I head toward the beach, taking in the sound of waves crashing against rocks. Even in the summer the ocean’s choppy at this spot. During winter you wouldn’t head up here without a suicide note.
On the steep slope of dirt and rock that leads to the beach, I remove my leather sandals so that I don’t break my neck. But when my feet finally hit sand it feels as though I’m walking through fire, so I toss my sandals down on the beach and hastily step back into them.
I move toward the water, hoping like hell Erin Simms isn’t here, that maybe I’ll get lucky and she won’t even show.
Who am I kidding? Corvelli and luck go together like peanut butter and arsenic.
And sure enough, there she is, peeking out from behind an eight-foot rock-face to my right like a frightened rabbit. I shield my eyes against the mad mean sun and finally get a good look at her.
She’s long and lean, with a tight body and small breasts, a face that any straight guy could instantly fall in love with. Not all that exotic but rather plain in a strangely perfect sort of way. She’s dressed down in fitted sweats and an oversized T, but she looks every bit as hot as she did when I first caught sight of her.
I bite my lower lip as it fully registers.
Turns out, today’s prospective client is yesterday’s fiery bride.
In other words, Erin Simms is last night’s looker.
* * *
“They’re looking for me,” she says, her voice already cracking.
We’re at the edge of the beach where sand meets ocean, and the tide is licking at our heels, occasionally splashing our calves. Our backs are pressed up against tall craggy rocks, so that we can’t be seen from the dirt path.
“They think I started the fire,” she cries.
I raise my palms in front of me and tell her to calm down, to keep her voice steady. I assure her that she’s safe here, that she can relate to me everything that happened in a composed and comprehensive manner, and that our conversation is fully protected by the attorney-client privilege.
But it’s no use.
“They’re after me!” she screams. “The police. And I don’t know what to do or where to go!”
“All right,” I say, still trying to soothe her. “Tell me why. Why do the police think you started the fire?”
She’s crying now, her lower lip trembling. Her knees are wobbling and I fear she’s about to collapse. I try to take hold of her arm but she yanks it away the moment my fingers touch flesh.
“I don’t know,” she says, clenching her teeth. “I think the fire started in our hotel room.”
“Yours and your husband’s?”
She nods without looking at me, her eyes locked on the mountains behind us. Her mouth is open, drool pooling at the corners. She appears to be exhausted and parched.
My own gaze travels from her plastic sandals and worn sweats, to the cheap souvenir Waikiki T, then finally fixes on the fading scars up and down the taut skin of her arms.
“And your husband—”
“He’s dead.”
“Died in the fire?” I say, just to keep the dialogue moving.
She swallows forcefully and nods.
“But you weren’t in the room with him,” I add.
She shakes her head, her light shoulder-length hair clinging to her cheeks and neck from the sweat.
“Think carefully,” I say. “Where were you when the fire started?”
“I don’t know,” she says all in one breath, her watery green eyes suddenly burning with confused rage.
“But you were alone?”
She finally looks me in the face, her lips contorted in an unspoken plea. “My husband Trevor and I got into this terrible fight.”
I don’t tell her that I witnessed at least part of the fray at Kanaloa’s.
Waves of questions flood my head, from how many drinks she had, to what the argument was over, to why she’s decided to go into hiding. But all of this, I feel, is premature because we don’t even yet know whether this is a case of arson or simply a tragic accident that killed her beau. In which case we should probably be discussing a wrongful death suit against the resort.
I lean back against the rock. I’m about to tell her all this when I notice her blanche, her eyes darting toward the path, and suddenly she is kicking off her plastic sandals and starting to run. But there’s nowhere to go unless she’s a hell of a swimmer and thinks she can make it a few thousand nautical miles to Tokyo.
I gaze past the rocks and see six white SUVs marked HPD slide to a stop behind my Jeep, kicking up a wall of dust. Out spill at least a dozen uniformed cops and one lone man dressed in civvies.
Erin Simms had allowed me to hire her a trusted driver to take her to the end of Farrington; from there, she walked. So I don’t know how the police could have found her, why they wouldn’t have just stopped my driver on the road if they knew where she was.
Then I look long and hard again at my bright orange Jeep.
Shit, I think. It was me. I was followed.
Guns are drawn and I turn, see Erin stopped at the edge of the water, her trembling hands held high in the air. She breaks for some bushes and the sky is suddenly filled with sounds you never dream you’d actually hear. At least not in real life.
“Freeze.”
“Show me your hands.”
“Don’t fucking move.”
Erin stumbles and falls flat on her face as she tries futilely to climb up an embankment. The cops swarm over her in a matter of moments. As they cuff her—one cop with the patented knee in her back—I see fresh blood dripping down one slender arm from a gash on her elbow. When they lift her up, I catch another bright red patch on her chin, crimson spilling down her neck onto her cheap souvenir T.
Guilt suddenly hits me like a shot to the chest.
The cop in his civvies slowly descends on the beach, his feet adorned in dark boots, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of a pair of khaki cargo pants. His badge hangs from a thick neck, dangling over a broad chest. His T is a faded dark blue. Long before I can make out the face, I know from the stride and salt-and-pepper hair that it’s my old friend Detective John Tatupu.
I move to intercept him before he reaches Erin, who is now doubled over, still bawling in her cuffs.
“How’d you know she’d contact me?” I say quietly when Tatupu is close enough.
He throws a glance in my direction as he sidesteps me. Then he reluctantly digs into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic evidence bag. Inside are the remains of a charred business card. The sun is in my eyes and I can’t read it from where I’m standing. I don’t have to read it, though, and Tatupu doesn’t have to read it to me.
I already know the damned thing reads HARPER & CORVELLI.
CHAPTER 7
Foot traffic in front of the Honolulu Police Department on South Beretania Street is a hell of a lot more frantic than usual. That’s because we don’t see all that many homicides here in the islands. Twenty per year on Oahu, tops. Those are typically comprised of domestic disputes gone horribly violent, barroom brawls that were taken outside and finished with switchblades, and of course the occasional drunk driver whose misfortunes included a charge of vehicular homicide.
But last night nine people lost their lives, all in one shot, and the police are desperate to put this case to bed before fear strikes the U.S. mainland and Japan, and tourism takes a vicious hit. And the local media, well, they finally have something juicy to report. A busy news day in Honolulu usually means Dane Cook is in town or an ostrich escaped from the zoo. But this is real news. This is hot. Hell, if this incident indeed turns out to be arson, this was mass murder.
Erin Simms is being processed and I can’t speak to her right now, but I feel responsible for her even being here, since it was my damned bright orange Jeep that led police right to her. So I’m going to stand out here and wait, as long as it takes, until they let me in to confer with my client. I glance at my watch. It’s been seven minutes already. It’s hot
as hell out here, and truth be told, I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.
I pluck my cell phone from my pocket and dial the office. I have Hoshi transfer me to Jake, who is still in the conference room, now working on lunch.
“Jake Harper,” he says with a mouthful.
I fill him in on this morning’s happenings and tell him where I am. “Get ahold of Flan,” I say. “Things are moving fast. Too fast for an arson case. We’re going to need to get our own investigation started right away.”
Arson cases are rarely solved early in the investigation. Unless a dozen credible eyewitnesses see someone running from a burning structure with a lit torch, arson investigations are typically time-consuming and usually go on for weeks or months before a suspect is even considered, let alone apprehended. That Erin Simms has been picked up in this case in under twelve hours tells me one of two things: either the police are jumping the gun under pressure from the governor, or investigators discovered a mound of physical evidence linking Erin Simms to the fire.
“Any ideas what they have on her?” Jake asks.
I don’t, but I’m assuming the worst. “You can bet it’ll be on the news before it reaches me,” I say. No way police and prosecutors are going to keep this case quiet. The governor is going to want tourists on the mainland to know it’s safe to continue booking their stays in the islands, that the perp is behind bars and can’t do any further damage. If they have any damning surveillance tapes, we’re going to see them on national television long before we see them in discovery.
Jake eagerly takes the cue. “I’ll run downstairs to Sand Bar,” he says, “see what I can catch on CNN.”
As I slap the phone shut, a sultry voice sounds from behind me. “Well, hello there, Kevin.”
I turn, lower the brim of my cap over my eyes to thwart the sun. Then my jaw drops onto the boiling sidewalk and sizzles.
“Hey,” I say, “um…”
The cougar smiles, her cherry red lips dripping with scorn. “Sherry,” she says, barely parting them.
I nod. “Sherry.” Of course, Sherry. “What are you doing downtown?”
“Same as everyone else,” she says, motioning to the mob. “Getting the story.”
“Didn’t you say you were leaving for the mainland tonight?”
Sherry shrugs. “Change of plans.” She points to headquarters, where a bevy of uniforms are gently shoving back onlookers. “This is big. There may even be a book in it for me.”
I arch an eyebrow, purse my lips as though I’m impressed. “A book?”
“True crime,” she says. “You know, Ann Rule type of stuff.”
“True crime?” I shrug. “We don’t even yet know whether a crime has been committed.”
“Someone’s been arrested.”
“Could be a big misunderstanding,” I volley.
“Not from what I hear.”
I lift the brim of my UH baseball cap slightly, opening myself up to her. “What have you heard?”
Sherry shakes her head, her long dark hair swinging back and forth. No sign of sweat. “Quid pro quo, Clarice,” she says. “You first. Would it happen to be that you’re here in front of police headquarters because you’re representing the accused?”
I smile, my eyes darting left and right to make certain none of the other hyenas have captured the scent. I lower the brim over my eyes. “Wouldn’t I be inside headquarters if that were the case?”
“Not while your client is being booked,” she says, smiling. “Not someone as claustrophobic as you are.”
“Is that what I told you last night?”
“You didn’t need to tell me, Kevin. I saw you move the closest barstool a good eight feet away from you at Kanaloa’s during happy hour yesterday afternoon.”
I glance at the line of people waiting to get through security and cringe. “All right,” I say. “But the answer is no. Far as I know the suspect doesn’t have a lawyer yet.”
Technically, this is the truth. Erin Simms hasn’t retained me. And I haven’t agreed to take the case. She called me for a consultation, nothing more. That the consultation took place at the unconventional venue of Hidden Beach is of no consequence. What is of consequence is that no money has changed hands, no paperwork has been signed. Far as I’m concerned, I can walk away right now.
Just like you could’ve walked away from the kid and cougar last night, Corvelli.
Sherry tilts her head, decides it’s time to play lawyer herself. “But you met with her this morning,” she says. “That’s what I heard.”
I bow my head and concede the point, though chances are she’s just fishing. “I meet with a lot of prospective clients I don’t ultimately represent.”
“They don’t like you?” she says, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Can’t afford me,” I tell her.
Initial consultations at Harper & Corvelli are free. Unfortunately, the only legal advice I’ve thus far been able to dispense to Erin Simms is to remain silent. Not to utter a single word until we have the opportunity to meet again. No chats with Tatupu, no commiserating with her cellmate, not even a phone call to her mother or father or favorite uncle. “The only person you speak to,” I called to her, as Tatupu gently tucked her into the back of his SUV, “is me.”
“Your turn, Dr. Lecter,” I say to Sherry. “What else have you learned besides the fact that the suspect met with yours truly?”
A flirty shake of the head, a wink, a weak half smile. “Too broad, Counselor. Narrow it down.”
“Fine. How did investigators determine it was arson so quickly, when—”
“Mr. Corvelli!” The grating voice comes from directly behind me. It’s instantly followed by another hand on my shoulder. Someone should have gotten the word out by now: I don’t like to be touched with my clothes on.
I spin around. At first I don’t recognize her. Another cougar from Kanaloa’s? I take a good look at her. Dear God, I hope not. If it is, I’m quitting Koa’s mai tais cold turkey.
Then I glance down at the pint-size human picking his nose at her side. He’s holding a can of Dr Pepper with his other hand, and I realize it’s the kid Josh from the hotel fire last night. Which means the woman standing before me is Great-aunt Naomi, Grandma’s sister who has lived in the islands all of her life.
“Hi, Ms.…”
“Leffler,” she reminds me. “Can’t tell you how happy Josh and I are to see you again.”
Behind Aunt Naomi the media is swarming someone from the Homicide Division.
From the corner of my eye I catch Sherry joining the fray.
“Same here,” I say to Aunt Naomi. “How’s the kid?”
“Alive,” she says, beaming. “Thanks to you.” She looks down at him, swats his fingers away from his nose. “You are all he’s been talking about since the fire.”
“Well, it’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I point out, craning my neck to see if Homicide is releasing any new information to the press. “I’m sure Spongecake Square Bob will retake center stage any moment now.”
Aunt Naomi leans in closer to me, her old-lady perfume flicking me in the face. “Mr. Corvelli, we just can’t thank you enough for your courage and quick thinking last night. Maybe you missed your calling. You should have been a firefighter or something heroic…”
I smile, kind of. Shake my head. “I couldn’t stand the heat.”
“Well, Mr. Corvelli…”
It’s all I can do not to box my own ears out. I stand there, staring into her tired face, tense, wanting to escape more than I did that burning hallway on the sixteenth floor of the Liholiho Tower of the Kupulupulu resort last night. I’m straining my mind, sorting through the excuses, when Aunt Naomi says something that truly frightens me to death.
“… and so we were thinking,” she says, “the boy could really use a man like you in his life. So maybe when you’re not so busy, you can find it in your heart to spend a little time with Josh?”
* * *
An hour later we are all gathered in front of the Honolulu Police Station for a press conference. The alacrity with which the Honolulu PD has moved on this case is astonishing. And alarming. Folks on the islands ordinarily operate on aloha time, something that has driven me bat-shit crazy since I arrived here from New York City. Nothing here happens fast—and I mean nothing. It typically takes forty-five minutes just to purchase a pack of Stride gum at the local 7-Eleven. I can grow a full beard in the time it takes to get served a chicken Caesar salad at most island restaurants. Now, a few hours after the fire, we are expected to believe that investigators already determined the cause, named their suspect, had her arrested, and are ready to file felony charges.
And all of this under a national spotlight.
A spokesperson for the department takes to the podium and immediately introduces the Chief of Police, who is brand spanking new to the job. Started as chief just last week. In other words, he is someone with something to prove.
“My name is Chief Edward Attea,” he says into a small microphone, “and I’ve called this press conference to announce that we now have a suspect in custody in connection with the devastating fire that occurred last night at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort in Ko Olina, in which nine innocent people lost their lives.”
Attea has a mustache, trimmed neatly across a sincere face. A quick glance at his CV, which was recently posted in the Star-Advertiser, and it’s easy to see how he got the job. The Honolulu Police Commission appoints the Chief of Police for a period of five years. The last chief wasn’t reappointed because of city politics. Well, at least that’s what he claims.
“The suspect’s name,” Chief Attea continues, “is Erin Simms. She is currently visiting the islands from the U.S. mainland. More information on her will be released in the coming days. We can inform you at this time that Mrs. Simms is to be charged with counts of arson and murder in the deaths of nine people at the Kupulupulu resort. As you all know, the names of the victims have not been released pending positive identification and notification of the victims’ families. We can, however, confirm that one of the victims is the suspect’s newly wedded husband, Trevor Simms of San Francisco, California.”
Night on Fire Page 4
