Restless Waters

by Jessica Speart

  There was one last item left inside the envelope. It was a business card for a company called Magic Dragon Medicinals. The tagline read, DISTRIBUTOR OF HEALTH AND VITALITY PRODUCTS.

  I interpreted that to mean, “We sell shark fin, rhino horn, bear gallbladder, and lots of other animal parts to keep you potent and feeling young.”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that they were also selling black-market Viagra. Come to think of it, Vinnie Bertucci could very well be in cahoots with them.

  Magic Dragon Medicinals and Magic Dragon Chinese Restaurants were clearly interconnected in some way. Both companies had the same name, were based in Hong Kong, and had been of interest to Stas Yakimov.

  “How’s it goin’ in there?” Vinnie called to me from the other room.

  I slipped the card into my pocket and walked out to meet him.

  “Pretty much as I expected,” I replied, wondering if Vinnie had found anything of interest. There was nothing in sight. If so, he’d decided to keep it well hidden.

  “What does that mean? Did you come up with anything or not?” he asked impatiently, dismembering a fingernail with his front teeth.

  I noticed that he didn’t spit it on the floor, but slid the sliver of nail into his pocket.

  “Not really. How about you?” I responded, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt.

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  Call me crazy, but Vinnie reminded me of the cat that ate the canary. All that was missing were the feathers sticking out of his mouth. Little Italy narrowed his eyes, and seemed to regard me with the same sense of suspicion.

  “Okay then. In that case, we should probably get out of here,” he advised.

  We left as we came, removing all signs of our presence. Climbing into his Lincoln, we headed back down the street to fetch my vehicle.

  We both remained silent, as if afraid that the least hint of sound would put a tear in our resistance. But the urge to speak continued to build inside me. I felt as if I were smuggling nuclear secrets out of the country, the papers nearly burning a hole in my bag. It was Vinnie that finally broke the deadlock.

  “Okay. Enough with the bullshit, already. Who do you think you’re kiddin’ here? We both know that we each found something. So what say we lay our cards on the table and reveal exactly what it is?” he proposed.

  Damn, but he was good at this. Vinnie pulled a white envelope from beneath his shirt that was boldly marked CONFIDENTIAL.

  “You show me yours, and then you get this,” Bertucci bartered.

  My fingers itched to snatch the envelope from him. Maybe it contained something. Then again, maybe it didn’t. There was only one way I’d ever find out. Besides, I’ve always been the kind of gal who rarely bets when the stakes are low, but gambles the house and goes for broke. I figured it was worth a shot.

  “Here. You might be interested in this,” I said, removing the Magic Dragon Medicinal card from my pocket.

  Vinnie seized it from my fingers.

  “Distributors for health and vitality products, huh?” he grunted. Whadda ya think? Maybe they’re selling erector pills to help guys launch their own personal-sized rockets?”

  “Yeah, it could be that they’re offering bootlegged Viagra,” I responded.

  “Yakimov might of had some kind of secret deal going on with these bums. For all I know, he coulda been supplying them with pills from our stash and pocketing the profits. That would explain where the money went.”

  “Anything’s possible,” I agreed.

  Vinnie snorted in disgust. “Terrific. A helluva lotta good this does me. The damn place is in friggin’ Hong Kong. What am I supposed to do? Catch a plane over there? I gotta find the guy that’s here on this end.”

  I was well aware that Vinnie bordered on being computer illiterate.

  “Tell you what. I’ll check this company on the Internet and see what I can find out,” I offered. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “I don’t know if these will be of any help with your lizards, but it must have been important to Yakimov.”

  I tried to take the envelope from him, but Vinnie held it just out of reach.

  “Of course, if it has anything to do with Viagra, you gotta tell me about that also,” he insisted.

  “I wouldn’t dream of withholding information from you,” I assured him.

  Vinnie handed me the envelope, and I plucked out two business cards. One was for Tat Hing Products, and the other for Africa Hydraulics. Both of these companies also were based in Hong Kong. The second card produced the same sensation I’d experienced earlier—the strong feeling that I’d seen this name somewhere before. Then a sickening feeling set in as things began to click together.

  A former boss, Charlie Hickok, used to brag about taking part in major sting operations during the “good old days” of Fish and Wildlife. Naturally, there’d always been those Moby Dicks that had gotten away. Africa Hydraulics had been one of them.

  They were a front company that smuggled and laundered vast quantities of elephant ivory from East Africa through the United Arab Emirates, and on into Hong Kong in the 1980s. Africa Hydraulics had been notorious as the main mover and shaker of the international ivory trade. They were believed to be responsible for having decimated a large portion of the elephant population.

  That’s when another chip fell into place. The owner of Africa Hydraulics had been a man by the name of George Leung. Was it possible that the same greedy people were now involved in the shark-fin trade? Just the thought of it sent me reeling. If so, I already knew what to expect—the consequences for sharks would be no less devastating.

  Leung nearly managed to wipe out elephants, not stopping until international law had finally clamped down. He’d do the same thing when it came to sharks, slaughtering them until no more were left. I blinked back tears of rage and frustration, realizing what I was possibly up against.

  “Did you find anything else?” I grimly questioned.

  Vinnie glanced at me, his eyebrows arching, as if wondering what was wrong.

  “That’s it,” he responded, and then stared straight ahead.

  Damn, I felt certain that he was holding something back. But there was no time to find out, as he pulled into the lot and parked next to my Explorer.

  “Okay, New Yawk. This is where you get out.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I questioned.

  Vinnie looked at me with a strange expression.

  “How about my gun?” I reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Just be careful with that thing. It’ll get you in big trouble. Also, remember to check out that Magic Dragon shit and get back to me pronto,” he ordered.

  What in hell did he think? That he’d suddenly become my personal Godfather? I bristled, but said nothing. Instead, I watched as he drove off. Then I searched for the nearest pay phone and placed a call to the local police.

  “I want to report a homicide at 85 Hyacinth Street in Nanakuli,” I informed the desk duty officer.

  “Oh, you do, do you?” he cynically bantered, as if used to such practical jokes. “And just who is this?”

  “Who is this?” I countered.

  “Desk Sergeant Hammel,” the officer brusquely responded.

  “Well, Sergeant Hammel, this is no joke. I suggest you get someone over to that address pronto,” I said, and immediately hung up.

  Then I phoned the best animal shelter that I knew of on Oahu.

  “There’s a crime scene at 85 Hyacinth Street in Nanakuli, and a number of pit bulls are in need of temporary shelter. The police are already on their way over,” I disclosed.

  “Exactly how many dogs are you talking about?” the female voice on the other end of the line inquired.

  I counted the snarling canines, one by one, in my head. “I believe there are five in total.”

  “All right. I think we can handle that. I’ll just need your name, address and phone number, please,” the woman briskly ad
vised.

  “Sorry, but I can’t give that information out at this time.”

  There was a moment of silence before she replied.

  “I understand. Thanks for letting us know about the dogs. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of them.”

  “Um, one more thing. There’s also a mountain lion,” I added.

  “You are joking, right?” the voice sternly cross-examined.

  “No. I’m afraid I’m deadly serious,” I answered. “I’ve heard there’s a big-cat specialist somewhere on the island. Do you think that she could possibly house the cougar for now?”

  The woman sighed. “I know who it is. I’ll contact her, if you like.”

  “That would be terrific. Thanks again,” I said and hung up, with one less concern on my mind.

  Then I slipped into my Ford and sat there for a while, not yet ready to go home, but unsure of exactly what to do next. The one thing I didn’t want to think about was Yakimov, and how he’d looked lying on his bedroom floor. But the image had become permanently seared into my head.

  Whoever had done the deed was frighteningly proficient with a knife. Stas had been cut to induce the maximum amount of pain. I realized I was gripping the steering wheel with all my might, the day’s tension having lodged in each of my ten little fingers. Only by now, it had become night.

  My thoughts drifted as I sat in the dark and watched the locals cruise in and out of the mom-and-pop shop. I was curious as to whether Sammy had ever been here. Funny, how we’d first met. I’d never have gone to the docks if it hadn’t been for the body found floating near the pier that day. In a sense, Charlie Hong had set the chain of events that followed into motion. Strange what a dead man could do. I wondered if he’d been nearly as influential in life as he’d become in death.

  Sammy believed that he’d been knocked off by another fin dealer. If so, Hong must have been powerful enough to present some kind of threat.

  I racked my brain as I tried to remember the name of his company. I finally gave up, and simply listened to the distant sound of the Pacific Ocean at my back.

  That was it! Hong’s business had been called Pacific Catch Products. It was also the one spot where I hadn’t yet thought to look.

  The police had written off Charlie Hong’s death as a suicide. As it turned out, that worked perfectly for me. It meant they wouldn’t have scoured his place, and there might still be something left to find.

  I picked up my cell phone, called information, and got the address. What do you know? Pacific Catch Products was located at Pier 33 on the Honolulu docks. I turned on the Ford’s engine and sped there now, no longer caring about the dull pain that throbbed in my arm.

  If the docks seemed like a different world during the day, at night they became downright lurid. Longliners still filled the piers, where they bobbed like toy boats in a bathtub. But the evening brought into play another type of fishing as well. Sailors were now joined by a colorful parade of hookers.

  The girls trawled the wharves, flirtatiously going from boat to boat, where they serviced each man who was willing, flush, and able. Their high heels click, click, clicked on the wooden boards, the sharp staccato beat like that of a traveling troupe of flamenco dancers. One girl walked over to a car that idled nearby. The next moment, she disappeared inside, only to reappear again a few minutes later.

  Bright lights lined the piers, giving the docks a party atmosphere, as fishermen gathered together to drink, buy drugs, and get jacked up on ice. I now realized that Caucasians resided on one side of the wharves, carousing and playing cards, while Vietnamese and Filipinos kept their boats docked on the other. It was an entire subculture where Asians chattered among themselves as they cut up fish and threw the pieces into cooking pots. Meanwhile, the boat owners resided in Diamond Head, living high on the hog.

  Underlying all this was a low, steady groan that worked its way through my bones. It was the moan of boats pulling against their ropes, accompanied by the putt, putt, putt of bilge pumps spitting out water. The slap of the ocean lapped against their hulls in a mesmerizing fashion that seduced me. Perhaps it was to lure my attention from the fact there was no law enforcement on the docks at night. Neither the state wildlife division nor the National Marine Fisheries Service had an officer anywhere in sight. It made this the perfect time in which to smuggle illicit cargo.

  I continued to cruise the docks, curious as to what I would find. It wasn’t long before I managed to trip across something. Four Asian crew members had begun to haul large, black garbage bags off a longliner. Ten, fifteen, twenty sacks were tossed into the back of a pickup truck that sat parked next to their boat. I decided to mosey on over, being that I had the perfect cover—yet another haole tourist that had stumbled upon the docks while out for a joyride.

  “Wow! You guys must have had a good trip. It looks as if you caught a lot of fish,” I remarked, slowing my Explorer to a crawl.

  The men glanced at me and smiled, but said nothing.

  “What did you catch? Maybe I’d like to buy something,” I chattered on, remaining intrepidly cheerful.

  That brought a rapid response to their lips.

  “No fish. No fish for sale,” one of them irritably replied and waved me aside, as if my presence was cramping their style.

  “Then what have you got in there?” I stubbornly persisted.

  “Only our laundry,” another responded, after which they all turned their backs to me.

  Uh-huh. As if they weren’t standing on a dingy longliner but sipping drinks on a luxurious cruise ship. That would have been the only explanation for hauling such an extensive wardrobe out to sea. Either that, or the men liked to change their clothes at least three times a day.

  I watched as they drove away. The pickup didn’t go very far, but stopped at a locked gate near the other end of the pier. One of the men jumped out, opened it, and guided their vehicle through. Then the enclosure was once again fastened behind them.

  I waited a few minutes before following, carefully parking so that my Explorer was just out of view. Then, grabbing a flashlight, I snuck up to the gate and peered through. A warehouse area lay spread like a grimy city behind it. I quickly checked that no one was around, and pulled myself over the chain-link fence.

  Sixteen

  My feet thudded on asphalt, the sound dully echoing in the night. It mixed with the low rumble of boat generators as I scurried toward a building that had its lights on. It was there that the pickup sat parked, like a vehicular amputee, its rear end partially consumed by the building’s garage entrance.

  I hastened my pace, eager to learn what was taking place, only to hear a splash and realize that my feet were sloshing through liquid. The flashlight’s beam revealed a series of wastewater puddles laced with dark swirls of blood, which led me to wonder if they came from an animal or human. At the same time, an acrid aroma hit me full force, as if I’d been slapped across the face. It was the smell of ammonia; the very same odor that had clung to Kalahiki’s pants.

  There was no longer any question as to what was inside those black plastic garbage bags, or where Sammy had gone that night in search of more evidence. But I had little time to speculate further, having reached my destination.

  No one was in the pickup, and I leaned in to examine the front seat. Damn. There wasn’t a thing other than a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a couple of empty beer cans. Equally frustrating was that the truck’s back end blocked any view into the warehouse. I could hear voices inside, but there were no windows through which to peek. At least, not in this section of the building. Perhaps there’d be some along the rear. I began to head there now, fully determined to check it out.

  I was so focused on my mission that my heart nearly burst through my chest as a hand grabbed hold of my arm. I whirled around to find a man in his mid-forties, with a face as smooth and unlined as an eggshell. He stared at me with unblinking eyes that betrayed not the least hint of emotion. Rather, they were as vapidly cool as those of the lizard
that had been on my bedroom wall.

  “This is private property you’re on. Would you mind telling me what it is that you’re doing here?” he asked, in a tone as neutral as his expression.

  It was the intensity of his grip that gave him away. That, and the fact that I caught a glimpse of something deadly in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” I replied. “I’m looking for a Mr. Hong of Pacific Catch Products. Perhaps you can direct me to the proper building.”

  I didn’t wait to be released, but jerked my arm from his grip. The man continued to study me in what quickly became a staring contest. I could deal with that. My sister and I used to play the same game years ago. Best of all, I usually won.

  “Pacific Catch is out of business, and Charlie Hong’s not here anymore,” he finally said, ending the match. “How did you get in, anyway? The warehouse area is closed to traffic after five o’clock.”

  “Oh, really? That’s odd. I just came in through the gate,” I responded, hoping he wouldn’t bother to check.

  But my opponent wasn’t buying my explanation.

  “That’s impossible,” he said, his tone taking on a sinister edge. “The gate is always kept locked. I check it myself. Especially since there was a robbery here the other night.”

  My mind raced, wondering if the burglar had been Sammy. And, if so, what had he discovered? The only way I’d ever know now was to find out for myself.

  “That’s too bad. Someone must have accidentally left it open, the same as they did tonight. People will just have to learn to be more careful,” I said, and turned to leave.

  But my assailant stopped me by grabbing onto my arm again. Only this time, his fingers clamped down directly over my wound.

  “I suppose so. After all, accidents do happen. In fact, quite a few have taken place just recently on Oahu.”

  It felt as if jellyfish tentacles were burning through my skin, the pain so palpable that even my teeth began to ache. I tried to pull away, but the man refused to loosen his grip. Instead he smiled, as if aware of exactly what he was doing.

  “Let go of my arm,” I demanded, flinching as the pain traveled up inside my head.