by Tyler Colins
“No. Like I told the cops, Eb called me the previous Thursday evening telling me he had a mission on Oahu and he'd be leaving the following evening. Pay was better'n good, he said. He was pretty excited, even mentioned champagne and a trip to Kona on Big Island, which meant it had to pay excellently well. Then he hurried off to do stuff.” Jem's exhalation sounded like the whistle of an old steam locomotive. “I phoned three times and texted twice between fix-it jobs because I wanted him to get some stuff, but he never answered. I checked with Andy, his coffee pal, and he hadn't heard from the Ebster in a few days.”
According to Buddy, the fellow trucker had always been extremely responsible and dependable, so his not contacting his brother had been very peculiar.
Jem, short for Jeremiah, lived two streets over from Eb, in an identical single-family, two-bedroom dwelling. According to Buddy, both long narrow houses were trimmed in shades of raven black and tree-toad brown, and had identical four-by-six windows with gun-metal-gray blinds, the same fencing and similarly decorated lanais, with two avocado trees smack-dab center on miniscule lawns. They weren't twins, although from Buddy's descriptions, you might have thought so. Besides identical houses, both sported spiky bleached hair, shell surfer necklaces, and lots of polyester. The bothers also had things for greasy food and easy women. Eb was the baby in the family, five years Jem's junior and fifteen years Hutch's.
Hutch, short for Hutchkins (their mother's maiden name), had been the eldest brother. He had died crossing a boulevard while visiting an ex-wife in Mississippi last year – hit, decked, and crushed by a two-ton turkey. The heavyset gobbler had been part of a small-town Thanksgiving Day parade, the thirty-fourth in its history, and possibly the last. A traumatic experience it had been – for the stupefied young driver beneath the large bird, the stunned crowd, and certainly Hutch, who prior to staggering across the path of the wattle-headed bird had indulged in a liquefied version of same (i.e. Wild Turkey).
“Will you check the garage again for Buddy's gun?” As Buddy had told Ald, she'd left the Glock with Eb when she'd headed to Oahu.
“I said I would.” He belched. The Stretta brothers weren't known for good manners, but they seemed to be decent souls from what Buddy had claimed. “But if the cops didn't find her gun, I don't see as I'll have better luck. Where's best to get you?”
I gave the numbers for the agency and my cell.
“Are they still thinking she did it?” His laughter reminded me of a badger: low-pitched, and rumbling.
“She's at the top of the list. In both cases, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Additionally, her card was in your brother's wallet, she happens to know both men, and she owns a 10-mm, the murderer's weapon of choice.” I watched two honeycreepers soar past the lanai window like small colorful comets. “She's also the right height and left-handed.”
His snort sounded like a puppy's sneeze. “Maybe they should put me on the list, too. I knew them both, I'm left-handed, and my name and number were in Eb's wallet.”
“Let me know if you find or hear anything.” I hung up and saw Rey standing by the kitchen counter, perturbation lining that pretty face. “Upset? Or constipated?”
She stuck out her tongue and hugged Bonzo to her chest.
Bonzo was a Checkered Giant rabbit that had belonged to a young man murdered during the William Howell case. Oddly enough, my cousin had requested – demanded, implored, and pressured as only Reynalda Fonne-Werde could – that the rabbit be placed in her “custody” when she'd heard he would be removed to an animal shelter. She'd never been much of an animal/pet person previously and what had changed her mind, and heart, I'd never know. But God bless her. Home to Oahu the rabbit came.
Button raced from the bedroom, where she'd been napping, and looked at Rey (with a grin, I was sure).
Rey laughed and placed Bonzo beside her. Button nudged her furry friend and he nudged back, and the two scampered across the living room floor. The two made an odd and adorable couple.
“What's next? Linda's writing reviews to cover for a colleague's lack of commitment. I don't have anyone to interview at the moment and Googling's become unproductive.”
“Fugger's meeting me for afternoon tea at the Royale Palais. Come with.”
“Afternoon tea? Fugger, the chauffeur?”
“Linda was right, Cous. You are Miss Snobby-Knob.” I wagged a finger playfully. “Any suggestions as to what to do between now and three? We've got two hours.” I hopped to my bare feet. “How about we drop by our finger-on-the-pulse police pal before tea?”
Her smile conveyed optimism. “If anyone can dig up hard-to-find facts, Gail can.”
* * *
Gail, unfortunately, was off sick for the day so Rey and I tossed around other plans – non-productive ones – as we wandered around the Walmart on Keeaumoku. We were a bit more successful on the shopping front and left with a whack of socks and Keebler cookies, both at prices hard to refuse.
Fortunately, time passed quickly between bargain hunting and tea.
Rey and I arrived at the posh restaurant to find designer-clad women and men seated at tables with lustrous egg-white linen tablecloths. A pleasant breeze wafted across a ginger- and heliconia-lined terrace into two rectangular rooms: a large one for lunch and dinner, and a small one for afternoon tea and casual meals. Both rooms boasted marble floors and pillars, and fancy bronze-and-crystal chandeliers.
We strolled over to Fugger, who was at a small round table with a panoramic view of a stunning sapphire ocean. The sexagenarian was eyeing a petite crust-less watercress sandwich in a trim liver-spotted hand as if inspecting a sponge for mold spores. Instead of a chauffeur uniform, the short and stocky driver was dressed in coffee-brown linen pants and a pressed white shirt with a white silk tie. A short, thick platinum chain with a small diamond-encrusted pepper hung from a thick, heavily veined neck. The establishment suited the man: a mature gentleman seated amid worldly peers.
After giving orders, Rey and Fugger got into a brief discussion about the merits of tea drinking. I chose to watch two catamarans ferrying carefree vacationers across calm, shimmering waters. Soon, the conversation moved onto a grim topic.
Rey sighed softly. “I can still see those yawning holes where his eyes used to be.”
“Poor son-of-a-bitch.” Fugger shook his head, causing a thick shock of sugar-white hair to fall into closely set bark-brown eyes. “I guess you didn't notice anyone out of the ordinary inside or outside the place?”
Rey had told me that she and Linda had scrutinized a small gathering crowd before they'd slipped – hightailed it – down a cracked, uneven sidewalk. Two young rough-looking women with trowel-applied make-up, wearing skimpy tops and tight jeans, had appeared scared enough by the traumatizing event to swear off drugs for life. An old man with a shepherd's cane and frizzled poodle that appeared as arthritic as the master continued to toddle along their wobbly paths while three teens wearing identical black stretch hoodies munched sauerkraut-laden sausages as they watched the excitement with cool detachment.
“Ric thought maybe someone was out to get the Picolo team,” he said casually, pouring from a dainty Wedgwood creamer.
Rumor – specifically, Kent “The Source” Winche – had it that Celare “Pepper” Fugger had stared down the barrel of more than one gun during his numerous years of service to Jimmy Picolo. It was also alleged that he himself had pulled a trigger or two. Death was likely not a terrifying concept to the seasoned gent.
“If that's the case, maybe you should leave town.” Rey took a sip of chocolate-chili-chai tea, her brow furrowed. “Maybe some fellow businessperson wasn't liking that Picolo was so successful … in so many businesses at so many levels.”
“Intense competition can sometimes lean toward the dangerous, if not fatal,” our tea companion nodded. His trim lips pulled into a tense line and manicured fingers began to softly drum the table. “But I can't think of anyone locally that would go to that length.”
�
��What I don't get is, where does Eb Stretta fit in? He seems like the odd man out in all this,” I offered with a baffled frown.
“Yeah, it does seem pretty weird,” Rey concurred, then snapped her fingers. “Unless the guy was more than a driver.”
I leaned forward, regarding the chauffeur closely. “The night your boss was killed, you said you'd stepped down the street –”
“I was half a block away, helping a stranger check his stalled engine.” Although his gaze was on me, it seemed to be elsewhere.
“Which turned over when you tried the man's car,” Rey finished, having heard the particulars.
He refocused. “Obviously, it was a distraction to get to the boss.”
“The cops have a good description of this stranger, right?” Rey asked.
“There was a prune-sized Gorbachev birthmark on the left side of a square face and a tiny but thick bolt-like scar on the chin. He had small and far-set eyes like a Surinam toad, and he was young – no more than thirty. The height and build were medium. The hair was black, short and curly.” He pointed to his temple. “I've got an outstanding memory.”
“Impressive,” Rey murmured into her teacup.
“We'll find him.”
“Who is 'we”?” I asked nonchalantly, taking a mini-sized coconut tart from a three-tier pastry stand.
“Someone on the Picolo payroll.”
“The police will extract more from the guy alive,” I pointed out.
He feigned affront. “We do everything by the book.”
“Which book?” I smiled drolly.
He chuckled.
I noticed an attractive man in a snow-white shirt and pressed black pants enter with a pretty red-haired woman in her early twenties. Interesting. Was she a new romantic addition in Gerald Ives' life? Or a business associate? They took a small table near the end of the terrace.
Sensing someone watching, the detective scanned the room. A frown pulled at those sensual full lips when he spotted Picolo's chauffeur and then developed into a scowl when he noticed Rey and me. He nodded curtly and I returned my attention to my companions.
My cousin jabbed a cucumber sandwich on her plate as if it were a lifeless bug. “What do you think is going on?” she asked the chauffeur.
“It's a set up,” I impulsively stated.
One of Fugger's sparse cat-whisker eyebrows arched questioningly.
“Someone is attempting to set up Buddy Feuer.”
Fugger bit into a creamy custard tart and chewed slowly, looking thoughtful. “Why kill Mr. Razor?”
I returned Fugger's intense stare. “I believe whoever set her up didn't want Razor finding – or providing – any implicating information.”
Rey frowned. “Razor did say he was headed to the office to pack up personal stuff and that he'd check around.”
“I'd have to agree. Someone didn't want Mr. Razor accidentally finding anything,” Fugger declared over his cup.
Rey popped a tiny herb-and-cheese scone in her mouth. “Picolo's death made him a liability.”
“Most likely, I've become one, too.” With a brittle smile, he looked from Rey to me. “Fortunately, Buddy's a suspect, so that should keep her safe – for a time, anyway. But it's very possible that you're on the liability list now, too.”
Chapter Eleven
It was one in the morning when I'd completed reviewing case notes as I sat at the kitchen counter. A light persistent knocking at the door caught my attention. One lock was always secured while I was home; the second one was secured prior to going to bed. When Rey and/or Linda had something vital to convey or show, they preferred to draw me into their excitement by popping round as opposed to calling, texting or emailing. Normally, they waltzed in, but considering the hour, they probably wanted to see if I was still awake. Fortunately, I'd not changed from leggings and tunic into a nightgown, so if there was indeed something urgent, we could run with it.
Button, who rarely barked, scurried from her bed in the lanai and stopped in the foyer.
“If a dangerous intruder ever enters, I hope you're going to do more that 'cute' him to death,” I chuckled.
Hopping off the counter stool, I swung open the door and nearly tumbled – because my mouth had wrapped itself around my knees. Colt's black linen pants were ripped at the knees and his short-sleeved cream shirt was flecked with blood and dirt. Wide, flaring lips were split and the right eye black. He supported a semi-conscious Cash on the right while Donnie, one of five building security guards, supported Cash on the left. Both were anxious yet focused as they shepherded the battered man inside.
Button followed and flopped onto her belly ten feet away, bright curious eyes captivated by the scene before her.
“Sorry to come here so late, but Richie J's in trouble,” Donnie murmured apologetically, his flat scarred face conveying a mix of concern, worry, and resolve. He'd known Cash as “Richie J” when the two had worked bank security several years ago.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked Colt as they propped Cash on the living-room two-seater rattan sofa.
Colt gave a curt nod. “Thanks for the help. You'll keep mum, right?”
“Of course. If you need anything, call.” The forty-five-year-old security guard gazed worriedly from Colt to me before slipping into the corridor and closing the door softly behind.
I took a deep, calming breath. Blood from an injured left shoulder stained Cash's striped button-down shirt and a strip of burlap that might have come from a potato sack was tied around the upper arm. His handsome face had taken a nasty beating; one eye was swollen and closed while his lips were raw and his cheeks discolored. Buffalo-brown hair, hanging two inches below pierced ears, was disheveled and matted. He resembled a hapless victim in a Scorcese flick.
Cash groaned and the uninjured eye glanced around, and came to rest on me.
I inhaled slowly, refusing to let concern or any other emotion take control. Maybe we'd been intimate, but he'd used me and the guy wasn't about to get under my skin again. “Besides bleeding all over the new sofa, you've left a trail of red on the floor and rug. Your agency had better pay cleaning costs.” Crossing my arms, I leaned into the wall.
Having copied my keys and “pocketed” my lobby-door fob several weeks back, Cash had not returned either after walking out. Apparently, he didn't have either on him, not that I'd actually have expected the man to keep them as a souvenirs or trophies, or anything. But that reminded me: get those new locks that should have been purchased weeks ago.
With a critical eye, I scrutinized Colt's tense Simon Templer (young Roger Moore) face. It conveyed apprehension for the barest second before he sat on the circular rattan armchair nearest Cash.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked gruffly.
I strode to the distressed-blue armoire that also served as bar and filled a rocks glass half full with rye, Rey's drink of preference. I passed it to the undercover agent and he brought it to Cash's damaged lips.
“You do plan to tell me what brings you here?” I asked dryly, sitting on the second armchair, across from Cash, trying to keep queasiness in check. Dead bodies had proven [strangely] easy to deal with; badly battered live ones were another matter.
He waited until Cash got down some of the rye. “We were blindsided a couple of streets over. Going to the hospital wasn't an option. They'd look there. He said he knew a close-by place: yours.” Fawn-brown eyes searched mine. “Given what he'd told me, I knew we could trust you.”
I scanned his attractive face, then Cash's. I wasn't tempted to offer sympathy or compassion, considering, but they were government agents who willingly gave everything to keep our country safe: that deserved respect and [some] cooperation. Sucking back pride, I finally stated, “You can trust me.”
“Do you have first-aid and sewing kits? If so, get them, and another hefty shot – for him and me.” He leaned back with a grunt.
“You're in luck with both.” We'd just purchased four first-aid kits: one for my car,
one for Linda's, one for the condo, and one for the new Chinatown office when we finally took ownership next month.
After refilling the glass, I sprinted into the bedroom and returned with kits in hand quicker than you could say Quentin Tarantino five times.
Colt was barking orders on my mobile phone. He motioned and disconnected. “How are your nursing skills?”
“I'll have first-aid training completed by end of next month,” I replied slowly, noticing Cash was barely conscious. If I asked who “they” were and what had transpired, I'd receive no answer, not an honest one anyway.
He frowned, then offered a fleeting smile. “You're about to have hands-on instruction. I can't sew with this hand.” Swelling and discoloration suggested the right hand was fractured or possibly even broken. “This one's not going to do much good, either.” The left one was missing layers of skin.
“Shouldn't a doctor attend to his wounds?”
“I left a message for one of ours. Hopefully, he'll pick up soon. But who knows how long he'll be? Cash requires tending now. There's no time for argument,” he said brusquely, his gaze stern.
Blanching, I made for the cabinet and quaffed enough rye to bolster strength but not knock me senseless. If I was going to remain in the private-eye profession, I'd have to learn to run with situations like these. Slipping onto the two-seater alongside Cash, I opened both kits and waited for Colt's instructions.
“First things first: pull out scissors, disinfectant, a solid sewing needle, cotton, gauze, and probing tools.”
“Sorry. My kits don't include mini surgical tools,” I said sarcastically.
“How about a darning or crochet needle?”
My look said: you're kidding, right?
He exhaled noisily. “How about, uh, chopsticks? Skewers? Anything long and sharp.”
“…Cake tester?”
“Grab it!”
Once done, I waited edgily for further instructions.
“Cut the shirt off, then check blood flow. Are there any foreign materials in the wound?”
This wasn't going to be a walk in the park, which is where I wished I was right now. Swallowing a curse, I disinfected my hands and inhaled slowly, forcing myself to relax and focus. Removing the shirt, I peered closely at what was likely a knife wound. We couldn't risk it becoming septic – hold on. We?
