Spider Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “Let’s eat,” I said.

  We were finishing Ryan’s coconut-mango pancakes when the landline rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Lily fired from her chair.

  “Who’s taken possession of Lily?” I asked.

  “What? She’s decided she likes it here,” Katy said.

  I looked at Ryan. His eyes were fixed on his daughter. In them I saw love. And something else. Hope? Suspicion? Fear?

  “It’s some guy named LaManche.” Lily held the handset pressed to her chest.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, surprised.

  Ryan raised questioning brows. Why would the chief be calling from Montreal? I raised mine in reply. No idea.

  “Thanks for breakfast. Before you take off, there’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

  “I’m not taking off,” Ryan said.

  Lily handed me the phone.

  “Bonjour.” I rose and moved outside to the lanai. “Comment ça va?”

  “Sacrifice, she lives. Temperance, you no longer return my calls?”

  “I lost my BlackBerry.”

  I told LaManche about the wreck.

  “You are unharmed?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Bon. Then you have learned a valuable lesson.”

  “Don’t drive too close to shoulders hugging the sea?”

  “An SUV trumps a Cobalt every time.”

  “Noted. What’s up?”

  “Bad news.”

  “I hate it when people open a conversation with that.”

  “I did not. I complained about you going incommunicado.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “I received results from the DNA section on the gentleman found floating in the Hemmingford pond.”

  “John Lowery. Spider.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “What?”

  “According to the report, it is not Monsieur Lowery.”

  “What?” I was hearing LaManche’s words, but their meaning was not sinking in.

  “The sequencing did not match.”

  “The sample was too degraded?”

  “The sample was degraded, but the technicians were able to amplify. The results were exclusionary.”

  “How did the LSJML get a comparative sample? Plato Lowery refused to submit a swab.”

  “Local law enforcement in North Carolina was very cooperative. A sheriff whose name eludes me was particularly accommodating.”

  “Beasley?” Of course. I knew this. I was in denial.

  “Oui. C’est ça. Sheriff Beasley recalled that John Lowery’s mother was hospitalized for a short period before her death. He found that the hospital had retained pathology slides. One specimen was sent to AFDIL. At our request, another was sent to the LSJML DNA section. Extraction was successful, and testing shows that the Hemmingford victim is not Harriet Lowery’s son.”

  “But the sample was degraded.”

  “Temperance, they have confidence in the results. The sequencing does not match.”

  The naughty-nurse floater was not Spider Lowery? How was that possible? Then who was he?

  Did the exclusion mean I was wrong about the man buried in the Gardens of Faith Cemetery in Lumberton in 1968? Was that man Spider Lowery and not Luis Alvarez, after all?

  And what about Xander Lapasa? We still didn’t know why Lapasa was found wearing Spider Lowery’s dog tag.

  “—sorry. I know this is not what you hoped to hear.”

  “No, sir. It’s not. But thanks for letting me know.”

  I was standing with the phone in my hand when Ryan came up behind me.

  “Bad news?”

  I shared LaManche’s news on the DNA exclusion.

  “What about the FBI fingerprint match?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tabarnac.”

  “Yeah.”

  I was about to tell Ryan about Katy’s blog when his cell phone sounded.

  Katy and Lily chimed in from the kitchen.

  Sunny day. Keeping the clouds away.

  “Ryan here.” Waving down the giggles.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ryan patted the front of his golf shirt. Found no pocket. Pantomimed writing.

  I delivered pen and paper from the counter.

  “OK. Shoot.”

  He scribbled what looked like two names. A long pause followed.

  “When?”

  Pause.

  “What’s the address?”

  Ryan jotted something else.

  “We’ll be there.”

  “That was Lô.” Jamming the phone onto his belt. “For the past three years Francis Kealoha has been running with an SOS gang operating out of Oakland. Went by Francis Olopoto.”

  “Probably his original Samoan name.”

  “Logo’s a guy named George Faalogo.”

  “Also a Samoan name.”

  “Ted Pukui’s in the wind, but they’ve bagged Pinky Atoa. They’ll let him cool his heels awhile, then grill him. Hadley Perry is otherwise engaged. Since you’re her rep on the case, Lô invited us to observe.”

  “Is that standard here?”

  “How would I know?” Ryan lowered his voice. “Maybe the little fellow has designs on your awesome little ass.”

  I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head in the direction of our daughters.

  “Then why would he invite you?” I whispered.

  “He knows I have first dibs.”

  My eye roll was of Olympic quality.

  “Is Atoa being charged?” I asked.

  “No. The guy owns a pit bull that’s supposed to be mean as a snake. Gata.”

  “I think gata means snake.”

  “Apparently Gata killed some neighbor’s Chihuahua. Atoa thinks he’s being hauled in because of that. Lô and Hung will focus on the dog for a while, then spring Kealoha and Faalogo.”

  “I’ll be ready in ten.”

  We took Ryan’s rental car, a Pontiac G6. As he drove, I used his cell to phone Danny. First off, I told him about the crash.

  “Why didn’t you call right away?”

  “You were at your arrival ceremony.”

  Next I told him about LaManche’s report. He was as shocked as I was.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Wish I were. Have you heard from AFDIL concerning the remains I exhumed in Lumberton?”

  “They said no way on nuclear DNA, doubted they’d even get mitochondrial. Besides, there’s no Alvarez maternal to provide a sample for comparison. Looks like we can kiss that avenue goodbye.”

  “LaManche said Harriet Lowery’s specimens were pretty degraded. I think it’s worth trying to locate another source.”

  “Will your lab foot the bill for a second round of tests?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Should I ask Plato one more time?”

  “Got any other ideas?”

  “I’ll make the call,” Danny said.

  “What a mess,” I said.

  “A real conundrum.”

  Within the hour things would really hit the slag heap.

  MIST COATED THE WINDSHIELD AS RYAN AND I DROVE INTO town. All the way, he flicked the wipers on, then off. On. Off.

  The Honolulu PD is headquartered in a white stone building parked on Beretania Street like a big square ship. Though mere blocks from the Botox, designer labels, and brightly striped umbrellas of Waikiki Beach, its denizens hail from a different world.

  Lô’s directions sent us to the third floor. We rode an elevator packed tight with the usual assortment of clerks, detectives, and uniformed cops checking in or out, carrying sealed evidence bags, or sneaking off to wherever it is they cloister to smoke.

  The homicide squad was a large open room filled with desks shoved into clusters of twos, threes, and fours. Lô and his partner occupied a solo pair at the back.

  Like Lô, Hung was a surprise. Tall and muscular, she had bone white skin and glossy black hair chopped off at the ears. Her chestnut eye
s contained colored flecks that sparked like chips of glass from the sea. Only a subtly humped nose kept the woman from being a stunner. I liked that she hadn’t changed it.

  Lô made introductions. Hung’s first name was Leila.

  We all shook hands. Lô dragged over chairs and we sat.

  Hung went straight to the point. I liked that, too.

  “Back in the eighties the Sons of Samoa was mostly a social group. Later it became a full-fledged gang in Hawaii. SOS died down for a while, then revived around nineteen ninety-eight as a prison gang called USO Family or USO, United Samoan Organization. It’s complicated, but uso can mean brother in Samoan.”

  “If you’re male, referring to a male sibling,” I said. “It can also mean sister, if you’re female referring to a female sibling.”

  Hung looked at me. Behind us, a phone rang. Someone answered.

  “She’s an anthropologist,” Ryan said.

  “Sure she is.” Hung continued. “At one time USO was only Samoan, but intel says the group is now mixed race and has approximately two hundred members in Hawaii.”

  “USO is pretty much restricted to our correctional facilities,” Lô added.

  “Kealoha and Faalogo were SOS,” Ryan said.

  “Right. SOS spread from Hawaii to California, Utah, and Washington State. On the mainland SOS are usually Crips.”

  Though I didn’t interrupt, I must have looked confused.

  “The Crips aren’t one gang, but an identity which other gangs adopt. Crip gangs in other cities can actually fashion themselves by regional cultural indicators that have nothing to do with Los Angeles.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier smarty-pants offering.

  Hung consulted a notepad.

  “According to L.A. County Probation Department statistics, in nineteen seventy-two there were about eight Crip gangs. By nineteen seventy-eight that number had risen to forty-five. By eighty-two there were 109, and by the late nineties, according to Streetgangs.com, there were 199 individual Crip gangs active in L.A. County.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Crip growth seems to have stabilized in Los Angeles, even declined in certain areas undergoing demographic change. But copycat Crip gangs are springing up in other parts of California, the U.S., and abroad.”

  “Tabarnac.” Ryan shook his head.

  Hung looked at me, this time in question.

  “It means ‘Oh, my,’ ” I said.

  “Stateside, SOS are known as bad actors,” Lô said. “Intimidation, extortion, drug rip-offs, even murder.”

  I heard a door open, voices behind us.

  Hung took in the room with a quick sweep. Then the sea-glass eyes returned to us.

  “What we’re seeing is mainland Samoans making a move for Hawaiian distribution.”

  “Of?” Ryan asked.

  “Mostly coke and weed. Some meth.”

  “Who’s the local majordomo?”

  “A guy named Gilbert T’eo.”

  “Street name L’il Bud,” Lô added.

  Hung’s desk phone rang. She picked up, turned a shoulder to speak to the caller.

  “Where’s T’eo’s home base?” Ryan asked Lô.

  “Right now, Halawa. That’s a medium security prison here on Oahu.”

  “Atoa and Pukui work for T’eo?” I asked.

  Lô waggled a hand. “Close enough.”

  Hung cradled the receiver. “The system’s up. Shall we see what Mr. Atoa has to say?”

  The interview room was what I expected, a gloomy little box devoid of whimsy or warmth. The walls were noxious green, the tile scuffed and scratched by generations of nervous feet.

  A gray metal desk occupied the center of the small space. One straight-back wooden chair faced two others across the battered desktop. A wall-mounted phone and camera were the room’s only other embellishments.

  Ryan and I observed via a video screen and speaker down the hall. The image was grainy black-and-white, the sound tinny, the dialogue occasionally overridden by background noise.

  Pinky Atoa looked like a tall, skinny twelve-year-old. He wore the usual gangsta costume of crotch-hanging jeans, enormous athletic tee, and oversize cap. His high-top red sneakers beat a steady tattoo on the floor.

  Obviously, Hung and Lô had done casting before our arrival. Lô played bad cop, Hung played good.

  Hung introduced herself, her partner. Atoa kept his gaze on his hands.

  “This interview will be recorded for your protection as well as ours.”

  Hung next spoke for the benefit of the record, stating the date, time, and place, and identifying herself, her partner, and the interviewee. Throughout, Atoa alternated between chewing a thumbnail and drumming the desktop.

  “You nervous about something, Pinky?” Lô asked.

  “I want my dog.”

  “That pit’s one nasty piece of work.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “The Chihuahua weighed three pounds.”

  “The thing came at him.”

  “Must have been terrifying.”

  “Shit.” Exaggerated head wag. “Don’t you guys ever give up?”

  “Your neighbor filed a complaint.”

  “The whore needs to get laid.”

  “We just want the facts, Mr. Atoa.” Hung, the voice of reason.

  For several minutes Hung asked questions about the dog attack. Atoa seemed to relax slightly.

  “So, what? I gotta pay a fine? No biggie. I got cash.”

  “It’s not that easy. Things look bad for Gata.”

  “What the hell’s that mean?”

  Both detectives gazed at him sadly.

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  The bony fingers recommenced dancing.

  “Honolulu has laws to protect citizens against dangerous pets,” Lô said.

  “That little shit dog’s been dead a month. Why’s the bitch coming at me now?”

  “Perhaps she’s been moving through the stages of grief.”

  Another head wag. “That’s good. You’re funny, Mr. Policeman.”

  “I try.”

  “So, what? The cunt wants a new pup?”

  Lô shrugged.

  “What the fuck?” Atoa spread his hands. Smiled. “I’ll buy her a puppy.”

  “Doesn’t really solve the problem with Gata, now, does it?” Lô.

  “Meaning?”

  “Start picking out an urn.”

  Atoa exploded from the table. His chair hit the floor with a crack.

  Lô shot to his feet.

  “No way you’re killing my dog, you bastard.” Atoa’s hands were bunched into fists.

  Hung spoke in a tone meant to be soothing. “Let’s all calm down. Mr. Atoa, would you like something to drink?”

  Atoa’s eyes went shrewd. “What? So you can take my DNA? I’m not stupid.”

  “Why would we want your DNA, Pinky?” Lô’s voice was deadly.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Please, Mr. Atoa.” Hung circled the table and righted the chair. “Sit.”

  Atoa held a moment, then, “This is so fucked.”

  Atoa dropped into the seat and thrust out both legs. The red sneakers started winging from side to side.

  Lô and Hung exchanged a look above Atoa’s head.

  “Here we go,” I said to Ryan.

  Hung spoke as she returned to her seat.

  “Perhaps something can be worked out concerning Gata.”

  Lô shot his partner a look.

  Hung gestured “hold on” with one hand.

  Lô crossed his arms in annoyance.

  “Quid pro quo. That means you help us, we help you.”

  “I know what it means,” Atoa snapped.

  “Good. You can help Gata. Who knows? Maybe yourself.”

  “I’m listening.” Atoa was working the thumbnail, avoiding eye contact.

  Another look passed between Lô and Hung.

  “George Faalo
go.” Lô paused. “Frankie Kealoha.”

  No reaction.

  “You know those guys, Pinky?”

  Atoa shook his head.

  “How about Ted Pukui?”

  “Who?” Mumbled.

  “Look at me.” Lô’s tone was sharp.

  Atoa didn’t budge.

  “Look at me!”

  Atoa’s head snapped up. For the first time I saw fear in his eyes.

  “How about Gilbert T’eo?”

  “Everyone knows L’il Bud.”

  “Word is you and Pukui assisted T’eo with a business problem.”

  Atoa’s gaze flicked to Hung. Found no support.

  “Faalogo and Kealoha.” Lô hammered on. “Makapu’u Point.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Wasn’t much left when the sharks finished, but we got enough.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Is it?”

  Atoa licked his lips.

  “How much you love that dog, Pinky?”

  Atoa regarded Lô with a look of undiluted hatred.

  “You claim to be smart. Know all about DNA. I’m sure you watch CSI and Law and Order. Maybe Bones, but that may be over your head. Surprising you and your pal got sloppy with things like prints and bullets. You know. Clues?”

  A typical cop bluff. Lô wasn’t actually saying the police had fingerprints or ballistics evidence.

  “We’re providing a chance here, Pinky. Work with us, we’ll try to help you out.”

  “I ain’t messing with L’il Bud. You think I’m nuts?”

  “How old are you, kid?”

  Atoa didn’t reply.

  “How old are you?” Lô barked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “I’m thinking your buddy is a wee bit older.”

  “Pukui’s twenty-nine,” Hung said. “Been in the box four times.”

  “I’m going to describe a hypothetical, then ask you something,” Lô said. “You know what a hypothetical is?”

  “I ain’t stupid.”

  “We’ll see.” Lô paused, as though framing his thoughts. “We got a kid who knows nothing and we got a guy who’s been through the system. We offer both the same opportunity. The catch is, only the first taker gets the deal.”

  Another bluff, implying Pukui was also in custody.

  “Here’s the question. A two-parter. Can you handle that?”

  Atoa said nothing.

  “Who rolls over? Who takes the fall?”

  Atoa squeezed his lids shut and shook his head.

  Lô waited.

  Opening his eyes, Atoa leaned forward. “What you’re asking can get me killed.”