by Tom Fowler
Gloria kissed me and then rested her head on my chest. “I could get used to being here.”
“Me, too,” I said, “but I think it would make my job harder.”
“How?”
“Well, I’d be more interested in going to the beach than working for one.”
“I can see that.”
“And I’d have to compete with Dog the bounty hunter. I don’t think his show is still on, but a lot of people know him. Too much of a headstart.”
Gloria humored me with a polite chuckle and kissed me again. “Yes, but his show was terrible.”
“You watched it?”
“I had an ex who was into it. The relationship didn’t last long.”
“How could it?” I said.
* * *
Later in the day, we took our rental car and drove to Waikiki. I’d made a reservation at Duke’s. Originally, I tried to get a table the same night I called, and the fellow who answered the phone retained his composure enough so he didn’t laugh at me. Duke’s took reservations days in advance, he told me, so I conformed to custom. We headed to Waikiki early, both because of traffic and because Gloria wanted to shop. I parked in a garage, Gloria headed for stores from which she needed absolutely nothing, and I walked into Honolulu Coffee Company.
One steaming cup of java in hand, I sat at a small table and scrolled through emails on my phone. Before we left the mainland, I had sent all of my business calls to my office phone. My cell remained refreshingly quiet. Even my parents only bothered us once so far. The fact I’d used their timeshare weeks—which would’ve only languished in their account, but still—to take Gloria to Hawaii tugged at my underdeveloped sense of guilt and compelled me to talk to them. I offered to take home souvenirs and my mother reacted as if I’d promised to bring scurvy back to Maryland.
I checked my messages to see how things were faring. Part of running a free detective service is being in the good graces of the press. My last real case before jetting to Hawaii involved locating the missing daughter of a wealthy Baltimore magnate. She had disappeared at eighteen, been a prostitute for five years, and I remain convinced her father knew where she was the whole time. Their interesting family dynamics aside, the case provided me a nice jolt of publicity which I promptly squandered by going on vacation for four weeks. Oh, well. We can’t time everything perfectly.
A few of my messages were interview requests from local media outlets. Even on vacation, I managed to find time to talk to the reporters, usually while Gloria pampered herself in the spa. The rest had been from a persistent woman who wanted me to know her niece was a troubled lass, and would I be able to help rescue the girl from a life of who-knows-what? I probably would, but the troubled lasses of Baltimore would need to wait for me to fly back home. The unnamed woman left two more messages. I deleted them both. If her niece still needed help in a week and a half, we could talk. I finished my coffee. Gloria came into the shop carrying two bags full of clothes and shoes.
“You’re going to have a dozen checked bags at the airport,” I said.
She shrugged and smiled. “Clothes and shoes are the best reasons to check a lot of bags.”
“Are you ready for dinner, Imelda Marcos?”
“All this shopping has given me an appetite.”
“Good. Let’s go eat too much.”
“It’ll give us an excuse to work the calories off later,” Gloria breathed into my ear.
I loved this woman.
* * *
We drove back to the resort, valeted the car, and entered through the sliding glass front doors. A few police officers walked away from a middle-aged woman who shook her head and wiped her eyes. She sagged into a chair in the lobby. Gloria squeezed my hand when we saw the drama play out. We approached the woman. “Is everything OK?” I said.
The woman shook her head anew. “It’s my husband,” she said. “He’s missing, and the police won’t do anything!” This led to a new round of tears. Gloria fetched a box of tissues from the concierge desk and handed one to the woman, who accepted it with a grateful nod.
“Why won’t they help?” Gloria said.
“They say he hasn’t been missing long enough.”
“How long has it been?” I asked.
“Since earlier today. I know something is wrong. I don’t know if he’s in trouble, but I know my husband. He would never disappear without a call or a text.”
“I hate to ask, but . . . “
“Is our marriage OK?” The woman flashed a rueful smile. “Sort of. We’re here to rediscover the magic and all that. Our counselor’s idea.”
Gloria stood beside me again and gave my hand another squeeze. I stared at her while large eyes pleaded with me. “Ma’am, will you excuse us?” I said as Gloria and I took a few steps back.
“This is right up your alley,” she said in hushed tones.
“I thought we were on vacation.”
“You heard her, C.T. She knows something is wrong.”
“No, she suspects something is wrong. Because she and the hubby are in counseling, she’s assuming the worst.”
“What if she’s right?” I didn’t answer. “You could help her. You could find her husband. Hell, you might even save their marriage.”
“Now you’re ascribing powers to me I don’t possess,” I said.
“You know you could step in when the police won’t.”
I pondered it for a moment. “I’m sure I could.”
“You probably wouldn’t even have to work very hard.”
“True.”
“Have you missed doing your job?” said Gloria.
I shrugged. “A little. I never thought I would, especially on vacation.”
Gloria smiled at me. “Then you know what you should do.”
I took a deep breath and smiled in spite of myself. “You’re lucky I love you.” I went back to the woman, who sat in the chair and stared at the floor. “Ma’am? I’m on vacation, but back in Maryland, I’m a private investigator.”
She looked up quickly enough to strain her neck. “Do you think you can find my Francis?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do you need to know much about him?”
“A little information wouldn’t hurt.”
She spent about five minutes telling me about her husband. She smiled when she mentioned his (or their) successes and winced at any mention of troubled times. This was a woman who still loved her spouse. When she finished, I went to the concierge desk, grabbed a pen, and tore off the top sheet of a memo pad.
“Write his full name, date of birth, and cell phone number on here,” I said.
“What do you need that for?” she said as she handed the filled-out paper back to me.
I smiled at her. “Let me worry about the details.”
* * *
Joanie Baker had given Gloria her cell phone number and gotten mine in return. She operated under the assumption Gloria was my secretary. I found this much more amusing than Gloria did. When we got back to our suite, I pulled out my laptop and turned it on for only the third time since we arrived in Hawaii.
“Here you go, boss,” she said.
“Does your being my secretary prevent me from sexually harassing you?”
“I certainly hope not.”
I logged in and began anonymizing my traffic right away. Long ago, I wrote scripts to do this for me. I updated them as the Internet landscape changed, but the scripts worked every bit as well today as they did when I first wrote them. Armed with Francis Daniel Baker’s information, I could access any record of his I needed. First, I wanted to know what he looked like so I would recognize him when I found him. Facebook proved to be a swing and a miss, but I found his profile on LinkedIn. Joanie told me Francis recently turned fifty-two. He looked a decade older. Loose skin hung from his slender face. I got the impression it was fuller up until recently. The suit he wore in his picture looked at least once size too big. The profile identified Francis—from Columbus, Ohio
—as a senior manager in a large sales conglomerate I’d never heard of.
The combination of Francis’ full name plus his date of birth made finding his Social Security number an exercise in simplicity. Armed with it, I gained access to his bank records in a matter of moments. Francis and Joanie did well for themselves, though their credit card history showed a bunch of frivolous charges. They’d struggled to get by for a while before making out much better starting about three years ago. Francis’ LinkedIn profile told me he earned a promotion around the same time.
I pored over the Bakers’ money situation for a few minutes. To my untrained eye, they looked like a middle-aged couple of good means. I’d hoped to find evidence Francis skimmed money from somewhere but saw nothing of the sort anywhere. He made four ATM withdrawals of three hundred dollars each earlier today—after Joanie said he disappeared. I punched up those ATM locations on a map. Did a criminal force him to withdraw over a thousand dollars? If so, I doubted I would find either the criminal or Francis, who may not have survived the encounter. I worked on locating his cell phone.
Cellular towers make finding people easy, and the phone companies make breaking into their towers easier than it should be. The Bakers’ financials told me who provided their service, and a couple minutes later, I obtained Francis’ current location as well as his movements for the last few hours. His phone hadn’t moved from its current spot in Waikiki for about two hours. Before, Francis moved around the area after departing Ko Olina. I jotted down the address where his phone reported its location. “I may have found him,” I said to Gloria.
“Already?” She looked up from her paperback.
“We’ll see.” I grabbed the rental car keys off the dresser and kissed her. “I’ll be back.”
“What if he’s in trouble?”
“Then I’ll get him out of it.”
“You don’t have your gun.”
“If someone else has one, I’ll borrow theirs.” I gave her a smile I hoped conveyed confidence. The results were mixed.
Bonus Preview: Chapter 2 of A March from Innocence
Waikiki Beach is a tourist trap. It’s a strikingly beautiful one in spots, but it’s earned its status nonetheless. Visitors from America, Japan, and the rest of the world crowded the streets and sidewalks and spilled out of the densely-packed shops and restaurants. Like most cities, Waikiki has its more upscale areas and its neighborhoods best avoided by civilized folks. Francis Baker’s phone reported a location somewhere in between. I’d hoped to avoid the seedy part of the city. Despite my confident parting declaration to Gloria, I didn’t relish the idea of walking into a potential gunfight unarmed. I still hoped to avoid it as I zeroed in on the prodigal husband.
I walked the block a few times, looked in every restaurant and shop at least thrice, and never saw him. The timing of my popping into the various places eliminated the possibility I had missed him in the bathroom. I checked my phone again. His location beaconed out as the restaurant and bar I currently occupied. I walked the entirety of the inside again—sans the ladies’ room and other areas which would raise suspicion—and saw no signs of Francis. When I was about to leave, a door near me opened. I happened to glance at it, saw a set of stairs going down and heard enough noise to indicate a congregation of several people. I slipped through the door before it closed and went below.
The stairs ended at another door, this one locked. I knocked. A panel slid back and a set of eyes looked out at me. “Who are you?” said a deep male voice.
I didn’t know the password, so I took out my badge and pressed it right to the opening. I took it away quickly. Letting the fellow on the other side of the door see I was not a police officer and traveled some seven thousand miles out of my jurisdiction struck me as a lousy idea. The guy on the other side grunted and slid the window shut. I heard two heavy locks disengage. The door swung into the room.
Cigar smoke was the first thing I noticed. I frowned and coughed as I entered the room. While I might enjoy an occasional cigar—especially with a nice glass of port—I did not relish walking into a basement of people smoking them. Casinos at least piped in fresh air. The room featured six large poker tables packed with players. Dealers shuffled up and dealt, and men the size of offensive linemen patrolled the room. “Someone refer you?” the guy who opened the door said. He looked like he could play on the line for the Ravens, and maybe even do a better job than some of the gents who currently toiled there.
“Yeah,” I said, “he’s at the far table.”
“You want a seat . . . you gotta wait. And you gotta pay a higher seating fee.”
“Why?”
“We don’t like cops much.”
“Me, either.” He gave me a funny look. “Can I go say hi to my friend at least?”
The large man waved me off. I made my way across the smoky room. Rock music blended into the background noise. A girl emerged from another door carrying a tray of drinks. Her skirt was short enough to allow everyone a peek at the bottom of her panties. She slinked across the floor, dropped off a drink, and collected both a tip and a pat on the ass. She didn’t seem to mind either. I made my way over to Francis’ table. He sat to the left of the dealer with an above average stack of chips. I stood across from him as the dealer shuffled, got his attention, and gave the universal “go over there and talk to me” head jerk.
I met him past the end of the table. “Who the hell are you?” he said.
“Your wife is concerned about you,” I said.
“So? What’s it to you?”
“She called the police. They couldn’t help her because you haven’t been gone long enough. She was crying. I offered to help.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I’m really good at what I do.”
“Sir?” the dealer called to us. The other players at the table all turned and stared at Francis and me.
“Fold me this hand,” Francis said. He turned back to me. “So you found me. Good job. Now what?”
“Your wife is worried. I think she’d like you to go back to the hotel.”
“I’m doing pretty well here.”
“Cash game?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Your stack size could be from buying in big. Say with . . . twelve hundred dollars. If you were on a good streak, you wouldn’t have folded your hand so quickly.”
Francis stared at me. “How the hell do you know how much money I came here with?”
“Like I said, I’m really good at what I do.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you do it somewhere else?” Francis snapped his fingers at the guy who let me into the room. “Get this asshole outta here, will you?” He dismissed me and returned to his seat.
“Let’s go,” the big guy said.
I’d done what I said I would do: I found Francis Baker. If he wanted to toss his wife aside for a poker game, I doubted an impassioned speech from me would sway him. I nodded at the lineman. “Is he really your friend?” he said.
“Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought,” I said.
“I figured.” The guy moved behind me and shoved me in the back. I staggered forward a couple of steps, stopped, and gathered myself. The room quieted. I turned around.
“Seriously?” I said. “I was about to leave.”
“Not fast enough, pig.” The lineman moved toward me. He threw a strong right. I stepped inside his reach, deflected the punch with my left forearm, and drove my right elbow into my large attacker’s face. His eyes closed, and he stepped back. I did it again. This time I heard the satisfying crunch of his nose snapping. Blood poured over his mouth and chin. My large friend’s compatriot noticed our scrum and moved toward us. I needed to wrap this up.
While my assailant struggled to see past the stars in his eyes, I gave him a strong right to the solar plexus and a chop on the side of the neck. Then I put one leg behind him, punched him in the stomach, and shoved him backward. He toppled over my leg and hit the cheap carpeting hard. Just in time for his
friend to step close. “You might want to think twice about this,” I said.
The straight left he threw at me expressed the sum of his thoughts. This guy was a little smaller and quicker than the first but not as strong. I blocked his first two punches, then sidestepped the third enough to put him in a wristlock. Like most people do, he struggled against it. I applied more pressure. “Your wrist bones can’t take much more,” I said. “Stop struggling. I’ll walk out of here in peace with my friend over there if you do. Understand?”
The large man nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he said past a wince.
I let him go. To his credit, his machismo didn’t compel him to attack me again. I left with Francis Baker in tow a couple minutes later. The games already resumed.
* * *
“You had no right taking me outta there,” Francis protested from the passenger’s seat.
“I didn’t force you to come with me,” I said.
“You didn’t? You beat the heck out of those two guys—”
“Technically, I only put the second guy in a wristlock.”
“Whatever,” he muttered. “What was I supposed to do then?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t care either way. Your wife was worried. I told her I would find you. I found you. She could have come and collected you herself for all I care.”
“She probably would have, too.”
I got back onto the highway headed toward Ko Olina. While I understood the reason Hawaii had interstate highways, the signs still amused me. “I don’t mean to pry, but what were you doing there, anyway?”
Francis stared out the window a few seconds before he answered. “I like playing poker. Hard to find a legal game. And I wanted to win money to buy Joanie a nice bracelet.”
