“Why not?” Carolyn asked, perplexed.
“It hit his Navy wings and the bullet drove the wings into his chest. What I can’t understand is why the wings didn’t shatter.”
Carolyn smiled. “I gave them to him years ago. They’re made of gold.”
“Gold?” the surgeon said, amazed. “You’re kidding!”
“No. Gold wings used to be fairly common, but they got to be too expensive for most people. I had them made for him for our anniversary.”
“Anyway, I thought you’d like to have them,” he said, handing her the wings, now shaped like a “V.”
“Can we see him?”
“He’s in recovery right now. He’ll be coming out of the anesthetic soon. You should be able to see him in an hour or so. I don’t anticipate any long-term problems at all.”
“Thank God,” Carolyn said, barely able to get the words out without crying.
“Thanks, Doctor,” Dillon said. The doctor smiled his thanks and went back through the sliding doors. “Wow,” Dillon said, breathing heavily, “I’m glad he’s going to be okay.”
The door behind them opened and a man in his fifties with graying hair approached them.
“Mrs. Billings?” he said to Carolyn. A younger man followed him into the room.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Billings,” Carolyn answered.
“I am Lieutenant Victor Waieno, we met briefly at the restaurant.” He held up the wallet that contained his identification and police badge. “I’m the detective assigned to this case by the Honolulu police department. This is my partner,” he said, waving his hand at the younger man, “Bill Ibanez.... I want to ask you some questions, you and your friends,” he said, indicating Dillon and Molly. “Could we sit down here?” he asked, pointing to the chairs behind them.
“Sure,” Carolyn said, sitting down. Dillon and Molly sat next to her and the two detectives took the other chairs.
“Is your husband going to be all right?” Waieno asked.
“Yes. He’s going to be fine. The bullet hit his Navy wings,” she said, holding them out to him.
He turned the wings over in his hand, and touched where the bullet had hit them. “Excellent, so we have a case of attempted murder, not actual murder.”
“I don’t know why that should make a difference,” she said, irritated. “If he has bad aim he gets less punishment?”
“I suppose it is because he has inflicted less damage,” Waieno responded. “I don’t know why, but that is certainly the way it is.
“We’ve examined the scene and spoken with everyone who was there. We talked to the Marines, and the restaurant employees. Do you have any idea who the man was who shot your husband?”
“No, I don’t,” Carolyn answered.
“Would you describe him, please,” the detective said, taking out his pad.
“I’m not sure I can.... Jim, Molly, do either of you remember?”
“Well, he wasn’t very big,” Molly said. “I’d guess five feet six inches. Hundred and forty pounds, not chubby, but not thin. Maybe in his twenties, but that’s hard to say.”
“His race?” the detective asked.
“I’m not sure, some kind of Asian.”
Waieno asked, “Was he Chinese?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Japanese?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Something else?”
“Yes, I believe so, Polynesian or Filipino, or Indonesian or Malaysian. I’m afraid I’m not really good at telling the difference.”
Waieno stopped writing. “What do you remember about him that was distinctive?”
“His name.”
He was surprised. “You know his name?”
“He was wearing a name tag.”
Waieno was skeptical. “What kind of name tag?”
“A hotel name tag. The Hilton,” Molly said.
“What was the name?”
“Luna.”
Waieno’s shoulders sagged slightly.
“Do you know him?” Dillon asked.
“No. But this would not be uncommon for an assassin. A professional.”
“To wear a name tag?” Molly asked, incredulous.
“Or to do something discreet, easy to remember, and completely meaningless. It distracts your attention. It is very effective, as you have proven.” The detective glanced at his partner and then back at Molly. “Did he have a mustache?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember,” she said.
“A professional hit,” Waieno said.
“Couldn’t have been,” Dillon said. “He used a stubby little pistol and no silencer, and he wasn’t a very good shot.”
“Professionals usually don’t use silencers. They want to make as much noise as they can. It scares the witnesses. As for being a bad shot, he hit Billings right above his heart—not too bad—and the other shots were all interfered with by the Marines. So I wouldn’t be too sure.” He skimmed through the pages in his small notebook and then asked Carolyn, “What about the statement he made? Something about a present?”
“Yeah, from Mr. Washington,” Dillon said, jumping in.
“Who is Mr. Washington?” the detective asked.
Dillon’s face reddened. “The name of the pirate who took over the Pacific Flyer. Probably the same guy who just kidnapped the president of that gold mine company in Indonesia.”
“Of course,” the detective said. “But why would he announce who he was working for? And then he tried to shoot you as well, Mr. Dillon. Why?”
Dillon sighed heavily. “Payback. Washington’s letting us know he’s still alive. He’s not done. He came after me because he didn’t kill me last time.”
The lieutenant looked at him skeptically. “You have met this George Washington?”
Dillon stood up. “When I was down in the South Pacific with Admiral Billings. The Letter of Reprisal?”
The lieutenant indicated he knew about the letter.
“I went ashore with the Marines. Toward the end I fell into a cave—a tunnel actually—with a couple of Marines. Washington was escaping through it with some others when they stumbled on us. Marines were chasing them and came in right behind them. Everybody started shooting. Washington picked me. He hit me in the chest and the head.” Dillon caught the skeptical look exchanged by the police lieutenant and his partner. “I was wearing a helmet and a flak jacket.”
“So they wanted to finish the job,” Ibanez said.
Waieno picked up the hint. “I am going to assign two men to you,” he said to Molly and Dillon, “and two to you as well,” he said to Carolyn. “I don’t want him to try again.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Dillon asked.
“Yes. Where are you staying?”
He told him.
“I may have more men around you. That is a very busy area. Two you will know about. There may be others you can’t see.”
“Fine with me,” Molly replied.
“I don’t know if you really have to go that far,” Dillon said. “I’m just a sideshow.”
“You can identify Washington.”
Dillon suddenly realized that was true. “Captain Bonham of the Pacific Flyer can identify him better than I can. He spent a lot of time with Washington.”
“What’s his name?” the detective asked.
“Clay Bonham.”
Waieno’s expression darkened and he pressed his lips together as he put away his pen. “I’m afraid I can’t talk to Clay Bonham.”
“Why’s that?” Dillon said.
“About an hour ago he was walking across the street to the U.S. Attorney’s office in Honolulu when he was hit by a van.”
“How is he?” Dillon asked, his mind flashing back to the island where he had confronted George Washington to save Bonham’s life. “Is he here?”
Waieno closed his notebook. “No. He’s at the morgue.”
Dan Hughes was in the hallway talking to a lieutenant from anot
her platoon.
“Sorry, sir,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Michaels interrupted. “We just got this. I knew you’d want to see it.” Michaels handed him a folder.
Hughes opened the folder and pulled out an eight and a half by eleven-inch glossy. Hughes stared at the picture. It was a photograph of Dan Heidel crumpled on a chair lying on its back with two bullet wounds to his chest. He was clearly dead.
Hughes breathed deeply and held up the glossy for the other lieutenant.
“Why aren’t we on our way already?” Hughes returned the photograph to its folder, saying, “These guys are beginning to piss me off.”
Molly stood barefoot in her white Umbro T-shirt and denim shorts on the balcony overlooking Waikiki. The bandage on the top of her right arm was hidden under her sleeve. The sun was still above the horizon, but not by much—its rays seemed more golden, more complementary, than in Washington. But the warm air and atmosphere did not lift her spirits.
Dillon sensed her mood as he came out on the terrace. “How’s your arm?” he asked.
“Hurts. But it’s not bad.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come out here to see me.”
“I’m scared, Jim. How do we know they won’t try again?”
“We don’t know. Seems like this Washington guy isn’t going to quit until he gets what he wants or dies trying. The police are all around here, though. Waieno said they’d watch us.”
“Does that make you feel safe?”
“Not really. If they are intent on getting through, I suppose they will.”
As Molly turned toward Diamond Head, Dillon came over and stood behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her head. “I’m still sorry.”
“Don’t worr—” She broke off as someone knocked loudly on the apartment door. Dillon glanced toward the door, then at Molly’s pale face. Neither said anything as they moved through the living room. Dillon’s heart was racing. His eyes darted around trying to find something he could use as a weapon.
Molly went to the phone on the table next to the couch. She picked up the receiver and dialed 91. Only one more digit to call for help.
Dillon took a position against the wall next to the door. He didn’t want another “present.” “Who is it?!” he yelled. The sound of his own voice made him jump.
“Me!”
Dillon’s eyes went to Molly, who shook her head. Neither recognized the voice. “Me who?” Dillon asked, and held his breath.
“Grazio, you dumbass. Who do you think?”
Dillon felt himself breathe again as he relaxed and opened the door.
Grazio stood in the hallway. “You know how hard it is to find this place?”
“What are you doing here?” Dillon asked, stunned to see him.
“I heard about Billings getting shot—and you almost—and figured you needed some company. And,” he said, grimacing, “I’ve some bad news for you, Jimbo, and I wanted to deliver it in person.”
“Oh, great, just what I need is some bad news,” Dillon said, sitting down heavily on the plush couch.
Grazio stood still, staring out the sliding glass doors toward the ocean, then taking in the apartment. “This place is incredible!” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You are not worthy. How on earth did you manage to get this?”
“Never mind that right now,” Dillon said. “What’s the bad news?”
Grazio refocused on Dillon. “What’s the most important thing in the world to you?”
“My mother,” Dillon said sarcastically.
“What’s number two?”
“My father.”
“Next?”
Dillon rolled his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, throwing his hands up in irritation. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Maybe my car.”
“That’s what I was afraid of!” Grazio said. “You know how you told me to go over and check on your apartment?”
“Yeah, so?” Dillon said, now becoming more concerned.
“The key worked fine, I got in, no sweat.”
“Somebody broke into my apartment?” Dillon asked, standing up.
“Nope, not your apartment.”
“What then?”
“On the way out, I thought I’d drop by and check out that beautiful M3 of yours.”
Dillon went white. “Somebody ripped off my car?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Dillon covered his face with his hands. “Oh no! It’s not even paid for.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s gone.”
“I had the alarm on,” Dillon said. “I had the Club on the steering wheel. How could someone have stolen it?”
“They did leave the Club—it was lying there in the parking spot. Kinda like a farewell note.”
“How could they do that?”
“I don’t know. They have pretty sophisticated thieves in D.C. I’ve heard they can drive by cars, figure out what kind of alarm they have on them, hit their electrical scanners that can scan every conceivable combination of alarm release button frequencies in about ten seconds, and drive the thing away. All they’ve got to do is cut the steering wheel to get the Club off. No problem. Probably took them about a minute.”
Dillon held his hand to his forehead. “What’s next?”
“You’d better call the insurance company,” said Molly. “I’ll fix us something to eat, unless you guys want to go out.”
“Let’s go next door to the Shore Bird,” Dillon said, trying to come up with something that would make him feel better. “It’s right on the beach.”
“Who’s buying?” Molly asked.
Dillon and Molly both stared at Grazio.
“Hey,” he said defensively. “I flew all the way out here to give you the bad news so you wouldn’t get a call from somebody who would just tell it to you straight out—”
“Nice,” Dillon said.
“I’m just trying to help. But if you guys are hard up for money, having both quit your perfectly good jobs, I’ll buy.”
“Great.” They all stood up and then heard the sound of a key in the door. Dillon’s heart was in his throat again as once more he searched the room for a weapon. The door opened and a man stepped into the apartment. He wore a navy blue uniform with gold stripes on it and was pulling a suitcase behind him. He closed the door and didn’t appear to notice the three figures standing in the living room. He took off his hat, setting it on a bookshelf. He turned, moving toward them, and suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. His mouth hung open slightly as he stared at them. “Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” Dillon asked.
“I live here.”
“Are you nuts?” Dillon asked.
“Of course I’m not nuts, this is my apartment.”
“No, it’s not, I’m renting it.”
“From who?” the man asked, letting go of his suitcase and coming toward Dillon.
“From the landlord,” Dillon said.
“And who might that be?” the man said.
“What’s your name?” Dillon asked.
“Rick Townsend,” the man said.
Dillon’s face changed suddenly. “Wait a second, you’re dead.”
“Dead? What are you talking about?”
“I moved to Honolulu. I looked in the newspaper for ads, and this apartment was for rent. When I got here, the landlord said you had died in a surfing accident.”
“What a crock of shit,” the man said. “Nobody died in any surfing accident. I’ve lived in this apartment for five years and I’ve been on vacation for the last two weeks.”
“Then who was the woman?” Dillon asked, a feeling of dread flooding over him.
“That bitch. I’ll bet my rent payment was late. Last time that happened, she tried to rent out my apartment, but didn’t pull it off in time. I’ll bet
she tried it again because I was on vacation. That bitch!” he said again. “What did she look like?”
“I don’t know, Asian, Chinese, something. She was over sixty.”
“Yeah, that’s her. How much did she charge you?”
“Thirty-five hundred a month.”
“And you’re calling me nuts?”
Dillon felt humiliated.
“You dumb shit. What were you thinking about?”
“I don’t know,” Dillon said. “Look, can we stay here? I’ve paid rent—”
“I feel real sorry for you,” he said, as he took off his jacket, “but this is my place. I only share it with who I want to share it with, and you’re not it.” He looked at Molly for the first time. “She can stay,” he said.
“What do you do?” Molly asked.
“I’m an airline pilot. I deadheaded back to Honolulu from Hong Kong, so there’s my story. Now would you please get out of my apartment? I’m tired and I want to lie down.”
Dillon sighed and saw his money floating out the window.
The airline pilot threw his coat on the couch. “Who are you guys anyway, and what are you doing here?”
“I used to work for the Speaker of the House,” Dillon said. “I’m an attorney.”
“So am I,” Molly added. “I worked for the President.” Their credentials were impressive. The pilot looked them over again, obviously perplexed.
“You heard about that admiral who took the battle group down and attacked those guys in Indonesia?”
“Sure, who hasn’t?”
“He’s being court-martialed.”
“I know, it’s been on the front page of every paper in the world.”
“We quit our jobs to defend him in the court-martial.” The pilot stared. “You quit your jobs in Washington and came out here to defend him?”
“Yeah,” Dillon replied.
“How much is he paying you?” he asked sarcastically. Dillon shrugged. “Nothing.”
The look on the other man’s face changed. His tone grew friendly. “I know Ray Billings. I was in his squadron before I went into the airlines.”
“He’s something else,” Dillon said. “Come on, Molly, we’ve got to get our stuff.”
The pilot put up his hand to stop them. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Anybody who comes here to defend Ray for free can stay in my apartment. My girlfriend has her own place. I’ll go stay with her. You guys make yourselves at home.” He pulled a piece of paper out of the drawer in the table next to the couch. “Here’s the phone number where I’ll be staying. Call me if you need anything. And tell Steam I said hello.” He picked up his suitcase and was walking toward the door, when he stopped. “By the way, I’d get my money back from the bitch upstairs if I were you. Tell her I’m back and I’m really pissed, and I’m going to booby trap the front door of her apartment. That ought to do it.” He laughed and closed the door behind him.
The Price Of Power Page 19
