Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “We’re going to move you to a different room,” he said. “Have you looked to see what’s missing?”

  “I’m checking out. And I thought you should see it before I started to clean up.”

  “Did you call the police?” he asked.

  Their arrival answered his question. One of the officers was the same short, lean man who’d come before. “A little over twenty-four hours and it happened again?” He looked around the room. “I guess so.”

  The other office, a woman whose uniform embroidery said B. Dillis, eyed the overturned suitcase. “When did it happen?”

  “I don’t know.” Storm told her how she’d been frightened enough last night to get another hotel room. They both ignored the huffing noises made by the security man.

  Dillis nodded. “Good move.” She had eyes so black the pupils were indistinguishable from the iris. They fastened on Storm like tractor beams. “Why is someone following you?”

  “Good question. I’m here on business. My client is opening a dive shop.”

  “Lara Farrell,” said B. Dillis.

  “Yes,” Storm said. She let the silence build. Cops used the same technique she did, so Storm knew better than to fill the awkward void. The four people stood looking at each other for a few long moments. It was the security guy who broke.

  “So,” he said, “You think it’s the same person who did it Friday night?”

  Storm and the two police looked at him.

  “Don’t know yet,” said the short, lean officer.

  B. Dillis made her way to the bathroom and flicked on the light with the end of her pen. “Same thing in here. Dumped out all your toiletries.” She looked at Storm. “If I were you, I’d buy new ones.”

  “I don’t have anything anyone would want. They’ve already got my laptop.”

  “Hope it’s got a password other than your birthday,” Dillis said.

  “It’s pretty secure. This is a scare tactic. They want me running.”

  “That’s my guess, too,” the male cop said. “After the note he left you.”

  “We’ll dust, but chances are we won’t get prints we can use,” said Dillis.

  “Like before,” said the security man. Everyone looked at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I mean, the room’s covered with prints.”

  “Right,” said Dillis.

  On the way out the door, B. Dillis looked back at Storm. “Smart of you to avoid staying in this hotel. But I’m curious. We know you’re working with Lara Farrell. Is there anything else you’ve done that could have rattled someone enough to send you such a hostile message? Someone wants you gone.”

  Storm swallowed, then told Dillis about visiting both Carmen Yoshinaka and the storage facility. “I’ve talked to Sergeant Moana about this, also.”

  “Carmen Yoshinaka, little girl whose dad shot her and her sister?” B. Dillis hooked her thumbs in her wide leather belt and frowned at Storm. A few seconds passed. “What led you to her?”

  Storm leaned against the open door. “Carmen’s father worked at the dive shop.” She told Dillis how she and Damon had gone to the Yoshinaka’s house the night of the murder/suicide.

  “So you went to see her in the hospital? Most people wouldn’t do that.” Dillis’ dark eyes were probing, waiting.

  “My parents died young,” said Storm. “The kid’s situation got to me.”

  A spark of compassion flared in Dillis’ eyes, and she seemed to accept Storm’s explanation. “When are you going back to O‘ahu?”

  “Either this evening or tomorrow.”

  The cop arched an eyebrow, then reached in her pocket and handed Storm a card. “Call me if you need help.”

  Storm watched her walk to the elevator. At least Dillis hadn’t asked Storm to leave now, or given her any dire warnings. She hoped that was because the cop knew something about the case that Storm didn’t. It also made Storm want to talk to Sgt. Moana, who might be inclined to reveal a fact or two since she’d turned over Pauline’s phone to him.

  Storm closed the door and began to clean up the mess. She shook out her clothes and repacked her suitcase, then did the same in the bathroom. This was a malicious message, loud and clear. The thief didn’t even take anything. He just wanted Storm to know he could get to her any time he wanted.

  Anything that went in her mouth or eyes, like some of her makeup, went into the wastebasket. Just playing it safe—or succumbing to paranoia, she wasn’t sure.

  When she finished packing, she changed into a bathing suit, sneakers, and jogging shorts. A run would help her sort out her thoughts. Hamlin’s plane wouldn’t arrive for another three hours. There was plenty of time, and she could shower and change in the restrooms on the public beach.

  At the front desk, she settled her bill with the account her secretary had set up.

  “You want the rest of the cash, or should we credit your account?” the receptionist asked in a soft voice, after checking to make sure no guests were in earshot. Storm figured she was the only one with the problem; no one else was in danger, so she obliged the employee’s desire for discretion.

  Storm took the cash—she might need it—and rolled her suitcase out the front door to the hotel parking lot and Damon’s car. Before she got out of the parking lot, her phone rang.

  “You called?” said Sergeant Moana.

  “I wondered what Keiko and Carmen told you.”

  “Some of my colleagues think you advised Keiko not to talk. So she wouldn’t be charged with kidnapping.”

  “I didn’t,” Storm said. “Why would your colleagues think that?”

  “Keiko told us Pauline was a good friend, who’d asked her and Carmen to visit.”

  “Shit.”

  “I think so, too. You think Keiko was threatened?”

  “Did you look at the phone I gave you?”

  Moana lost some of his attitude. “Yeah. It’s why I stuck up for you. There are some questionable calls.”

  “Questionable timing, too,” Storm said.

  “Keiko wouldn’t tell us, but the little girl did. She said they were tied up in the closet. She’s got rope burns to show for it.”

  “I cut her free.”

  “Yeah, I figured. We’ve got a guard outside her hospital room.”

  “Where did Keiko go?”

  “She said she had a ride.”

  “I can’t find her. I can’t find Stella, either.”

  He didn’t answer, and in the silence Storm heard sirens. “It’s been a busy morning,” he said, and the sirens grew louder, then stopped abruptly. “There’s been a fatal car crash out by Kapalua, and there was some kind of revenge killing for that woman that died last night. Must be a full moon or something.” He sounded tired. “I’ll get some people looking for them.”

  “What revenge killing?” Storm asked. “Who died?”

  But Moana had hung up.

  Storm climbed into the car and turned on the radio. After scanning up and down the dial, she finally found a report that three people had been found dead near Olowalu Wharf in an apparent gang war, but identification was being withheld.

  She tried the dive shop, but no one answered. Lara had probably left, and if Damon was still there, he was wearing his ear protectors.

  Storm drove to the public beach access. She locked the car and began a slow jog toward Makena Beach. She needed to think, alone, without any interruptions.

  When Dillis had asked her if Carmen Yoshioka was linked to the dive shop, Storm was flooded with ideas, most of which were too tenuous to share, especially to a cop who needed solid evidence, not filaments of innuendo.

  Dillis knew the obvious connections, but her instincts were telling her there were more. Good instincts, Storm thought. She wished she had a coherent explanation. It bothered her that Paradise Consortium owned the house Yoshinaka rented and had part ownership of the strip mall Lara was trying to buy. But she didn’t have anything concrete.


  When Stella explained the water trade, some details fell into place. Though The Red Light didn’t have an obvious link to Paradise Consortium, Yoshinaka had a relationship with both establishments. So did Lara’s family members.

  On a related train of thought, the elder Tagama sat on the board of Paradise Consortium, which also owned a portion of the shopping center under Lara’s shop. Tagama father and son ran Mālua LLC. Were the Tagama men setting Lara up in a business they could control? A dive shop would be an effective place to launder cash. If so, perhaps that was why Lara was scrambling to buy the place.

  Obake, aka Akira Kudo, was the thread that ran through the whole mess. She’d knew from her conversation with Terry Wu, the assistant U.S. Attorney, that Obake was on their watch list. From her friend Mark Suzuki, who was connected to God knew what, she knew he was notorious for evasion and secrecy. Both men implied that he was dangerous.

  Damon wouldn’t even talk about The Red Light. He’d tell her Lara’s secrets about real estate deals, but wouldn’t tell her where Yoshinaka gambled. Why not? It wasn’t just because she was Lara’s lawyer. He’d left the beach park in a big hurry the night Yoshiko’s body was found, as if he knew more than he wanted to reveal.

  Both Damon and Lara had spoken of a Makena Beach property she was selling for a large sum, more than she’d expected to make. How does someone escalate the value of a property? Lara was, among other things, a savvy and proactive business woman.

  What did she do? Start a bidding war? Storm almost stumbled at the thought. It was ruthless, but possible. Makena was a unique and limited slice of paradise. Only a few lots of developable oceanfront land existed, and Lara’s was prime.

  She’d had a real estate agent handle the transaction. Storm was certain the purchaser and sale price wouldn’t yet be public knowledge. Not if the bid had been accepted within the last day or two.

  Storm slowed her jog to a walk around a sharp curve in the road. High on her left, overlooking the winding road where Storm stood panting, an opulent new estate with immature landscaping sat high on a bluff and looked out to the ocean. Just ahead, to her right, a gravel drive disappeared into a copse of ironwood trees that fronted the ocean. Through the shield of trees, she could see the glint of glass.

  Storm turned into the drive, stepped over a heavy chain, and followed the winding drive until she saw wide glass windows on a modern house that nestled among lava rock and natural ground cover. It was private to the point of secret, and overlooked a small, secluded beach.

  Storm walked back to the road. Next to the drive, a for sale sign swayed in the gentle breeze, though the diagonal red sold banner blocked out most of the information. She peered behind the banner.

  She didn’t have anything to write on, but she’d remember. All the way back to the car, her footsteps pounded Mary Robbins, 367-5409, Mary Robbins, 367-5409. Maybe Mary could tell her if Lara had been the owner—maybe, in her delight to share the big sale, she’d talk about how they got their record-setting price. Heck, maybe Storm could hope for more pieces to fit the puzzle that had her head spinning.

  One thing Storm knew was that Obake was a bad customer. He was the author of death and misery among people that had no chance against his organization, money, and amoral brutality. Obake, Lara, and the Tagamas were all linked by history, family, money, or a combination of all three. Throw in Stella, Keiko, Lara’s mother and sister, the murdered Yasuko, and the Yoshinaka family as victims of the Yakuza boss, and she had a festering brew of desperate greed.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Back at the car, Storm extracted a beach towel and a change of clothing. She headed for the beach, dived into the ocean, and swam along the shore for several minutes. Long enough to refresh her flushed skin as only a swim in the ocean can do. A fresh water shower revived her even further. She then ducked into the public restroom to strip out of her wet clothes, and put on a fluttery, cool silk skirt in a blue tropical print and a cap-sleeved white T-shirt.

  She wanted to look good when she met Hamlin in a couple of hours. Speaking of Hamlin, she might be able to catch him before he left Honolulu. If she remembered correctly, he had about an hour before catching the short flight to Maui.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was hoping you’d call.”

  “I was hoping you’d answer.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A beach near Makena.”

  “The nude beach?” The words carried a grin and a promise.

  “Not without you.” A memory brought a flush over her, and Storm was glad no one could see her.

  “Good, I don’t want you getting sunburned.”

  “I don’t sunburn.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “I’ll be at the airport.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, and Storm could hear the loudspeaker announcement for his boarding.

  “Me either,” she said.

  She beamed all the way through Wailea, Kihei, and halfway to Lahaina. It wasn’t until she got close to Damon’s house that the sparkle faded, and that was only because the thought of picking up her own car reminded her of the guys in the black Range Rover.

  Screw ’em, she thought. I’ll exchange it at the airport before I pick up Hamlin. After that, there will be two of us to intimidate.

  Damon’s truck was in his carport, and the engine ticked and pinged. He hadn’t been home long. She didn’t see any suspicious cars in the area. A black Range Rover would have been conspicuous. The streets of the middle-class neighborhood were lined with nice, safe American and Japanese cars.

  Storm knocked on the front door. She wanted to hand over the keys and thank him again for loaning it to her. She stood there for a few long moments and listened for footsteps. Only a muffled thump, which would make sense if he was in the shower or bath, but Storm wasn’t certain if it came from Damon’s house. Children’s voices carried from the house on the right, along with the clatter of play.

  Still, it reminded her of the thump she’d heard at Pauline’s house, and the memory erased the warmth of the sun that stroked her shoulders. She looked around the yard. An air conditioner hummed in one of his windows. From what she remembered from the night she’d picked up the car, it was the living room.

  She knocked again. “Damon?”

  A neighbor went by, walking the dog. He gave her a friendly nod. The dog stopped to pee on Damon’s grass.

  Storm looked at her surroundings again. The kids had apparently turned on a television set, because their voices were absent, but explosions and shouts, the same noises in any adventure show, emanated from next door.

  The house had a for sale sign, which reminded Storm of the property near Makena. Mary Robbins, 367-5409. Storm decided to give Damon a few minutes while she called.

  “Paradise Properties,” said a woman’s voice. Realtors could usually be counted on to work Sundays.

  “Mary Robbins?” asked Storm.

  “No, it’s not. Why are you calling?” The woman’s voice had a confrontational note. What was with that? Didn’t she want another client?

  “I wanted to ask about a property Mary has listed in the Makena area.”

  “Oh.” The woman drew a deep breath. “That place.”

  “I thought it looked nice.”

  “It is. I’ve got to get in touch with the seller. The closing may be delayed now.”

  “Is this one of Mary’s colleagues?” Storm asked.

  “Yes, this is Rose.”

  “Rose, could I speak to Mary?”

  “Mary died.” A quiver appeared in Rose’s voice.

  “Mary died?” Storm nearly shouted; she couldn’t believe it. The dog walker did a double take.

  Rose swallowed audibly. “Car accident, just this morning, out near Kapalua.”

  “Shit,” Storm breathed, and disconnected. She flopped down on the front step, and her handbag bumped against the door. “Shit,”
she repeated.

  Damon’s voice came from somewhere toward the back of house. “Come in.”

  The dog-walker had moved on, and Storm tried the doorknob. It opened, and she stepped into the cool entry hall. Conscious of the air-conditioner’s efforts to ward off the afternoon heat, she closed it behind herself.

  “Damon? I can leave the keys on the coffee table. I filled up the tank—”

  Someone, a very large someone, simultaneously jerked Storm’s legs out from under her and slammed her to the floor. It was an expert move, by a person who’d done it before. It was swift and silent, except for the truncated bleat of shock Storm uttered as she hit the hard floor.

  Her staccato yelp ended when the wind was punched out of her. While she fought panic and her convulsing diaphragm, the assailant tied her hands behind her back and dropped a dark cloth over her head and shoulders. The whole procedure took a second or less. Storm gasped, terrified by the claustrophobic darkness.

  Breathe, she told herself. That’s the first thing you have to get control over. This is really bad, her inner voice blathered. Shut up, she told it, and struggled to draw a complete breath. It was an ineffectual series of gasps. Again. Do it again, her survival voice told her. The scared one emitted a sob. She got more air with fewer spasms the second try, and she did it again.

  Whatever he’d put over her head smelled of diesel fuel, and she battled a wave of nausea. It was hot, and it was black. She couldn’t see anything, not even a glimmer of light between the threads of fabric. It stank, and she gagged. Not good. She could not—absolutely not—vomit in this bag.

  She drew another deep breath, and to distract herself from the odor, she forced herself to think. The person who hit her was big, undoubtedly male. He hadn’t made a sound, which meant he’d been standing behind the door when she opened it. He’d also done it easily, as if he’d practiced the move many times.

  When Damon had called out, it sounded like he was in back of the house. She’d assumed he was in the shower, which would explain why he hadn’t heard her knock at first. How could he have made it so quickly to the front of the house? She didn’t think he did, but he had to have known someone was waiting to ambush her.