“He’s been coopera—”
“Not that way,” Jansen said from behind me.
I spun, my heart pounding. Since the stabbing, I hated being snuck up on.
Jansen said, “We need your boy on the street. We need a CI.”
I swallowed hard; there was no way I was allowing Turi Ahina to act as a confidential informant. Not with what I already knew about Orlando Masonet and his organization.
“My client is no good to you in a coffin,” I said.
“And he’s no good to us behind bars,” Jansen volleyed. “But that’s where he’s going to be spending the next thirty years of his life if he doesn’t play ball. And that’s if he’s lucky. Because you, Mr. Corvelli, know as well as anybody that if someone wants to get to your client on the inside, it’s as easy as pie.”
The image of Brandon Glenn’s gravestone flashed through my mind. “Even if you put my client back on the street—even if he isn’t immediately killed—what makes you think he can get anywhere near Orlando Masonet?”
Jansen shot a glance at Boyd, then said, “Orlando Masonet is trapped on this island. We’re watching everything, every airfield, every harbor, every military base. Oahu is on lockdown, Counselor. Masonet won’t make a move until he knows it’s safe.”
“If you can’t identify Masonet,” I said, “what good does a lockdown do? And if Masonet knows you can’t identify him, why the hell does he have anything to fear stepping into an airport terminal?”
Boyd pursed his lips, no doubt weighing the odds of disclosing sensitive information to a defense attorney he wouldn’t trust pet-sitting his goldfish. Reluctantly he said, “We can’t identify Masonet by his face or even by any external markings such as tattoos or scars. But we do have information from a credible source that Masonet has a fraction of a large-caliber bullet lodged in his skull, an inch or so above the left ear. Too deep and too near the brain to risk surgery to remove it. It never presented much of a problem for him before, but now that the TSA can ostensibly subject every individual who boards a plane in this country to a full-body scan, it’s a whole new ballgame. Masonet knows we have this information; we know that because he slaughtered the doctor who provided it to us. So Masonet won’t risk leaving this island now that we know he’s here.”
“That’s where your client comes in,” Jansen added.
“And how’s that?” I said.
“Your client is going to offer Masonet an out.”
I stared at Jansen, smirked at Boyd. “Are you both out of your fucking minds? Turi sells forty-dollar bags of meth just to keep himself stuffed with kalua pig and poi. Masonet won’t believe for a second that Turi has the resources to transport him safely from Honolulu to the North Shore, let alone off the island entirely.”
“Of course not,” Jansen said. “And that’s where you come in, Counselor.”
“Me?” I said incredulously. “You are out of your fucking mind.”
As I started back toward the room holding Turi, Boyd grabbed my arm with such force that I nearly turned and cracked him across the face.
“You’ll want to hear Special Agent Jansen out,” he said firmly.
“I’m a lawyer,” I said quietly. “What incentive in hell could you possibly offer me to get me involved in this shit storm?”
“This is the only way your client walks,” Jansen said.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the racks at the airport,” I said, seething. “What makes you think I’d put my neck out for a client?”
“Not just any client,” Boyd said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” Jansen said, “that we know that Alika Kapua didn’t fire two bullets into his own chest the night he attempted to kill you in Kailua three years ago.”
CHAPTER 10
The plan was simple. Simple and as dangerous as a foolproof suicide attempt. The feds would move money to make it appear as though I surreptitiously bailed Turi out, a move that could get me suspended or disbarred in and of itself. Once Turi was back on the street, he’d get word to his associates that he needed to rendezvous with the kingpin Orlando Masonet himself, that he had under his thumb a criminal lawyer named Kevin Corvelli, who was highly indebted to him and who could get Masonet safely off the island with a single wave of his magic wand. If everything went according to plan, a meeting would be arranged between Orlando Masonet and me. Once the feds had enough to identify Masonet, the rest was up to them. The only guarantee I was given was that the arrest wouldn’t come back to me.
I pulled my Jeep off H1 West into Ko Olina and passed through the gate, thinking about what Turi had told us about this Orlando Masonet. Or “Keyser Söze’s evil twin,” as some were known to call him. The details of Masonet’s past were unknown, but he was said to have come to power in the early nineties when the family-run Mexican cartels seized control of the Hawaiian drug trade.
Some insisted that Orlando Masonet was Colombian, others said that he was the bastard son of Panama’s former military dictator Manuel Noriega. Still others claimed he was an orphan raised by jackals on Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. Whatever his background, all agreed that Orlando Masonet was a man-killer. He took control of the cartels and consolidated power through brute force and intimidation, leaving a wake of bodies only the hardest of Mexicans had ever seen. He oversaw every aspect of the business personally until the late nineties. Just as his ruthlessness became legend, Orlando Masonet disappeared. But only in the flesh. His organization continued on as fluidly as ever with all members behaving to this day as though Orlando Masonet were steps away, watching their every move, hearing their every word. And sure enough, even now, when someone crossed Masonet, his body turned up on the rocks off Ka‘ena Point, if it ever turned up at all.
Of course, few successful criminals achieve power without the help of the cops. It was said that Orlando Masonet was no exception. In return for protection, Masonet aided Hawaiian law enforcement in their efforts to take down Asian gangs. When upper-echelon Asian gang members couldn’t be caught, they were killed. Masonet didn’t care how he eliminated his competition—through force or through the courts—so long as they said their last aloha in the Hawaiian Islands.
As I pulled into my driveway, I was hit with a wave of nausea. Time for my pills. But they could wait until I got inside. I needed to feed Skies, and I needed a nice tall glass of Glenlivet.
The moment I stepped into my living room I noticed a small red-orange dot glowing in the far corner.
My first thought was, Who in hell would have the balls to smoke in my home?
My second thought was far more practical. I reached for my cell phone as I flicked on the lights.
“Relax, Kev. It’s a joint, not a cigarette.”
Scott Damiano sat cross-legged on a folding chair blowing smoke out his nose.
“We’re on a first-name basis now?” I said, trying to catch my breath without demonstrating that I’d lost it.
“I figured if we’re going to be working together and all…”
“Yeah, well, if this is the interview, you’d better start jazzing up the résumé and searching on Craigslist.” I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter and moved toward the liquor cabinet. “How the hell did you get in here anyway?”
“Your garage door was unlocked.”
“No, Scott, it wasn’t.”
“Well then, it wasn’t locked enough.”
I twisted the cap on the Glenlivet and took a swig straight from the bottle. “You’ve been in Hawaii, what, eight hours? How the hell do you have a joint already?”
“One of your neighbors.”
“Really? Which one?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But pass it over; I’m having one hell of a day.”
CHAPTER 11
A few minutes after I arrived at the office the next morning, Jake stepped through my door, waving a pink message slip.
“FBI called, son. A Spec
ial Agent Neil Slauson. Says he’d like you to bring the governor in for a sit-down.”
I tossed back the pills I had in my hand and washed them down with Red Bull. “It was just a matter of time, I guess. I’ll have Hoshi set something up for this afternoon.”
“I realize it’s none of my business, son”—Jake motioned with his sagging chin to the prescription bottle on my desk—“but are you still experiencing pain from that stab wound to your gut.”
I stared at the bottle. “I’m experiencing pain from the entire event.”
He gave a slow nod. “Fair enough, I reckon.”
We were saved from any further discussion by Hoshi’s voice over the intercom: “Flan’s here.”
“Good,” I told her. “Ask him to wait in the conference room. Jake and I will be right down.”
Once we settled into the conference room, I explained to Jake and Ryan Flanagan, our full-time investigator, the plan that Jansen and Boyd expected me to carry out.
“This is as dangerous as it gets,” I told them, “but for reasons you both know, it’s something I’ve got to do. But I don’t expect either of you to put your lives on the line for my debts.”
Jake whistled. “We’re not only talking bodily harm here, son. We’re talking serious ethical violations with no safeguards in place. When all this is over, the state bar can come after your license, and I guarantee that Jansen and Boyd will be in no position to help your cause, even if they wanted to.”
I nodded. “That’s why I’m proposing a temporary split. We dissolve the firm of Harper and Corvelli on paper, and each of us flies solo until the heat clears.”
Jake stroked his chin. “May be for the best. If you get your license yanked, at least we can continue under the Law Offices of Jake Harper until the dust settles. We can recruit a young associate and you can play Cyrano de Bergerac for as long as you need to.”
“Then it’s decided,” I said. “The feds will move one million dollars into a Swiss account, which I’ll then use to make Turi’s bail. I’ll use a fake identity, but the paper trail will lead back to me if and when Orlando Masonet goes looking.”
Flan shook his head. “What if Masonet has Turi smoked the minute he steps out of the FDC?”
“He won’t,” I said. “Masonet is going to want to know what Turi told the feds, so if he does anything, he’ll abduct Turi, maybe torture him to find out if he sang.”
“Well, then,” Flan said with a smirk, “sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Remind me not to save your life because I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be in Turi’s shoes right now.”
“Turi will be protected,” I said. “I’ve already hired a private security firm to watch him from the minute he steps out of the FDC. And while he’s on the street, he’s going to have his own personal bodyguard.”
“Won’t that appear a little suspicious?” Jake said.
“Not if the bodyguard is one of my own guys. That plays right into Turi’s story to Masonet about how I’m indebted to him and will do anything to protect him.”
“One of your own guys?” Flan said, gulping visibly.
“Not you,” I assured him. “You work for Jake, and Jake and I are going to be handling the governor’s matter collectively. You’ll be assigned to that investigation for the time being.”
“Then who’s playing Secret Service?”
“Scott Damiano.” I filled Jake and Flan in on Scott’s story.
After a few moments of silence, Jake sighed heavily. “What the hell did I get myself into when I rented you that office, son?”
I shrugged. “No one lives forever, Jake.”
“Not around you they don’t.”
I pushed my chair out, stole a look at the mountain range in the distance, the clouds so thick around its peaks, it looked as though the mountains themselves were on fire.
“All right,” I said. “Enough fun for this morning. It’s time to get to work. I’ve got to call this FBI agent Slauson and escort the governor in for questioning.”
As I made for the door, Jake half-chuckled, half-coughed. “Good thing you moved out here to paradise to avoid any real responsibility.”
Good thing, indeed, Jake.
CHAPTER 12
Special Agent Neil Slauson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation met with us in his office on Ala Moana Boulevard late that afternoon, accompanied by a younger female agent named Wendy Chan. Once introductions were made, Chan remained silent as Slauson, with his slicked-back gray hair, launched into a needless preamble as to why the FBI was involved in the Oksana Sutin homicide investigation.
“We’re concerned about certain individuals within the Honolulu Police Department,” Slauson said matter-of-factly. “And this particular investigation involves a number of sensitive issues, not the least of which is the governor’s apparent relationship with the deceased.”
I sat forward in my chair, hoping to cut short another long-winded diatribe on the FBI’s national efforts to combat public corruption on all levels. “Governor Omphrey understands why you’ve requested this meeting, and he wishes to assist your investigation in any way that he can. Unfortunately, the governor’s knowledge of the victim is exceedingly limited, and his knowledge of the circumstances surrounding her death is practically nil. So with that in mind, we’d ask that you commence your questioning so that the governor can continue his day’s itinerary with as brief an interruption as possible.”
Slauson bobbed his head slowly. “Understood, Mr. Corvelli.” He made a show of shuffling some papers around on his neatly arranged desk, then planted his elbows and folded his hands together just below his chin. “Governor, are you familiar with the name Lok Sun?”
Omphrey’s cheeks puffed up and a smug smile played on his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at Chan, “is that a restaurant of some sort?”
I bit down hard on my lower lip and let Slauson field the question.
“No, sir,” Slauson said without humor. “Lok Sun is a name.”
“Either way,” Omphrey said, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it.”
“How about your wife, Pamela? Might she know the name?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
A brief silence followed. Not for the first time I wondered what the hell I was doing sitting next to Wade Omphrey. Surely the state of Hawaii would be better off without him at the helm, his guilt or innocence aside.
Slauson said, “I was made to believe by your attorney that you would prefer to keep your wife out of this investigation, if at all possible.” He paused a moment. “Considering the circumstances.”
Omphrey glanced at me, then said, “Of course, of course.” His jowls trembled as he shook his head. “No, I’m certain Pamela has no knowledge of…”
“Lok Sun,” Slauson said again. “He may also use the name Park Wu.”
“I’m sorry,” Omphrey said. “Again, no knowledge.”
“Maybe if you put these names into some context,” I suggested.
“At this point, I suppose there is no compelling reason not to,” Slauson said. “The evidence gathered thus far suggests that Ms. Sutin was murdered using the colorless, crystalline alkaloid called strychnine. It is a very well-known poison but it is very seldom seen in homicide cases.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” I said, “strychnine is commonly used to cut cocaine and heroin. Is it possible Ms. Sutin’s death was accidental?”
Slauson shook his head. “There was no evidence of any street drugs found at the victim’s residence, and by all accounts Ms. Sutin was not a recreational drug user.”
“No,” the governor said. “Oksana was a social drinker but she didn’t dabble in drugs.”
The way Omphrey said it, it sounded as though he’d tried to get her to partake on an occasion or two.
“Toxicology tests are pending,” Slauson said, “but we think the poison was slipped into one of Ms. Sutin’s food or beverage items in the home. Maybe a strong black tea she was known to drink.�
��
“And this Lok Sun you mentioned,” I said, “you believe he was the delivery mechanism.”
“Lok Sun,” Slauson said, “is a world-renowned hitman high on Interpol’s wanted list, though I know of no country with enough evidence to convict him. He’s known to most in the underworld as the Pharmacist, and poisons such as strychnine are part of his MO. Lok Sun is typically out of a country before a body is ever found. But this time, we got lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“As part of an unrelated investigation, the Drug Enforcement Administration has been watching all airports, all harbors, and all military installations since Sunday evening. Late Monday night, shortly before Ms. Sutin’s body was discovered, a Chinese national named Park Wu missed his flight back to Beijing. We have reason to believe that Park Wu is actually Lok Sun. We think he caught wind of the lockdown on Oahu and purposefully missed his flight. Logic would dictate that he is presently lying low in Chinatown.”
I immediately understood Slauson’s reasoning behind bringing us in, knowing damn well the governor—savvy enough and lawyered up—would not be forthcoming with any useful information. The sole purpose for the meeting was to feed us this information, hoping the information would make its way over the tapped phone lines and ever-watched Internet service providers of Hawaii. Slauson’s aim was to flush out Lok Sun, and he made no effort to mask his objective.
“We will find him,” Slauson said flatly an hour later when the meeting finally ended. “And we will find out which party is responsible for hiring him.”
CHAPTER 13
On the sidewalk outside the Federal Detention Center, I inadvertently stepped on a long brown slug, squashing it beneath the hard sole of my shoe. I felt it wriggle and die beneath my foot. I looked down at the length of ooze and wondered briefly how old the slug was, how long slugs were expected to live. The hand of grief reached out and grabbed me by the throat, and for a moment I thought I might vomit on the sidewalk in the blush of the setting sun.
Turi’s wide smile spared me any further despair. He peered up and down the boulevard before finally staring straight at me. Being released from federal prison is typically an invigorating experience, but not when far darker forces are likely waiting for you on the outside.
Last Lawyer Standing Page 4
