by Vince Milam
“I’ll order pizza and make us another round,” Jess said as she bounced up and snatched her phone off a nearby small table. “You’re on the ice floe, Mr. Lee. For God’s sake, ask about Alaton.”
“It’s sorta like having a personal improvement concierge, isn’t it?” I asked Joanna.
“Very much so.”
“I can hear you two,” Jess said, searching her phone for pizza.
“So, Alaton. We’d best discuss it or bear the wrath of Rossi,” I said.
Jess shot me a look as she called a pizza delivery outfit, ordered, and began assembling ingredients behind the bar.
“It’s Elliot’s dream,” Jess said. “Once he became rich as Croesus from his other companies, money wasn’t enough. Power, raw power became his focus. Hence Alaton. It fits the bill.”
“He deals with powerful people, I take it.”
“Heads of state. Which accounts, in part, for his weird work hours. He hasn’t figured out how to control time yet, so time zones dictate his schedule. He heads into his hole-in-the-ground office twice a day so global conversations can take place.”
Which explained his presence at predawn, the lone vehicle parked at the data center.
“Rough schedule.”
“Well, when you strive to be king of the world, there’s a price to pay.”
The blender fired and in short order another round of drinks appeared. Joanna and I enjoyed a pleasant respite, enjoying the moment. Warm breeze, Pacific ocean, good company.
“It’s worth noting Elliot’s work habits are assisted through chemistry,” Jess said, placing the drinks. “He takes drugs.”
“This is so unseemly,” Joanna said. “Do we need to go there?”
“Drugs?” I asked.
“Speed. Coke. Which I imagine can only contribute to his erratic behavior.”
“This guy is a cokehead?”
“Joanna hates talking about it, but yes. Cocaine. And dextroamphetamine.”
“He slipped away,” Joanna said, staring at the tabletop. “The old Elliot slipped away, replaced with someone completely different.”
“Long-term use?” I asked while wrapping my head around a MOTU wired on coke and speed.
“Long enough,” Jess said. “I think he’s developed an amphetamine psychosis. A diagnosis amply demonstrated by the way he treated Joanna.”
“We will not dive further into that,” Joanna said. “I’m uncomfortable hearing it, much less talking about it. And I get the sense Case isn’t comfortable either.”
“He beat her.” Jess took a long pull on her straw. “When she called me after he did it the first time, I told her to buy a gun. I even gave her the type and model of pistol.”
“There’s nothing cavalier about taking a life,” Joanna said, turning my way. “I am not wired the same as Jess and could not envision myself within such a scenario.”
“And failure to adopt my recommendation led to continued physical abuse,” Jess said. “Until you filed for divorce and moved out.” She turned toward me. “Let’s be blunt, Case. Elliot has gone off the deep end. Drugs, stress, his natural personality—take your pick. Just know he’s an incredibly mean and vindictive person.” She took another long pull on her drink straw. “And king of the world.”
Chapter 11
I woke to another gorgeous day in paradise. The past night with Jess and Joanna had been a welcome interlude, and Jess’s schedule within the Krupp divorce rodeo precluded her seeing me today. She had pushed for a get-together tomorrow, and I accepted. I would spend the day writing the report, file it with Global Resolutions, and grab some beach time. The gig was over, and there were no legit reasons to hang around. Except for Jess Rossi. I’d pick up the expenses from tomorrow onward, although Global Resolutions wouldn’t say a thing if I didn’t. But I wouldn’t charge my client for Case Lee time.
I was in no rush for departure, a return to the mainland’s winter. And in no hurry for a goodbye with Jess. I hadn’t felt this way for a long, long time. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but her combination of smarts, looks, attitude, humor, and independence had hooked me. A drive around the Big Island with her offered an opportunity to see if any foundation should be poured.
The three of us had spoken about Elliot’s persona the previous night. Figurative shoulder bumps, brief touchpoints. No one wanted to dwell on the guy. But each mention and observation painted a person with deep flaws. An ego as wide as the sky, an assuredness that he deserved a global spot on top of the world. And a deep psychosis. Drug-driven or a natural manifestation or a combination didn’t matter. The cat was mean, ugly, quick to snap. And saw himself above the law. With his unlimited money, it made for dangerous possibilities.
Not toward me—I had a minor concern he’d excavate my past and use it against me. Actions and activities buried far too deep, even for Krupp. My concern was for the people whose governments worked with Alaton. Free will, the sovereign citizen, individual rights—such basic things were anathema to Alaton and Krupp. China had already headed down that path, big time. But you can’t change the world, Lee, so no Sisyphus action pushing large boulders uphill. File the report, split, keep low. As always.
I wrapped the report at noon. Would let it gestate overnight before filing it with the Swiss. I headed back to Hāpuna Beach and rented a chair, umbrella, and boogie board. The waves, excellent. The water, cool and fine. Between surfing sessions I sat under the umbrella and opened my Kindle and a cold beer. Life was good. At irregular intervals I’d look up from the book, shades on, and check my surroundings. Couples and families and groups of friends sunbathed, swam, played in the sand. A day well spent. I was comfortable in my own skin and with my own company. The lone irritant lay in the knowledge that an MSS agent may have watched from a distance. Fine. Let them watch. Still, the sun and surf vignette around me highlighted my singular existence, driven by spooks, hitters, and constant situational awareness. Fishing through a large beach bag with towels and suntan lotion and phone and wallet, the hard steel reality of a semiautomatic pistol among my possessions acted as a go-it-alone marker. I balanced such reality with the upcoming date with Jess.
The next day started with a client report review. I made a few minor changes—including a less obtuse hint at Elliot’s drug use—and shot it off to Global Resolutions. Business model details, client list, Krupp’s leadership traits and inclinations. A solid deliverable.
Jess had called early, and we arranged for a pickup at Joanna’s house after noon.
“It’s too bad you’re not driving a convertible,” Jess said. “It would be kind of cool to tool around getting all windblown and tan.”
“The island’s east side gets a fair amount of rain, so I’ve read.”
“Mr. Preparedness. A boy scout background?”
“I was special forces. Same-same.”
“I’m sure. Okay, no convertible. Are there dinner plans?”
“Yep.”
“Would it be too much to ask for elaboration, or should I assume we’re gnawing on roadkill over an open fire?”
“Funny. We’ll eat. There’s a Hilo restaurant with great reviews. Does Joanna want to join us?”
“No. For a variety of reasons,” Jess said. “She’ll stay put and worry. And she wants me out of her hair for a while. I would consider that an understandable sentiment. Did we scare you the other night?”
“Two forces of nature against a boy from Savannah. Poor odds on my part.”
She laughed. “Yes, well, you were clearly in distress. At least part of the time. Anyway, one o’clock?”
I confirmed the pickup time. Report delivered, a burger with a grilled pineapple slice consumed. I showered and donned jeans, sneakers, and an untucked nondescript polo shirt. I remained gun-shy about commentary on batteries-not-included attire. Jess was waiting outside Joanna’s place, looking fine. Sneakers as well, but with pressed shorts and a light fabric blouse. We skirted north of Mauna Kea and headed toward Waimea.
“I’ve
been here two weeks and haven’t ventured far,” Jess said. “I made several trips into Kona. We’ve visited most of the nearby restaurants and went to the beach several times. But no grand island tour with an armed and dangerous tour guide. Why, a girl’s heart positively flutters at the opportunity.”
She patted her chest, I laughed, and we rolled the windows down and enjoyed the gorgeous day.
“How’d you get into Elliot’s place?” I asked, curious about how she gathered some of her intel on him.
“I didn’t. But across the road, there’s a small hill. I always travel with a telephoto lens for the camera. My preference is Nikon, but Canon and others make a good one as well. Do you own one?”
I didn’t. High-end binoculars, sure. And weaponry out the wazoo—handy tools when engaged with hitters and spies and revolutionaries. But I owned neither a professional camera nor a telephoto lens. I made a mental note to fix that.
“No. But I can see where it would be a good idea.”
“They are handy devices. And indispensable if you plan pursuing this line of work. I assume most of your toolkit at present goes bang.”
She had me nailed, and I smiled a response, confirmation enough for Jess.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the little hilltop perch provided ample evidence of Elliot’s philandering. Young girls—at least two since I’ve been here—have dropped in for a compound visit. The speedhead didn’t bother closing his bedroom curtains, so I captured a few, well, action shots as part of the divorce proceedings.”
“Where does he get his drugs?”
“A dealer meets him at the parking lot of his office, if you can call it that. It’s a half-buried structure in the inland hills. I followed him there one night. He scored with his dealer. It was blind luck to have seen it and photographed it. You should go see that place.”
“I have.”
She stared my way for a moment.
“It looks like a bunker, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does. How do you know what drugs he purchased? You were pretty doggone definitive at Joanna’s.”
“I made a dash back to my car and chased the guy down when he left Elliot’s bunker.” She flashed a smile. “I may have run him off the road. Then approached with my PI badge, which he failed to inspect. A brief conversation revealed everything. He was so freaked and then so happy I wasn’t a cop he became quite open about the transaction.”
“Aren’t you the badass?” I said. I admired her moxie.
I was thankful she didn’t dig deeper on the nature of my data center visit, because I would have lied. Until now, I’d kept things honest with her. Although I’d sidestepped a few hidden background details.
“Will you keep contracting with the Swiss?” she asked. “It would appear they aren’t prone to sending you after divorce cases or family spats.”
“Good question. I don’t know.”
“You’ll have to advertise and do marketing if you want domestic engagements. I’m afraid it’s part of the job.”
“Yeah. I know. And I don’t know if I’m up for that type of exposure.”
“Another consideration is you might miss the fun of foreign spies approaching you on Hawaiian islands. You appeared pretty unperturbed about the little international visit at Lava Lava. I can’t say I would have taken the same attitude.”
I shot her a smile.
“You get used to it. It’s when they flock that it gets worrisome.”
We gained elevation, and the terrain turned into green grassland with large copses of eucalyptus and hapuu. Cattle country. Barbed wire fences appeared and the town of Waimea had the cool look and texture of a Hawaiian ranch and farm community.
“So what happened with the cop career?’ I asked.
She held a hand out the window and, fingers pressed together, wind-surfed the passing air. She spoke toward the windshield.
“When Phil died, I wanted a clean start. I’d made detective in the Charlotte PD, but had the strong urge for a clean break and to start over.”
“I get it. I really do.”
I did. After Rae’s death, I quit my job at the Port of Savannah and, through murky special operator contacts, began a career as a contractor. A career where a day at the office could find me in a New Guinea jungle or an isolated Caribbean island. Regardless of the contract’s location, bullets tended to fly and life-threatening danger ruled too many moments.
We dropped down along the Big Island’s east coast—the wet side. The Hāmākua Coast was lush and green and shouted tropical. We chatted about PI work, books we’d read, interests outside of work. As we headed toward Hilo, I steered the conversation toward the personal. She’d already ascertained my relationship status, but hers remained unclear.
“So are you dating anyone?” I asked.
For the life of me, I don’t know how to slide into those conversational realms with grace. Maybe because, at the end of the day, it’s a simple question and required a direct approach.
“No. I’m single and scot-free. Why do you ask?”
“Just getting to know you. Polite conversation. How about you and Joanna? There’s not a, you know, relationship there?”
She laughed and asked, “Did we send those signals?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. My social-clues radar isn’t up to snuff.”
“How is your maybe-we’re-being-followed radar?”
“The gray Ford?”
“One and the same. I’ve been checking them in the side mirror.”
The road options from the west coast toward Hilo were limited. One route traversed over the top—near Mauna Kea. The other, which we’d taken, wound through Waimea and down the east coast. While traffic wasn’t heavy, sufficient vehicles used this route to mask being tailed. Or the gray Ford was simply another fellow traveler headed for Hilo.
“Two guys, it looks like from a distance. Yeah, I’ve noticed, but without any alarm bells ringing,” I said.
“I wouldn’t put it past Elliot to sic a couple of people on us. Fellow PIs, maybe.”
Or hitters. I had begun to believe Krupp was capable of triggering professionals. A MOTU’s well-above-the-law perception. But a nagging thought, buried deep, whispered. Elliot Krupp would place untraceable layers of separation between himself and an act of murder. If these were hitters, assassins, after both of us—well, the obvious connection with Krupp was too tight. Too incriminating. Unless they weren’t after us both. In which case the quiet voice whispered, “Bounty.”
“Yeah, maybe. We’ll keep an eye on them. Hilo isn’t far. Dinner and a stroll around town should flush them out. And there’s the possibility we’re both a bit paranoid.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jess said. “I like to know what is happening around me.”
I smiled and glanced her way.
“Yeah. Same here.”
A light rain fell as we entered Hilo and found a parking spot downtown. Our restaurant was roofed but open air, and a stroll among the patrons offered a glance at remarkable seafood dishes. We asked for a table along a side wall. Jess suggested we sit side by side, backs covered. The meal was excellent, the conversation light and fun although without as much eye contact as I would have liked. We both maintained a keen appraisal of the other patrons and the passersby.
Hilo struck me as an old hippie town. The two-story building across the street from us had corrugated tin walls and roof. The walls were painted purple. The section of town we occupied reflected much the same architectural feel, and my assessment was buttressed by the nontourist folks who wandered past. Folks who’d lived high times during the seventies and eighties. Now on a path toward Medicare and Social Security. In a strange way I envied them. A chosen lifestyle of mellow and chilled as old age approached. A lifestyle they’d maintained for decades. I wasn’t built that way, but I felt a certain grudging respect for those who pulled it off. Peace and love. Live and let live, baby.
As the sun lowered we strolled among the booths of an outdoor market. I k
ept an eye peeled for a tail. I did notice one guy who followed our general path, but at a distance and with all the attributes of a tourist, same as us. I sensed eastern European with his look and movement. An eastern European tourist. Maybe.
The booths sold what you might expect—handmade soaps, home-brewed kombucha, healing crystals, island art. Jess bought soap and engaged the vendor in a discussion of the product’s various properties. I kept an eye on our surroundings.
“As a component of your personal wardrobe,” Jess asked, “how is your tie-dye selection?”
“Can’t say I own a single piece.”
“You do now.”
She wandered among a tie-dye booth’s bright wares with T-shirts, blouses, dresses, and thin cotton pants.
“I’ve gotta tell you, Jess, I’m not sure I’d ever wear one of these.”
“Yes, you will. On your boat, underway along a secluded Ditch section, as Spanish moss drips from overhanging limbs. Our intrepid solo act should be attired in something like this.”
She displayed a bright yellow-and-purple T-shirt.
“I’d require sunglasses just to put it on. And there’s the replacement batteries issue.”
“Yes, there’s always that.” She inspected it once more. “It’s perfect, then. I’ll get you a large. It may shrink, but you’ve got the bod to pull it off.”
Several more protests had zero effect as she ignored me and purchased the shirt.
“Please stop looking so disgusted,” she said. “The soap and shirt are called mementos. It will remind you of our little Hilo trip.”
“Does it help to point out the soap will eventually be gone? It may take a special license for this shirt’s disposal.”
“You will grow to love it. There’s a touch of Woodstock buried within the Case Lee heart. It simply requires assistance in bringing it out. I’m here to help.”
We both chuckled and moved on. The light drizzle had stopped, and the late day’s low light washed across the streets, shops, and meandering crowds. I suggested we head back.
