Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2)

by Chris Bauer

  There were no updates from the police on the attack, per Evan. Her body had been released to her family, with Evan a part of them now even though he and Miya hadn’t yet married.

  “The service will be small and closed to the public. Three days from today, after her cremation. I need to ask you something, Philo. Do you know a Wally Lanakai?”

  Philo sipped at his beer to delay his response. “You asking me means you already know I do. What about him?”

  “I saw you on a scratchy YouTube video. Something one of the sailors said I should check out after he saw your name on the outpost’s visitors list. What the hell, Philo, bareknuckle boxing in Philly? In an abandoned grain elevator?”

  Everybody had a camera nowadays, damn it. “A long, involved story,” Philo said. “Too long, and too crazy.”

  An animated Patrick nearly choked on his burrito, trying to swallow what he’d bit off so he could speak up. “I can tell the story, sir. You should have seen him, Commander Malcolm, sir. What a great fight…”

  “Patrick—”

  “He knocked out some big guy, an Army Ranger…”

  “Enough, Patrick…”

  “But during the fight the grain elevator blew up, with us in it! We were cleaning it, getting it ready for demolition—”

  “Patrick, stop, damn it.”

  “He did it for Grace, so she could get new lungs from Wally Lanakai…”

  Philo grabbed Patrick’s face, pulled his chin in, got face to face with him. “You need to shut your piehole right now, bud. Let me explain it, okay?”

  “Okay. Sorry, sir.”

  Evan heard Philo tell the rest of it. Illegal boxing for big money. A fire in a grain silo in South Philadelphia from an explosion. Its collapse into the Delaware River. People patronizing the fight going into the water. Not all of them climbing out.

  “I boxed bareknuckle in my twenties, made a lot of money under the table. It’s where I got the ‘Philo’ nickname. I walked away from it, but it found me again, after I retired from the Navy. Too many swingin’ dicks and criminal types involved. People with long memories, and grudges that never quit. It’s all settled now, all behind me.”

  Evan took a long draw from his beer, studied Philo, finally spoke. “You didn’t mention Wally Lanakai.”

  “So you know him.”

  “Don’t know him, know of him,” Evan said. “Hawaiian mob guy from way back, kicked out of the islands. I heard a rumor he’s back.”

  Not what Philo wanted to hear. “Doing what?”

  “Whatever he was doing before, I suppose.”

  Which meant gambling, women, loansharking, Philo hoped nothing else. But there was a good chance there was.

  “And you mentioned nothing about new lungs, Philo. Hearing your friend mention Lanakai’s name and new lungs in the same discussion, you need to be telling me more.”

  So Philo waded into it. Why he now owned Blessid Trauma Cleaning. Grace Blessid’s dire need for new lungs. Wally Lanakai’s black market organ transplant operations, the guerilla surgeries in Philly. His parting of ways with Wally after they both got what they wanted.

  Evan’s brown face turned a shade of red, his anger rising. “My Miya gets gutted, her organs put in dry ice… and you keep this info from me?”

  “I didn’t know Wally was here. But if you think he is, the cops do, too. If he is here, they’ll run down those rumors. You need to let them do their job…”

  “Nobody’s telling me shit, Philo!” His fist hit the table, food and empty beer bottles toppling, startling other patrons. He shoved himself upright from his seat. “I want that motherfucker. If he’s not responsible for that attack, he knows something—!”

  Evan’s phone went off, a shrill noise that caught them all off guard. He retrieved it. “Commander Malcolm here. What is it, damn it? Hello?”

  It wasn’t a call, it was a text. Evan pulled the text up, still agitated, and left the table to read it to himself. He keyed a response.

  An auditory whirr that began in the background swelled in volume, soon overtook the white noise of the other picnic table chatter, then the crash of the waves on the beach. The low-decibel siren was unfamiliar to Philo, a warning or alert of some kind, a signal for the military.

  Evan closed his eyes, composed himself, spilled. “What you’re hearing is an early-warning crisis signal. An airspace security breach needs my attention. Someone will be here to pick me up in two minutes.” He paced next to the table, still seething.

  “I don’t care how you manage it, Philo, but you need to find out where the hell Lanakai is. I want the cops on his ass right—the fuck—now.”

  13

  “Only one of your facilities operates on Kauai. Am I correct, Wally?” she said.

  Doctor Dolores Delphina, a chain smoker, blew the smoke away from Wally, a polite gesture that made no difference. The enclosed office was filled eye-high with a stale, swirling blue cloud of cigarette smoke. Polite was good, and Wally appreciated the effort, lame as hers was, but if she really cared she’d have aired the room out and not smoked while he was there. An impossibility for Doctor D.

  He’d decided WTF, she was going to make him a lot of money. Magpie stayed in the hallway, not able to handle the smell or the dirty air.

  Heavyset brunette in her mid-forties, Doctor D was a surgeon with a bad gambling habit to go with her cigarette addiction, clocking way too many hours on the offshore online casinos, an admission of hers. Years ago, it had been way too many hours at Wally’s by-invitation-only poker nights in the islands. She’d paid down that debt, one that had been only a few short months in the making but was taking long years across thousands of miles, via Hawaii-to-Philly bank wire transfers, for its un-making. She was now within striking distance of being rid of all of it. Here was a chance for her to pay off the balance by performing only a few surgical procedures.

  “Two facilities,” Wally said.

  “Oh. Right.” Inhale cigarette smoke toxins, exhale less toxins, smile. “One here on Kauai, one on Oahu. What are you calling yourself, ‘Livers ’R Us?’”

  Haha, what the hell do your lungs look like, Wally mused, at four, five packs a day? She had to know how black they were, she was an organ transplant specialist. He had called her, said he had a business deal regarding her loans, found his way to her professional offices a day later, was here to make his pitch.

  “I’m not forcing you, Doctor,” he said. “But I’d really like to get rid of my… older loans. If you don’t want to do this, I will, however, need to double the interest rate. Administrative costs are up. I’m sure you understand.”

  “But that would make the rate—”

  “A hundred twenty percent,” Wally said. “Yes, I know. Kind of prohibitive, right?”

  “I feel good, Magpie, I really do. Doctor D rounds out our staff. Now make me feel better. Tell me you figured out who the hell ‘Y’ is.”

  The Escalade left the curb, Wally, Magpie, and a driver inside. Wally popped open a juice can.

  “Still working it, boss. I have people on the streets around Kauai now. Spotters. Only thing they’re seeing is the protection rackets. When we moved out, someone else moved in. Could be our guy.”

  “A name?”

  “Checking, boss. Trying to do it without starting a war. We’ll need to—”

  “Wait.” Wally stiffened, on alert. “You hear that? Power down the window.”

  With the window down, the siren became audible. Not loud, not gaining in strength, no Doppler effect, just a low, winding undertone not much more invasive than an earworm, hanging out there like an anemic bugle call.

  “The Feds, boss,” Magpie said. “Something’s up with the military, or maybe it’s a test of the early-warning system.”

  The siren wound down, faded, stopped, and was immediately replaced with a ringtone from inside the car. Wally’s new phone. He looked at the number, didn’t recognize it, let it go to voicemail. He listened to the message.

  “Hi, Wal
ly. I have a lucrative, fun proposition that might interest you. It’s from a friend of mine. Not leaving my name. Call me back at this number.”

  A female voice, a smile no doubt fronting a haughty, alluring, self-confident delivery meant to elicit a visceral male response. Except he already knew who it was. She answered after one ring when he called her back.

  “Hello.” Same soft, sexy voice.

  “I see you’ve been working on your sex line voice, Shiko. Not bad. I have time to talk but it has to be right now. And I’m not interested in any cockfights. No bootleg saké either. What else you got, and who is this friend of yours?”

  Shiko was Japanese, and during Wally’s last go-round on the islands, she was a middleperson. She had access to, and existed mostly because of, men like Wally, who appreciated the finer female form matched with the finer aspects of pugilism in all its forms: chickens, dogs, vipers, hogs, men, women. Plucked from among the between-rounds ring walkers at legitimate boxing venues, Shiko was one of the hot chicks in the hot pants who held up the placards announcing the next round number—when she was younger. What Wally remembered of her twenty years later, from past encounters, was she could still fill out an outfit.

  “No cocks, no dogs, no snakes, Wally. Straight bareknuckles, mano a mano. I’m right on your tail, so now’s good, sweetie. Find a place to stop and I’ll join you in your limo.” She ended the call with a kissy noise.

  Wally’s driver found a restaurant parking lot. Shiko exited her car from the passenger side, slid into Wally’s back seat. Heels, wide jeans to accommodate her significant hips, tight top that almost didn’t accommodate her bosom. Shiny black hair in a bun. Intoxicating cherry blossom fragrance. Sakura, by Dior, Wally recalled.

  “Nice Escalade, Wally dear. Good to see you.” Her kissy lips brushed against Wally’s right cheek. “My driver will follow us.”

  “I thought you were dead, Shiko,” Wally said.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” She smoothed out a crease in her buttoned-up, high-neck blouse.

  “Because I thought I killed you.”

  “Oh. That. At that last cockfight. Yeah, that was brutal, wasn’t it? No, my gamecock Orca died, so did my deadbeat ex-husband, but your bullets missed me. Then you went to prison. The Feds, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, good to see you. So here’s the deal…”

  “No deal, because I have no interest, Shiko. Who’s your friend?”

  “’Course you will, Wally, after I give you the details…”

  “And how did you find me?”

  “And we’re back to talking about ‘my friend.’” She air-quoted. “It was him. He knows where and how to find you. But I can’t tell you about ‘my friend’ because I don’t actually know who he is. He pops up from time to time on my phone. Him and his money. Not even sure it’s a guy. Anywho, he, they, whoever, has a fighter he’s showcasing, is looking for some action. I’ll get to meet him if I can get you interested. And since you’re back in town…”

  “Only temporarily.” Wally reached over and grabbed her purse.

  “Is that really necessary, Wally?”

  He tossed the purse to Magpie. “Find her phone.”

  Magpie found a phone in the bag, started keying it. “Needs a password, boss.”

  “Shiko?” Wally said to her expectantly. “Give it up.”

  “Wasting your time, Wally, but sure. It’s ‘sayonara.’ Back to the fight…”

  Magpie nodded, the password was good, kept keying, searching.

  “No fight, Shiko. If you’re not willing to share any info with me, get out.”

  “Why not? Big money, and he’ll make it a local venue. You could even take me. I could be your date. Like old times.”

  Wally eyed Magpie, looking for good news about the phone number search, friend search, email search, phone info dump, anything useful that Magpie might be able to glean from her contact info. “A new phone, boss. A burner. She chatted with Uber, that’s all.”

  “Like I said,” she said, “you’re wasting your time. I don’t have my personal phone with me. You’re really being a dick here, Wally.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Here’s what I’m gonna do. Magpie, give her the burner back. What’s your phone number, Shiko?”

  “Ha, sure, my personal phone number. Right.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got the number for the burner.” Wally added it in his contact list.

  “I’m sending you something, Shiko. A text with a photo and a name. There. If your friend can locate this woman for me—she could be anywhere—I’ll think about participating in a fight he promotes. For the fight to be worth my while, the purse would need to be, let’s say, three hundred thousand, nothing less. But I need a solid lead on this woman or no fucking deal. Got that?”

  “Who is she to you again, Wally, this…” Shiko read the name from the text. “Kaipo Mawpaw? Your wife? A girlfriend? Who?”

  “No more info, Shiko. Do as I say, maybe we can cut a deal. Now, back to my original request…” Wally reached across her lap, opened the door. “… that you get the fuck out. Get back to me if you learn something about this woman.”

  With their guest gone, the limo returned to the road. Magpie spoke up. “Boss, I think that was a bad move.”

  “What was a bad move?”

  “Telling her your agenda, giving her that picture of Kaipo. Too much info. You don’t need any more players. We’ve got a network. We’ll find her.”

  “You’re taking too long, Magpie. I… we need her back now. No one leaves Ka Hui unless I say so. No one.”

  “It gives someone else too much leverage, Wally. Who knows what they’ll do if they find her first—”

  Worse yet, Wally now opined, who knew what he’d do if he never found her.

  He choked it all back, didn’t, couldn’t comment. His plans for her. His needs. What could have been, all of it going unrealized.

  Scorched earth was where he was. All or nothing. If he couldn’t have her…

  No, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t let anyone do that. He loved her.

  14

  Kaipo was in mother-hen mode. An Uber picked her up at Vena’s place early a.m., Vena hungover from switching to hard lemonade somewhere between seven and eight the prior p.m. With Vena sleeping in, Kaipo had some recon to do, meeting as many acquaintances who’d relocated to Kauai from homesteads on Miakamii as she could find, to spread the word. Destination number one, a suggestion from Vena, the Kauai Ultimate Off-Road Ranch Tour at the Kipu Ranch. Her recommended first contact was Toggle Monapalui, mid-twenties, younger brother to Troy Monapalui, a high-school friend of Kaipo and Vena until an on-the-job accident in the off-road tourism business took Troy’s life.

  She set aside three hours for this adventure-slash-counseling session. Helmet, safety goggles, seat belt, 4WD ATV, check. Unpaved trails that climbed eight hundred feet above sea level, and a decision made by Kaipo to remain a passenger and let Toggle drive, check. Rugged landscapes used in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jurassic Park, and The Descendants, check. Been here, done this gig before, doing it all again to talk with Toggle, a transplanted native Miakamiian, check.

  “So you get the picture then?” Kaipo shouted at Toggle to better the roar of the ATV, her hand on her helmet. “Too dangerous for you?”

  Toggle’s head was down, his chin tucked in. He was bracing for the next rise and fall in the trail. “If we don’t hang on right—here,” he shouted back, “none of that other dangerous shit will matter—”

  Airborne for a full second, the ATV came down hard, tilted onto two wheels as they rounded a curve, dropped onto all fours, then jetted along the dirt route. “Having fun yet, Kaipo? Wooo-hooo!”

  After another hundred yards through the tropical forest that covered most of the ranch, Toggle pulled the vehicle into a controlled fishtail, stopping the four-wheeler short.

  “Whew. End of one line, the beginning of another.” In front of them, a zipline ran between two embankmen
ts, one on either side of a river.

  Kaipo dismounted the ATV, would have needed to check that her balls were still attached if she had any. Toggle was all smiles, all long hair, all thrill-seeker. But Kaipo knew the attitude was a placeholder—his on-the-job game face. He was vulnerable: he was young, he felt invincible, was dirt poor, and was Miakamiian. Fodder—prey—for snake oil salesmen like Wally Lanakai.

  “Last leg, Kaipo. Ready?”

  Toggle belted her into the zipline with canvas straps and clips, had her retighten her helmet and goggles, and pushed her off. She felt it—the adrenaline rush of ziplining thirty-five feet in the air at twenty miles per hour across a raging river, the coolness of the wind against her face, the spray of river rapids foam against her bare legs, the smell of fresh water. Toggle zipped across to join her on the other side of the river, where they could begin their trek back to the ranch’s cabin entrance.

  To her, he was a lamb of a young man, beautiful, fun-loving, naive. She had a closing argument queued up and at the ready. They removed their zipline gear, started walking and talking.

  “It’s a lot of money,” Toggle said, pushing invasive foliage out of their way as they walked. “I could really use it to round out my finances for the next year. They’ll even pay for six weeks post-op care in a medical spa while I recuperate. And the part of the liver removed rejuvenates, Kaipo. Kind of a win-win for the donor and the recipient, don’tcha think?”

  The unadvertised offer of money for organs. Word of mouth had ferreted out the details, was making the rounds among the young and the restless and the underemployed.