?”
I could just see the two of them in grade school. Scary thought. A couple came through the door and slipped around us to the counter. They were both dressed in white shirts with little epaulets on the shoulders and navy pants. They both carried black notebooks with a funny logo emblazoned across the front.
Alexander rubbed the cut on his cheek. “This present came from some guys who threw a body out of a plane.” He gestured at Harris. “I was guiding her in the mountains when we saw the whole thing.”
Cousin Joey started, then looked at Harris, then me. “He serious?” He grinned and slapped Alexander on the shoulder. “Good one, Cousin. You almost had me. Pretty good, brah. Almost as good as the surfing contest in high school.”
Alexander waved away the jibe. “We got the whole thing on film. And we think a plane that came in earlier today was involved. We want help checking it out.”
“The plane stolen?”
“Maybe. We’re not sure.”
“Why not talk to the Sheriff? You should let them investigate.”
I said, “Why not HPD?”
Cousin Joey said, “Not their jurisdiction. Stolen planes belong to the Sheriff, which is part of the Department of Public Safety.”
I guess he would know, he was the airport man. “I went to the cops about the murder.” Then I fibbed a bit, “They needed more proof before they could start.”
Cousin Joey’s gaze went back and forth between the three of us. I could see that he wondered if we were on the level or not.
Finally, he said, “This for real?”
We all nodded. The woman with the black notepad finished speaking with the man at the counter and turned away. She called over her shoulder, “See you later, Mike.”
I watched her and her companion leave through the back door. Harris jabbed me in the arm. I grabbed at the spot where her fist had connected. “Hey, that hurt!”
Cousin Joey said, “Pretty nice, yah?”
Harris glared at him. I half-expected her to deck poor Cousin Joey on the spot.
He held up his hands. “Sorry. They’re flight crew for some bigwig from the mainland.”
It was probably my slack jaw that gave him the clue that I was dumbstruck by someone having a flight crew.
“We’re promoting Kalaeloa as an alternative to HNL for private parties. We’ve got a long runway and no TSA to deal with. Once we get fuel on-site, it will be really attractive to private parties. And, as you can see, things are growing so much out here, this is going to become the new Honolulu someday.”
Judging by the construction going on, it wouldn’t be that long. I wondered how many planes they had out here. I asked, “If we give you an N-Number, can you tell us where that plane is parked?”
“Is it a transient or one of ours? Ours are in an old NAS hangar. We don’t have a lot of the strict rules like over at Kaneohe.”
I said, “Transient. It’s based out at Dillingham Field.”
He pointed to a sign-in sheet on the counter. “You gotta register here first.”
I signed in the three of us, then turned expectantly to Cousin Joey. “Now what?”
Cousin Joey inspected my registrations. “Hmmm. Okay. You know what kind of plane it is?”
“A Cessna.”
“Cessna makes a lot of planes. Single engine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this a new plane or something older?”
I shook my head, then remembered what Mrs. Lau had said, “I think it’s new.”
“Look, guys, there’s a lot of Cessnas out there.”
I pointed towards the door. “Out there?”
“No, man, I meant Cessna makes a lot of planes.”
The man behind the counter looked up and said, “You the guy called earlier about the Cessna from Kauai?”
I recognized his name tag immediately. O’Shaunessey—the guy I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Crap. Did he remember the name I’d given him? Cousin Joey was looking at me suspiciously. Alexander watched me with laughing eyes, probably waiting to see how I’d get out of this one. Harris pretended to whistle as she watched the ceiling. O’Shaunessey was just staring at me, kind of like he was expecting an answer.
I leaned in Harris’s direction and whispered in her ear. “McKenna’s Fourth Skip Tracing Secret: be flexible and go with the flow.” To O’Shaunessey, I said, “Uh, yeah.”
“Took off about an hour ago.” He shrugged, his duty done, and picked up the papers he’d been shuffling on the counter.
Cousin Joey said, “What about a flight plan?”
O’Shaunessey shrugged, “Nah. Said he wasn’t going no place controlled.” He turned away and went back to his desk.
Exasperated, I threw up my hands. “How could that be? Don’t you inspect these planes? Require them to go through security? Something?”
Cousin Joey said, “We use our judgment. If you don’t look suspicious and have a good reason to use this airport, we probably won’t inspect it. Mikey, he give a reason why he was here?”
“He said he was opening a new business out here. Just flew in for a day to check it out.”
I asked, “A business? What business? Lau’s an airplane maintenance man.”
Cousin Joey said, “Roger Lau?”
O’Shaunessy said, “That’s him!”
Cousin Joey said, “No way, Mikey. He’s out at Dillingham. Roger’s not opening any new businesses. He’s doing good where he’s at.”
O’Shaunessy raised his palms in a gesture of futility, Cousin Joey buried his face in his hands while he muttered something unintelligible, Alexander shrugged, Harris ignored us, and me, I realized that I hadn’t seen a restroom since Dillingham Field.
I asked Cousin Joey, “Where’s, uh, your restroom?” Damn, I’d almost called it Bosco.
He pointed behind me. I nodded my thanks and hustled off to check out the john, Harris on my heels looking for the women’s. The restroom reminded me of a 1940s purely functional building—brownish tile, white toilet bowl, black seat, no doors on the stall. Oh yeah, leave your modesty behind if you’re doing number two here.
By the time I returned, Cousin Joey was working behind the counter and Alexander appeared impatient. I said, “Don’t you ever have to go?”
Harris approached from behind me, her face pale. “That was an experience.”
Alexander said, “If you two are done checking out the facilities, let’s get outta here.”
We were halfway to the car when Harris began to sway. Alexander and I each grabbed an arm just as her knees went weak. “I’m not feeling so good.”
Harris slept in the back as we returned to the apartment. At one point, Alexander glanced at me and said, “I think she got a concussion. She needs a doctor.”
“Where’s the nearest hospital?”
Harris barked, “No hospitals! No doctor! Take me home.”
By the time we’d picked up H-1, traffic had slowed considerably. The afternoon commute was turning grim, as was my attitude about what might have happened to Roger Lau. If he hadn’t been flying the plane, who had? I said, “Roger seems like he was a good husband and father. He wouldn’t just disappear without a good reason.”
Alexander nodded. “Let’s just hope he got himself into trouble, not dead.”
Chapter 16
When I’d hurt my back in the baseball game, the doctor had also warned my mother about a possible concussion. She’d gone into the granddaddy of all overreactions and kept me in bed, fed me pain meds by the handful and put cold compresses on my forehead for weeks instead of the doctor’s recommended couple of days. She’d even used bags of frozen vegetables wrapped in a washcloth for a while until my father complained about the grocery bill and the lack of vegetables at dinner.
Every time she put on a cold compress, I’d
tried to explain that it was my back that hurt, not my head. But, the doctor had told her that I could experience headaches, drowsiness, depression, or personality changes. She was convinced that my back couldn’t hurt because the doctor hadn’t found anything wrong there. And how could I be drowsy? I was in bed all day. I didn’t know what depression was, but it sounded like something I didn’t want. She did, however, become concerned that I might be going through personality changes because I’d been stuck in my bed for so long and was starting to argue with her about my condition.
The Wharton boys told me I would get bedpan hands if I didn’t get out soon. That sounded worse than anything the doctor had told Mom about, so I launched a full-on “I’m better” assault and got my sentence commuted. What had me worried now was that Harris was exhibiting some of those symptoms my mother had watched for so diligently.
At home, we got Harris settled in on her couch with the TV remote and some water. Alexander excused himself and went to get some food for Harris. I figured he’d hit a drive-through somewhere on the way. Poor me, well, I’d have to settle for a bowl of gluten-free cereal in my kitchen—oh, yum.
About the time I got back to Harris’s apartment, Alexander had shown up with an assortment of frozen dinners and lunches, some juice, soft drinks and ice cream. I watched him unpack and said, “Really healthy choices there, big fella.”
“Unless you want to cook for her, this is gonna be it.”
Harris called in to the kitchen, “Did you get the pizza?”
“Yah, I got the last one in the case. You one lucky wahine.”
I looked at the box that Alexander held in his hand. Pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. Those were the big three on the front label. I checked the ingredients on the box and finally spotted the “big three” about halfway down a long list of chemicals I’d never heard of.
I handed it over. “That’d kill me.”
Alexander chuckled as he put the box in the freezer, then turned serious. “McKenna, what about Shapiro?”
“What about him?”
“I was thinking on the way back from the store, if he’s got a nosey landlord like you, maybe we should go visit him?”
I thought about it for a second. “I ain’t nosey; I’m just naturally curious.”
“Whatever you say. You want to go check it out? The rain’s let up for a while.”
Alexander was giving me another chance. No way I’d turn that down. I went to the window and craned my neck to see the sky. Sure enough, the one cell had moved through and there was nothing in sight. Give that about ten minutes and it would change. Hawaiian weather—if you don’t like it, wait ten minutes. We’d get drenched, no doubt about it.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We left Harris with her frozen pizza and headed toward Kaiulani Avenue. The clouds were gathering, looking like they were at a cloud convention and just waiting for a motion to rain. I was certain that they’d all vote in favor before we got to Shapiro’s apartment. We parked on the street about a block from the apartment complex and walked back. We made it before the rain-vote had been cast.
The manager’s apartment wasn’t hard to find and was marked by a big sign on the wall next to the door. Alexander knocked, waited, then knocked again. Just to the right of the door, I read another sign that gave the manager’s hours: “Office open from 9:00 AM - 12:00 PM and 1:00 PM - 5:00 PM No exceptions.”
From behind us, we heard, “He ain’t in there.”
We turned. A smallish man wearing a gold Green Bay Packers cap, a white shirt with blue and red horizontal stripes and khaki shorts peered at us from behind a hoe that he held in both hands as if it were a martial arts staff. Two thin white spindles that he probably called legs stuck out from the baggy shorts.
I wondered if he would pop me with the hoe. I said, “We wanted to ask him some questions about Mr. Shapiro.”
“What?” He raised his left hand and cupped it behind his left ear.
Oh, great, hard-of-hearing. “We had questions about a tenant! Robert Shapiro.” I spoke slowly and yelled at him.
In a loud voice, he said, “You don’t have to yell.” His shoulders slumped a bit as he glanced away. He looked me in the eye and said, “Shapiro’s dead.”
I tried a slightly lower volume this time. “I know. He got hit by a car a couple of weeks ago.”
He leaned on the hoe and stared off into space. The sadness in his eyes said he’d known Shapiro well. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Alexander asked, “Are you the gardener?”
“Gardener? No, we don’t have a gardener.”
That struck me as an odd answer. I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard the question or just didn’t want to answer. “Who are you? What do you do?”
“What needs to be done.”
I felt like grabbing the hoe from his hands and smacking this guy on the side of his head. “So where’s the manager?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Don’t know, moved out last month.”
Alexander looked confused, “The manager just left? They didn’t replace him?”
“Didn’t say he didn’t get replaced. Just said he moved.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” I yelled, “Who the hell is running this place?”
He chuckled. “Me.”
Raindrops pelted the palms. Orchids and gardenias bounced delicately as drops large and small splattered their targets. Miniature rings began to radiate in every direction on the surface of a small pool off to our left.
He eyed me with suspicion. “You two police? I’d like to see some identification.”
“No, I’m doing a piece for the Advertiser.”
“Hmmm. Mr. Shapiro was a nice feller.”
“We’re trying to figure out who ran him down.”
“Uh-huh.” He glanced from Alexander to me, then back again. “Where’s your camera?”
Ouch, no camera. Where was Harris with her official looking gear when I needed her? Oh, that’s right, resting with her pizza and ice cream. “We’re trying to expose a drug ring, can’t be too obvious.”
He snorted. “You ain’t no paperman.”
Oh great, a wise guy. “Look, um—”
Alexander said, “A friend and I saw a body dropped from Mr. Shapiro’s plane two days ago.”
The manager rubbed his chin and nodded. He seemed to be having some sort of internal debate. “There’s something I think you boys’ll wanna see in my apartment.”
I hoped it wasn’t a gun. He pulled a jailer’s key ring off his belt. I said, “Nice key ring.”
“Yup. Makes it easier to do things.”
“Good idea,” I said.
He held up a key. “Mine’s blue. Easier to find that way.”
“Another good idea.” Maybe I should get myself one? It would make me look more official.
Alexander moved to one side, holding his head as if he were trying to subdue pain. At about the same time, the manager and I turned to Alexander and asked him if something was wrong.
He glanced from me to Shapiro’s landlord, then back again. “You two practice this?” He rolled his eyes. “No offense, but I can’t take two of you.”
The manager and I chuckled together and left Alexander standing outside. Maybe the rain would make that headache of his go away.
As we entered the apartment, he said, “Name’s Meyer Herschel.”
“Meyer? That like the lemon?”
“You’re kind of a smart ass, huh?”
I shrugged, “Guess it comes naturally. I’m McKenna.”
“You ashamed of your first name?”
“I’ve only used one name since I was a kid.”
He mumbled to himself, “Chrissakes. Can’t even use a whole name. So what’s your story?”
The apartment was dark and small compared to mine. The walls were all painted the industry-standard off-white and the only window, the one that looked out to where Alexander stood watching the
rain, was made smaller by the brightly flowered curtains that hung on either side. Meyer pulled the curtains open. The room furniture included a rattan couch and side chair with fluffy cushions covered in a matching fabric. Fortunately, the dining room set, also rattan, didn’t have the same patterned fabric. The solid, forest-green covering complimented the other furniture, but didn’t make the pattern so overpowering that you wanted to run around and pollinate everything.
“I guess you could say I’m investigating Shapiro’s death.”
Meyer crossed the room and flipped on a light switch. The hanging lamp over the dining room table lit up a stack of boxes, all labeled with Shapiro’s name. I had the sudden sensation of drowning as a wave of anticipation overcame me. My breathing quickened. It was just like the old days—before computers—before the production line and before I’d been outsourced.
Meyer smirked and leaned against the kitchen counter, just next to the boxes. At that moment, I probably reminded him of a pirate drooling over a cache of gold or a half-naked maiden waiting to be ravaged. On the other hand, given my panicked reaction to Harris the other day, I’d better stick to the boxes.
“That’s what you said before. You and I both know you’re no investigator, so what’s really going on?”
Had my lying skills gone into the crapper? I mumbled, “You’re a sharp old coot, aren’t you?”
“Hoot? What’s a hoot? Nothing funny here.”
“No, I said that you were a sharp old coot!”
He smiled. “I ain’t the brightest bulb in the pack, but I do know when something’s going on. Spill the beans or, like the song says, don’t let the door hit’cha on the way out.”
“I’m too old to let doors bang me in the ass.”
“So what’s it gonna be?”
I pointed out the window and spoke loudly. “That guy? He almost got killed by someone shooting from Shapiro’s plane.”
“That’s horse pucky. I guess you forgot, Shapiro’s dead. That’s D-E-A-D. He don’t fly no more. Besides, he was a good guy and wouldn’t ever shoot anyone, unless they deserved it.”
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