“Little of this, little of that.”
“Tell me a little about that.”
Ham regarded him narrowly. “You got I.D.? For that matter, you even got a reason to ask?”
The cop ignored the question. Both of them. “That pie looks good.”
Ham shoved the remainder across the table. “Help yourself.” As the detective poked at the middle, coaxing out the cinnamon apple, he eyed the cop’s I.D. The picture was pure but the name was unfathomable to him.
As if reading Ham’s confusion the detective interpreted, “Kaneho'omalu Hookano. Kaneho'omalu, means “man of peace” in Hawaiian. My folks didn’t expect me to grow up to be a cop, I don’t believe. Anyway, everybody calls me ‘Kane’. You may as well, too.”
Kane sipped at his coffee before asking, “And shall I call you ‘Ham’?”
Years of running head on into the unexpected kept the shock from Ham’s eyes. “My, my. You are well informed. What’s the deal?”
“I was in Vegas a few years ago, during the murder investigation of some casino owner that dominated the local news. I saw you on TV a few times. Thought I recognized you but couldn’t think where. Until you mentioned where you were from. Then it clicked.”
The detective savored a bite, nodded slowly, and made his pronouncement. “Thought so. This is Anela’s work. Fresh, the best in town. Nice.” Concentrating on the table top, doodling imaginary images with his finger, Ham waited for the shoe to drop.
“We’re gathering security tapes from all buildings and businesses in the immediate area that might have caught something.”
“No kidding. What’s going on?”
“What with a sniper on the loose we’ll go heavy here.”
Ham’s head snapped up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What were you doing on the roof?”
“Whoa, whoa, back up there, Kane. Who says I was on the roof? And what’s this crap about a sniper?”
Kane sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “I expected better. That’s your answer then?”
Ham glanced at his watch, pushed away from the table and rose to exit. “I’m running late. If there’s nothing else?”
“I could take you downtown, if you prefer.”
“You can force me downtown only if you arrest me first. If you do that, without a shred of evidence, well, it’s your badge, pal, not mine.”
“I see,” Kane smiled, apparently genuinely amused. “A threat for a threat, is that it?”
A much less amused Ham replied, “That’s exactly it.”
“Well, we need not go there. The guard at Walini Towers provided a good description of you. A remarkably good description, from where I sit.”
“B.F.D. I don’t have one clue in hell about any sniper shit.” He plopped back down, but did not back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ll get there, there’s time enough. In the meantime, let’s start with assault and battery.”
“Is he going to press charges?
Kane smiled wryly. “You’re a detective, let me ask you. We go in there, he’s pulling himself up behind a desk. He sees a bunch of armed men surrounding him, he faints. So what do you think?”
“So what am I being charged with?”
“Assault and battery.”
“Assault and battery? What the hell are you talking about, ‘battery’? I didn’t touch the guy.”
“He says you stuck a gun in his nose.”
“So? That’s still assault, it’s not battery. Let me remind you, unless Hawaii law is different, assault is the threat of bodily harm. Battery is actually touching.”
“He says the gun touched his nose.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake. He’s an idiot. I didn’t touch his precious little twerp face.”
“Nevertheless, that is what he claims.”
“Yeah, well, the tapes will prove otherwise.”
“There’s still assault.”
“I can fix that. I’ll assault him again, tell him assault is a daily occurrence for him, for the rest of his miserable little life if he dares to press those charges. He’ll be so busy fainting he won’t have time to testify.”
Kane’s eyebrows twitched amusement. “I can hardly countenance that. Although I’d pay a lot to see it. So why were you on the roof?”
“If I was on the roof,” Ham replied, eyes pooled with innocence, “which I don’t recall at all, it was to see the sights of this beautiful city.”
The detective nodded his head as if that made sense. “Any chance you’re licensed to carry that gun in Hawaii?”
“There’s always a chance.”
The Hawaiian’s mirthful smile revealed an appreciation of the absurd. “Okay. I’ll go with that for the moment.”
“Any chance I can see those tapes you’re gathering?”
“There’s always a chance,” Kane parroted. “Though probably not as good as the chance of you being licensed to carry in Hawaii. Why?”
Ham leaned back, closed his eyes and mentally studied the ceiling for a few seconds. With sudden decision, he leaned forward, about to share his secret. He’d tell Blake about it later, but right now this opportunity needed to be seized, he intuited that in his gut. And his gut was never wrong.
Never wrong, but never prescient. The bullet that shattered Kane’s skull highlighted that with absolute finality.
5
SLIP SLIDIN’ AWAY
Pandemonium erupted in the small restaurant, fortified and inflamed by panic. Ham delivered himself to the stampede, not panicked but grimly determined to flee the scene. There’d be guilt enough to share later.
He stumbled among the crowd running into and over each other in their frenzied drive to exit, bumping against and into a mob of young, old and in between. The older lady he’d shoved aside when he’d entered fell at his feet, this time not through his hand but through the effort of a young strapping man more unnerved than most. Ham pulled her to her feet and half carried, half pushed her out the door before he joined the part of the crowd that surged east down the boulevard.
Eschewing the temptation to cross the street and seek out the sniper Carson, he turned left down a small winding road that traversed behind the restaurant and fed another alley. To his surprise, he found a small Irish Pub situated up a stairway and hanging precariously over a small weed infested lot littered with parked cars. He took the stairs two at a time, paused to collect himself and catch his breath, then entered into almost unfathomable obscurity.
From blinding light to unseeing darkness, his mind as blind to reason as his eyes to view, he simply pushed forward, easing up only when his shin banged against some kind of wood slat chair. Pain shot up his leg, with the benefit of refocusing his mind away from flight and toward a more reasoned response.
He took a minute to adjust to the dim surroundings, finally seeing in its full “glory” the little Irish hide-away. No more than a few hundred square feet, it featured a small bar with a dozen packed together stools, a few tables with dilapidated chairs and an overwhelming stench of stale beer. What it did not feature was any hint of Ireland, save for a small sign that read Erin Go Bragh, below which was tacked an even smaller Irish flag.
Two early revelers were nestled at opposite ends of the bar, nursing a premature lunch. Ham slid into a stool half way between the two, uninterested in companionship, and less interested in conversation.
“What’ll it be, lad?” the bartender, an obviously native Hawaiian, inquired with what sounded to Ham to be a genuine brogue.
Amused despite himself, he replied, “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, mate. How about a coffee, then?”
The bartender took a pot off the cooking plate, poured what looked to be mud into a chipped mug and announced, “That’ll be five bucks.” The brogue was gone.
Ham scratched his head, as much to hide his delight as his confusion. “You’re not Irish, I take it.”
“Do I look Irish to you?”
“No. Hawaiian sumo wrestler, maybe, but not Irish.”
To Ham’s relief, the big man laughed. “Good one. Actually, coffee’s a dollar. I don’t serve much of it here, don’t want to. Sober people take up beer space and that cuts into my profits, which purely pisses me off. Can’t pay the rent that way, you know? Anyway, sorry about that.” Ham smiled acknowledgement and let the big guy return to work, polishing hopelessly dirtied glasses.
Uninterested in the coffee but studying it intensely as if contemplating some deep mystery within, he let his mind relax. Relax and wander, that was the key. Experience had long taught him that this was a personal short cut for dimming the edges of dubiety, for supplanting mindless action with deliberate reaction. He felt like he’d spent the entire morning in reaction to a temporarily inexplicable series of events and it was, by damn, time to take control, make sense of it, craft and execute a counterattack. And that he couldn’t do before he deciphered their means and purpose, the ones he’d need to counter. Which brought him around to the beginning, the circle closed.
Far from relaxed wandering, this was deliberation and Ham knew it. Purposely casting thought aside, removing his stare from the mud in the cup, he swiveled around in search of distraction. To his surprise and delight, a juke box occupied one corner of the cramped space. Perfect. Nothing like mindless background noise to drown out forefront worry.
A phone rang its bid for attention as Ham sauntered over to have a look. He had just started peering through the dimly worded lists when he heard the bartender ask, “Any of you guys named ‘Ham’?”
Surprised more than startled, Ham briefly considered not acknowledging lest this be something that drew him further in before he was ready. Maybe a polite, insistent invitation from the cops for an extended conversation, much as he used to do way back when. As the barkeep began to disappoint the caller, Ham nodded and strode over to the proffered handset. “Yeah?” he cautiously inquired.
“You remember not being in a building where a sniper works?”
Carson. Both by reference and voice, it could only be the security guard. “How did you find me?”
“The cops have cleared out of this area, though they’re still climbing all over themselves at the restaurant. I should be there in about ten minutes. Wait for me.” He hung up before Ham replied one way or the other.
Mystified—so what else was new, he asked himself—he returned the receiver to the Sumo Hawaiian and retook his seat. What the hell, he decided, maybe one beer. Maybe these two other guys knew better what they were doing.
They sure as hell couldn’t know less.
“Let me have a draft. Any light beer you have on tap.”
“Well now, that’s better,” the Hawaiian beamed. “Coffee’s on the house. Beer’s two bucks. Want to run a tab?”
Ham nodded absently as the beer was pulled and plopped down in front of him. He stared at it, watching the bubbles ascend with eagerness, admiring the foam running smoothly down the sides, before he gulped the first half down.
He gently set the glass down, rather than slamming it to the surface as he would have preferred. Anger would do him no good now, he knew. Maybe later, but not at this point.
He was playing with unfamiliar forces, a disquieting voice told him. Everybody seemed one step ahead of him—maybe two or three—and running where he could only walk. He was losing the race, he bleakly thought, barely out of the gate while the others were half way round the track.
Fine, then, he’d just have to speed up, overwhelm them with flashing speed of his own. He’d just have to quit feeling sorry for himself, stop jogging and get a move on. So. What did he know? Anything?
Hell, yeah, a lot. A psychic predicts a rock superstar legend is going to be murdered. Why would she predict that? Now that he thought about it, why would he assume it was a woman?
Because all psychics are women. Where’d that come from, he demanded of his subconscious. Never mind that now.
Right. So why would she predict that? A pot load of money? Only if it looks like she’s right, maybe, which the “first of three” attempts suggest. So maybe the psychic conspired with the marksman who deliberately missed his mark. And now that he thought about it, why assume the marksman was a man? Because all marksmen are men. Duh.
Let it go, he seethed. Let all that go. Man, woman, satyr, at this point it made no difference. A psychic predicts, an attempt is made, Ham meets a marksman, a marksman who’s also a tracker, and a dead cop. Any connections here?
Clearly one, he acknowledged. If Blake’s murdered, it’ll be done by gun. The bullet this morning, the involvement of a sniper, hell, Ham’s visions…
Right, Ham, you’ve got it figured. You’ve by damn seen it. All you have to prepare for is the day when Blake, in full concert, sits at a table, on stage, eating eggs, guitar and plate held to his chest, while you eat your portion and start in on your soul-soothing harmonies, and well…that’s the moment, baby! Be ready!
Right on, now he was the psychic, replete with beads, predictions and doomsday scenarios. Maybe he should get a big loop earring and a tent. Bloody details of your imminent death foretold, only $2,000, plus first class airfare to the city of your demise!
Just leave the freaking visions to others, okay? Others who may or may not have their own agenda.
Back on Earth, he snorted, there’s work to be done. Find out who would benefit from Blake’s death. Charlie, certainly, she had to be an heir, but that was antithetical to her free spirit. Besides, she got whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it as far as he could see. So what would be the point?
Who, then? The ex? The psychic herself, the marksman? Maybe all of them, together in some enigmatic conspiracy to defraud? Embezzlement was a classic motive for murder. Maybe Blake was about to have his books audited.
His song catalogue alone was worth hundreds of millions. He’d read somewhere that one of the majors had tried to buy him out of it, had offered half a billion dollars, but Blake refused to sell. Maybe some out of control, whacko publishing executive had taken it upon himself to force a sale.
And maybe the moon will desert its orbit in favor of a warmer and more welcoming Mercury.
That’s not the point, he lectured himself. The size of reward, whether through sale, inheritance, or merely control, might be cause enough to push even the mildly greedy to murderous design.
With startled recognition, he admitted, completely and thoroughly, his total acceptance of the psychic’s premonition. Blake was going to die unless he, Ham, could stop it. And by damn and all the stars in heaven, that’s what he would do. For Blake, for the world, for posterity itself. He’d not stand by helplessly wringing his hands, as another Lennonesque tragedy unfolded on the world of music.
He sipped at the cold brew, trying to calm his raging mind, when his reverie was shattered by the slap on his shoulder. Startled into awareness, he nearly dropped the glass, a reaction sure to dispossess him of any shattered remains of professionalism. Letting the interruption wait, he feigned psychic concentration, amusing himself with his prediction that this must be Carson.
He did drop the glass, though with a bang rather than a burst, when he swerved about and came face to face with a smiling Drew. Drew Thornton, lately of the homicide division of the Las Vegas Police Department. Old partner, older friend.
Just another aftershock in a day of many tremors.
Ham jumped up, balled fists at his side, anger coloring his cheeks with rage. “All right, what the fuck is going on?”
The smile fled from Drew’s face as she put up her hands in defensive posture, a gesture which despite his shocked anger almost made him laugh. She may be small relative to him, standing all of five foot six and weighting at least seventy pounds less, but she was a one woman war machine. Her mastery of martial arts was legendary within the department, and his knowledge was a firsthand account. He’d witnessed more than one chauvinist try to show her up in the gym. To a lesser man, they regretted those attempts.
Ham expelled a pent up rush of air. “Too many surprises for one day. I won’t even go into yesterday. So what are you doing here? I will ask you that, although I’m not going to ask you how you found me here since I’m getting really pissed with having to ask so many people that particular question. So I’ll let it pass, at least for the moment. Just answer me the first. And be quick about it.”
“We’ve got a lot of talking to do, but you’ve got an appointment due any minute so it’ll have to wait. Can you do that?”
“How do you know about the appointment?” Ham demanded. “This is all a little suspiciously too much, if you know what I mean. And since you were a fucking detective, I guess you do.”
Drew’s humor returned in a flash. “I’m detecting now that you’re up against your personal wall. Been a weird two days, has it?”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Regarding Drew narrowly, he amended, “Or perhaps you do at that.”
“Enough of the reunion stuff. I’ll grab your seat, you take the table over in the corner where you can have a chat with this guy we hope will be a source. We’ll talk after.”
Ham grabbed what little remained of his beer, started toward his objective, then shrugged, downed the half a gulp and got a refill.
Great, he mused as he seated himself with a view of the door, he’d be ripped by time he returned to the condo. What a nice little scene that would be. Blake glaring at him accusingly, Charlie smirking, saying, “I thought you were going out to investigate the shot. What, you decided you’d rather have some shots?”
Ears burning, ogling his glass with sullen lust, he missed the “Hey there” from in front of him. He had missed seeing Carson enter, hadn’t seen him approach the table and had been in fanciful flight when Carson pulled out the chair across from him.
Back on Earth? Hell, you’re not even to Mars yet. Better use the afterburners.
With a flourish, a magician tantalizing his audience, Carson tossed a large padded manila envelope, taped to secure its contents, on the table in front of Ham. “Brung you a present.”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 6
