A Walk Through the Fire
Page 19
I thought about what he’d just said, meshing it with what Donna Malakaua had said about the Ridley girls. “Russ, were you close to Elson at the time he left Kauai?”
“Not as close as once. My marryin’ Liza put a strain on things. And later I had to deal with Casey’s reaction to her mom’s death. Anyway, I didn’t see much of Elson anymore.”
“Were you aware he’d met someone and was going away with her to start a new life on the mainland?”
“I suspected he’d met somebody in his travels not long after I married Liza, but I couldn’t get anything out of him. He was real private about it. Protectin’ himself from Celia, I guess.”
Protecting the woman, too. In his journals he’d only referred to her as “my Special One.”
I asked, “D’you think Mona knew of his plans?”
“Probably. Why don’t you ask her?”
“From the way she acted in the church, I don’t think she’ll talk with me. Could you try to persuade her?”
“Sure.”
The mourners were leaving the grave site now, walking to cars parked on the shoulder of the road. I stood.“Thank you for trusting me, Russ.”
“You’re very trustable, pretty lady.” He got to his feet too. I knew he wanted to touch me, and I badly wanted to touch him, but we both held back. “Where’re you off to now?” he asked.
“Malihini House, to see if Glenna’s surfaced. I’m really concerned about her.”
“Well, if she’s not there and you want to get a search started, give me a call. I’ll drop by Pali House to pay my respects, but after that you can catch me at home.”
Glenna wasn’t at the house, but the light on the answering machine was blinking, and I pressed the play button, hoping for a message from her.
Instead it was Jerry Tamura at RKI’s Honolulu office. Quickly I called him back.
“Ms. McCone,” he said, “I have the rest of the information you need. The house on Kahai Street near Sand Island Access Road is leased to a Garvin Ridley. The subscriber on the unlisted number is also Garvin Ridley, and his address is on the Gold Coast, back of Diamond Head.” I wrote it down as he repeated it twice.
Garvin Ridley. Same name as Celia’s father. Of course, he’d be long dead by now, but hadn’t Donna Malakaua said something about brothers? Perhaps this was Garvin Ridley Jr.
I said to Tamura, “Can you do a background check on Ridley for me?”
“I’ve already started. When do you need it?”
I stopped to think. This was a lead I should follow up, but was it right to go off to Oahu with Glenna missing?
Yes. It was too early to bring the police in on her disappearance and, when the time came, Peter’s local status and influence would produce quick action. I couldn’t go out and scour the island for her; I didn’t know the territory and, if Peter wanted that done, he could enlist Russ and his chopper. And I had nothing else to do here.
“Mr. Tamura, is it possible for you to continue with this check now?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I’ll come over there as soon as I can get a flight.”
Russ would have been happy to take me to Oahu, but this was one time when it was better to fly solo.
APRIL 7
Honolulu
7:10 P.M.
I rented a car at Honolulu Airport and took the freeway east toward downtown. I’d visited the city frequently over the past twenty years, and each time I was struck by its continuing metamorphosis. This evening there seemed to be even more spires reaching toward the cloud-streaked sky, even more glass gleaming in the sun’s fading light. Yet when I exited for Bishop Street, the sidewalks seemed curiously deserted. Maybe Honolulu had finally reached the saturation point as far as development was concerned and, if so, what did that bode for the state’s future?
A key card was waiting for me with the guard at the garage entrance of the Bishop Street high-rise where RKI had its offices. I parked in one of their assigned spots and took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, where Jerry Tamura had said he’d meet me when I’d phoned him after buying my ticket at Lihue Airport. A second guard in an RKI blazer greeted me there, examined my identification, and buzzed me in. After giving me a visitor’s badge, she called Tamura.
Cautious people, RKI, even here in the land of the aloha spirit. And with good reason.
After a couple of minutes Tamura emerged through an inside door: a slender, attractive man in a bright green-and-yellow flowered shirt, whose flashing smile and merry eyes—if I knew the firm’s operatives—concealed many unamusing secrets. No one who worked for RKI was exactly what he or she seemed, including the partners. My first dealings with Gage Renshaw and Dan Kessell—before Hy took them up on their offer of a one-third interest—had been edgy and distrustful, and I still didn’t feel comfortable with them or their practices, which often strayed too far from the letter of the law. But I had to concede that Hy had brought more accountability to the organization. He was their best negotiator and highly skilled at getting clients out of tricky places and situations. Renshaw and Kessell hadn’t willingly altered their stripes, but they didn’t want to risk losing him.
Besides, I also had to concede that their specialists were good at accessing information that even Mick couldn’t get hold of. Sometimes when I used their services I thought I must have tossed out my ethics along the way, but other times I thought I’d grown up enough to accept the fact that there are situations and people who won’t be saved if the letter of the law is followed.
Tamura greeted me, offered coffee, then took me to a comfortable meeting room where a maroon folder labeled with my name was set out on the table. As we sat down, he motioned to it. “The information you asked for is in there, but I’ll recap it for you. I don’t think you’re going to like what you hear.”
“Oh? It’s incomplete?”
“It’s reasonably complete, but it raises one hell of a lot of questions. The background check on Garvin Ridley led me to two dead men: Garvin Ridley Sr., a cattle rancher on the Big Island, died in 1967; his son, Garvin Ridley Jr., died in 1990.”
“So who’s living in the house on Diamond Head Road? Who’s leasing the one on Kahai Street?”
“The Diamond Head Road house is occupied by two males, one in employee status. Name of the employee isn’t available, but the owner’s calling himself Ridley. He purchased the house for cash in 1995. The Kahai Street house appears to be vacant; no phone. Was leased in the Ridley name a couple of months ago. I couldn’t find anybody at the management company or realty who remembers anything more about either transaction. Do you want me to do more checking?”
“No, at least not for now. I’ll take it from here. How’re RKI’s relations with the HPD?”
“Great. This is one of those rare large cities where the department fosters close ties with the private investigative community. A lot of us, myself included, are former cops; a lot of the cops do consulting on the side for security firms. Happens in a place where tourism’s your main industry.”
“So there’ll be no problem with me working under your umbrella?”
“None whatsoever. I took the liberty of checking with Major Harry Medina in the Investigative Bureau. He said anything you need, give him a call. Here’s his card.”
“Mahalo. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” I tucked the card into the folder.
“One other thing,” Tamura said. “Are you planning to be in town awhile?”
“I don’t know. Overnight, anyway.”
“Well, our hospitality suite’s available, if you care to use it.”
I considered. Most of RKI’s offices had such a suite on the premises, for visiting operatives or clients who had reason to fear for their safety. The accommodations were usually luxurious, but the security measures could be oppressive. Still, I didn’t want to waste time finding a place to stay.
“Thanks, Mr. Tamura,” I said. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”
9:12 P.M.
The buildings there were mainly of the corrugated iron variety—warehouses, auto body and paint shops, light manufacturing—but between them shabby houses and duplexes squatted, most set behind high chain-link fences plastered with No Trespassing and Beware of Dog signs. I parked well to one side, between a burned-out car propped up on blocks and a herd of grocery carts crammed with debris. Slouched down, I studied the house that was leased by the bogus Garvin Ridley.
It slumped between a warehouse and a tire store: bilious green, one small story perched on stilts above a collection of junk and rusted appliances. A torn and discarded mattress leaned against its fence, whose gate was chained and padlocked, and faint light leaked around its shutters. A sagging laundry line was strung between the rickety porch and a listing wooden post.
The night was still, hot, and humid. Jets rumbled above as they approached and departed the international airport. In between, other sounds echoed up and down the narrow corridor: dogs barking, TVs muttering and shrieking, a man and woman quarreling. Glass broke somewhere and in the distance a police siren wailed. I swatted at insects and tried not to breath too deeply of the smells emanating from a nearby Dumpster. Thought of the fragrant, balmy atmosphere at the Wellbright estate and wondered what this place could possibly have to do with that family.
Half an hour passed without anything happening. Darkness fell. The lights continued to glow in the green house, but not too many of the other dwellings on the block were illuminated. Only two people passed my car, a stooped old woman with a tiny dog on a lead and a ragged man picking through the garbage cans. The sound of a motorcycle and a flash of lights coming around the far corner roused me from a partial stupor.
The bike came on slowly, avoiding the worst of the potholes, and stopped by the green house’s fence. The rider got off, leaving the engine running. He unlocked the padlock, unwound the chain, pushed the bike through the gate. As he reclosed it and jogged up the rickety flight of steps, I could make out only that he was male and slender.
The man let himself into the house without knocking, and after a moment the lights in the front room became brighter. I eyed the bike hopefully. If I could get close enough to read its license-plate number…
I was about to slip out of the car and go over there when I heard footsteps—the scavenger returning along the other side of the street. I slouched lower, waiting for him to pass, and when he finally did, the door of the green house opened. The slender man loped down the steps, helmet under his arm, long light brown hair tied back in a ponytail that bounced with every step. He wheeled the bike out, secured the gate, and straddled his machine while putting on the helmet.
The man revved the bike. Decision time: stay or follow?
Follow.
I kept a good distance behind the bike, my lights out, through a series of turns that took us to the Nimitz Highway. After he’d turned east, I switched on the lights and continued to follow. He established a leisurely pace over a couple of canals and along the harbor. Where the Ala Wai Canal cut inland at the start of Waikiki, traffic became more congested, and snarled on Kalakaua Avenue. High-rise hotels and shopping centers rose on either side, blocking any view of the celebrated and overrated strip of sand, and pedestrians wandered across, oblivious to the honks of irate motorists. The slowdown didn’t seem to faze the biker; he moved when the opportunity presented itself, without taking any crazy chances. I, on the other hand, became tense and irritated, afraid I’d lose him.
He took advantage of a limo pulling into a hotel driveway, sped around it and away. I sneaked through the next intersection on the yellow light, but maintained my distance. The garish neon splash was behind us now as we cut through a dark park and returned to the shore, the black outline of Diamond Head looming above. The biker skirted the mountain, heading uphill on a road where homes clung to the edge above a sprawl of lights. I dropped back even farther, saw a flash of red as he braked and turned into a driveway. As I drove past, a black iron gate swung shut in the high white stucco wall.
I kept going to the next intersection and checked the street sign: Diamond Head Road. Well, that figured. A couple more blocks and I made a U-turn and doubled back. The number on the gatepost confirmed that this was the Ridley house.
Neither it nor its lot was very large, and the lower story was screened by the wall and by thick plantings of palms and jacarandas that were illuminated by floodlights. Above them the second story was fronted by a covered gallery, also floodlighted, and in the middle of the red-tiled roof sat an odd cupola arrangement that would afford impressive views from sea to mountains. Small size, huge price tag, here on what Jerry Tamura called the Gold Coast.
This neighborhood was definitely not a good place to conduct a surveillance. Too many security devices, too many automatic connections to the police substation, too many watchful eyes. As I idled in front of the Ridley house, a man walking his dog stopped and stared at the car’s license plate. Quickly I moved on.
If I intended to do any more investigating tonight, it had better be on Kahai Street.
The lights were still on in the bilious green house. As I got out of the car I could hear music: island sounds, sad and low. I looked up and down the street while rummaging in my bag for the set of lockpicks with which one of my informants had presented me. Thanks to his lessons in their use, I was as good with a padlock as any sneak thief.
No one was in sight, and none of the nearby buildings showed lights, although sirens howled blocks away. Good, I thought, that would keep the police busy while I accomplished what I had to here. I ran across the uneven pavement to the chain-link fence, crouched in the shadows, and got to work on the lock.
“Four minutes, McCone,” I whispered as it snapped open and I removed it and the chain. “You’re slipping.”
I set the chain and lock on the ground, opened the gate slowly. It was well oiled and silent. Quickly I crossed the yard and ducked into the darkness under the house, went around the rusted appliances to the rear. There a second stairway rose to a tiny service porch. I tested the first step with my foot till I found a place where it wouldn’t creak, mounted it, and repeated the process all the way to the top.
The shutters on the two small windows were open, revealing a dingy kitchen. Its counters were covered with dirty dishes, take-out containers, and an army of empty beer bottles. A fifth of an off-brand vodka and two smeared glasses sat on the old Formica table.
The house wasn’t much: the kitchen and the front room, with another room opening off the hallway between, all of them probably on the small side. I went to the door leading in from the service porch and tested the knob. It turned. Careless, in this neighborhood.
If I’d been carrying, I might have chanced slipping inside, but even then it would have been a risky proposition. Instead I’d wait. I moved back from the door and dropped into a crouch at a place where I could see through one of the windows but not be seen. Ten minutes went by before a large figure appeared in the archway to the front room and shambled down the hall.
A man, tall and heavy, clad in shorts and a dirty white T-shirt that barely covered his big belly. He had black hair that hung to his shoulders and a round acne-pitted face that instantly identified him as Donna Malakaua’s brother, Buzzy. He looked enough like her to be her twin.
Buzzy paused in the kitchen’s entrance, blinking against the harsh light. Then he went to the table, picked up the vodka bottle, and drank directly from it. Set it down and stood there, his eyes coming to rest on the glasses. “Damn you, Amy!” he exclaimed, picking one up and hurling it at the sink, where it smashed loudly against the chipped porcelain.
If others had been in the house,
his shout and the crash would have brought them running. But nobody came to see what the commotion was about, and after a moment Buzzy picked up the vodka bottle again and went back to the front room with it dangling from his hand.
Okay, he was alone and drunk, but also angry. Specifically, at Amy. George Kaohi had told me Buzzy was stupid and easily led but not dangerous, but maybe George had never seen him with a mad on. Still, there must be some way I could run a bluff.…
I thought about it for a few minutes, came up with a scheme that might work, and decided to risk it. Then I went around to the front of the house and up the steps. Pounded on the door, calling, “Buzzy? Buzzy Malakaua?”
There was a shuffling noise inside. He was standing behind the door, breathing heavily.
“Buzzy, open up!”
“Whaddaya want?”
“Ridley sent me.”
Silence. Then the door opened a crack and his moon-shaped face peered out. “Who’re you?”
“Don’t you know?”
He shook his head.
“Well, shit, isn’t that the way it always goes? I come all this way and—” I paused, glancing around. “Look, let’s do this inside, okay? I can’t stand here talking to you where anybody can listen.”
He hesitated, looking confused, then opened the door wider. I pushed past him, taking a quick inventory of the contents of the small room. Lumpy rattan couch and chair, boom box on the floor, no weapons.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t say you could come in here!”
“It’s Ridley’s house, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then you don’t have any say. I’m here and I’m staying.”
Buzzy shut the door, leaned against it. “You gonna tell me your name?”
“Sharon’ll do for now.” I went to the chair, sat, and motioned for him to take the other. “Where’s Amy?”