Pleasing the Dead (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Ichiru Tagama took the taxi as close as he could get to Olowalu Wharf. The driver didn't want to leave him on the deteriorating road, but he also didn't want to take out the undercarriage of his aging sedan.

Tagama reassured the cabbie that he wanted to stop there, and he didn't need to wait. Tagama knew the driver would remember him. A polite, elderly Japanese local in nice loafers and a long-sleeved Barong Tagalog in a fine Pina fabric, like he was going to a wedding. Or a funeral. A bit dressy for a meeting at Olowalu Wharf.

As he'd planned, Tagama arrived about twenty minutes ahead of his scout. Ramirez was a good man, and he was punctual. He also had nine grandchildren. Tagama didn't want him coming too early.

Tagama was counting on the isolation of the place, though it was known among history buffs and people who wanted to get away from the better known hiking trails. There were a few cars in the parking area, among them a black Range Rover. The other five cars were either generic rentals or rust-spotted locals.

Hopefully the drivers of the rentals were checking out the nearby petroglyphs or the site of the 1790 Olowalu Massacre, when American merchant Simon Metcalf slaughtered a hundred Hawaiian villagers because someone stole his boat. Only the keel of the boat was returned, along with the stripped thigh bones of the watchman. Times had changed, but human nature hadn't.

Now he was at the site, Tagama wondered if he hadn't made a mistake by not pinpointing a specific meeting spot. The area was bigger than he remembered, and the trees were large and provided excellent shelter. It had been years since he'd been down here. But then he heard the rumble of men's voices, and knew he'd found his prey. Or his predators.

Tagama swallowed hard. His hands had become icy and his knees weak. Remember that strength is not always measured in muscle. They don't know that you knew Ryan's apartment would be bugged. And remember what these thugs did to Yasuko. You are old, and you can do this. It is right.

He whispered a prayer to Guan-Gong, Chinese general and god of martial arts and war in the afterlife. Yasuko had been Chinese by birth, brought into the water trade so long ago she thought she was Japanese until she was in her twenties. But Guan-Gong would help her. And, in seeking justice, Tagama himself.

He walked silently along the path, glad now for his loafers, which had soft, man-made soles. When he passed around the branches of a big Norfolk pine, he encountered the two big bodyguards. One had his back to Tagama, but Steven Kudo's eyes narrowed at Tagama's approach and the other guy turned.

Tagama allowed himself a small recoil. It wasn't difficult; his legs were nearly boneless with apprehension. “What—” he exclaimed, and watched Kudo's cruel smile.

When outnumbered, take out the biggest or the leader, Tagama remembered from his long-ago fighting days. Kudo would be first, he thought.

“Hello, Mr. Tagama,” said the other guy, and gave Kudo a smug look.

“Well, hello. Have we met?”

The bodyguards snickered. “Have we met?” Kudo repeated.

“I've got no issue with you fellows,” Tagama said. It didn't take much effort to sound uncertain.

“Of course not.” Kudo reached into his jacket for a gun, and the other man followed. Kudo carried a Glock G20, the other guy a big Heckler & Koch. Compensating for something, Tagama surmised. He'd still take out Kudo first.

Tagama raised his hands. “I don't carry a gun.”

“Stupid you,” said Kudo.

Tagama felt the flush of anger, a good feeling. He needed it.

The men lined up so that the three of them formed a triangle, with sides of ten feet. Tagama took a couple of steps closer. “What do you want from me? I told you I'm not carrying.”

Like he'd hoped, the men backed up. But they backed up on a parallel path, so that the three of them formed a line rather than a triangle. Excellent, Tagama thought. If they fire, they'll shoot each other, too. The fact that neither of them had corrected the awkward geometry of the situation told him that they weren't planning to kill him here. Either they preferred to take him to Obake, or they'd seen people in the vicinity before he'd arrived. He didn't care.

“I'm going to put my hands straight out, okay?”

“Keep 'em away from your body,” said the thug.

“Of course,” Tagama said.

No way would he be able to hide a gun in the pockets of his slacks, and the men knew it. Tagama wasn't wearing a jacket, and he knew Kudo and his sidekick had eyed his shirt tail for a bulge. He'd let them have a good look at his back when he raised his arms.

As he'd hoped, they relaxed. They didn't consider that his long sleeves were for anything other than an old man's chill.

Neither of them saw Tagama slide the light, stainless steel throwing knife into his hand where he kept it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, hidden by his relaxed fingers and his palm. By the time he smoothly raised and snapped his wrist, the two men had just begun to react.

The scalpel-like blade found its target in Kudo's neck before their guns were raised. Kudo, startled by the slight impact, did what most people would do. He blinked and put a hand to his neck. Startled to find a handle poking out of his throat, he pulled it out. The three-sixteenths inch thick blade had done its work, though, and a gout of blood followed. It pulsed with the beat of his heart and sent a spray across Tagama and past Kudo's sidekick, an arc of nearly twenty feet. It was an unsettling sight.

Tagama, though, was prepared for it. When the other thug's mouth fell open with alarm, Tagama launched another knife. Another neck shot, and the guy did exactly what Kudo had done. He pulled the knife out. That instinct was too strong, and Tagama knew it. A fountain of blood followed.

But Tagama had to hand it to Kudo for his next reaction. Despite a hand clamped against the pulsing spray that jetted through his fingers, the man raised his gun with the other hand, aimed, and fired.

Tagama crumpled like he'd been hit by a car. He might have had a better chance against a car, he thought, as he went down. He landed on his back with one leg twisted under him, but didn't have the strength to straighten it. He smelled the warm, damp earth mixed with the needles of ironwood and Norfolk pine, a pleasant aroma, and didn't fight the little convulsion that shook him. It was hard to breathe, and the gurgling noises he made frightened him a bit. But he'd suffered worse pain.

As the blackness crept from the sides of his vision, Tagama whispered to Yasuko. “They won't make it as far as their car, my sweetheart. And their DNA is all over the place, so the police can tie up loose ends.” Some of the last words were spoken in his mind, but that was okay. She'd understand.

Chapter Thirty-two

Questions tumbled through Storm's head. Why had Damon's greeting been so reserved? Why was Lara touchy and preoccupied, and why did she claim not to know Yasuko?

She had questions for Pauline Harding, too. Out in the parking lot, she unlocked Damon's car, opened the door, and felt a blast of heat like a kiln. She rolled down the windows and leaned up against the back fender.

Pauline answered the phone with a smoker's rumble, then reacted to Storm with a phlegmy grunt. “What do you want?”

“Have the police talked to you?”

“Of course. They don't have shit.” There was the hiss of a match, an inhalation.

That was interesting, considering there would be evidence all over her house. What had Keiko told the police? Or not told them?

“I want to talk to you,” Storm said.

“Fuck you,” Pauline said, and hung up.

Okay, that went well. Plan B, Storm thought, and called Stella's apartment. No one answered, so she called Stella's cell phone. No one answered. She called the hospital next. Carmen had been admitted for observation, but Keiko had been released after the burn on her hand was treated. No one knew how she left.

“Did someone pick her up?” Storm asked.

“I have access to who's been admitted, but I don't know how people leave,” said the person on the other end of the line. “Patients aren't supposed to drive,” she added.

Storm stood for a moment, thinking about what to do next. She called the mobile number Sergeant Moana had given her and got his voice mail. Where was everybody? Maybe people charged their cell phones on Sunday.

A noise distracted her, and Storm turned to watch a painter enter the shop by the side door. She waved him down.

“Will you see Damon?” she asked.

“Probably,” he said.

“Would you ask him to give me a call, please? I'm—”

“You're the lady lawyer,” the painter said. “I'll tell him.”

Storm took stock of her situation. The dress she'd worn to dinner the night before had a food spot in the middle of her chest and drooped from her shoulder in tired folds. Her heeled sandals felt like tightening rubber bands on swelling feet.

She would go back to the hotel. It was hard to imagine that it would be dangerous in the middle of a bright, sunny day. Goons like the guys in the black Range Rover liked to work in the dark.

In the hotel lobby, happy families and affectionate couples debunked any lingering anxieties. But a short elevator ride later, she found her room freezing cold with the air conditioning turned on high. She hadn't done that. Nor had she dumped her suitcase on the floor and trampled her clothes.

Storm went back into the corridor and called the front desk. “I need security.”

“Room 322? Again?” said the operator.

Storm waited in the hall. Security arrived within two minutes, and she was glad to see a different man than the defensive fellow she'd had the last time her room was burgled.

“We're going to move you to a different room,” he said. “Have you looked to see what's missing?”

“I'm checking out. And I thought you should see it before I started to clean up.”

“Did you call the police?” he asked.

Their arrival answered his question. One of the officers was the same short, lean man who'd come before. “A little over twenty-four hours and it happened again?” He looked around the room. “I guess so.”

The other office, a woman whose uniform embroidery said B. Dillis, eyed the overturned suitcase. “When did it happen?”

“I don't know.” Storm told her how she'd been frightened enough last night to get another hotel room. They both ignored the huffing noises made by the security man.

Dillis nodded. “Good move.” She had eyes so black the pupils were indistinguishable from the iris. They fastened on Storm like tractor beams. “Why is someone following you?”

“Good question. I'm here on business. My client is opening a dive shop.”

“Lara Farrell,” said B. Dillis.

“Yes,” Storm said. She let the silence build. Cops used the same technique she did, so Storm knew better than to fill the awkward void. The four people stood looking at each other for a few long moments. It was the security guy who broke.

“So,” he said, “You think it's the same person who did it Friday night?”

Storm and the two police looked at him.

“Don't know yet,” said the short, lean officer.

B. Dillis made her way to the bathroom and flicked on the light with the end of her pen. “Same thing in here. Dumped out all your toiletries.” She looked at Storm. “If I were you, I'd buy new ones.”

“I don't have anything anyone would want. They've already got my laptop.”

“Hope it's got a password other than your birthday,” Dillis said.

“It's pretty secure. This is a scare tactic. They want me running.”

“That's my guess, too,” the male cop said. “After the note he left you.”

“We'll dust, but chances are we won't get prints we can use,” said Dillis.

“Like before,” said the security man. Everyone looked at him. “What's wrong?” he asked. “I mean, the room's covered with prints.”

“Right,” said Dillis.

On the way out the door, B. Dillis looked back at Storm. “Smart of you to avoid staying in this hotel. But I'm curious. We know you're working with Lara Farrell. Is there anything else you've done that could have rattled someone enough to send you such a hostile message? Someone wants you gone.”

Storm swallowed, then told Dillis about visiting both Carmen Yoshinaka and the storage facility. “I've talked to Sergeant Moana about this, also.”

“Carmen Yoshinaka, little girl whose dad shot her and her sister?” B. Dillis hooked her thumbs in her wide leather belt and frowned at Storm. A few seconds passed. “What led you to her?”

Storm leaned against the open door. “Carmen's father worked at the dive shop.” She told Dillis how she and Damon had gone to the Yoshinaka's house the night of the murder/suicide.

“So you went to see her in the hospital? Most people wouldn't do that.” Dillis' dark eyes were probing, waiting.

“My parents died young,” said Storm. “The kid's situation got to me.”

A spark of compassion flared in Dillis' eyes, and she seemed to accept Storm's explanation. “When are you going back to O‘ahu?”

“Either this evening or tomorrow.”

The cop arched an eyebrow, then reached in her pocket and handed Storm a card. “Call me if you need help.”

Storm watched her walk to the elevator. At least Dillis hadn't asked Storm to leave now, or given her any dire warnings. She hoped that was because the cop knew something about the case that Storm didn't. It also made Storm want to talk to Sgt. Moana, who might be inclined to reveal a fact or two since she'd turned over Pauline's phone to him.

Storm closed the door and began to clean up the mess. She shook out her clothes and repacked her suitcase, then did the same in the bathroom. This was a malicious message, loud and clear. The thief didn't even take anything. He just wanted Storm to know he could get to her any time he wanted.

Anything that went in her mouth or eyes, like some of her makeup, went into the wastebasket. Just playing it safe—or succumbing to paranoia, she wasn't sure.

When she finished packing, she changed into a bathing suit, sneakers, and jogging shorts. A run would help her sort out her thoughts. Hamlin's plane wouldn't arrive for another three hours. There was plenty of time, and she could shower and change in the restrooms on the public beach.

At the front desk, she settled her bill with the account her secretary had set up.

“You want the rest of the cash, or should we credit your account?” the receptionist asked in a soft voice, after checking to make sure no guests were in earshot. Storm figured she was the only one with the problem; no one else was in danger, so she obliged the employee's desire for discretion.

Storm took the cash—she might need it—and rolled her suitcase out the front door to the hotel parking lot and Damon's car. Before she got out of the parking lot, her phone rang.

“You called?” said Sergeant Moana.

“I wondered what Keiko and Carmen told you.”

“Some of my colleagues think you advised Keiko not to talk. So she wouldn't be charged with kidnapping.”

“I didn't,” Storm said. “Why would your colleagues think that?”

“Keiko told us Pauline was a good friend, who'd asked her and Carmen to visit.”

“Shit.”

“I think so, too. You think Keiko was threatened?”

“Did you look at the phone I gave you?”

Moana lost some of his attitude. “Yeah. It's why I stuck up for you. There are some questionable calls.”

“Questionable timing, too,” Storm said.

“Keiko wouldn't tell us, but the little girl did. She said they were tied up in the closet. She's got rope burns to show for it.”

“I cut her free.”

“Yeah, I figured. We've got a guard outside her hospital room.”

“Where did Keiko go?”

“She said she had a ride.”

“I can't find her. I can't find Stella, either.”

He didn't answer, and in the silence Storm heard sirens. “It's been a busy morning,” he said, and the sirens grew louder, then stopped abruptly. “There's been a fatal car crash out by Kapalua, and there was some kind of revenge killing for that woman that died last night. Must be a full moon or something.” He sounded tired. “I'll get some people looking for them.”

“What revenge killing?” Storm asked. “Who died?”

But Moana had hung up.

Storm climbed into the car and turned on the radio. After scanning up and down the dial, she finally found a report that three people had been found dead near Olowalu Wharf in an apparent gang war, but identification was being withheld.

She tried the dive shop, but no one answered. Lara had probably left, and if Damon was still there, he was wearing his ear protectors.

Storm drove to the public beach access. She locked the car and began a slow jog toward Makena Beach. She needed to think, alone, without any interruptions.

When Dillis had asked her if Carmen Yoshioka was linked to the dive shop, Storm was flooded with ideas, most of which were too tenuous to share, especially to a cop who needed solid evidence, not filaments of innuendo.

Dillis knew the obvious connections, but her instincts were telling her there were more. Good instincts, Storm thought. She wished she had a coherent explanation. It bothered her that Paradise Consortium owned the house Yoshinaka rented and had part ownership of the strip mall Lara was trying to buy. But she didn't have anything concrete.

When Stella explained the water trade, some details fell into place. Though The Red Light didn't have an obvious link to Paradise Consortium, Yoshinaka had a relationship with both establishments. So did Lara's family members.

On a related train of thought, the elder Tagama sat on the board of Paradise Consortium, which also owned a portion of the shopping center under Lara's shop. Tagama father and son ran Mālua LLC. Were the Tagama men setting Lara up in a business they could control? A dive shop would be an effective place to launder cash. If so, perhaps that was why Lara was scrambling to buy the place.

Obake, aka Akira Kudo, was the thread that ran through the whole mess. She'd knew from her conversation with Terry Wu, the assistant U.S. Attorney, that Obake was on their watch list. From her friend Mark Suzuki, who was connected to God knew what, she knew he was notorious for evasion and secrecy. Both men implied that he was dangerous.

Damon wouldn't even talk about The Red Light. He'd tell her Lara's secrets about real estate deals, but wouldn't tell her where Yoshinaka gambled. Why not? It wasn't just because she was Lara's lawyer. He'd left the beach park in a big hurry the night Yoshiko's body was found, as if he knew more than he wanted to reveal.

Both Damon and Lara had spoken of a Makena Beach property she was selling for a large sum, more than she'd expected to make. How does someone escalate the value of a property? Lara was, among other things, a savvy and proactive business woman.

What did she do? Start a bidding war? Storm almost stumbled at the thought. It was ruthless, but possible. Makena was a unique and limited slice of paradise. Only a few lots of developable oceanfront land existed, and Lara's was prime.

She'd had a real estate agent handle the transaction. Storm was certain the purchaser and sale price wouldn't yet be public knowledge. Not if the bid had been accepted within the last day or two.

Storm slowed her jog to a walk around a sharp curve in the road. High on her left, overlooking the winding road where Storm stood panting, an opulent new estate with immature landscaping sat high on a bluff and looked out to the ocean. Just ahead, to her right, a gravel drive disappeared into a copse of ironwood trees that fronted the ocean. Through the shield of trees, she could see the glint of glass.

Storm turned into the drive, stepped over a heavy chain, and followed the winding drive until she saw wide glass windows on a modern house that nestled among lava rock and natural ground cover. It was private to the point of secret, and overlooked a small, secluded beach.

Storm walked back to the road. Next to the drive, a for sale sign swayed in the gentle breeze, though the diagonal red sold banner blocked out most of the information. She peered behind the banner.

She didn't have anything to write on, but she'd remember. All the way back to the car, her footsteps pounded Mary Robbins, 367-5409, Mary Robbins, 367-5409. Maybe Mary could tell her if Lara had been the owner—maybe, in her delight to share the big sale, she'd talk about how they got their record-setting price. Heck, maybe Storm could hope for more pieces to fit the puzzle that had her head spinning.