by Tyler Colins
“I was talking about the one by the fountain. What a great costume!”
It was indeed – the man (or woman) had Porky Pig down to a T – from the bow tie and jacket to the rotund little body and pink coiled tail.
Gail whistled. “That must have taken hours to sew.”
“Do we really think we're going to see Colt or discover something of note?” Rey demanded.
“Of course not,” Linda responded dryly, sucking back the last of the liquid sweetness. “But you have to admit, it's kind of fun.”
I chuckled and concurred, and dug into a chunk of corn bread purchased at ABC. It was moist and sweet, and delicious. I sighed with contentment as I settled back and chewed.
“Let me have the binoculars,” Gail requested.
Linda reached for the Bushnell Permafocus field glasses under the front passenger seat. “Maybe a couple of us should check out the place?”
“The building or the condo?” I asked.
“B&E is a big fat no-no re the condo,” Gail declared. “But I did see a security guard as we drove past. He might prove a chatterbox if asked the right questions … by the right person.”
Gail, Linda and I turned to Rey, who was about to bite into a chunk of cheese. After looking from one face to the next, she chomped into the cheddar.
“Go for it, Missy.” I pointed toward the building.
Tucking the calcium-infused food into a cheek like a squirrel might a peanut, she snidely asked, “What if Traitor Boy happens to walk into the lobby?”
“All the better,” I grinned. “You can start pumping the guy for information.”
“As long as that's all I pump,” she said with a droll smile.
We chuckled and watched Rey get into character. Slinging the strap of a Michael Kors cross-body bag onto a shoulder, she checked her make-up, primped hair, popped a mint candy, and adjusted the scoop-necked T-shirt so it showed more cleavage. “The canine wonder dog comes with me.”
She and Button were on the sidewalk before I could respond.
“Are you looking to hire for your agency?” Gail inquired as we watched Rey and Button enter the edifice.
“Are you looking for a new job?”
“This beats working a full-time, desk job.”
“You'd give up your pension and benefits, and security?” Linda sounded awed.
“If the pay's right, why not?”
I grabbed Linda's arm. “Isn't that Colt?”
“Where?”
“There!”
The Roger Moore – Simon Templar look-alike was strolling along the sidewalk from the opposite direction, a laptop bag slung from a broad shoulder. The arm that had been in a sling the other night was tucked close to the body, as if it were stiff or aching.
“If anyone can duck suspicion, Rey can. She's a good actress,” Linda murmured, her eyes riveted ahead.
“Here's hoping.” Gail leaned forward so that she was between Linda and me.
Transfixed, we watched.
Several minutes later, Rey and Colt stepped from the building and headed in our direction. He was walking Button and they were laughing.
As if in telepathic communication, the three of us simultaneously melted in our seats like butter on freshly roasted corncobs.
“Can you see anything?” Linda whispered.
“Yeah, a steering wheel,” I muttered.
“I'll look.” Gail warily stretched upward. “They're heading toward the Aquarium.”
“They'll walk along Kuhio Beach is my guess,” Linda offered.
“Or head toward the canal maybe,” I put forward.
“I think we've lost her and Button for the rest of the evening.”
“Let's hope she doesn't lose us,” I murmured.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three sets of glazed eyes watched the door open slowly. In bounded tail-wagging Button and glassy-eyed Rey, a long-stemmed red rose in one hand.
Bonzo, perched on Gail's lap, hopped to the floor and he and his friend raced happily from the living room into the lanai.
“Whoa. A smashed welcome-home committee.” My cousin gazed from three empty polka-dotted cocktail glasses to an empty carafe to a full one. “Did you guys decide to hold a liquid slumber party?”
“We did. And you're looking a bit 'smashed' yourself,” Linda commented crisply, stretching bare legs onto an ottoman.
After waiting in the Nissan for twenty minutes and receiving no calls or texts, we'd gathered sleep-over stuff at Gail's and returned to the condo. That had been two hours ago. At the moment, we were sporting knee-length oversize nightgowns with jubilant comical creatures (apparently, we'd caught the same Macy's sale).
“How was the impromptu date?” Gail's question was slightly garbled.
“Surprisingly pleasant.” Removing her sandals, Rey got a rocks glass from the armoire and helped herself to the icy mixture before refilling glasses. She sniffed and took a sip. “Whoa Nelly! What's in here – 150 proof?”
“None of us are real rum drinkers, so we went for a bottle of Jolly Jumpin' Tyme, based on Linda's recommendation,” I explained.
“She thought the cartoon parrots were cute,” Gail further clarified.
“That's my girl,” Rey laughed, slipping into an armchair.
“And how's my girl?” I asked, watching the two fuzzies play with a donut-shaped squeaker toy.
“Walked and fed.”
Oh-oh. “Fed?”
“Six strips of beef jerky, which she totally loved.”
“I bet she did.” Hopefully, they wouldn't create digestive issues.
“So?” Linda demanded.
“So-o, we walked along Kalakaua to Lewers and then over to Kuhio. Button got compliments. I got whistles. And, despite the discolored eye and facial scabs, Colt got appraising glances – from women and men.”
Linda did a Rey thing and emitted a loud raspberry.
“Surely you didn't walk the whole time?” Gail asked, sucking back more of the fruity rum punch.
“Surely we didn't.” Rey leaned back and relaxed. “There's a small dog-friendly patio Colt frequents when he wants to unwind. We had drinks – white wine for those with inquiring P.I. minds.”
“How'd you explain your presence in the building is what I wanna know,” Gail stated.
“Me, too. Start from the beginning,” I instructed, diving into my third drink. There'd be a price to pay in the morning, especially considering it was a working one, but right now, who cared?
“After my furry friend and I sashayed into the lobby, I introduced myself to Sylvester, the security guard. The dude was totally blown away by Button's 'adorableness', as he called it. I explained that I was here to meet Colt and wanted to surprise him. He seemed hesitant, but then advised that Colt was out for the evening, so I requested he allow us access. You don't get anywhere without asking or trying.”
“Or being ballsy,” Linda winked.
Rey grinned. “Just after Sylvester said he couldn't, in walked the man himself, so Button and I waltzed over.”
“He must have been floored to see you,” I said.
Rey shook her head. “Calm and collected.”
“Would we have expected otherwise?” Gail finished her drink with a satisfied (if not askew) smile.
I wondered if I looked tanked-up as my friends.
“He asked how I knew where to find him and I said, 'I'm a private eye, remember?' Then I told him I was in the neighborhood and thought he might like to join Button and me for costume watching.” She slid down to get more comfortable. “While he went upstairs to drop off stuff, I listened to Sylvester and Mrs. Benton chat about her losing her key again.” She smiled deviously. “I know where the master key is kept.”
“Great stuff.” Linda toasted her best friend.
“When Colt returned, he suggested we do drinks and pupus. I said that'd be nice; I was up for a spicy enchilada.” She laughed heartily.
As did we.
“And that, fellow detectives
, is how the evening began.”
* * *
“So, he's lived on Oahu ten years –”
“And he's into wine, racquetball, Italian and Japanese cuisine,” Linda took over for Gail as the woman moved into the kitchen to prepare a fourth pitcher.
“And he loves jazz and blues,” Gail added from behind the counter.
“As well as fishing, sailing and cooking,” Linda finished.
“Colt didn't happen to mention he was a traitor to his colleague, agency, or country, did he?” I asked drolly.
“Sadly, no,” Rey responded with feigned disappointment, then grinned when Bonzo leapt onto her lap. “Silly-billy boo-boo.” She pulled his ear affectionately and kissed him on the head.
Linda and I exchanged pleased glances: who'd have ever believed Reynalda Fonne-Werde would evolve into Bunny Mom?
“You're still meeting on Sunday?” Gail asked, entering with the pitcher. Either her legs were wobbly or my eyes were.
“No, something came up. But he said he'd call Monday or Tuesday to reschedule,” she explained. “That night out will provide the perfect opportunity for you to check out the condo.”
“Did we not agree that breaking and entering was a major no-no?” Gail looked stern as she poured more drinks.
“Even if we wanted to, there's no way to get in,” Linda emphasized.
“A master key will do the trick,” Rey sing-songed.
“Ri-ight. We'll just breeze behind the security desk and help ourselves,” Linda snickered.
“I do have Cousin Willy's B&E kit.”
“Former cousin, you mean? You divorced Fabio several years ago,” Linda pointed out.
“We stay in touch,” Rey sniffed.
“I don't want to discuss illegal entry or hear about a B&E kit,” Gail said.
“If you want to join the agency, you have to liberate a scruple or two,” Linda teased.
“Where there's a will, ladies, there's always a way,” Rey said gaily (or drunkenly).
Linda and I gazed at Gail.
“Where there's a will, there's always a way,” she repeated with a resigned sigh.
“Hey, considering you're Harry's cousin, should you be so by the book?” Rey challenged with a playful smile.
“Hey,” she responded with the same smile. “There's a black sheep in every family. Bad career choice and dubious associates aside, he's a decent guy. You'd never know he's a major contributor to charities … unless you knew.” She found that humorous and doubled up like a spectator at a Just for Laughs festival.
Her uproarious laughter proved infectious.
* * *
“Yes, I heard they were going to do that,” I told Ric over the phone late Saturday morning.
It was a few minutes after eleven and I'd just returned from a fast-paced two-mile walk with Button. The drinks last night – and the resulting hangover – had rendered a pre-sunrise run or jog impossible while three Advil and an extra-large creamy latte had made work doable. Just. (Thank goodness for skilled, and sympathetic, make-up artists.)
Grabbing a bottle of water, I parked myself on a counter stool and focused on Ric. His voice sounded unusually agitated. Buddy's arrest had really upset him. Interesting.
“Will you post bail?”
“As soon as Roch Chandrake can get in there to arrange it.”
Chandrake – the prominent attorney whose handsome face graced screens and papers frequently? “Percey Pastille is the lawyer Buddy had lined up.”
“The kid's too green. She needs someone with clout and a proven track record.”
“What about Flankton Teela, your brother's lawyer?”
“We don't get along,” he muttered. “No, Chandrake's the way to go.”
“She can't afford –”
“Let me worry about what she can't afford,” he asserted. “In the meantime, you three get out there and find my brother's killer.”
I was about to point out that we weren't on his payroll, but sensed that would prove futile. “I'm going to tell the police about Coco,” I advised.
A deep ragged breath shot through the radio waves like a rocket propelling a spacecraft. “You may be opening Pandora's box.”
“They'll find out eventually. Besides, this may prompt the police to focus on nutty Mr. Peterson and, subsequently, discover something to exonerate Buddy,” I explained. “I have a hunch there's a connection.”
“There's a connection, honey, of this there's no doubt,” he asserted gruffly. “But keep your eyes peeled for the evils that may bolt out of the Greek lady's box.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Just before two Saturday, Linda and I strolled into an Irish pub decorated with dozens of leprechauns. Rey had had to beg off as she'd had to stop by the agency to discuss a potential voice-over for a tourist company called Happee Hoppin' Choppers. The gig could last for years, as it had for the late Sunnie Ho-Lee, who'd been flattened by a steamroller when – after six Bloody Marys – she'd raced a mongoose across a road under repair.
Cardboard cut-outs of the little bearded fairies decorated brick walls while stuffed ones hugged pewter ceiling lamps. One even sat behind a grate in an unused fireplace; considering its hideous gnarled face, the recess seemed an appropriate pen. Wooden benches and settle-seats, timber beams and a polished hardwood floor lent a cottage look while Flook, an Anglo-Irish band floating through corner speakers, made you feel as if you were in the land of moss and shamrocks.
Grilling Mark Jack Deon was the mission. Hopefully, we'd be more successful with this one than the two we'd had earlier: speaking to Ald and connecting with the “witnesses”.
Much as he'd described himself over the phone, it was easy to spot the forty-seven-year-old balding man of average height and build. Wearing a purple sweatshirt advertising Texas barbecue, the former entrepreneur's face was reminiscent of a Montana farmhouse, one that been warm and comforting and appealing in its day, but had withered with time and neglect. He was leaning across the end of the bar, eyeing the legs of a tall, pretty bartender like a starving dog would a T-bone steak.
“Mr. Deon?”
He offered a Muttley laugh, proving silly snickers weren't confined to animated fictional characters. “Hey there. You must be JJ Fonne.” Slate-gray eyes glanced along my frame, and I suspected they saw beyond the jeans and T-shirt. They did the same with Linda. “And you're Linda Royale, right?”
She forced a smile, but looked far from amused. She didn't like smarmy men any more than I did.
“Let me buy you ladies a beer.” He led the way to a carved monk's settle bench. “Hey, Jan, two Harps!”
(Add-on to previous statement: smarmy, loud men.)
“You're detectives, huh?” His gaze dropped to my chest and quickly moved up again.
I fought an urge to give a Stooge two-fingered eye-poke.
“Are you going to ask where I was the night of Picolo's murder?” he jostled Linda's arm.
She jostled back. Hard. “Where were you, Mr. Deon?”
“Call me Mark.”
“Where were you, Mark?” Linda asked with another forced smile.
“At a strip joint with three pals. I can give you their names.”
“Please.”
“No problem, darling.” He pulled a bunch of folded papers and cards from his jeans and a pen from a passing server, and jotted names and numbers onto the back of an electrician's business card. “What else can I help you with?”
“Who do you believe murdered Jimmy Picolo?” Linda asked, acknowledging Jan as she placed three frosty mugs on the table. She didn't appear any keener on the suds than me. On the way over, we'd grabbed vanilla milkshakes to quell queasy stomachs (courtesy of last night's rum-punch mayhem, er, merrymaking). “Yes, we know a number of people could have done it, but who is your prime suspect?”
“There are pools going. My bet's on the brother, Ric.”
“Sibling rivalry?”
“Serious sibling rivalry and bad blood.” Deon swigged bee
r and sighed gratefully.
“We heard Little Brother Ric was angry because Big Bruddah Jimmy had a thing going with his girlfriend,” I said casually.
“Bruddah Jimmy?” He smirked and emptied his mug in six gulps, and motioned for another. “He had things with a few of Ric's girlfriends … and also went after Ric's suppliers and vendors, and associates, to further his own business objectives.”
Recalling the journals Kent had found, on a hunch, I asked, “Was Jimmy Picolo threatening or blackmailing people? … Maybe you?”
Deon's jowls shifted twice. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
Jowls shifted again and he eyed his reflection in a tall rectangular mirror nearby. “He never blackmailed me. That's not quite his style. I was going through a rough patch in 2008 and 2009, and the prick helped me keep afloat by providing … funding.”
“We're talking loan-sharking, right?” Linda asked.
“He'd have called it factoring or financing.” Deon shrugged. “He finally acquired – seized – my company in 2012, which happened quicker than a BAC Mono.” He shrugged again and watched Jan approach with the beer.
“He got it because you couldn't pay back the 'funding',” Linda stated for the record.
Deon nodded glumly.
“What did he have on you?” I prodded gently.
Tiny lips drew into a tight line. “He found out about my fingers in the till a few years back. The ass had a gift for obtaining obscure information.” His loud and angry laughter was as grating as a jackhammer chewing up pavement. “The guy's good and he's incredibly patient. He could have used that against me earlier, but he waited until he knew the neighborhood my company was located in was going to go through major development.”
“Is there anyone else you think may have wanted to kill him?” Linda gave a look that suggested she was ready to move on. She'd receive no argument.
Deon studied the frosty mug. “Reynard Joachim and Pierre Rabah Kostov would be prime candidates, but both have been dead a couple of years.”
“How'd they die?”
“Joachim was hit by an SUV one night while fixing a flat on a dark side road. Kostov committed suicide. The guy lost his business, his wife – and his mind – when he shot himself in the head. I heard there was splattered brain matter all over the den door. It was such a mess, they had to bring in the big guns to get it clean.”
