by Kathy Reichs
My cheek was raw and my forehead had a lump the size of a peach pit. My hair was knotted atop my head. Poorly. I’d had no comb. And only tissues to remove my smeared mascara.
Fetching.
The radio hissed and spit the usual cop stuff.
Lô had donned John Lennon shades. Now and then I peeked his way.
Apparently, my curiosity wasn’t all that subtle.
“Norwegian mother, Vietnamese father.”
My eyes snapped front and center.
“A blessing I got the old man’s height.”
I glanced back at Lô.
“Scares the crap out of people.” Deadpan.
“I’d have guessed it was the shirt.”
“Icing on the cake.”
Silence filled the car for another mile. Then, “Ryan seems like good people.”
“He’s a prince.”
“He explained how you two roll.”
I didn’t reply.
“He says you’re OK.”
Though incapable of arranging my own transport home. I bit back a pithy retort.
Truth be told, I was more annoyed with myself for contacting Ryan than I was with Ryan for taking over. I knew the man’s style. I called anyway. My bad. But what the hell? Though hiding it, I was actually pretty shaken up.
“You disappointed me,” Lô said.
“I disappointed you?”
“Ryan swore the ‘little lady’ tag would bring a boatload of feces down on my head.”
“Did he.”
“The ‘ride-along’ bit was strictly mine.”
“Icing on the cake.”
“As it were.”
“You should go into comedy, Detective Lô. Maybe get a job writing for Tina Fey.”
“Yeah, that could work.” Lô nodded slowly, as though seriously considering the suggestion. “First I’ll nail the dogball who sent your car into orbit.”
“You think it was deliberate?”
“I intend to find out.” Lô flicked a glance my way. “You want, I could take you up to Lanikai.”
“I feel much better than I look.” Not true, but I’d have eaten pigeon droppings rather than admit to weakness.
Lô shrugged. “Your call.”
“Tell me about Francis Kealoha.”
“The kid’s sister lives over by Kalihi Valley. KPT. A lovely chunk of real estate.”
Kuhio Park Terrace is the largest of Hawaii’s public housing projects. Kalihi Valley Homes, another big gorilla, isn’t far away. Small wonder that most of the state’s new immigrants start out near Kalihi Valley. I’d read that upward of eighty percent of the area’s population is Asian and Pacific Islander, that probably half is under the age of twenty.
“Gloria. A fine young lady.” Lô killed the radio with a jab of his thumb. “We’ll drop in on Sis, then have a chat with my CI. Ryan will hook up with us there.”
“Your CI will be cool with outsiders present?”
“He’ll do what I tell him.”
“What if Gloria’s not home?”
“She’s home. And by the way, you’re a potted palm when I talk to these wits.”
Thirty minutes later Lô parked near a high-rise complex that looked like a nightmare straight out of the seventies. Built in an era when the goal in public housing was to isolate and stack, KPT has all the warmth and charm of a barracks in the gulag.
Following a ten-minute wait, during which Lô stood calmly, arms crossed, and I paced, mourning the loss of my BlackBerry, we rode an overcrowded freight elevator to the fifteenth floor. A concrete balcony led past trash chutes jammed with ruptured supermarket and pharmacy bags. Insects swarmed the overflow—aluminum cans, bottles, soiled diapers, chicken bones, rotten produce, bunched tissues.
Lô stopped at unit 1522 and pounded with the heel of one hand.
No sound but the buzzing of flies.
He banged again, louder. “Honolulu PD. We know you’re in there, Gloria.”
“Go away.” The muffled voice was female and faintly accented.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We’ll wait.”
Seconds passed, then locks rattled, and the door swung in.
Gloria Kealoha was big. Very big. She had nutmeg skin and bottle-blond hair, and wore enough maquillage for an entire village makeover.
Pocketing his shades, Lô badged her. “Detective Lô. We spoke earlier concerning your brother.”
“And I told you what I know.”
“Francis is dead, Ms. Kealoha. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Life’s a bitch.” Gloria drew deeply on a half-smoked Camel jutting from her fingers.
“Questions remain.”
“So, what? I’m going on Jeopardy!?” The smoke-cured laugh was completely joyless.
“I need the names of Francis’s friends.”
“Sorry, toots, can’t do it now.”
“This isn’t a social call, Gloria. We talk here or we talk downtown.”
“Jesus, who died and made you God?”
“My uncle.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks.”
Gloria’s eyes slid to me.
“Who’s the haole?”
“Dr. Brennan identified your brother.”
“What the fuck, girl? You stop a train with that face?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“You some kinda coroner?” Gloria yanked on the bustier. A rosebud tattoo that had once winked from low-cut necklines appeared above the spandex as a stretched and wilted blossom.
“I need the names of your brother’s friends.” Lô brought the interview back on track.
“I told you. I got jack.”
“Where was Francis living?”
Gloria drew on the Camel, exhaled, waved the smoke from her face with a once-manicured hand.
“I heard he went to California a couple years back. Last I knew he was still there.”
“You were unaware that Francis had returned to Honolulu?”
“We weren’t exactly on each other’s mailing lists.”
“What can you tell us?” Lô’s voice had a “don’t screw with me” edge.
“Look.” Gloria took a drag, tossed, then crushed the cigarette butt with the ball of one flip-flop. “I got nothing. The kid was ten years younger than me. Growing up we lived in different worlds. By the time Frankie was six, I was off on my own. I really honest to God never knew him.”
“Dig deep. Give me something.”
Gloria picked a speck of tobacco from her lip, inspected, then flicked it. “OK. The story of my life. When I was fourteen and Frankie was four my ma left my pa for a guy she met working as a hotel maid. Two months after, our old man bought it in a boating accident.”
Gloria stopped. Lô waited, hoping she’d feel compelled to elaborate. She did.
“Ma married the creep. We got adopted. Eighteen months later the asshole split. Guess a ready-made family wasn’t his thing after all.”
“Who was the guy?”
“Sammy Kealoha.”
Lô studied Gloria as she spoke. I studied Lô.
“Where is he now?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me.”
“How did your brother feel about him?”
“Hated the guy’s guts.”
“Why?”
“Frankie blamed Sammy for screwing up his life.”
“How so?”
“Shit, you name it. For busting up the family, for us living in the projects, for Pa drowning, for Ma going freako, for the rash on his ass.”
Gloria crooked a hand to her face, registered surprise at the absence of the Camel.
“After Sammy left, Ma worked when she could, drank when she couldn’t. Soon as I turned sixteen I boogied for Kona to do my own thing.”
“Your thing?”
Gloria crossed her arms. “Massage therapy.”
“Uh-huh. Do you recall if your br
other had any tattoos?”
“Sure. A fluffy French poodle right on his dick. He called it—”
“Tell me, Gloria. This massage therapy. You licensed for that?”
Lô slid a photo from one pocket. As he passed it to Gloria I recognized a close-up of the shark motif tattooed on the Halona Cove ankle.
Barely glancing at the image, Gloria handed it back.
“I’m going with Picasso.”
“Did Francis ever break a leg?”
“Yeah. He did.” Gloria’s surprise sounded genuine. “I forgot about that.”
Lô rotated one hand in a “give me more” gesture.
“He was in high school.”
Again, the hand.
“Not much to tell. Frankie got drunk, went boarding, wiped out. He ended up at The Queen’s. My mother whined about it in a couple of letters. She was so pissed I felt sorry for the kid and sent him a card.”
For a quick moment some internal turmoil flashed in Gloria’s eyes. Was gone.
“That’s when Ma was still writing to me.” Shoulder shrug. “Then she died.”
“I’m sorry,” Lô said.
“What the fuck. Bottom line, I got to thank the old gal.” A meaty arm swept an arc, indicating the squalid surroundings. “Thanks to Ma I’m living the American dream.”
Lô drew a card from his pocket and handed it to Gloria.
“If you think of anything, call me.”
Ignoring the card, Gloria stepped back.
“And, until we get this resolved, don’t travel without letting us know,” Lô added.
“Well, shit busters. There goes yachting in Monte Carlo.”
Gloria closed the door.
The locks reengaged.
As we drove off, I looked back.
The towers of Kuhio Park Terrace loomed bleak and hopeless against the perfect blue sky.
Like the occupants trapped in them, I thought sadly.
AS WE DROVE FROM KUHIO PARK TERRACE TO A MCDONALD’S across from the Kapalama Shopping Center, Lô sketched some background on the man we were about to meet. I didn’t ask, wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to share the information.
The CI, Fitch, was a street rat that Lô had once saved from arrest. A junkie who threatened no one, Fitch moved invisibly among the bangers, base heads, pimps, pushers, hookers, and stoners inhabiting Honolulu’s underbelly. In exchange for food and money, he provided Lô with the occasional tip or insider perspective.
At four in the afternoon, the McDonald’s lot held only a handful of cars.
As we crossed the asphalt, a figure in a faded yellow tee and LL Cool J rolled-up sweats crossed our path and pushed through the door before us. The brim of a way-too-large cap hid the person’s face, but hairy calves suggested male gender.
My instincts told me we’d connected with Fitch.
Glancing left, then right, the CI disappeared into a booth at the rear of the restaurant. Like Lô, he was short and wiry. I guessed his age at midtwenties.
Lô went to the counter. I followed.
Lô ordered a Big Mac, fries, and two Cokes.
I ordered a Diet Coke. The girl looked at me oddly, but said nothing.
Lô paid. As we waited, the smell of frying fat kicked my nausea up a notch.
When our food was ready, Lô carried the tray to the rear booth. I sat down and slid to the wall. Lô dropped into the space beside me.
The CI’s eyes rolled up below their bill, checked the restaurant, me, then settled on Lô. The irises were brown-black, the whites the same dull yellow as the tee.
“Who’s the chick?”
“Myrna Loy.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Don’t worry about it, Fitch.”
“What the fuck happened to her?”
“Ninjas.”
Lô removed two drinks, gave me one, then pushed the tray forward. Using both hands, Fitch yanked it to his chest.
“I don’t like it.” The table edge started tapping the wall. Under it, Fitch’s left knee was bouncing like a piston.
“Tough,” Lô said.
“This isn’t our deal.” Fitch’s eyes did another sweep. He ran a hand along his jawline.
“My party.” Lô pointed to the wall. “Move over. I’m expecting more guests.”
Fitch opened his mouth, reconsidered, lurched left. All the man’s movements were quick and jerky, like those of a crab caught in a net.
Lô and I sipped.
Fitch dived into his burger.
Lô pulled a small spiral from his pocket and flipped the cover. Clicked a ballpoint to readiness.
As Fitch ate, wilted shreds of lettuce dropped to the burger’s discarded wrapper. A hunk of tomato. A glob of cheese.
“It’s my health we’re risking here.” As Fitch spoke, chewed hunks of beef tumbled in his mouth.
“You’re the one eats that garbage,” Lô said.
“You know what I mean.” Grease coated the CI’s lips and chin.
“How about finishing that? Watching you’s not doing my gut no favors.”
Fitch was squeezing a third packet of ketchup onto his fries when something caught his attention behind our backs.
Lô and I turned.
Ryan was walking in our direction.
“Who the hell’s this?” Fitch hissed.
“William Powell.”
“He a cop?” Fitch either missed or ignored Lô’s second Walk of Fame joke.
“Yeah, Fitch. He’s a cop.”
“A nark?” The left knee was pumping gangbusters.
“Aloha,” Ryan said.
“Aloha,” Lô and I answered.
Ryan tensed on seeing my face. He made no comment.
Scowling, Fitch shrank farther left.
Ryan slid into the booth.
Eyes down, Fitch jerked the tray sideways and continued shoving fries into his mouth.
Lô tested the ballpoint with sharp, quick strokes.
“So what have you got?” he asked.
Fitch swallowed, sucked his soda, snatched up and bunched a paper napkin. His eyes crawled to Ryan, to me, to Lô.
“This is fucked-up, man.”
Lô didn’t answer.
“Word gets out—”
“It won’t.”
Fitch jabbed his chest. “It’s my ass—”
“If this is too much for you, I’ve got things to do.”
“I know how cops work.” Fitch’s tone had gone high and whiny. “Use people and leave ’em on the street like gum.”
The balled napkin hit the tray and bounced toward Lô.
“Calm the fuck down, Fitch.”
The CI slumped back and crossed his arms. “Shit.”
A woman nosed a stroller to the table beside our booth. She looked about sixty. I couldn’t see the baby, wondered if it was hers. Weird, but I did.
Fitch’s eyes jumped to the woman. Again circled the restaurant.
“I don’t want to be celebrating a birthday here.” Lô made no effort to mask his impatience. “You got something for me or not?”
“Cash?” Fitch asked.
Lô nodded.
Leaning forward, the CI placed both forearms on the tabletop and began worrying the sides of the tray with his thumbs.
“OK. About six months back your guy shows up—”
“Francis Kealoha?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Shows up from where?”
“California. San Fran, I think. Maybe LA. That part I’m not sure.”
“This better be solid.”
“Yeah, yeah. Kealoha shows up with this dude called Logo.”
“You know Logo’s real name?”
Fitch shook his head.
Lô made a note in his spiral. Then, “You’re sure this was Francis Kealoha?”
“Yeah, yeah. We grew up together at KPT. It was him.”
“Go on.”
Fitch’s thumbs flipped up, dropped. “That’s it. Frankie and Logo show up toge
ther. A few months later both drop off the radar.”
“Give me some dates.”
“I look like their travel agent?”
Lô’s glare could have reversed global warming.
“OK. I’m thinking I stopped seeing them maybe three, four weeks ago.”
Lô turned to me. The time frame worked, given the condition of the remains from Halona Cove. I nodded.
“Where was Kealoha living?”
“I heard up at Waipahu.”
Lô made a note on his pad. Then, “Go on.”
“That’s it.”
“Then your bony ass pays for that burger.”
Seconds passed. A full minute.
Fitch’s thumbs made soft, scratchy sounds against the edge of the tray.
“What I got’s worth more than a nifty.”
“Don’t you read the papers? It’s a bad year for bonuses.”
Fitch cocked his chin at me, then Ryan.
“I got risk here.”
Lô considered a moment. Then, “If it’s good, we’ll see.”
Beside us, the baby began to cry.
Fitch’s eyes again danced his surroundings.
“Word is Kealoha was doing business where he shouldn’t have.”
“Dealing what?”
“Coke, weed. The usual.”
“Who’d he cut in on?”
“L’il Bud.”
Lô’s nod indicated familiarity with the name. “Go on.”
Fitch inhaled. Exhaled. Pulled his nose. Leaned even closer to Lô.
“Street says L’il Bud ordered a hit.”
“Street naming a doer?”
“Pinky Atoa. Ted Pukui.”
Lô scribbled the names. Again, his demeanor suggested knowledge of the players.
“How’d it go down?”
“I heard they got shot up at Makapu’u Point.”
I pictured the craggy outcrop. The shark-ravaged flesh recovered from Halona Cove.
I remembered Perry’s tale of the suicidal poet from Perth.
Cold fingers tickled my spine.
“You got questions, Doc?”
I realized Lô was addressing me. For the first time, I spoke to his CI.
“How old was Logo?”
Fitch regarded me blankly.
“Roughly. Twenty? Forty? Sixty?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe a little older than Kealoha.”
“Describe him.”
“Dark hair, dark eyes. Body by beluga.”
