by Kathi Daley
“And the arm?” I asked.
“We’ll bag it and take it in for the medical examiner to look at once the crime scene guys give us the all clear to remove whatever we find of the victim.”
“I’m not sure I can tell you much more than I already have and I’m already late for work, so I was hoping you’d let me go. Drake has been particularly difficult to work with lately and I don’t want to give him any more reason than he already has to ruin my life. If you have additional questions or need me to do anything, you know where to find me.”
“That’s fine. I’ll call you later.”
Chapter 2
“Kill me now,” I said to no one in particular as I sat on the lifeguard stand at the family pool.
I work with five other WSOs who all rotate between the surfing beach, the family beach, and, the worst assignment of all, the family pool. Our actual boss, Mitch Hamilton, knows that I absolutely loathe the family pool, so back when he was the one doling out the assignments, he would more often than not spare me the pain. Then, a little less than a year ago, he’d promoted Drake, my archrival, to the position of his assistant and turned the scheduling over to him.
“No running,” I yelled at a group of kids ranging in age from post-toddler to preteen who insisted on running around the exterior of the pool no matter how many times I warned them not to. I’m generally a nice person who can get along with a variety of people, but with the exception of my niece and nephew, who I adore, kids and I generally mix about as well as oil and water.
“Excuse me, miss, but my daughter needs to go to the bathroom and I just smeared oil all over my body. If I move around too much it gets in my hair. Do you think you could take her?”
I looked at the sunburned haole dressed in the tiniest bikini I’d ever seen and explained that my title was WSO, not babysitter.
God, I hated the family pool.
If I made it through this shift with my sanity intact I was going to have a chat with my snake of a supervisor and somehow talk him into reassigning me for the following day. While this might be considered a reasonable request in some circles, the truth of the matter was that Drake and I had never gotten along. It pretty much had been hate at first sight when we met and our opinion of each other hadn’t softened with time. If Drake could make my life miserable without making himself look bad, you could count on that being exactly what he’d do.
There are days when I’d decide I really needed to quit this job and move on, but then someone would remind me that I make good money doing something I loved most of the time and putting up with Drake was really a small price to pay to keep me out of the fast-food industry.
“Lady,” a boy who looked to be seven or eight said from the foot of my chair.
“Yes?”
“I had an accident.”
“An accident?”
He turned and looked toward the pool, where the evidence of his accident was clearly visible.
This day just kept getting better and better.
“Okay; thanks for letting me know.” I picked up my megaphone. “Everyone out of the pool. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ll need to temporarily close the pool for decontamination.”
Apparently everyone knew what that meant because everyone scrambled out as quickly as if I’d just announced the water had turned to acid.
“Lani to base,” I said into my handheld radio.
“Go for Drake.”
“Accident in the pool.”
“Did you evacuate?”
“I just did.”
“Then let me know when you have it cleaned up.”
“Me?” I screeched. “Don’t we have maintenance people for that?”
“Doug is alone today and he went to lunch. You know what to do, so get to it. Call me when you’re done.”
Have I mentioned I hate the family pool?
As I cleaned and decontaminated the pool, I let my mind drift to the arm Sandy had found that morning. I wondered if the divers had been able to recover any more of the body or if the sharks had been thorough diners. As much as I hated the idea that Komo or one of the other food truck owners might have gone to such extreme measures to eliminate the man they’d all grown to loathe, the more I thought about it, that was exactly the sort of thing one or more of them might have been motivated enough to do.
Not that they were a violent group. Just the opposite, in fact. But there was a unique tradition surrounding the food trucks that populated the island and the culture, custom, and way of life the industry provided meant a lot more to the men and women who worked the trucks than just the income they derived from them. When Blaze Whitmore came along with his fancy truck and loss-leader pricing, he not only threatened the ability of his competitors to make a living but he threatened the culture as well.
I glanced at my watch and quickly calculated how long it would take for the chemicals I’d added to the pool to do their thing once I’d removed the solid matter. It would be another hour at least, so I decided to take my break then. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt over my bathing suit and headed indoors. Once I entered the air-conditioned main building, I crossed the lobby toward the reservation desk where my best friend, cousin, and roommate Kekoa Pope was working that day.
“Heard the family pool is closed,” Kekoa, who had long black hair, brown eyes, and brown skin, greeted me from behind the counter. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse and black skirt, which made her look pulled together and professional.
“A torpedo.”
Kekoa scrunched up her nose. “Ew.”
“Tell me about it. I thought this day started off on a pretty disgusting note, but it seems it just keeps getting grosser and grosser.”
“I also heard about your little adventure this morning. Have you heard from Jason?”
“No. I’ll call him later if he doesn’t get back to me. Did you also hear the victim was most likely the new food truck guy?”
She nodded. “Most likely? Was there any doubt?”
I grabbed the rubber band from my shorts pocket and pulled my hair into a sloppy bun. “The partial arm Sandy discovered had the bottom half of a tattoo on it. I’m sure it’ll turn out to belong to Blaze Whitmore, but they’ll have to pull a print off the hand, which was intact, to know for sure. I can’t help wondering if one of the rival food truck owners was responsible for the early morning feeding frenzy.”
“You don’t think Komo…?”
“No. Not Komo specifically, although he did threaten to take matters into his own hands if HPD didn’t do something about the guy poaching his customers.”
“Yeah, but Komo is a sweetie and he must have realized that while Blaze was a snake, he wasn’t doing anything illegal.”
I jumped up and sat down on the counter. Then I reached over and snagged a piece of gum from the drawer where I knew Kekoa kept her stash. “I think that’s the real problem. If Whitmore was doing something illegal HPD could have shut him down. Short of a legal reason to make him gone, a violent reason might have seemed necessary. The guy was creating a real problem. Once the food trucks began to lose business to the burger-for-a-buck deal, the business that was left became a valuable commodity and the competition between the vendors, who had previously existed harmoniously, began to intensify to the point where there’s been all sorts of feuding.”
“The guy had only been on the island for a few months,” Kekoa pointed out.
“Exactly. And look at the damage he did in that short time. I heard Zipper and Sarge got into a fistfight the other day. They used to be the best of friends.” The two men were vendors who specialized in burgers and sandwiches much like the ones being served at the burger-for-a-buck truck.
“I guess I never stopped to consider the fallout from having a delicate balance totally destroyed.” Kekoa paused to answer the phone before she continued. “Do you think Zipper or Sarge could commit murder?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Zipper is a really intense guy, and I
know he spent time in prison before moving to the island and setting up his food truck. And Sarge is ex-military. You can tell just by speaking to him that he has demons he barely manages to keep at bay. I suppose if Blaze did or said something to set one of them off, ending up as shark bait might very well be the result.”
I checked my phone while Kekoa handed a list of repairs to the guest services worker who’d stopped by to pick it up. There were two texts. One was from my oldest brother, who lived on Maui and worked for Maui PD, telling me to call my mother, and the other was from my mother, complaining that I hadn’t been by to visit in over a week. I loved my mother, I really did, but she seemed to be suffering from some sort of intensified empty nest syndrome ever since my youngest brother got married. Mom and my new sister-in-law didn’t get along, so my brother’s frequent visits to my parents’ house had come to an abrupt halt, leaving Mom at loose ends. What she really needed was a hobby. I thought that once my dad retired the pair would travel, or at least keep each other occupied, but he seemed to have his friends and his interests and she stayed home day after day, as she had for much of her life.
“Are we all set for tonight?” I asked after Kekoa returned her attention to our conversation. Kekoa and I lived in a condominium complex with five other units. Today was the birthday of our next-door neighbor, Elva Talbot, and Kekoa and I had planned a party for her at my boyfriend’s place. We’d invited the other residents of the complex, as well as a few of Elva’s friends from the senior center.
“We are,” Kekoa said. “I told everyone to be at Luke’s at around six. I thought we’d just BBQ on the patio. Everyone from the complex has confirmed, as have the five people from the senior center. I was just planning on doing steaks and sides. You aren’t aware of any food restrictions of the seniors, are you?”
“As far as I know, none of them have any restrictions. Janice usually stays away from dairy, but I think that’s by choice, not a medical issue. Tammy Rhea is almost always on a diet, but I don’t think there’s anything she can’t eat, and Beth is a vegetarian and usually brings along her own rabbit food when we have dinner parties.”
“I have a green salad as well as veggie kabobs and sourdough bread if she doesn’t bring her own food.”
“Are you going to make potato mac?”
Kekoa tucked her long black hair behind one ear. “I already did. It’s in the refrigerator, so as long as Cam doesn’t eat it before I get off work we should be good to go.”
“Did you remind Cam to pick up the cake at the bakery?”
“I did and he said he would.”
Cameron Carrington is Kekoa’s boyfriend and our third roommate. Cam and I had been friends since we were teens, and we both applied for jobs at the resort after we graduated high school. We found the condo complex, which is close to the resort as well as right on the beach, and Cam and I leased a two-bedroom apartment to share the rent. I invited Kekoa to live with us and she and I share a room; having a third roommate was really the only way we could afford a place in such a prime location.
Kekoa paused to answer the phone. When she finished the call she asked if I had spoken to Shredder recently: another of the residents in the complex. I hadn’t and asked why she’d asked.
“You know how Shredder is Mr. Mystery Guy?”
“Yeah, I know,” I answered. “What about it?” Shredder was nice enough, but he never shared any personal information with any of us. It was as if the door connecting his present to his past was firmly closed, with a big “Stay Out” sign on it. There’d been a time when his fierce secrecy had really bothered me, but after he’d saved my life on the ocean last summer, I’d decided he was entitled to keep his past to himself and began to accept him as he was, without worrying about who he was or what he might have done before I met him.
“I saw him this morning. Here, at the resort. I thought it was odd, so I followed him, and you’ll never guess where he went.”
“Where?” Dolphin Bay wasn’t the sort of place where Shredder normally hung out, but I still didn’t see why his coming here would cause Kekoa to go all James Bond in the middle of her shift.
“Remember the guy I told you about yesterday?”
“The guy who checked in a few days ago wearing a black suit, black dress shoes, and dark glasses who you were sure was FBI or CIA?”
“Yes, the man in bungalow six.”
“That’s who Shredder was visiting?”
“Yep. So do you still think I was imagining things when I told you I thought the guy was a fed? I bet the guy is Shredder’s handler. Or maybe he’s here to investigate Shredder. Or even arrest him.”
“If Shredder is on the run and the guy was here to arrest him, Shredder wouldn’t willingly go visit him.”
“That’s true. Maybe Shredder is a spy.”
“Shredder never goes anywhere. Spies travel a lot. But he might be in witness protection. Or maybe he’s some sort of an informant. Do you know anything else about the guy in bungalow six?”
“I know his name is Vince Kensington and he paid cash for a two-week stay. I mean, who pays cash for anything anymore?”
“Yeah, I guess that is odd, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a fed.”
“He’s passed by the desk several times, and every time he’s wearing that same black suit, or at least a similar one, and I’m pretty sure he has a gun because I noticed a bulge under his jacket. If he comes by again I’m going to drop something to see if I can get him to bend over. His jacket wasn’t buttoned, so it should hang open and I can get a look at what he’s hiding underneath.”
I grinned at Kekoa. “It looks like I’m rubbing off on you.”
Kekoa sighed. “I’m afraid you might be right. At least I haven’t broken into his bungalow to try to find out what he’s up to, which is the sort of thing you would do.”
“It does seem like our next move.”
“He most likely has a gun,” Kekoa reminded me.
“Do you want to know what his deal is or not?”
“I’m curious,” Kekoa admitted, “but I’m not sure I’m curious enough to actually break into his room.”
“Maybe you aren’t curious enough, but I am. I wonder if he’s in there right now.”
Kekoa didn’t know.
“Call his room,” I suggested. “If he answers ask him if he needs anything. If he doesn’t I’ll check it out.”
“The man has a gun,” Kekoa reminded me once again.
“Which is inconsequential if he isn’t in his room. Call.”
Kekoa did as I asked. Mr. Kensington didn’t answer, so I grabbed the master key, picked up a stack of towels from one of the maids’ carts, and headed to bungalow six. I figured I’d knock on the door to be sure he wasn’t there. If he answered I’d tell him I was there to deliver the extra towels he’d requested. If he denied asking for the towels I’d apologize and tell him I must have written down the wrong room. Of course he might find it odd that a WSO would be delivering towels, but if he asked I could say I was on a break and had been asked to drop them off on my way to lunch.
I passed the family beach and continued down the walkway, lined with colorful hibiscus, then passed the fork that led to the beach bar and continued to the bungalows. I knocked on the door of bungalow six. There was no answer. I knocked again and called out “Housekeeping” as I entered the room. I set the towels on the bathroom counter and headed back to the seating area at the front of the bungalow. There was a computer set up on the table near the window, but otherwise the room held few personal possessions. I headed to the bedroom and paused to take a look around. The bed was unmade, which led me to suspect the maid hadn’t been by yet. I opened the closet and found five black suits, all identical, along with at least a half dozen white shirts. Who comes to Hawaii and wears nothing but dark suits?
I looked down and noticed several pairs of shoes on the floor of the closet, all black, alongside a briefcase that, I quickly realized, was locked.
I closed the
closet doors and looked around the room. There was a blank pad of paper on the bedside table with a blue pen next to it with the cap off. Perhaps he’d made a note and then taken it with him. I pulled off the next sheet of paper on the top of the pad in case it held an impression of whatever might have been written on top of it. If the man was CIA or FBI chances were he’d be smart enough not to leave that sort of information behind, but it didn’t hurt to check it out.
I was about to start opening drawers when I heard someone at the door. I quickly dropped to the floor and then scrambled under the bed. I could only see the floor in front of me from my vantage point, but that was enough for me to identify the arrival as a maid. I knew I would have a hard time explaining why I was under the bed, so I waited for her to make the bed and move onto the bathroom. I should be able to sneak out of the bungalow while she scrubbed the shower.
“What are you doing in here?” I heard a deep voice ask.
“My name is Marta. I’m with housekeeping. I’m here to make up the bed and straighten the room. I can come back later to finish if this isn’t a good time.”
“The bed is fine. I already told the other woman I didn’t require cleaning services.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. This is my first day back after my vacation and no one passed on your request to me. Can I get you anything at all?”
“I noticed a stack of fresh towels in the bathroom, so I should be fine. I’ll call the desk if I need anything else.”
“Very well, sir. Enjoy your stay.”
Wonderful. Now I was trapped under the bed until the man who, according to Kekoa, never went anywhere, decided to go somewhere.
I was considering my options when his phone rang.
“Yeah?”
He paused, I imagined to listen to the person on the other end of the line.
