“Sure. That okay?”
He nodded. “I talked to a few friends down there. Like I said, they have some good ones, too. They’re not all like de la Peña. Nobody’s looking for you. You should be all right.”
“Say good-bye to Ambrosio and Manny for me.”
“I will. Good sailing.”
He hopped over the railing and bounded up the dock, looking once again like a college student.
I started Olympia’s engine, jumped down onto the dock, and cast off my lines. I motored out into the channel, past the submarine base, past North Island, past the tall, tan cliffs of Point Loma.
When I cleared the harbor I raised the sails and turned south, toward Mexico, toward Hawaii.
Toward home.
47
Diamond Head looked exactly the same since I’d last seen the craggy lava landmark, the gray-blue Ko’olau Mountains ranging beyond. Maybe the old volcano had got a little greener along its slopes. Waikiki still sheltered below its western flank, the high-rise hotels and the white sandy beaches as much a part of me as my own skin. It hadn’t been all that long, but it felt like years since I’d been back. Honolulu looked serene and quiet from five miles offshore, a welcome sight.
A pod of dolphin swam escort duty, playing tag with Olympia’s shadow.
I’d had what the Chinese call an interesting month getting across the Pacific. I’d followed the Mexican coast down to the tip of Baja, skipping from one port to another, stopping for three glorious, wondrous days at Bahía de Los Angeles to watch the gray whales, and then paid for it by taking a nasty drubbing from a head wind all the way to Cabo, around the point and into the sheltered harbor known as La Paz, “The Peace.” I spent a few nights in port replenishing supplies before setting course for Hawaii. It’s almost due west from La Paz, and should have been an easy trip, but the currents and the winter storms conspired to frustrate my goal. Olympia and I were both a little bruised and battered from our voyage, both of us a little older and a little used up.
My blond hair and beard were nearly white from the sun and I’d made up for the tan I’d lost under San Diego’s winter cloud cover.
I’d lost weight, and every part of my body hurt from the month of constant physical abuse. A boat this size is not meant to be sailed alone, even with special rigging. I’d done it because I didn’t want anyone else aboard; I had thought about signing on a couple of ex-navy types I met in La Paz, then reconsidered it and made the rigging adjustments in port before setting out. The two looked like they could be trouble, and I’d had all the trouble I wanted.
Solitude was my reward.
Olympia had GPS, but Ed Alapai had taught me something about being a ho’okele, a Hawaiian wayfinder, the art of using the stars, the wind, and the currents to find your way across the Pacific. To an accomplished ho’okele, the surface of the ocean is a landscape to be read and understood. There’s even a story about a blind navigator who could tell where he was by the taste of the water.
A haole, I didn’t taste, but found navigating with the night sky almost as easy as using electronics. With A’a, the star I knew as Sirius, the brightest in the sky, on my starboard and Acrux of the Southern Cross, known to the Hawaiians as Mole Honua, on my port side, Hawaii lay dead ahead. Stars filled the heavens, horizon to horizon, old friends, the reliable panorama the ancients witnessed and recorded. Most days were sun-blasted bright and I enjoyed my solitary sail. But I loved the nights.
On the radio, Pearl Harbor gave me permission to enter after a short discussion about the name of my boat. For years, Duchess had gone in and out of the narrow entrance to the naval base and my name. was on the list, but Olympia was not. I had to explain to the harbormaster that Duchess wasn’t coming back. Ever. He finally got it, and I called the Rainbow Marina on the cellular to let them know my slip would be used again, to give them fair warning to get anyone out of there who might have pirated the vacancy during my absence.
In an hour I bid farewell to my dolphin escorts, dropped my sails, and entered Pearl Harbor under power. I could see the white USS Arizona memorial at Ford Island, the new bridge construction, and the lush, green mountains beyond, their peaks shrouded in billowy white clouds. Off to the west, the island gave me a rainbow welcome.
I was home.
I tied up at my slip at the end of the mauka dock. Henry, the Rainbow Marina’s Filipino dockmaster, was there to meet me.
“When I hear your voice, I can’t believe it! It’s good to see you! This your boat?”
I tossed him the bowline. “Secure this, Henry. It’s good to see you, too.”
“You been gone a long time, yah?”
“It sure seems like it.” I jumped down and tied off the stern line.
“Olympia. That’s a good name. This bigger than your old boat. Prettier.”
“She’ll do.”
“You live here again?”
“Yep. I’m home.”
“I’ll tell everybody. We’ll have a party, once you get settled good.”
“That’ll be fine, Henry. Thank you.”
“Good to have you back, John Caine. Thought you was gone for good, yah?”
“Yeah.”
He laughed and went up the dock. I thought I heard him singing.
I went back aboard my boat. She needed work, some port time, some tender loving care.
So did I.
I had a little laundry, not much, but some, having spent most of the time wearing only a ratty pair of shorts. I had a few electronic parts to replace. I needed batteries, a couple of new sails, some hull work. Two portholes were missing glass due to one particularly dark and stormy night. And I needed a drink. The Marina Restaurant, above the boat docks, beckoned like an old friend. I collected what I needed and went below for my wallet.
“Hello, sailor!”
I heard the voice out on the dock, not certain I was hearing what I was hearing, not trusting my senses.
“John Caine!”
I stuck my head out of the cabin. Barbara Klein stood on the dock, dressed in a tight pink tank top and red short-shorts. She carried a bottle of Dom, and she looked magnificent.
“Aren’t you going to invite me aboard?”
“Sure. Just let me put my tongue back in my mouth.”
I reached down and she grabbed my wrist and I swung her aboard, just the way we’d done it before.
“What are you doing here?” It was all I could think to say.
“Well, I heard the fleet was in, so I came down to show my support. Love you navy guys.”
“No, really. It’s wonderful to see you, but why are you here?”
“Claire has her business back on track. She no longer needs me on a day-to-day basis. When I went back to San Francisco, I got all mopey and sad. I couldn’t concentrate on my work, so my boss ordered me to take a vacation, and I thought, why not Hawaii?”
“And?”
“And so I hadn’t been to Hawaii for years. Actually I came here on my honeymoon, but you don’t want to hear about that. I wanted to see the place where you saved my son, and I wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re pretty thick, aren’t you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Which ones? Good or bad? I can’t tell.” She reached over and squeezed my hands. “Look, John, I have some time here. A couple of weeks. And I wanted to come see you in your own element. If you want me to go home, just say so.”
“No.”
“Okay. Thank you for asking me. I’ve been fine.”
“How did you know where I would be?”
“Your friend Max kept track of you. You spoke with him on the ham radio and the satellite phone, he told us where you were, when to expect you in port.”
She was silent, surveying Olympia’s battered condition. “You had a rough trip.”
“It had its moments.”
She looked up at me, intelligent brown eyes penetrating my gaze. “I’ll bet.
So what’s it going to be? You up for this?”
“It’s nice, seeing you. I thought I wouldn’t again, and I missed you.”
“You’re going to show me around the island? Maybe see Maui? Kauai? I’d really love to see the volcano. Is it true you can’t carry pork across the mountains at night without getting the gods angry? I want to try it. And I want to work on my tan.”
“Sounds fine.”
“You look like you could use some rest, too, sailor boy. What do you think?”
“Where are you staying?”
“We’re checked into the Royal Hawaiian.”
“We?”
“Got us a suite. Thought you might want a shower, a drink, or something.”
“A shower was just what I had in mind,” I said. “And the drink.”
“And the something?”
I looked at her. She wasn’t kidding. Here was the real prize at the end of the quest. A prize that only a fool would turn away from. “That sounds best.”
She nodded, taking my hand, enfolding it between her two small, soft hands.
“Come on,” she said.
O Ku ke anoanu ia′u Kualono
He ano no ka po hane′e aku
He ano no ka po hane′e mai
He weliweli ka nu′u a ho′omoali
He weliweli a ka po hane′e aku
He ili′ilihia na ka po he′e mai
He manu ke ha′i o Pulepule
O mihi i ke anuanu, huluhulu ole
O mihi i ka welawela i ke′a′ahu′ole
O Hula ka makani kona hoa
A ka po he′enalu mai i hanau
Po-no
Fear falls upon me on the mountaintop
Fear of the passing night
Fear of the night approaching
Dread of the place of offering and the narrow trail
Dread of the receding night
Awe of the night approaching
Palatable is the sacrifice for supplication
Pitiful in the cold without covering
Pitiful in the heat without a garment
He goes naked on the way to Malama
The driving Hula wind his companion
Born in the time when men came from afar
Still it is night.
Reprinted by permission from The Kumulipo, Hawaiian Creation Chant, translated and edited by Martha Warren Beckwith (incomplete text).
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank the members of the San Diego Police Department’s Special Intelligence Unit, Sergeant Manuel Rodriguez, Detective Fausto Gonzalez, and Detective Jesus Cesseña, who introduced me to the world of cross-border law enforcement, and who taught me how it works along The Line. San Diego is fortunate to have such men.
For her support and for sharing her wisdom, I cannot thank my aunt, Dorothy Harrell, enough. When she wrote her stories so long ago, she gave me permission to write my novels now. I can’t say I wouldn’t have written, but she made it so much easier.
Thanks have to go to Ruth Cavin, who always makes sense out of chaos, and who possesses the inerrant ability to find what must be fixed, and then gives her writers the tools to do the job.
I also owe a great debt to Jim Allen—friend, agent, and first-line editor with a nose for the right stuff. Thank you, Jim. You are a perfectionist’s perfectionist, a cruel taskmaster, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
And for all those wonderful booksellers who made the selling of Diamond Head a much more pleasant experience than anticipated-especially Maggie Griffin and the gang at Partners & Crime, who became good friends and who gave Diamond Head the Nevermore (which is marginally better than the finger); Barbara Peters from The Poisoned Pen; Elizabeth and Maryelizabeth from Mysterious Galaxy; and because he generously loaned his name and temperament to one of the major characters of this book, Ed Thomas of Book Carnival. We’ve seen you before, Ed, and we might see you again.
And of course there’s my best friend, my confidant, my lover, my wife, Ildiko. I’ve been all over the world, but with you, sweetheart, life is finally a trip worth taking.
Édes Ildikémnek
ALSO BY CHARLES KNIEF FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS
DIAMOND HEAD
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE NOW, CAINE.” HE COCKED THE REVOLVER.
I made sure I had my balance and could move when I needed to. Stevenson put both hands on the gun, aiming it straight-armed at my face. A .38 isn’t a large caliber, but it’s big enough. Six feet away and pointed at your head, the barrel looks enormous.
His hand shook as he pulled the trigger. I dove across the bed, rolling under the tongue of flame, landing on the balls of my feet. He fired again as I charged him. Something tugged at the collar of my jacket. I reached him as he fired the third bullet, kicked his feet out from under him, deflecting the gun with my elbow. Glass shattered in another room.
He still had the gun and the gun still had two rounds …
“Readers who miss John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee will be pleased to meet John Caine …”
-Booklist
“Rings with authenticity. Taut, tense, never a false note.”
—Robert B. Parker on Diamond Head
“A high-spirited, high-casualty tale.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Diamond Head
“Knief’s writing is smooth and seamless, and he’s concocted an involving plot to go with his likeable, attractive macho hero and exotic setting. The result: an action-packed, satisfying debut.”
—Booklist on Diamond Head
Dear Mystery Reader:
Charles Knief, the award-winning author of DIAMOND HEAD, is back with SAND DOLLARS. Private eye John Caine, Knief’s endlessly likable sleuth, is reeling from the tragedy of losing both his girlfriend and his beloved boat. Down in the dumps with nowhere to go, the retired U.S. Naval officer is called back into action when a wealthy San Diego woman needs him to track down the truth behind her husband’s death.
His search for the truth leads him on a murderous tropical trail that takes him from Hawaii to California to Mexico. With justice hidden beneath the sultry south-of the-border sun, Caine must keep his eyes open and antenna up for any clues that might lead him through the sex, sand, and speeding bullets to his final destination …the truth.
After you’ve read SAND DOLLARS, you’ll have your bags packed and your sunblock ready and waiting for more fun in the sun with PI. John Caine. Enjoy!
Yours in crime,
Joe Veltre
Associate Editor
St. Martin’s Press DEAD LETTER Paperback Mysteries
Other titles from St. Martin’s Dead Letter Mysteries
ON THIS ROCKNE by Ralph McInerny
AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE by Susanna Gregory
NO COLDER PLACE by S.J. Rozan
THE RIDDLE OF ST. LEONARD’S by Candace Robb
A MURDER IN MACEDON by Anna Apostolou
STRANGLED PROSE by Joan Hess
SLEEPING WITH THE CRAWFISH
by D.J. Donaldson
THE CLEVELAND LOCAL by Les Roberts
WHILE DROWNING IN THE DESERT by Don Winslow
SEE NO EVIL by Eleanor Taylor Bland
CRACKER: ONE DAY A LEMMING WILL FLY by Liz Holliday .
QUAKER INDICTMENT by Irene Allen
BLACK AND BLUE by Ian Rankin
CRIME AFTER CRIME ed. by Joan Hess, Ed Gorman, and Martin H. Greenberg
SAND DOLLARS by Charles Knief
THRONES, DOMINATIONS by Dorothy L. Sayers and Jill Paton Walsh
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE WELLSPRING
OF DEATH by M.C. Beaton
THUNDER HORSE by Peter Bowen
Dead Letter is also proud to present these mystery classics by Ngaio Marsh
DEATH OF A FOOL
SCALES OF JUSTICE
SINGING IN THE SHROUDS
SPINSTERS IN JEOPARDY
Here’s a preview of Charles Knief’s latest book
THE EMERALD FLASH
Coming soon from St. Martin�
��s Press
The first time I saw Margo Halliday she was stark naked, running for all she was worth down a Honolulu alley in the middle of the night.
A big man chased her. Every thirty feet or so he’d stop and fire a round from an automatic pistol. The woman was in more danger of stepping in broken glass than getting hit by a bullet. The big guy’s heart wasn’t in it. Unsteady on his feet, just tipsy enough to be overcautious, he would come to a complete stop, carefully aim way to the right or way to the left, and pull the trigger. He’d watch the bullet powder brick on either side of the alley, then start chasing her again. It reminded me of a cat chasing a mouse. A lot of fun for the cat, sure, if he felt sadistic, but the mouse would just as soon prefer to be otherwise occupied.
This time neither party appeared to be having fun. The man cried as he chased her, mouthing unitelligible words, tears streaking his cheeks, his nose running. He looked like a wounded man, the way a man can only be wounded by a woman. And for all his pain he looked grimly intent on inflicting pain of another kind on the source of his misery.
I’d just left the back room of Chawlie’s Chinatown restaurant where he’d beaten me once again at Go. That made it about twenty-five gazillion to two, and I was very proud of those two.
The big man jogged past and I dropped him with a flying kick. He went down easy but refused to let go of the pistol, so I broke his wrist and he gave it up. All the fight went out of him. He deflated like an octopus brought up on a lure and dumped into the bottom of a canoe, when it knew it was going to die.
Sand Dollars Page 28
