by Frankie Bow
“Hello, Joshua,” I said. He looked up, startled. I waited until he pulled out one of his earbuds.
“Are you ready to do your makeup assignment? It’s scheduled for today.” I had already told Bill Vogel that I would schedule a makeup assignment for Joshua’s missed points. Whether Vogel was leaving or not, I’m not one to break my word.
“Um, yeah,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t I just take a quiz or something?”
“No. Dean Vogel suggested, and I agree with him, that one of the innovative activities recommended by our Student Retention Office would be more appropriate for your makeup assignment. Don’t you remember that from the email he sent to me? You were on the distribution list.”
“I dunno. Whatever.”
“So. Are you ready for your spoken word performance in front of the class on the theme of the Basic Accounting Equation?”
“I don’t have anything ready,” he said.
“You can perform extemporaneously, if you prefer. Improvisation can make for a more dynamic and entertaining delivery.”
I gestured to the front of the room.
“Never mind,” he muttered. “I’ll pass.”
“Are you telling me that you don’t want to do the makeup assignment that you requested? You’ll forfeit the points?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Fine,” I said, and returned to the front of the room.
I started the discussion with something to which I thought my students could relate: “How many of you have ever had something stolen?” I asked.
There were some grumbles of recognition, and a few hands went up.
“What was it? Backpack? Laptop?”
“My stash!” said a sleepy voice in the back.
“How about a bicycle?” A few heads nodded. “Say your bike is stolen. You don’t want that to happen again. So what do you do next time?”
Hands went up.
“Buy a lock!”
“A lock like this one, say.” I pressed a button on the display console and the website for an as-seen-on-TV bicycle lock appeared on the projection screens.
“But what if the thieves break that lock? Then what? You buy a stronger, more expensive lock, right?”
I had a series of advertisements lined up showing increasingly elaborate and expensive bicycle locks. When we had made our way up to a lock and cable apparatus that cost more than most bicycles, I said, “You can’t have perfect enforcement. Someone is always going to figure out a way around the rules. You have to balance oversight with trust. Otherwise, if everyone’s always policing everyone else, people are always looking over their shoulders, society can’t function at all . . .”
I realized I could probably go on for hours about honesty, and trust, and especially about the cost of doing the right thing.
“What you need to remember,” I said, “is that when we’re able to trust, we don’t have to spend all of our resources on surveillance. But you can’t be too trusting. As a manager, you have to consider where to strike that balance.”
We went on to discuss the new self-checkout lanes at Mizuno Mart, the honor system coffee urn in the student lounge, and Disneyland’s old coupon books that were phased out in 1982 but left us with the expression “E-Ticket.” I asked the class for examples of oversight costs.
Honey Akiona raised her hand. “Parking at the airport,” Honey said. “If you tell ’em you lost your ticket they only charge you for one day, even if you was there for more days. How do they know you’re not lying? So that’s a good example, yah?”
“Okay,” I said. “So do you think they need more oversight, to ensure compliance, or do you think they’re already overspending?”
“I think it’s good how it is,” she said. “You spend too much money on security, no guarantee you gonna make it up in extra fines or whatevers.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You have to balance the cost of additional surveillance with the increased revenue you’d get from catching the people who are going to try to get past the nine dollar a day—”
“Ten dollars,” Davison Gonsalves interrupted. I hadn’t expected to see Davison in class today. He was sitting off to the side, not in his usual front-and-center seat.
“Is it ten dollars now?” I didn’t chide him for interrupting. He had given me an idea.
I didn’t stick around after class. I ran up the stairs to my office and pushed the door open. I was relieved to see Emma and Pat there.
“What’s the hurry?” Pat asked.
I raised my hand as a signal that I needed to catch my breath. “I don’t usually . . . run up the stairs,” I gasped.
“Or anywhere else,” Emma added gratuitously.
I staggered to my desk, sank onto my yoga ball, and spent the next few moments wheezing, Sydney Greenstreet–style.
“So what’s going on?” Emma asked.
“I need to talk to the detective. On the Tanaka case.”
“Detective Silva?” Pat asked.
Now I was confused. “What? Nehemiah Silva? The ex-cop? He’s back on the force now?”
“No.” Pat said. “They’re not even related. I wondered about that too, but Silva’s a really common name. A Silva on the police force here would be like an O’Brien in Boston.”
“I think Donnie’s confession might not hold up,” I said.
“Oh, Molly,” Emma said pityingly.
I glanced up at my open door. Pat reached a long arm behind him and pulled it shut. I leaned across the desk so that I could speak quietly. I didn’t want my voice to carry through the wall to Rodge’s office.
“We were talking about SOX in class,” I said.
“Socks?” Emma said.
“The Sarbanes–Oxley Act of two thousand two,” Pat explained. “Accounting reform. Its nickname is SOX.”
“Exactly. I used it to start a discussion about the costs of monitoring. So someone brought up airport parking. Listen. Donnie was in Honolulu during the time Jimmy Tanaka was murdered, right? That’s where he bought the truffle oil.”
“According to him,” Pat said.
“He told me that he flew back the morning of the breakfast, and then he drove right over to campus after he landed. Anyway, if he drove right over to the breakfast, then he had to have parked at the airport.”
“Even if he went to Honolulu like he said,” Emma said, “he could of come back in between. On a private plane or something.”
“Those flights all have to be logged, though,” Pat said. “Someone could check that.”
“I’m actually thinking about the parking. There’s a record of people who drive out of the parking lot, right? I know I’ve seen that lady at the booth writing down everyone’s number. If Donnie’s car was in the airport lot, there would have to be a record of it driving out of the airport lot.”
“Sure,” Pat said. “But you can walk in and out of that lot without anyone seeing. Donnie Gonsalves could have put the car in the lot as if he was headed for a flight, and then he could’ve walked out. From there he could’ve taken a cab or hitched a ride—”
Emma had started bouncing excitedly in her chair. “But Pat! Molly’s right! The problem is that there’s blood in that car! In Donnie’s car. If that car, Donnie’s car, was at the airport, then Donnie’s car was involved in the crime at the same time that it was supposedly sitting at the airport. Or something. Wait.”
“Or the car got involved later,” Pat countered. “Maybe when Gonsalves was moving the body. Molly, you said that Donnie was worried about some truffle oil in his car going bad in the heat, right? Maybe it wasn’t truffle oil he was worried about. Maybe the rest of Jimmy’s body was in Donnie’s trunk.”
“I don’t have it all figured out, I admit,” I said. “But Pat, I was just hoping that you could ask Detective Silva to check on Donnie’s trip to Honolulu. And the cars going out of the airport.”
“You’re a tax-paying citizen,” he said. “You could ask her.”
“She can’t be the one to ask,” Emm
a said. “I’m sure everyone down there knows that she’s involved with Donnie.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Pat said, “They do. Okay, I’ll ask about it.”
“Can you ask her to get the license plates of the cars that drove out of the airport lot during the time that Donnie was in Honolulu, too?” I asked.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“Molly,” Emma said, “if you’re right, it seems like it would be so easy for Donnie to clear himself. So why doesn’t he?”
“Because he can’t,” Pat said. “Sorry, Molly, but you know it’s true.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I had been looking forward to this conference for months. Betty Jackson and I had been thrilled when my professional organization had accepted our paper, and I was able to put one of my field’s most competitive conferences on my CV. And now that I was finally here in San Francisco, I couldn’t wait to get back home to Mahina.
Pat had promised to follow up on my questions about the airport parking and about Donnie’s trip to Honolulu, but I hadn’t heard anything from him. I was starting to doubt that he’d ever followed up at all. What kind of reporter was he, anyway? Maybe after getting laid off from the County Courier, and then trying to make a go of his own newsblog, Island Confidential, he was just burned out.
The coltish young fellow working the A through M side of the registration table had urged me not to miss the networking cocktail hour in the Coral Ballroom. I thanked him politely for the invitation. I had no intention of going anywhere near the Coral Ballroom. I was tired and stuffy-eared from the flight, and wanted to review my presentation and go to bed early.
The first thing I did when I entered my hotel room was roll my suitcase into the marble-tiled bathroom (hotel carpets can harbor bedbugs). Then I pulled the bedspreads off the two double beds, piled them both in the farthest corner, and then went into the bathroom and washed my hands in the hottest water I could stand. I remembered watching a news report where the crew went into different hotels and shone an ultraviolet light around the rooms. The bedspreads lit up like Las Vegas. One glowing wall stain had looked like a map of Hawaii. I pulled out an antibacterial wipe and wiped down the doorknob, TV remote, and room phone. Then I opened my suitcase on the cold marble floor and started to unpack.
As I hung up my clothes, I mentally reviewed the logistics of Donnie’s alleged trip to Honolulu. I should have tried to call Detective Silva myself. Could I do it now? It was two hours earlier there. Or was it three? California has Daylight Savings Time and Hawaii doesn’t. In any event, what could I say that wouldn’t make me sound like an adoring girlfriend in denial? I decided it wouldn’t do any good to call.
I was hungry, and not in the mood to go out and dine by myself. If I went downstairs to the networking event I might get two drink tickets and microwaved pizza puffs, but at the cost of my privacy and peace of mind. Room service sounded like the best option. I was about to pick up the room phone to call in my order when it started to ring.
It was my mother, checking to make sure I had arrived safe and sound after the long flight. We chatted about airplane food and security lines and the airline’s scandalously lax safety standards, and then she asked, “So what is the latest with your new beau? What was his name? Dexter?”
Boy, did I not want to talk about that. It was bad enough when I thought I’d have to tell her was that he was divorced. I decided to rip off the bandage quickly.
“His name is Donnie,” I said. “Not Dexter. Donnie. It turns out that he’s married.”
“Oh!” my mother said.
“But he claims he’s getting a divorce.”
“I see. Well, I hope you don’t believe—”
“And there’s something else. He just confessed to a murder. You might even have read about it.”
“You know I don’t follow that sort of news. Did you say murder? What is that all about?”
“Well, you remember Stephen Park?”
“Yes, I do. Another testament to your unerring judgment, dear.”
“For some reason the skull turned up in Stephen’s prop room. But then Donnie confessed because I found an elbow joint in his backyard. I knew about that ’cause Emma was showing off at trivia night. But Donnie and Stephen don’t even know each other. Well, they might, but as far as I know they don’t. Anyway, he doesn’t know I’m the one who found it because I called the anonymous tip line.”
“You’re rambling, Molly.”
“Sorry. Anyway, a guy got murdered, Donnie confessed, and things are on hold for now. With Donnie. Because he’s a murder suspect.”
“This is America, Molly. Your friend is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”
“I guess that’s—”
“You know, it’s nice that you have high standards and everything, but at your age, beggars can’t be choosers. And you really need to learn to get to the point when you tell a story.”
As soon as I was off the phone I closed my eyes and did some of the Lamaze breathing exercises that Betty had taught me. Then I arranged my toiletries on the bathroom counter, realized I had forgotten to pack dental floss and went downstairs to buy some in the gift shop. While I was there I picked up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
On the way back I peeked in on the networking event, which was now in full swing. They were playing one of these inoffensive baby boomer hits that they always break out at corporate events after everyone has cashed in their drink tickets and is ready to party. In the center of the darkened hotel ballroom I glimpsed shirt-sleeved arms doing fist pumps from the dance floor. I turned away and hurried back to the elevator and up to my room, to review tomorrow’s presentation in grateful silence.
I showered, dressed for bed, opened the wine, and was about halfway through my slides when my cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Pat’s number, but it was Emma’s voice I heard first.
“Hi, Molly!” she called from a distance. Then, closer to the phone, “We miss you!”
“Hey, Emma! Where are you guys?”
“We’re in my office,” Pat said.
“In your office? Are you sitting in those hairdryer chairs from Tatsuya’s Moderne Beauty?”
“Yes!” Emma said. “And I keep bumping my head on that hood thing every time I stand up.”
“It’s a bonnet, not a hood,” I heard Pat say. “Hoods are soft, bonnets are rigid. Hey, Molly, I wanted to let you know I finally got through to Detective Silva for you. I asked her to look at the airport parking logs and double-check Donnie’s flights.”
“You did?”
“You probably thought I forgot.”
“I would never think that! I knew you would follow up! So is there any news?”
“Not that anyone is telling me. With the confession from Donnie, I’m not even sure they feel like they need to follow up.”
“But shouldn’t they at least—”
“I don’t know what they’re going to do,” Pat said. “But how many prosecutors do you know who get a confession in a high-profile murder, and then go out of their way to find evidence that contradicts it?”
“I don’t know any prosecutors. But I see your point.”
“Did what could,” Emma added.
“Yeah. I know. Thanks. Hey, can I ask you something? Do you think I look old?”
“What?” Emma said.
“Like if you saw me walking down the street, would you describe me as old? Am I too old to get a husband?”
“Molly, you know better than that,” Pat said. “The capitalist patriarchy wants you to keep you perpetually discontented so that you’ll keep buying products to fill the void. I know you’ve read your Eisenstein.”
“Sergei?” Emma asked.
“Zillah,” Pat replied. “And Molly, once they’ve got you spending your time and money in your endless quest to be young and thin and perfectly dressed, that keeps you too busy to compete with men.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Fo
rget I asked. My mother just called, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Pat said. “Alles klar. What, you want me to ask her now?”
“I’ll ask her,” Emma said. “Molly, there’s this wine you have to get, from this little winery close to where you are. Hagiwara’s distributor doesn’t carry it. You gotta get a dozen bottles so you can get the case discount.”
“Emma, I can’t bring wine in my carry-on. They’ll make me check it.”
“So?”
“You know there’s two types of luggage, right? Carry-on and lost. Plus there are all those baggage fees.”
“And get some sourdough bread too,” Emma added. “For Pat.”
“Well, I’m not going shopping now. My presentation’s tomorrow morning and I still have to go over it. Oh, hang on, someone’s at the door. Must be room service.”
As I opened the door, I remembered that I had never completed the call to room service. But it was too late.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Eh, Aunty!”
He squeezed me a little too tight for a little too long, and finished up with a stubbly, boozy kiss on my cheek.
“Davison! Wait. Don’t move.”
I carefully disentangled my hair from his earring and stepped back.
“Well!” I said. “This is really a surprising . . . surprise. So. Your dad sent you?”
“Business class!” he exclaimed. “Only way to fly. They never even card me!” I watched him stride uninvited into my room and sit down on my bed.
“You get one big bed, Aunty!” He bounced a few times. “Nice and firm too.”
“How did you know where to find me?” I asked. I was still holding the door open. His eyes traveled down to my bare feet and back up to my wet hair.
“Eh, you wearing Hello Kitty pajamas?” He grinned. “Aw, da cute!”
He flopped back on my bed and ran his hand over his stomach, pulling up his tank top to expose his elaborately tattooed abs. I wondered how many thousands of dollars Donnie had paid for all of that ink.
“Well, that was very nice of your father to have you stop by,” I said. “And now you can tell him, mission accomplished. I have to get ready for this presentation tomorrow, and I’m sure you can’t wait to see your family, so—” I gestured at the doorway with my free hand.
