by Chris Bauer
Magpie filled it. “Still checking East Coast airport passenger lists, boss, when we can get our hands on them, day in, day out. A crapshoot, but we’re doing it. She hasn’t kept any of her mainland personal training client appointments since, you know, the night of the bareknuckle fight. And if she’s no longer going by Kaipo Mawpaw, if she has a new identity—or if she’s doing drugs again, if she wanted to disappear, it’s a great big world out there, boss—”
“Shut up. Shut the hell up. Find her. Just… do something and find her.”
Wally knew he never really had her to begin with. He’d tried, but she’d rebuffed him. Treated her like a queen. Coveted her. Most importantly he’d cleaned her up, got her sober, groomed her, had his Ka Hui thugs monitor her extracurricular activities until she was able to function alone, this after a few relapses. Relapses that forced Wally to maintain a scorched-earth approach regarding dealers in Hawaii, then again in Philly: if you give drugs to Kaipo, your head will end up in a bag on a doorstep on Christmas Day, or shrink-wrapped among the packaged lettuce at the grocery store, or in a trash can at a carwash, the latter detached from a body Kaipo herself had been brought in to remediate, a gift from Wally that she didn’t want. She’d stayed sober because she’d gotten with the program, accepted that she needed to, accepted the gravity of her addiction—quit, or die from it—but also because she had guardian angels eliminating many of her sources of temptation.
Guardian angels wasn’t quite accurate as a description. More like grim reapers, in the person of Ka Hui’s soldiers.
She was on his arm that last night, for a lucrative illegal bareknuckle bout he’d arranged in Philly. Then she ran.
His limo was now on its way to Lihue Airport. Wally had hired a private helicopter to take him up, wanting to see if he could get a view of the helicopter crash site on Miakamii, maybe learn something more than he already knew.
He looked up from his phone to catch the big man grinning, a barely noticeable event similar to all the man’s grins, which made him more sinister. “What are you happy about, Magpie?”
“You can make it so she’ll come to you.”
“How?”
Magpie leaned forward, folded his hands between his knees, and spoke with self-assurance, his eyes half-lidded.
“First, there’s already been an incident on the island. The copter crash. Wherever she is, if she’s seen any news lately, she knows about it.”
“Go on.”
“She’s Miakamiian. She left the island as a teen. You should put the word out, start a whisper campaign, make your contacts on Kauai and elsewhere more aware of your interest in the island. She knows you, knows what you do. Knows your new business venture. She’ll hear about it somewhere.”
This was one of the things that had sent her packing, not being able to square herself with Wally’s newest undertaking: illegal organ trafficking. If he made inroads with gaining partial or full ownership of the island, he’d have access to its inhabitants. They were far from Third-World backward, but they did suffer from lack of experience in the modern world, lack of marketable job skills, and therefore lack of funds to survive in it, even on the island, needing significant subsidies from the Logan family. Desperate people sometimes found organ donation an easy way to make large sums of money. Wally knew this from the undocumented immigrants he continued to exploit on the mainland.
Cheap raw materials, huge profit margins. The same blueprint he was using in Philly.
Cha-ching.
Minimal risk, and little of it borne by Ka Hui, most borne by the donors. If some of it went the same way—south—as it occasionally did for donors in the Philly organ-harvesting model, it could keep Kaipo in business as a mob cleaner, too.
“At that point,” Magpie said, “she’ll make the same mistake Logan did, blame you for the crash. Things would change for Miakamiians if you became responsible for them; maybe she wouldn’t see the good in it. Maybe she’d decide to come back, to try to talk you out of your interest.”
But some of this new work was not going the same as with the Philly model. These people were different, this because of where they lived. Different because of what surrounded them in the water off Miakamii. Shells. Specifically, the mollusk shells they collected for use in making their expensive leis. Something special about those shells, something… medical.
Research, all of it recent, by the pharmaceutical industry, had surfaced an anomaly. Not the known oddity of Miakamii having been the only Hawaiian Island to escape polio in the 1950s, nor the only one to never report a case of AIDS. But the newest discovered abnormality was that in all of modern medical history, and in all of the island’s oral history, as far as could be researched, none of the island’s current or former inhabitants had ever shown symptoms of senility, dementia, or Alzheimer’s. Not one.
Rumor had it that it was because they and all their ancestors spent lifetimes handling the shells. Rumor only, but rumor, word of mouth, and innuendo managed to fuel the organ transplant industry, legal and illegal.
Illegal transplant organs were expensive. Via word of mouth, organs believed to come from a Miakamii native could break the bank, and so far, some had. Business in the islands since he had returned was robust.
“I want Kaipo, Magpie. And I want that island.”
“Understood. But one more thing, boss. The ice chest.”
“What ice chest?”
“The one waiting for you under your table near the pool today.”
Wally’s eyes got wider. A Styrofoam container at his reserved space poolside at his hotel this morning; the cabana help claimed to know nothing about it. In it, a full human liver in dry ice.
“It was viable as a transplant organ,” Magpie said, “and it’s already in play.”
A gift worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Unprompted, mysterious, and so far, untraced. Someone knew about his new venture, but Wally didn’t know who that someone was. He loved the gift, but he was furious he was in the dark about who had provided it, and why. What the hell did this person want?
“Tell me more,” Wally said, “like where the container came from.”
“A cheap disposable. Available at Walmart, Target, anywhere. It’s not likely we’ll have any luck—”
“There’s a dead body out there missing this organ, Magpie. Find out who it belonged to.”
6
Spreading left and right of the house’s center entry were long, single-story wings that curled around a green front yard like two outstretched arms. Philo and Patrick were at the deceased Dr. Miya Ainaloli’s residence with Philo’s Navy buddy Evan.
“They released Miya’s house as a crime scene this morning,” Evan said. He unclipped the crime scene tape stretched across the entry’s threshold and swept it out of the way. “They also told me they didn’t clean up after themselves.”
“Most cop jurisdictions don’t,” Philo said. “They get in, process the scene for evidence, get out. It’s what keeps crime scene cleaning companies like mine in business.”
“If you say so.” Evan paused and pressed a palm flat against the doorjamb to steady himself, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “Miya was so proud of these front doors…” An impressive flea market find, he said, their antique French colonial glass panes puttied into place individually and stunning in the sunlight. Except with her, Evan had been more pragmatic.
“Her argument was Kauai is low crime, she had a security system, with cameras and alarms and a quick-response arrangement with the security company. Plus she had Betsy, her Boston Terrier. But this old French door entry, with these glass panes—”
His finger poke found the empty space that once held a pane of glass, the one nearest the door handle. One tentative poke only, to confirm the glass was missing.
“… they rendered it all worthless. No deterrent whatsoever, the alarm service only good after the fact, after she was…” Evan’s mouth moistened, him swallowing the pain. He cleared his throat to compose himself. “After
she and her dog were gone. I should have argued harder with her.”
“They killed her dog, too?”
“Don’t know. The cleaning lady told the cops Betsy wasn’t in the house when she arrived yesterday. The dog’s still missing.”
Only one pane of glass in the door was broken; all that was needed. Evan could reach in and open the locks from the inside but he didn’t, instead using the front door key on his keychain. All part of the denial, Philo knew. All part of not wanting to normalize what some murdering monster had done. Evan’s pragmatism had been validated, sure, but there would forever be the other side of it: rats always found a way in.
The front doors opened wide, letting them into the two-story section of the home. They were hit with a blast of cold air, almost cold enough they could hang meat in there. A sentiment Philo thought better unmentioned.
“Air conditioning’s still on high,” Evan said, “the way Miya liked it.”
The way the cops liked it, too. Helped preserve a crime scene, reduced odors, kept blood and other liquids from evaporating. More info Philo kept to himself.
The open concept living and dining areas had a mock French chalet look inside and out, heavy on finished wood, plus what appeared to be an expensive tile floor. Circular black metal stairs led to a second floor.
“Watch your step,” Evan said. “Broken glass.”
The glass crunched underfoot, Evan stepping only a few feet more before pulling up. Philo and Patrick stopped alongside him.
“She loved her home,” Evan said. “Such a nice place.” A pensive declaration filled some with melancholy, some with exasperation, all of it veiled in hurt.
“Very,” Philo said.
Inside, the far wall, tan stone embedded with rough-hewn timber, rose to the second floor. Nothing overt by way of damage in here, as far as they could tell. They wandered past the circular staircase and entered a hallway that took them to the left wing. Abstract paintings hung on one side, the other tall, panoramic glass windows showing the sprawling front lawn with mature tropical flowerbeds in oranges and neon blues.
“I know, Philo, you’re thinking more ground-level windows. These are thermo pane, a little sturdier than that hundred-year-old tinker-toy crap in the front door. But still, a single woman living alone, and it’s only glass.”
Evan rubbed his temple as they walked. “A wonderful, quiet neighborhood, but we decided to live at my place after we were married, a gated community on the water.”
He stopped them in front of a door, gulped some air, then released it slowly through puckered lips to settle his nerves. Breathe in, breathe out…
“Here we are. Her bedroom.”
He swung open the door. The first smell to hit them was a blush of sandalwood, the scent coming from a king-size bed’s ornately carved massive headboard and equally impressive footboard, plus other bedroom furniture pieces carved out of the same wood. Knockoff heirloom furniture that someone might build a house around, its carvings intricate depictions of Hawaiian ritual coronations with all their tropical pomp and circumstance, the wood pleasant and still aromatic as hell, like a burning candle.
“This bed had a right to be called king-size,” Evan said. “It’s a replica of a piece from Hawaiian royal family history that predated colonization of the islands. Miya said the set cost her three months’ salary.”
Philo mentally checked down part of that info: Miya was a doctor. Three months of a doctor’s salary meant it had to be one hell of an expensive bedroom suite.
A second smell came from the bed’s mattress, standing on its end against an armoire, out of the way. Not a pleasant one. Philo knew what it was: the sweet, metallic pungency of dried blood. Confirming this odor was a dark brown stain, the blood not only on the mattress’s quilted surface but also inside its tufts, through broad slashes hacked into the material, exposing the padding and coils. How Evan could now be in the same room with this monstrosity—the bed on which his fiancée’s murder took place, and no doubt where they had made love—Philo couldn’t fathom, having seen the outcome of similar acts before, violent and gruesome, as a crime scene cleaner. Not something Evan would have run across as a citizen, or as a Navy commander, maybe not even something he would have seen as a SEAL, either.
“These fucking animals—”
“Let’s take a break, Evan.” Philo draped his arm around his friend’s neck, pulled him into a shoulder squeeze. “We’ll leave Patrick to evaluate what needs to be done in here. Any beer in this house?”
He about-faced Evan and they exited the bedroom, leaving Patrick to get a feel for the remediation effort required, and to maybe see what others sometimes didn’t see, even the police.
In the kitchen, each man held a beer bottle by its neck. Philo leaned back against a countertop. Evan paced.
“I’m lost, Philo, just… lost. This person, this lovely woman… Miya and I dated for a year. She became my best friend, Philo. Big shoes to fill, I know, and no offense, but you bailed on me.”
Philo’s cue to respond. “You prefaced it with ‘big shoes to fill’ so you’re good by me. But a person’s retirement isn’t bailing, right? Always just a phone call away. So tell me more about Miya.”
Evan’s eyes welled. He took another pull from the bottle, let his beer hand drop to his thigh again, stopped pacing. He launched into it.
“Witty, lovely, caring. A gifted researcher. We met at a function the Navy and the local state representatives hosted for donors for the naval museums on Oahu, and the veterans, and some other causes around the islands, that kind of thing.”
“Pearl Harbor memorials stuff.”
“A lot of that shit, yes. Benefactors out the fucking ass, wanting to show their patriotism and support. I do support it, of course. It just gets overwhelming some days for me and the other COs around the islands.”
So much for maintaining a Douglas Logan-inspired PG-rated discourse. “So we’re off the clock now, language-wise, Evan?”
“Fuck it, I can’t help it. And crazy enough, I was introduced to her by none other than Mr. Douglas Logan himself, a goddamn saint, and I call him that with reverence and respect both. The old guy played matchmaker from the start. Grizzly and ornery, but he means well. He’s always been good to me…
“Miya’s grandparents, they talked her and her family into leaving Miakamii when each of them felt it was right, said Miya should follow her dream and go to a good med school…
“She picked Johns Hopkins, went into medical research, genetic mutation work, came back to her beloved Hawaii to conduct it. Breakthrough stuff. She was married once before, to someone from the mainland, but he died. Early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Huh. How old?” Philo asked.
“Young. In his fifties. No children. She stayed a widow, stayed married to her work, met me, this because Douglas Logan made sure our paths crossed. I owe the man, Philo. And I know he’s as devastated as I am about Miya.”
Evan surveyed Miya’s kitchen as if just now remembering where he was. His dark face got puffy again. “I already feel like I don’t belong here anymore…”
“Mr. Logan sure does get around, doesn’t he?” Philo said, opting for redirection. “A pain in the ass during my SEAL training. Him and his rules, his protectionism. No profanity in his presence. Ultra-Christian, always walking the straight and narrow. I can’t see him being nice to any non-Hawaiian without a long courting process. And yet he matched you two up. You passed muster. You need to feel good about that, Evan.”
“He likes me, likes the U.S. Navy. The federal government, not so much. And he most definitely loved Miya. He’s good to people of color; the marginalized. And he loves everyone and everything associated with that pristine island of his.”
“Miakamii? So she was a native?”
“Yes. The clock stopped on Miakamii sometime mid-nineteenth century, Mr. Logan still living up to his family’s end of the bargain from when they bought it generations ago. Miya’s grandparents, parents, brothers, a
nd Miya herself, they all decided to emigrate when she was a teenager, and they all now live here, on Kauai.” He paused, corrected himself. “All of them, but now, one less.”
Philo watched Evan’s jaw tighten, saw a scowl forming, his unblinking eyes glazing over. Evan needed to be relieved of his empty beer bottle before he did something stupid with it. Philo drained his own, put his hand out. “You want another one?” he asked his host.
“Yeah.”
New bottles in hand, long pulls at them followed. Philo continued to probe, Evan answering questions about Miya’s research.
“It took on new emphasis when her husband died, she told me. Her background, her husband’s death from it, somehow made her uniquely qualified to run her team. She and two other research doctors, always on a mission. But you gotta love them—her—for it. I, ah”—a swipe at his eyes—“I adored that woman, Philo.” Another swipe, another deep sigh, then a return to the task at hand. “How do you think your teammate’s doing?”
“Patrick knows where we are. Let’s let him stay on task.” A new redirect. “I appreciate you getting clearance for our island visit. It could mean a lot for him. Life-changing, maybe.”
“Sure.” An auto-response, Evan’s eyes down again, a reflective moment. “The Logan family and the Navy… they go back eighty years. Back to the beginning of dubya-dubya-two before, you know, the siege. But you knew all that.”
Yes, Philo did know. The Miakamii Siege. A great moment in American patriotism, but it was also accepted in part as a catalyst for the U.S.’s abysmal handling of Japanese-Americans during the Second World War. A difficult time in U.S. history…
December 7, 1941, in the channel between Miakamii and Kauai.
Tamenani “Tom” Imakila snorkeled for spiny lobsters from his skiff. He heard, didn’t see, the airplane with its failing engine out in the distance, in gray clouds to the east, hanging heavy over the Hanakawii Channel. He’d seen a number of planes overhead over the years, just wasn’t used to hearing any engines buzz this close to his island, and worse yet, this close to him. The clouds finally spat the aircraft out, the engine sputtering with smoke that trailed from underneath the fuselage and one wing. It had to land somewhere or it was going to ditch in the channel…
