Sadie remained quiet and waited for Pua to continue.
“On the mainland, they rounded up all the Japanese Americans and put them in internment camps, but they couldn't do that in Hawai‘i because there were too many. The 442 came from Hawai‘i.” Pua finally looked at Sadie. “After all that, the other soldiers still called them ‘Japs’ and ‘Pineapples.’ You'd think giving your life for your country would afford a little more respect than that.”
After a long pause, Pua continued. “My father was from the mainland and stationed at Camp Maui.” Pua looked at Sadie. “Cherokee, you know. He died fighting the Japanese before he even knew I existed.”
“Do you mind if I ask your father's name?”
Pua shook her head. “I do not know it.”
Sadie tried to hide her surprise, but doubted her success.
Pua continued. “It is not spoken. They were not married. I do not bear his name. It caused great embarrassment for Tutu and her mother. There's a lot of hurt and pain associated with the war for Tutu. She may or may not want to talk to you about it. Just don't push her, okay?”
Sadie nodded.
Before they realized it, their destination island grew larger and larger as the forty-five-minute, nine-mile ride across the Auau Channel neared an end. Sadie fished a small camera from her purse and clicked photos of the lush coastline. The island, with its steep cliffs leading into Manele Bay, looked deserted. She could see no tourists whatsoever as the captain guided the ferry into the tiny harbor and moored the boat with heavy ropes against a wooden walkway. They grabbed the bakery goodies and disembarked onto the island of Lāna‘i.
Chapter 16
Lance parked his truck next to Charlie McCord's cruiser, got out, and walked into the Sycamore Springs Waffle House to the welcoming aroma of freshly brewed coffee and fried bacon. He immediately spotted Charlie pouring syrup on a stack of pancakes at his favorite booth in the far corner of the restaurant.
Before he had settled across the table from Charlie, the waitress plopped down a mug for him and filled it to the brim with steaming coffee. “Eating or just drinking?” she asked as she placed the coffeepot on the table and reached for a plastic menu she held under her arm.
Lance looked up at her and waved off the menu.
“I'll have two eggs over medium, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits and gravy.” He looked wistfully at Charlie's pancake. “Bring me a pancake, too,” he added.
“You got it, honey.” She picked up the coffeepot, turned on her heel, and stopped at every table to top off coffee mugs on her way back to the pass-through window to order his food.
“You must be on a diet,” Charlie said with a chuckle.
“Just hungry, I guess.”
“Missing your little lady? Trying to replace her with food?”
Lance ignored Charlie, took out his cell phone, looked at it, and then put it back in his pocket.
“Take it from me, my friend,” Charlie continued. “It only tastes good for a little while. Then you get to where you can't run down crooks on foot anymore without stopping to catch your breath, and the first thing you know your job's in jeopardy and they want to retire you to a desk, then you got to starve yourself and start exercising every day to get back in shape before they'll put you back out on the street. It's a vicious cycle, Smith. Don't go there.”
Lance watched Charlie smear more butter on his pancakes and saturate them with syrup. “I see you're a man of great wisdom and experience. I'll take all that under consideration.” Lance took a sip of coffee. “In the meantime, you got anything on the dead guys?”
“The dead guy at the chicken plant is Tomas Hernandez. He's got a green card that says he's from somewhere in Mexico. The folks at the chicken plant say he's been there about a year and was a hard worker. Hasn't caused any problems in the past. The security tape clearly shows the man everyone knew there as Benny Skinner stabbing him. He dropped the knife and split.”
“Sounds like Benny didn't much like Cynthia's new boyfriend, Tomas.”
“Guess not.” Charlie sipped coffee and continued to eat.
“What about the dead guy in the trailer park?” Lance asked. “And the one that got away?”
Charlie took another bite of pancake. “Well, let's see. The dead guy in the trailer park.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and leaned back in his seat. “Seems as though everyone thinks he is, or was, one Benjamin Skinner. He's got an Oklahoma driver's license that confirms that. The woman at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Oklahoma City says he turned in an out-of-state license two years ago and the local driver's examiners issued him an Oklahoma license based on that information. They did a background check and nothing unusual came up. Someone's supposed to be running his fingerprints today. Maybe that will turn up something.”
The waitress zipped by, sloshed some more coffee in both mugs. Charlie took a sip and went back to work on his pancakes. In a few short seconds, the waitress returned and slid two plates of food and a small bowl of gravy in front of Lance. Lance rubbed his belly and dug in.
“What state would that be?” Lance asked.
“State of confusion, mostly.” Charlie laid his fork on the table and pushed his plate aside.
“No. What state driver's license did he turn in for the Oklahoma license?”
“I'm working on that. The little lady at the DMV said they shred all those licenses and since that was two years ago she'd have to do some research. She ought to be calling back any time now.”
Lance nodded and continued to shovel food into his mouth. “What about the woman at the trailer where we found the body?”
“Cynthia Tanner. Interesting young lady. She works the graveyard shift at the nursing home. Been there about six months. The woman at the nursing home says she hasn't had any complaints on her. Shows up on time, doesn't call in sick, keeps her nose clean. Says she shows up ever' once in a while looking a little beat up, but she figures what the employees do on their off time is none of her business.”
Lance took a bite of biscuit and washed it down with coffee. “Really.”
“I hear she's a regular at the Back Alley Bar on the south side of Sycamore Springs. I plan on doing a little investigating down there when I get a chance.”
“So, she's a local.”
“Talk around town is she grew up across the line in Arkansas, raised by her grandmother. She's got a younger sister—she took over the parenting when the grandmother died. I hear the sister is a lot younger. Don't know how old she is. The manager at the trailer park says her name is Becky Tanner, a good kid, goes to school in Fayetteville at the University of Arkansas, and she's a regular visitor at Cynthia's place.”
“Wonder if she can shed any light on this situation?”
“I doubt it, but you never know.”
“What about the runner?”
“That would be the major part of the confusion. So far, I don't have a clue on him. I never got close enough to get a description. I couldn't tell you if he was white, Indian, or alien. The state trooper who worked the accident said there was a little dab of blood on the windshield, so I'd say wherever he is, he's got a headache. We checked all the hospitals with no success. If he's hiding out in the woods in this heat, I'd think the ticks and chiggers would chase him in pretty soon. I can tell you his blood type is O positive and that's about it.”
Lance lifted his lips in a smirk. “Well, that narrows it down to about ninety-five percent of the population. What about the gun? Did they find it in the vehicle?”
“Yeah, and it was registered to Cynthia Tanner. She says she keeps it for protection. Her work alibi holds up, so my assumption is that the killer used it on Benny and then ran like hell when we showed up. Shouldn't take long for the ballistics tests to tell us if it's the weapon we're looking for, but I'm guessing it is.”
“Prints on the gun?”
“None that can be used.”
“I noticed a letter on the floor. Did that tell you anything?”
<
br /> “Came from a foreign country. Lab's still working on it. But I can tell you one thing.”
“What's that?”
“It isn't looking too good for the old man you're looking for.”
“Why's that?” Lance pushed his plate to the side.
“I had one of my junior officers pulling prints off the wrecked truck. I'm guessing those prints probably belong to the deceased, and if we're lucky, maybe the runner.” Charlie finished off his coffee and wiped his mouth.
“Come on, Charlie. Don't make me drag everything out of you.”
“Like I said, we should have reports on the fingerprints later, but if your assumptions are right about the old man, and he was ticked off about someone stealing his social security number, it could be he just got pissed off enough to shoot the old boy in the head.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “That doesn't make any sense, Charlie. If he'd found the culprit, why not just turn him in? He could take him to court and straighten everything out with the IRS.”
“You tell me.” Charlie chuckled. “Is that the Indian way?”
Lance frowned at his friend. “I guess shooting him in the head would be the best way to expedite justice in today's world. It would take years to get anything accomplished through the courts.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket again and stared at it.
“What's up with you and that darned phone? Someone sending you secret messages?”
“Maggie told me there was an earthquake in Hawai‘i this morning, and I haven't heard from Sadie since yesterday.”
“Hmph.” Concern crossed Charlie's face. “Come on,” he said as he pulled himself out of the booth. “No point in sitting around here. Let's go see what we can find out.”
The two men paid for their food and headed to their vehicles. Lance locked his truck and opened the passenger-side door of Charlie's cruiser. Charlie was already on the radio barking orders to someone. In less than a minute, Charlie's cell phone rang. He dropped the radio transmitter in his lap and answered.
Since Charlie seemed to be doing more listening than talking, Lance took the opportunity to try to call Sadie again. He stood beside the police car and dialed her number. When her voice mail clicked on, he hung up and dialed Maggie. Maggie answered on the first ring.
“Got any news for me?” Lance asked.
“CNN says all lines of communication are still out across Hawai‘i.”
“Okay. What about the foreign address?”
“It's from Samoa.”
“Samoa?” Lance said, with surprise in his voice. “Hmm. I can't say that I know much about Samoa. Do you, Maggie?”
“Not really, Chief. But I'll see what I can find.”
“Okay, thanks. Let me know. I'm going to be riding with Charlie McCord for a while this morning. Stay in touch.” Lance didn't wait for Maggie to acknowledge before snapping his cell phone shut and dropping it into his pocket.
When Charlie had finished his conversations on both the radio and the phone, he barked another order to Lance. “Get in, Smith.”
Lance climbed into the front seat of Charlie's cruiser and buckled up. “Maggie says the address on the letter is Samoan.”
Charlie raised his eyebrow. “We need to hire her in Sycamore Springs. I don't think we knew that yet.”
“Well, you can't have her. What's the rest of the scoop?” Lance asked.
“The county boys searching for the runner just found something interesting. Let's run out and see.”
Lance nodded as Charlie nosed the cruiser onto the highway.
“Tell me something, Smith,” Charlie said. “If you were going to send a bomb threat to a bank, would you send it through the U.S. mail?”
“Uh, probably not,” Lance said. “But, of course, I've never considered sending a bomb threat before.”
“Remember the branch where Sadie used to work? The one where that old boy tried to kill her?”
Lance nodded.
“Evidently, the manager there got a real strange letter. The bomb techs went out and checked out the building. Didn't find anything, but the letter mentioned a future event. Guess I'll have to go by and give them some pointers on what to look for. You know, community service.”
Uninterested, Lance glanced out the side window.
Charlie continued. “The official info on the earthquake is there were only a few minor injuries, phone lines are overwhelmed, and the airports are closed until they can get the power back up. They're not going to allow planes to take off until they can x-ray everyone's underwear,” Charlie chuckled. “So I'd say your little lady is going to be stuck for a couple of days. When is she scheduled to head back home?”
“Couple of days,” Lance said, and then shifted his gaze back out the car window.
Chapter 17
The sun climbed higher in the sky and Buck wrestled with his predicament. He pulled a piece of venison jerky from his stash, tore it in half, and returned the rest to his pocket. He chewed it slowly, allowing the salty taste to linger in his mouth.
His father had taught him well. He'd taught him how to survive—a lesson that had served him well in the war and every day since. It was as if he had an extra sense, an intuition of survival in battle. Buck, always prepared, gained the respect of his Marine buddies, who looked to him for strength, instruction, and advice, even though he was younger than all of them.
Buck relived the war every day, but he hadn't thought about the days leading up to it in a long time. It was strange to him that he couldn't remember how he'd got into a sinkhole the day before, but he could remember his childhood, when he was known as Ben instead of Buck, and he could remember the days of war as if they were yesterday.
In the summer of 1942, a few months after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the war had begun to affect everyone, including the Skinner family. News from the front lines arrived slowly to the rural areas of northeastern Oklahoma, but when it did, the stories of combat, carnage, and deadly sacrifice cast a pall over the community.
Times grew tough, but the Skinners knew how to survive. They and their Cherokee ancestors had been living off the land for centuries. This was no different. Ben and his older brother Jake stopped going to school and started hunting every day to help provide food for the family.
They harvested every kind of meat they could find for their mother's cast-iron skillet—rabbits, squirrels, venison, and even an occasional raccoon. They made jerky out of the extra venison and stored it for those winter days when they returned from hunting empty-handed.
When the fishing was good, the brothers came home from nearby Lake Eucha with a stringer full of catfish, perch, crappie, and anything else that would bite. Their mother and younger sister took turns tending the garden, which provided an abundance of vegetables for both eating and canning. Ben gathered eggs every evening from a few hens, and the Jersey cow provided rich milk that yielded both butter and cream. They shared what they had with their neighbors and traded for what they could at the Eucha General Store.
Jake had been born with a clubfoot. Though he walked with a limp, he could move as fast as anyone, even when challenging his brother in a game of stickball. When he reached the age of eighteen, he tried to enlist, but the U.S. Army rejected him and his clubfoot. He sulked for weeks.
Ben didn't want to be in the U.S. Army; he wanted to be a Marine. Only sixteen, he might have to lie about his age, but he knew he could fight just as well as, if not better than, the rest of the eighteen-year-old boys. He believed when the Marines found out how well he could shoot a rifle they wouldn't care how old he was. He was right.
Two weeks later, his mother stood beside their farm truck in front of Kirby's Service Station wringing her hands. Buck remembered how uncharacteristic it was for her to show much emotion, but he could see the pain in her eyes.
He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I have to go,” he'd said, hugging her again. “It wouldn't be right for me not to go, and you know it.”
“I don't know why you can't stay here like your older brother.”
“Jake's got a clubfoot, Momma. He limps.”
He let go of his mother and turned his attention to his father.
“You be careful, son. Keep your head down when the bullets start flying.”
Ben shook his father's hand. “Don't worry. I know how to take care of myself.”
“We'll be here when you get back,” his father said.
Ben turned and walked to the waiting bus. He took the steps two at a time and grabbed the first empty seat. He knew his momma was waiting for him to wave, but he didn't look back at her. He was afraid she would see the fear in his face, so he stared straight ahead and thought about the adventure of going to war.
It took almost a week to get to California. He had lied to the recruiter, told him he was eighteen, and he worried they might find out. But they didn't care. Instead, the U.S. Marines welcomed him with open arms and made him one of their own.
In basic training he learned to walk like a Marine, talk like a Marine, and, most important, he learned to fight like a Marine. The food didn't taste as good as his mother's, but he learned to adapt. His muscles grew hard and taut and his feet grew by one size. He looked good in his uniform and had a picture taken to send to his mother.
He missed his thick black hair, but his closely shaved head was a timesaver when he had to roll out of bed before dawn every day. He knew it would make his mother feel better to get something in the mail from him, so he tried to get a letter mailed to her at least once a week.
Buck could remember the dates with uncanny accuracy. On August 16, 1943, his company became part of the newly formed 4th Marine Division in Oceanside, California. Less than six months later, Ben got his orders. He was going to be part of a secret mission—Operation Flintlock.
He had never seen a vessel bigger than the flat-bottomed boat he and Jake used to fish from on Lake Eucha, but on January 13, 1944, he climbed aboard the mammoth USS LaSalle and set sail out of the harbor at San Diego for the worst nightmare of his life. He had no idea this ship would take him and the rest of the 4th Marines straight into battle in the middle of the South Pacific. He was seasick for days.
Sinking Suspicions (Sadie Walela Mystery) Page 10
