by Tyler Colins
“T&C is great place for off-shore banking, I hear,” Rey chirped.
“And a lovely place to visit,” I pointed out. “Lots of fun in the sun, world-class spas and restaurants –”
“If you have a shitload of money,” he interjected.
“Marlowe may have been brilliant at saving pennies,” Rey said lightly.
“Or making solid investments, maybe. Otherwise you have to take out a second mortgage to afford a meal there.” He exhaled softly. “So far, it doesn't appear that the dude was into illicit doings.”
“Is that possible when you work for someone like Picolo?” Rey asked with feigned amazement.
“I worked for the man.” Kent sniffed. “So did Coco. So did a lot of folks.”
Rey sniffed in return. “I ask again: is it possible?”
“Listen here, sistah –”
“Did your 'amazing' pal, Larry, get a list for the event Annia attended?” I interrupted before the duo got into verbal fisticuffs.
“He said he'd email it. I'd better remind him. He also checked those names found in Jimmy's appointment book. Hang on. I have notes.” Kent disappeared for a full moment. “Seven were wholesalers, two lawyers, three businessmen, and two friends. Not one of them has had a black mark beside his name, except maybe if you count the twenty-seven parking infractions R.B. Brenton collected last year. Interestingly, not one name belonged to a woman.”
“The credit, balls, and fish fella seems to have been very traditional in his dealings,” Rey commented dryly.
“I wonder how Buddy ended up being hired in a 'traditional' male capacity,” I mused aloud.
Kent laughed like a toddler excited by the prospect of digging into a sugary treat. “When Jimmy was in need of drivers, he added her to the employment roster because he thought Buddy Feuer was a dude, and no one bothered to correct him until she was well on board.” His voice took on a low, conspiratorial tone. “I hear she walked into the plant for a meeting he was presiding over dressed in jeans and a body-hugging flannel shirt, snakeskin boots, a Red-Sox baseball cap, and a smile that any guy would drop to his knees for.”
The man's knack for obtaining gossip tidbits was truly impressive.
“He must have been floored,” Rey remarked.
“That's an understatement. But Bud convinced him she was one of the best drivers out there, and that she only looked like a beautiful busty blonde. In reality, she was a black-belt drag queen with big biceps and an ax to grind.” More excited toddler laughter. “He liked her humor, and the fact she flipped Razor on his ass when things got a little … testy.”
Rey and I exchanged astounded gazes, and I asked, “What about Emilio Ferrarri, the guy that Picolo wrote regarding a financial review?”
“I haven't learned much about him yet.”
“Keep digging,” Rey instructed.
“Will do,” he said and disconnected.
“We should tell Kent about Coco,” I said as we pulled onto Halekauwila.
Rey sat up flagpole straight. “You know, we were never hired to find Picolo's killer, but to prove Buddy innocent.”
I studied my cousin's set expression. “True. Ric's recent 'incentive' aside, Buddy is our client. We should focus on locating people who can corroborate her whereabouts at the time of the murders and –”
“Not concentrate so much on who killed Jimmy Picolo or –”
“Eb, Razor, and weird nutty little Coco.”
Her eyes widened. “It looks like we have another serial killer, doesn't it?”
“Maybe we need to rethink the agency name,” I said wryly. “Instead of the Triple Threat Investigation Agency, how about Serial Killer Catchers Incorporated?”
“Or Nutbar Collectors Limited.” Her sigh of vexation sounded like a charge from a fire extinguisher that had been ineptly pressed. “Let's go for bubble teas and Chinatown.”
“Afterward, I want to spend time at the range. Join me and after we'll head over to the Hilton and tourist watch.” I smiled with more cheer than I felt. “A break and change of venue will recharge our brains.”
“That, and a few Mai-Tais.” She smiled fleetingly in return, and another sigh soared through the vehicle.
Chapter Eighteen
“Whadya think?” Rey asked as we slowly whirled about a mint-cream room that would soon serve as the official agency office.
Painters had done a decent job of the two rooms and washroom while carpenters still had a few minor projects – like shelving and crown molding – to complete. The name of the agency was inscribed in bold gold Lucida Calligraphy font on a frosted-glass door and the second of three arced windows overlooking N King Street.
A reception area would soon accommodate a large Persian-green flatweave rug, four handwoven rattan armchairs with chevron patterns, and the requisite desk (which we had yet to agree upon). The adjoining room would contain two rattan sofas, coordinating pieces to the armchairs, a larger version of the reception area flatweave rug, a black pedestal table with four blended-leather chairs, and two desks (which we had yet to agree upon). There was also a small corner niche that served as a “sort-of” kitchen; it held a counter and room for a small fridge, toaster oven, and coffee machine and kettle.
Instead of filing cabinets and bookshelves, we'd decided on a large handsome black sideboard with a rich, lacquered finish and stylish glass-paned cabinets with interior shelves and panel drawers.
“It's getting there.”
“Too bad we have a one-week delay,” she sighed, then shrugged. “That's okay. Most of the furniture's not arriving until the tenth, anyway.”
Kenny Bazic-Woo, our landlord, happened to be leaving the building as we were arriving. The perpetually beaming forty-year-old had advised that – due to burst pipes and some minor but urgent renovations – we'd have to wait a wee bit longer before settling in. What were seven more days?
Gently, she elbowed me in the ribs. “You've got a call – Frankie's crooning about New York.” She gestured my Kate Spade bag. “I swear you change ringtones more often than people change underwear.”
“Be grateful they're no longer bird sounds, making you cuckoo.” I chuckled and retrieved my cell. “It's your dime,” I joked without looking at the number. For some reason, I'd thought it was Linda.
“Hey.”
“…Hey, yourself.”
“How are you?” Colt asked.
“Good.”
He sounded concerned. “Are you sure?”
“You took me by surprise.” I meandered to a window, opened it, and leaned out onto a street heavy with vehicular and people traffic. The day hadn't brightened; rain was still a promise. Below, however, was a jaunty atmosphere with chattering and laughing pedestrians, cars blasting tunes, music floating from busy shops, including the trading company beneath, and hawkers keenly hawking wares.
Curious, Rey traipsed up behind and pressed her ear against mine. With one finger, I playfully pushed her head aside. She stuck out her tongue and the ear returned.
“How's the Chinatown office looking?”
“Are you following us?” I demanded, astonished.
“Uh, no. Cash told me you'd be taking possession of one – and I can hear familiar community sounds.”
And how did Cash know – never mind. He just did. The man had ears and eyes everywhere, it seemed.
I sighed softly. “How is he?”
“Healing.”
“And you?”
“Healing.” His chuckle sounded forced.
“…What's up?”
“I managed to lose your cousin's number twice, believe it or not – the one you gave me the other night and the one she'd given me a few weeks back. I was wondering if maybe she'd like to meet for drinks Sunday evening.”
Standing as close as cheese enfolding macaroni, Rey had heard every word. Her lips tightened and she nodded.
“She'd love to, I'm sure.”
“We'll do the Hilton, like last time. At seven.”
“Sh
e'll be there.” I ended the call.
“He didn't suggest that your boyfriend come, too,” she asked, curious.
“He's not my boyfriend,” flew out of my mouth like a golf ball propelled by a fairway shot.
She scanned my face. “You still care.”
“Don't be absurd,” I snapped. Shoving the cell in my bag, I marched to the door and stopped. “Ready for the range?”
“Yeah. And later, the first two rounds are on you.” Hooking my arm, she led the way down a narrow staircase into a dreary afternoon.
* * *
“Hey there,” I greeted Faith as I left the Hilton DQ, a small chocolate-dipped ice-cream in hand. Rey had wanted to run a quick errand before meeting for drinks, so we'd agreed to meet at half past five at the Barefoot Bar instead of the Hilton.
“I have something for you.”
“I love gifts,” I replied gaily, stopping by a palm tree to gaze at the tranquil ocean. While most of the day had been leaden and wet, the late afternoon had evolved into picture postcard vibrancy.
“I bumped into an old pal of Dragan's at Foodland yesterday. Since you're working on the Jimmy Picolo case, I thought I'd ask Graeme if he knew of anyone he thought was prime Jimmy killer material.”
“And?” I urged.
“Mark Jack Deon was the only name that came to mind, but it seems this Deon guy had it in for Jimmy. I've got a number, too.”
“You, lady, have a dinner coming up.”
“Make it steak, heavy on the mushrooms.”
With a grin, I tucked the phone into my jeans and was about to indulge in my cold, creamy delight when a familiar voice spoke from behind.
“That looks yummy.” Kent slipped around and grabbed the cone.
Attired in a pineapple-motif (not Aloha) shirt, black Prada sneakers, and distressed jeans the man looked yummy, too – so surreptitious glances of passing women suggested.
“What brings you to these tourist-riddled sands?”
“I needed a diversion, to be honest, and this seemed a good place to be diverted. Lucky me, bumping into you.” He peered close. “Say, is that a black eye?”
So much for concealer. “I walked into a wall.”
When I didn't elaborate, he motioned the boardwalk with the cone and dug in.
I sighed, watching the ice-cream disappear. Had our meeting been a true coincidence? Or had Kent followed? Whatever the case, I was stuck with him for the interim. “I'm meeting Rey for drinks.”
“Can I join?” His expression seemed meek, humble, hopeful.
Who could refuse that hound-dog face? I nodded and wiped chocolate from his chin.
He smiled self-consciously. “I really like hanging with you girls. I don't have a lot of friends. …Guess I'm always too busy working.”
I motioned an empty table at the front of the popular bar, a rarity at this time of the day. “Let's grab it before anyone else does.”
My companion leapt over the shrubs and concrete barrier, and commandeered a third chair.
“Hey, Cous!”
I turned to find Rey scurrying along the boardwalk. Good grief. Once again, the Fonne cousins were decked out like twins – with white jeans, lightweight split-hem sweaters (hers black, mine gray), and black ballerina flats.
She looked me up and down, and laughed. “Let's check in with each other next time.”
I gestured Kent, who was chatting with a waitperson.
“Too bad Linda couldn't have joined us,” Rey said as we sauntered over.
“I'm sure she's enjoying her time with Makjo,” I smiled.
“I meant to tell you that you did pretty decent at the range today. At least you hit your mark, even if it was in the balls.”
“Who says that wasn't what I was aiming for?” I asked dryly, sitting alongside Kent.
“I ordered.” Kent gazed curiously from Rey to me and back again. “Can I ask a question?”
“Go for it,” Rey instructed.
“You two don't have boyfriends?”
We shook our heads.
“Two good lookers like you? Guys should be falling all over you.”
“We're waiting for Mr. Right and Mr. Perfect,” Rey joked.
He chuckled and looked around. “Tourists aside, it's nice here.”
“We like it.”
Rey sighed contentedly and I leaned back, willing the tension creeping into my shoulders and neck to dissipate.
The waitperson placed three Mai-Tais on the table (they made the best on the beach, bar none, pun fully intended) and told us to catch her the next time around.
My cousin and I looked at each other, and then at Kent, who offered an amiable smile.
“Is it possible you were one of the last to see Coco?” I asked. “Considering you knew he'd lost ten grand to gambling a few days before he went mising and was nervous about it?”
“Apparently, I'm not the only one who's good with gossip.” He held up his drink. “Here's to pretty private eyes and smart ones.”
Rey and I exchanged glances, “telepathically” agreeing this was not the time to tell Kent about Coco.
“When did you last see him?” I prodded.
“A couple weeks, give or take” he responded lightly, eyeing two attractive forty-year-olds in tanks and shorts.
“He was anxious,” Rey prompted.
“…Yeah. Coco's not a big-time gambler like Annia – he can't afford to be – but he can still get into pretty dire financial straits.”
“Could it be the people he owed weren't happy –”
“So they put Coco out of his – and their – misery?” His gaze and smile were dark.
“It's possible, isn't it?” I observed him closely.
His expression remained bleak as he drained his Mai-Tai. “Some folks consider gamblers as useful as toe fungus.” Pulling out a fifty, he pressed it into Rey's hand, and stood. “My treat. I gotta run.”
He slipped over the border and hastened in the direction of the Hilton Lagoon.
“Buddy had said Picolo viewed Coco as useful as toe fungus,” I told my cousin.
We stared down the boardwalk and simultaneously murmured, “Interesting.”
Chapter Nineteen
La Casbah was an upscale Waikiki wine bar where only the chicest seemed worthy enough to tend bar and take drink orders. A cute young bartender with a colorful serpent slithering down a long, thin neck winked twice and smiled thrice (not that I was keeping count).
Taking a sip of an inconsequential chardonnay, I gazed through a nearby wall of patio doors to find a resplendent daffodil sun sitting high in a pretty Gatorade-blue sky. The shop-lined boulevard was filled with tourists eager to purchase souvenirs, hop on a trolley, or grab frosty drinks and/or treats.
“Do you see something of interest?” Ald asked as he tested an espresso, Jason, the waitperson, had just delivered with two macadamia biscottis. His head tilted to the left, then the right, before plopping a brown sugar cube into a stylish demitasse.
“A vampire, gorilla, and ballerina,” I replied with a trim smile, scanning the detective's handsome face. His thick hair was waved back, his nails immaculate, and subtle leather-scented aftershave graced smooth skin. Dressed in black linen pants and a Bugatchi sport shirt, he looked like a Neiman Marcus catalog model or the owner of a fashionable Rodeo Drive boutique.
We'd been here five minutes, making small talk, but not getting to the central theme of the conversation: what murder-related information could we exchange that might prove mutually beneficial?
He looked me up and down. “You look like you're heading out for the evening, Fonne, but not to celebrate Hallowe'en.”
In preparation for the meeting with Annia, I'd put on an understated but classic ensemble: a cocoa-brown linen skirt, fitted beige silk shirt with tiny mother-of-pearl cufflinks, and gold hoop earrings and simple gold chain. My chocolate-and-honey hair was pinned up with several fresh-water pearl hairpins – a “messy” look that required a lot of primping, fussing, and te
asing.
“Fonne?” I laughed. “What happened to JJ?”
He smirked and scanned the elegant restaurant replete with chrome and leather.
I took another sip of wine and eyed him closely. “Shall I start the conversation that you apparently don't want to?”
His smile was hard to place. Was it one of amusement? Patience? Impertinence?
I switched gears. “Do you come here often?”
“A couple times a month.”
“With suspects?” I joked.
“Just their supporters and defenders,” he replied flatly.
Mr. Amiable he was not. “Tell me about Hunt. You've never mentioned him in past.”
“He joined the department recently from MPD.”
“Maui?”
He nodded and bit into a biscotti.
“…How was the visit to Florida? Your brother's doing well, I hope?”
“He's dead.” There was no emotion in the statement.
I offered condolences, to which he shrugged. Sensing the topic was off limits for the interim, I moved onto the one that had brought about this get-together. “Do you really believe our client killed both men?”
He motioned Jason for another expresso and turned back slowly. “Hunt and I both do.”
“She didn't, Detective.”
He merely stared.
“What happened to being innocent until proven guilty?” I asked sharply. “You've deliberated facts and determined that she's the perfect fit for the crimes. Or maybe it's that you don't like truck drivers – or you simply don't like her – but whatever the case, you've concluded that she's culpable.”
Those Maya-blue eyes regarded me keenly, but he continued to remain silent.
I glanced up and down the boulevard and drew a deep, calming breath before turning back. “I'm surprised you haven't hurled any nasty comments. 'Like father, like daughter' would have been a good, albeit predictable shot.”
“That's really not my style, Fonne.”
Ald had usually been quite friendly and pleasant, so what had transpired in the last few weeks? It couldn't have been the unfortunate passing of his twin brother? I had to ask. “Why the sudden formality? I thought we were … well, if not friends, certainly first-name acquaintances.”
