by Rob Swigart
When the rain was gone, Cobb allowed his body to swing slightly out again to his previous position.
In the lobby someone was setting up the kind of large display nightclubs and restaurants use to advertise the evening’s entertainment. The poster did not announce a floor show, however. There was no glossy black-and-white picture of a photogenic torch singer or hula dance troupe, no enthusiastic accounts of recent triumphs, nor were the words “Appearing Nightly” anywhere on the white cardboard.
Large red letters printed with Magic Marker announced instead: MEDICAL ALERT. Photocopies of four typewritten sheets were glued to the board. They summarized, in capital letters, the nature of the alert. There was no cause for alarm; state health officials had received reports that there may have been a “slightly toxic” substance released from the Soviet satellite that had crashed in the interior of the island two nights previously. A few birds and some small animals had been affected in the vicinity of the crash site, but there was no evidence the contamination had spread. Meanwhile the authorities were investigating. Everything was being done to ensure that vacations and work schedules remained uninterrupted. They were sorry if the emergency sirens of the previous night had alarmed anyone, but at that time it was feared that the toxin might have escaped into the atmosphere. Please remain calm. Further bulletins would be posted as necessary, and local radio would keep everyone informed of the progress of the alert. The report concluded with an appeal for calm and cooperation.
Those who crowded around the display showed, in voice and gesture and body language, their response to the message. One would snort with disbelief, another would hurry over to the house phone to place a call, while yet another would stand thoughtfully for long minutes before drifting away to the coffee shop or the newsstand.
From time to time Cobb, who kept one eye on the crowd from outside, could hear someone reading out loud; he did not shift his position or look around, though, until he heard Angela’s voice. “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice rising like the ghost of a shipwreck from the sea of conversation.
He turned from his apparent contemplation of the distant landscape and sauntered into the lobby, hands still in his pockets.
She wore a black bikini under a partly open thigh-length beach smock. With her hair wrapped as it was in a soft pastel scarf he thought she looked surprisingly fragile standing there facing a young man with dark hair. She held her sunglasses dangling in one hand. The other hand fluttered somewhere near her navel, as if unsure whether to try to fend him off or close her wrap.
She glared for a moment then turned toward the coffee shop, her high-heeled pumps slapping against the soles of her feet. Cobb shook his head, watching the curve of her calves and the determined way she walked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man turn to the front desk, his lips tight.
The same pretty Filipino desk clerk was on duty. She smiled at Cobb as she looked up to answer the man’s questions.
Cobb smiled and drifted to the newsstand, where he contemplated the headlines, sober words that echoed the large poster near the entrance. The man left the desk and strode to the elevators at the other end of the lobby near the carved life-size koa wood canoe on display. Cobb waited until he had gone upstairs before returning to the desk.
“Hi,” he said, removing his dark glasses and letting them drop on their nylon cord. “Remember me?”
“Of course, Lieutenant. How are you this morning?”
Cobb nodded his continued good health. “Any idea who that was just now?”
“Sure. That’s Mr. Linz’s son. It’s the first time he’s been here, but there is a family resemblance, don’t you think? I guess he’s here about his father.”
Again Cobb nodded. “Mmm, I’d think so. We sent him a telegram. He has not contacted us yet, though.”
“I think he just got in last night. Perhaps he hasn’t had time. He probably will this morning.”
“Ah, no doubt. Could you be so kind as to give me his room number? Perhaps I shall save him the trouble of calling us.”
“Two-oh-six. Good dresser, isn’t he?”
“Thank you. You are most helpful. His clothes do look expensive. Silk shirts, I’d say. Did his father always dress like that, too?”
“Jogging suits, very expensive ones. He’d charge them at the boutique. Five hundred dollars, without a blink, Stephie told me. Stephie works there.”
“Yes. He was wearing one when he died. I didn’t notice a price tag, though. Still, they must have plenty of money.”
“Yeah. He had a silk bathing suit, too. Kind of a novelty item at the store. Hundred and thirty-five dollars.”
Cobb grinned and shook his head. “How do you think people are reacting to this morning’s announcements? Any panic? People trying to leave the island?”
She frowned. “They wouldn’t like me to be giving out this information, Lieutenant. We wouldn’t want to cause any unhappiness with our patrons. We had to take this training course in public relations— you know, always reassure the customers. But the truth is some people are cutting their vacations short. Not a lot, but some. Most seem reassured by what they read over there.”
“Yes. ‘Printed word has ring of convincing truth’.”
She tilted her head, allowing the dark braid to fall to one side. “Is that a quote?”
“You are a very discerning young lady. It is indeed a quote from the great, though fictional, detective, Charlie Chan. I wonder if you would like to help out an overworked and understaffed police department?”
“Sure, anything.”
“There are two people in this hotel of interest. I think you know who they are?”
She smiled again. Her teeth were small, even, and very white. The effect was pleasing. “Miss Franklin and Mr. Linz?” she suggested.
“I wonder if you could just call in if they go anywhere today?” Cobb handed her a card. “If I’m not there, leave a message with the desk sergeant. And if you get a hint of where they might be going, particularly if they are preparing to check out or anything, just let me know, all right?”
She took the card and pinned it up behind the desk. “Sure thing, Lieutenant. Say hello to Scottie for me, will you?”
Cobb lifted a quizzical eyebrow, an expression that prompted a ripple of laughter from the girl.
He hesitated a moment, then returned to his post on the porch.
The sun was higher now, though still behind him to seaward. An airport shuttle from the hotel arrived to pick up two couples and their luggage. Some people were leaving on an early flight. They waited while the driver loaded their luggage. The women looked apprehensively at the mountains from time to time, while the men talked about the upcoming football season on the mainland: Denver fans, it seemed.
The van drove away and for a time nothing further happened. A little before 9:30 a car pulled up and stopped. Kimiko Takamura climbed out. Kiki and Kenji waved at Cobb from the backseat. She handed him a bulky brown paper bag. He peered inside and nodded. “You know how to get there?” he asked.
“I am not an idiot, Mr. Takamura,” she said severely.
“Quite so, Mrs. Takamura,” he answered solemnly. “Yet it is a difficult place to find, I think. You have to go out past where the Koloa Road comes in. Look for Puai’i on the right. Then two lefts and another right. Last house.”
“I do know all this, Mr. Takamura. Patria has given me very careful instructions. We have futon in the trunk for everyone. We will all be quite happy for as long as we need to stay there. Patria is there also. We will have time for long chats, and Chazz has promised to work with Kiki on her aikido as well. Don’t forget to eat your lunch. You usually do, but your children still need a robust father.” She got back in the car and drove away.
He opened the sack again and pulled out the small wooden box. He slid back the lid and looked at the neatly packed array of sushi, rice balls, and pickled vegetables she had prepared for him. Satisfied, he put the box back. He sighed and removed a compact
but apparently heavy walkie-talkie from the sack. It had a clip to hold it to his belt. He attached it and went back inside.
At the desk once more he asked the girl to guard his lunch for him. Then he took the elevator to the second floor.
Room 206 was at the end of the corridor in front; not a choice room by any means, but no doubt something better would open up today with so many people checking out. Cobb hesitated before knocking. He could hear a low voice inside speaking, then pausing, as if in a telephone conversation. He knocked.
“Just a minute.” The low murmur continued for a moment, as if hurried. Cobb could make out the word goodbye. Then Peter Linz opened the door.
“Yes?”
Cobb took off his hat and looked at it briefly, as if offended. “Mr. Linz?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” Cobb assured him. “I am Lieutenant Takamura of the Kaua’i Police Department.”
Linz’s shirt was a watery lime silk, unbuttoned halfway to reveal a lean, thickly haired chest and one slender gold chain. He was now wearing swimming trunks as well, though in the lobby he’d worn slacks. “I’ll just put on some pants and we can go downstairs,” he said, backing away. Cobb moved smoothly into the room as Linz went to the bed.
A leather carry-on suitcase was open on the luggage rack. The shirts and slacks revealed there were folded neatly, many of the shirts still in their original plastic wrappers. Only a leather shaving kit was open on top. The closet door was ajar, and Cobb could see inside nothing hanging but an unopened folding garment bag.
A pair of slacks were laid carefully on the twin bed. He put them on without apparent self-consciousness and slipped his bare feet into a pair of topsiders. He gave Cobb a charming if wintry smile and gestured to the door.
They did not speak until they were settled in the coffee shop and Linz had a cup in front of him. Then he thanked Cobb for sending him word about his father.
“You must be tired,” Cobb observed, looking at him closely. “All that travel yesterday.”
Linz nodded. He had put on sunglasses although the coffee shop was dimly lit.
“I noticed you had not slept in your bed, Mr. Linz. Surely you need rest, despite your loss?”
Linz seemed to be thinking about the question, although behind his glasses his eyes were staring at Cobb. “Please call me Peter. You would not believe the business I have to take care of under the… circumstances. Lieutenant, is it? Yes. I’ve spent most of the night on the phone.”
“Really? I should think there would be little that could not wait for the normal business day? Lawyers, accountants, and such? Don’t they mind being called in the middle of the night?”
Linz barked what was probably a laugh. “You have no idea,” he said. He did not elaborate. “How’s the investigation going?”
Cobb made a noncommittal gesture. “We’re working, Mr. Linz. We are questioning people, of course. We know what he did, when he died, what killed him. But as yet we have no suspects. Perhaps you could make some suggestions?”
Linz stared into his coffee for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Not really. Oh,” he made an open-palm gesture, “I suppose I could suggest some people, but… you know. Victor had his enemies, of course. And then there is Angela.”
Cobb raised his eyebrows, a movement that put three thin furrows across his brow. “Angela,” he said.
“She was my father’s mistress, Lieutenant. I don’t suppose we need to mince words about such a thing in this day and age. She was after his money. She may have gotten it, too.”
“Is that so?”
Peter had leaned forward when he said this. Now, though, he leaned back and relaxed with visible effort. “Well,” he said, elaborately casual, “I don’t know if we should bring out our family laundry, Lieutenant. I’m sure Angela wouldn’t shoot him.”
“You seem to feel just the opposite… Peter.” Cobb was looking in his hat.
“Well, I don’t know, I guess. Murder is a little out of my line.”
“What is your line, Peter?”
Peter considered the question in silence. The silence extended itself. Cobb drowsed in the midmorning lull. Around them the coffee shop was nearly empty. A bored hostess wrapped in brilliant red floral material read the paper behind the cash register. A busboy mopped the tile floor in front of the swinging doors into the kitchen. From time to time he would go through the doors, and when they swung open Cobb caught a glimpse of Lee, the head morning chef, leaning against a stainless steel counter, gazing impassively into a large steel pot. Food was going to waste. The oatmeal would have to go down the drain. Paper and cardboard would go into the cans in back. Small flies would whirl in the air.
Was there, adrift on the currents of air flowing gently down from the mountains, a tiny toxin ready to fall on their unprotected heads? Would it kill the flies buzzing over Mr. Lee’s garbage cans in back of the kitchen?
Kimiko and the children had gone to Chazz and Patria’s new house on the south side of the island, away from the prevailing downslope winds from the satellite crash. Four people lay comatose in the hospital just down the road, perhaps poisoned by that satellite. Yet there were no new cases since last night. Surely there would be more cases if a toxin really had been released into the atmosphere?
A few people were leaving the island. The airlines would be grateful for a time that more seats than normal were full. But the poster in the lobby had said nothing of the four cases in the hospital. No mention was made of any actual toxin, any victims of its poisoning. What would happen if word got out that some people were sick? That was not a prospect Cobb relished, yet he thought it was unavoidable. Perhaps, if there were no more cases, the barely declared and nearly undetectable emergency would evaporate, and he would have no further problems outside this unsolved murder.
He roused himself. “Your line, Peter?”
“Yes. Business. I’m in business. It’s not important, is it? What I do?”
Cobb lifted his eyebrows again. “How can I say? Everything is important when we have nothing but ignorance to guide us. Were you and your father in business together?”
“I suppose so. Off and on.”
“What is the nature of this business?”
Peter smiled. “The usual. You know.”
“I assure you, Mr. Linz, I am a simple policeman on a quiet island far from the mainland. I do not know.”
“Investments. Property development. Venture capital in everything from manufacturing to research companies.”
“Yes. And Miss Franklin? She is also in business, I believe?”
“It’s Mrs. Franklin. She’s run through three husbands. Franklin was the last. I told you her business. She was after my father’s money. First she conned him into investing in some gourmet gift shop in San Diego. He had her sign an agreement when they started going out together that she didn’t want his money. But he’s amended the agreement a number of times since then, always in her favor. Then he started making investments in her name, I think in part to keep it away from my mother’s lawyers, but the effect is to give Angela control. Even though they never married, she has become a wealthy woman, Lieutenant. I’d think that might look suspicious.”
“Really? Why?”
“I think Victor was planning to change his will again, in my favor. Angela probably found out about it.”
“So to prevent this she shot him?”
Peter shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“I see.”
Peter Linz gestured to the waitress, talking now to the hostess behind the cash register. She came over and poured more coffee. At that moment the radio on Cobb’s belt crackled.
“Mobile three, this is mobile one, come in.”
Cobb smiled sheepishly. “Excuse me,” he said. “That seems to be for me. I won’t take any more of your time just now, Mr. Linz.”
“Peter.”
“Ah, yes. The informality of the mainland American. Peter. If you need anything, feel f
ree to call the station. Here is my card. And if you could make yourself available should the need arise…”
“Of course.”
“Then I will leave you for the moment.” Cobb bowed politely and left.
“OK, Sergeant,” he said into the walkie-talkie when he got outside. “Go ahead.”
“I talked with Welter, Lieutenant. He says the Japanese gentlemen came in the day before Linz was killed. He says they have some kind of business relationship with Linz, but he doesn’t know what it is. He says he has a feeling it’s classified, because he works for Kapuna Shores, and they did have some business with Kano there, but he doesn’t think that’s why they came here. He says property development is a sideline for Linz, that he’s involved in something else.”
“Very interesting, Sergeant.”
“Yeah. And Lieutenant, he seemed scared. Real scared. The Japanese are gone.”
CHAPTER 15
COBB SAT BEHIND HIS DESK and looked at the man seated across from him.
Welter was nervous. Waxy skin at the corners of his watery eyes betrayed him. Despite a visible effort to remain calm, his agitation now and then pushed through and his thin fingers would writhe in his lap. There was no clear reason for this distress.
Cobb glanced at the clock on the office wall. The day was advancing faster than progress in the investigation. Handel had brought this man in for “routine questioning,” and he had protested all the way that he had done nothing wrong, that he had important business, that something terrible was about to happen, or had happened already, or might happen. Sergeant Handel had reassured him that he was not under arrest, but that they just needed to ask him some questions.
