The Hawaii Job: (A Case Lee Novel Book 5)

by Vince Milam

  THE HAWAII JOB:

  A CASE LEE NOVEL

  Book 5

  By Vince Milam

  Published internationally by Vince Milam Books

  © 2020 Vince Milam Books

  Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Other books by Vince Milam:

  The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1

  The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2

  The Caribbean Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 3

  The Amazon Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 4

  Acknowledgments:

  Editor—David Antrobus at BeWriteThere - bewritethere.com

  Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.

  As always, Vicki for her love and patience. Mimi, Linda, and Bob for their unceasing support and encouragement.

  Chapter 1

  The entire bloody mess started with a phone call. It ended with ugliness and redemption and relief.

  “Mr. Krupp. This is Case Lee. I represent a Swiss client very interested in Alaton’s services.”

  A half-truth that intimated I ran in certain circles. Knowing his unlisted phone number added to the ruse.

  “Spell your name,” he said, the voice flat and demanding.

  I did and heard a keyboard’s light snick as his fingers flew.

  “Give me your phone number. Your phone is encrypted.”

  A barked command. Man, this guy was a delight. A MOTU. Master of the Universe. Elliot Krupp, founder and CEO of Alaton and one of the world’s wealthiest people. Perhaps the wealthiest. A tech entrepreneur who’d started several Silicon Valley companies in the world of big data, social media, and communications. His latest venture, Alaton Corporation, was the subject of my investigation. Alaton was a low-profile corporation, tucked away and obscure. No website, and a Delaware lawyer’s office as corporate headquarters.

  I provided my phone number. I’d used my real name for this job, figuring the risks low and the rewards high. Krupp would attempt to check my background prior to our meetup. No worries. I lived on a boat, dealt in cash transactions, and utilized encrypted satellite cell phone and laptop—an existence that kept me buried in the shadows. The nature of my engagements mandated this lifestyle. As did the more than minor matter of a million-dollar bounty on my head.

  “I’m in Hawaii,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in Palo Alto.”

  “Yessir. I know you’re in Hawaii. We can meet there.”

  A pause. So far, Krupp hadn’t uttered a single syllable or voice inflection expressing even guarded friendliness. When the MOTU speaks, people listen—common courtesies be damned.

  I’d made the call from my boat, the Ace of Spades, moored in a run-down section of Chesapeake, Virginia. A workboat eased off the Elizabeth River and one of the crew waved a desultory greeting. I responded with the same. A gull perched on a nearby creosote piling stared my way. I returned the favor and continued waiting. The phone conversation was a big deal, and contract success was dependent, in part, on meeting this MOTU asshat.

  “You know my personal phone number. You knew I’m in Hawaii. You assume that’s your way in, representing a legitimate client,” he said. “But all it tells me is you work for my wife.”

  Wrong, genius. Krupp was going through a divorce, but I wasn’t hired by her. Jules of the Clubhouse had provided me Krupp’s number and current location. As for representing a legitimate client, well, that could be interpreted several ways.

  “I don’t have any association with your wife. We couldn’t care less about your personal life.”

  Delivered with a bit of my own ’tude. A gamble, but sycophantic behavior wouldn’t create a semblance of a level field between us. Another conversational pause ensued.

  “Thursday. One o’clock. At my house. Do you need the address?”

  “I do not. And I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Elliot.”

  “As well you should. This had better be real, Lee.”

  “As real as it gets. See you Thursday.”

  He hung up. Thursday would work. It gave me two days for prep and travel.

  My usual client—a murky Geneva outfit called Global Resolutions—had offered this job. It was the type of contract I’d often requested. One without the usual earmarks of espionage, revolution, or general mayhem. Mayhem of the bullets-flying variety. Global Resolutions’s contract offer was short and sweet:

  “Provide detailed information on Alaton Corporation including client base.”

  The paying customer who’d contacted Global Resolutions would remain, as always, unknown. A business competitor of Alaton, a national government, a wild band of gypsies. It didn’t matter. I’d long ago adopted the appropriate attitude—in it but not of it, baby.

  Our short conversation painted a framework for Elliot Krupp the person. What a jerk. I had no inherent resentment toward rich folks. Hell, I’d like a private jet and a Hawaii estate. By and large, the super wealthy left me alone, and I was more than happy to return the favor. No, it was this guy’s attitude. Scratch that—the guy’s worldview. I’d researched everything I could on Krupp and discovered multiple references toward his status as a MOTU. Always accompanied by inferences that the great unwashed should heed their betters. He held a mountaintop view far above the scurrying crowd and believed he saw the future and would help direct it. Well, screw that noise.

  But I’d dealt with asshats aplenty in the past. And I’d deal with this one to ensure mission success. Krupp was Alaton. Plain and simple. My client had thrown me a bone with this commercial sleuthing gig. So suck it up, Lee. Meet the MOTU and garner what intel I could. Rinse away the distaste with the knowledge that our scheduled meetup constituted a significant step toward success. A step that also provided a potent salve for the itch of self-doubt about this job.

  There wasn’t a helluva lot of weaponry I could aim toward gathering legit intel on Alaton. My experience within this industrial spying realm was minimal. Other avenues, other tactics employed by more experienced investigators weren’t in the arsenal—yet—of a shot-up former Delta Force operator doing the gumshoe tango. But I’d plow ahead and utilize my unique skill sets and leverage a couple of hole cards yet played.

  Krupp’s wife, Joanne, for one. Fertile informational ground, still unplowed, lay there. She resided in Hawaii as well, different address. The other hole card was a tech insider who’d forgotten more than I’d ever know about big data and big tech and whatever large deals might be in the works for outfits like Alaton. I’d sift through his paranoia and conspiratorial tendencies to capture valid intel, but rich soil lay there as well.

  So shake it off, Lee, and get with the program. I wasn’t headed into a hot fire zone, hitters weren’t hell-bent on whacking me, and espionage spooks weren’t nibbling at the edges of this gig. I could have done a lot worse.

  Man, did I ever have that wrong.

  Chapter 2

  Jules of the Clubhouse—who’d supplied me with Krupp’s phone number and current location—had warned me about being too sanguine about the job. Sound advice, tucked away, and poorly heeded.

  The Clubhouse visit was standard operating procedure. I’d forwarded Jules my job offer message. As alw
ays, encrypted, dark web. Her spiderweb strands circled the globe, and she seldom failed to stock the informational larder prior to an engagement. Often life-saving information.

  “Rarified air, dear,” she said. “An engagement, albeit alluring, that flings the door open to unpleasant exposure.” Cigar smoke wafted around her head, her one eagle eye affixed on yours truly.

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Color me less than shocked.”

  She delivered a mild snort and leaned back. Her old wooden office chair protested. The usual double-barreled shotgun, pointed my way, rested on the even more antiquated desk. Her black eyepatch band was lost within the wild thatch of a DIY haircut. Jules. Jules of the Clubhouse. A simple and honest broker of information, according to her. I’d buy most of honest. She was anything but simple.

  I’d deposited my Glock with an older female member of the Filipino dry-cleaning family below us. She had covered it with someone’s dropped-off laundry, eyes hooded, face expressionless. I climbed hidden stairs, knocked twice, and entered the Clubhouse. Did the slow twirl routine, arms extended, as Jules kept the shotgun aimed at my mid-torso. And I was one of her favorite clients.

  “I see nothing but opportunity. A commercial contract and a far cry from past gigs,” I said.

  “I do so love your wide-eyed enthusiasm. It invigorates this wretched creature before you.” She pointed with her cigar. “Do you intend sharing the tin of potential heaven, or shall it remain within your viselike grip?”

  Licorice. Jules’s one soft spot. I’d picked up a tin of specialty licorice days before in Morehead City and with a smile slid it across the wooden desktop. She placed the cigar at the desk’s edge and lifted the lid. Her smile filled with anticipation as rapid head movements inspected the offering. She extracted the interior plastic bag and placed a side against the desktop-embedded Ka-Bar knife. The military-issue weapon, used to trim the sealed end of her cigars, stood sentinel at its usual location alongside her accounting system—an old wooden abacus. A quick and smooth move and the plastic split open. She poured the contents back into the tin and lifted a claw above her prey, focused on individual selection.

  “You are such a dear boy.” She made a choice and inspected the piece of candy. “Do understand I applaud your efforts for a less precarious career. But let us not be overly buoyant about this particular engagement.” She popped the candy home and leaned back. Her eye closed as she chewed and sucked and delivered small grunts of pleasure.

  I began with a question but Jules held up a palm, eye still closed, and paused her chewing. “Prior to discussions regarding your future, tell me about your sojourn into the fetid Amazonia jungles. Leave nothing out.”

  My last job, in Brazil, had morphed from a simple search and rescue gig into preventing an apocalyptic scenario. Jules listened, worked the licorice, and uttered a few hmms.

  “So what I am to understand,” she said when I wrapped up, “is that the information you last delivered—delivered for a substantial credit toward your account, I might add—is no longer viable.”

  During the middle of the Amazon job I’d provided her the names and contact information for Mossad and Iranian spies, as well as the CIA’s Brazilian station chief.

  “Two-thirds of the information is no longer viable,” I said. “Fair enough.”

  Her eye edged open and settled on the old abacus. A bony finger, the tip covered with sealant to prevent the spread of fingerprints, extended as an accusatory pointer and shifted two abacus balls along a wooden rail.

  “We stand, you and I, at a clean slate,” she said, leaning back. “I am no longer in your debt. Are you prepared to make payment for my services today?”

  “Always, Jules.”

  I’d brought a roll of Benjamins sufficient to choke a mule.

  “It’s a simple question, one founded in protocol. Do not take offense, dear.”

  “None taken. Now, let’s talk about the risk of exposure you mentioned with this contract.”

  “In due time.”

  She pulled open a desk drawer. Two index cards slid across the desk with the hand-written information face down. As I digested the information, Jules plucked another licorice and sat back with her eye closed again.

  Jules exchanged information three ways—face-to-face discussion, handwritten notes on index cards, and encrypted electronic messages, dark web only. She didn’t trust the last option and kept her electronic communiqués brief and cryptic.

  Over the years I would make regular delivery of intel index cards, prompting two moves: a glance at the card prior to its disappearance into a desk drawer, and the slide of a black abacus ball along its rail. Credit on the Clubhouse ledger.

  Her index cards weren’t allowed to leave the Clubhouse, so I memorized the information as she sucked the candy and emitted small sounds of satisfaction. One card referenced Elliot Krupp. His private cell phone number and two addresses—Palo Alto, California, and the other in Hawaii.

  “What’s with Hawaii?” I asked.

  “Our Mr. Krupp has several abodes sprinkled across the US and Europe. Palo Alto is his prime residence.” She opened her eye and stared at me. “He is currently ensconced on the Big Island of Hawaii.”

  She continued working the licorice. An air vent, hidden, blew warm air. The dangling on/off chain for the room’s naked lightbulb moved with the current. I shifted position; the uncomfortable wooden chair squeaked.

  The second index card contained similar information on Joanna Krupp, Elliot’s wife. Her cell phone number and a different Hawaii address.

  “They live in two separate houses on the Big Island?”

  She didn’t deign to open her eye.

  “The couple are in the midst of a divorce. A less than amicable parting and quite hush-hush. One can only imagine the veritable horde of attorneys engaged on both sides.”

  Solid intel and the beauty of the Clubhouse. I slid both cards back across the desktop. Jules didn’t budge, focused as she was on enjoying the dark treat. I sat back and inspected the room. Nothing had changed. A steel cabinet hid her electronics, the antique green-glass desk lamp joined the abacus and Ka-Bar knife as desktop decor. The bare steel walls remained empty except for the old Casablanca movie poster—the lone item in the Clubhouse subject to alteration. Jules swallowed and sighed and fished in her work-shirt pocket for a kitchen match. Fired on the chair’s armrest, she relit the cigar and posed a question.

  “How shall you, Monsieur Poirot, initiate discussions with our Mr. Krupp?” she asked.

  “Working on that.”

  “If I may suggest, start with a truth. A fulcrum for further discussions.”

  “Tell him I’ve been hired to investigate Alaton?”

  “Not that truth, dear. You represent a client—and you may add Swiss to the client descriptive as a sweetener—who is keenly interested in Alaton’s offerings. A due diligence quest. He is a businessman, after all.”

  “Okay.” I smiled. “Any reservoirs of untapped information across the desk from me regarding him or Alaton?”

  A dismissive cigar-hand wave as she placed a thin chin in her other palm, elbow anchored on the armrest.

  “Rumors, whispers, innuendo. All of which I shall broach anon. Your tactical endeavors are my immediate concern. I do wish for success as you traipse along a less treacherous career path.”

  I believed her. At least most of it. Jules had a soft spot in her heart for me. A sentiment I returned. She’d admonished me often to seek less violent engagements. More than a few times I’d sat across from her, nursing serious wounds. As for broaching the rumors and whispers, she’d reveal information restricted to Clubhouse advantage. Maybe. Or she might spill the beans. Hard to say.

  “Okay. I appreciate it. So regarding tactics, I’ve now got Krupp and his wife. Alaton keeps such a low profile I couldn’t find anything on the web.”

  “One can only hope your searches were both encrypted and dark.” She puffed and blew smoke toward the c
eiling. “We deal with a hydra. A deadly hydra.”

  Bad news. I’d learned over the years any Clubhouse statement regarding deadly held water. I’d often recall her warnings post-events, after I’d become too wrapped around the mission axle.

  “Prior to you rocketing off for the Pacific’s azure seas, do you plan any other preparations?” she asked.

  “Pretty sure the answer will disgust you, but nope. I’ll pack the Glock in checked luggage.”

  “So off you go adorned with a semiautomatic talisman. How quaint.”

  “Alaton doesn’t have an address. No corporate headquarters. Krupp is the lone connection point. What else besides talking with the soon-to-be-divorced wife do I do? Limited options, Jules.”

  “Hardly.”

  She puffed the cigar and trained a squinted eye on me. I stared back. The standoff continued for fifteen seconds. Welcome to the freakin’ Clubhouse.

  “Under the rubric of fostering your success, may I make a suggestion?” she asked as a slight smile formed.

  “Please do.”

  “The siloed one. Our mutual acquaintance.”

  Chagrin washed across me. Oh, man. Should have thought of him. Hoolie Newhouse. He lived in a remnant of the Cold War—a former Atlas missile silo. A computer geek extraordinaire. Years before, Jules had provided me his contact information. Early in my contracting career, Hoolie—paranoid to the point of mental instability—ensured my laptop and satellite phone were locked down fortress-like. If anyone could provide insight about Alaton, he would. A known asset not called upon. What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Yeah. Good point. Great point. I’ll make a Topeka stop prior to the Hawaii flight. Thanks.”

  “Do not be too harsh on yourself, dear boy. You paddle through uncharted contractual waters.”

  She reached for another licorice, reconsidered, and withdrew her hand.

  “Now, we shall discuss the whispers,” she continued. “And the aforementioned subject near and dear to your heart and mine. That of unpleasant exposure.”