Pleasing the Dead (7 page)

Chapter Ten

Stella interrupted the conversation about toxic ex-boyfriends with a call for Lara to get the phone. Lara shot from her chair as if springs had fired her into the air. Storm could hear her book a string of dive outings, the relief in her voice resonating at a level that would leave her customers delighted.

The morning session had obviously come to an end. That was okay; Storm had plenty on her mind. The Hawaii State Family Court had appointed her
guardian ad litem
for an O‘ahu child, but the grandparents, with whom she needed to speak, lived in Kahului. She'd called earlier and set up an appointment.

On the way out of the shop, she paused to look at the progress in the large front room, where a worker was laying ceramic tile the color of the ocean. In a side room, wet suits and BCDs hung to dry and scuba tanks lined a wall. Ken McClure was busy in there with an assistant, some buff, bare-chested guy in surf trunks with a big eagle tattoo on his arm. It was heavy work, and they were sweating as they arranged equipment and loaded supplies into the back of a van with Lara's Aquatic Adventures emblazoned on the side. The shop even had its own air compressor for filling the tanks to exact safety standards. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were going into Lara's new business.

Damon emerged from the back room and headed outside to his truck. Storm followed him. “I'm going to Kahului on other business. Do you know if Carmen was taken to Maui Memorial Hospital?”

He gathered a load of tarpaulins and paint rollers. “Probably. That's where I'd go. You think she's covered by Hiroki's insurance?”

“You pay his premiums, right?”

Damon nodded.

“I'll check and let you know.”

“The hospital's in Wailuku, not Kahului.”

“No problem, they're close.”

Storm drove out to Pi‘ilani Highway, then pulled into the parking lot at Elleair Golf Club where she could make a couple of calls on her cell phone without running red lights or rear-ending someone. One of the calls was to a Honolulu number.

“Bureau of Conveyances,” the operator answered.

“Mike Chilworth, please.” Storm hoped he was in the office and not out on a site.

Mike picked up, and Storm went through the usual pleasantries regarding his wife and kids before she got to business. “Mike, how do I check who holds a land lease on a strip mall in Maui? It's in Kihei.”

“You on Maui? You're one lucky wahine.”

“Like I've got time to enjoy it.”

“Not surfing?”

“I wish.” Storm could hear Mike flipping through papers.

“Okay, here we go. You want the Maui County Real Property Assessment Division in Kahului. Here's the number. Ask for Sally—tell her I sent you.” He chuckled. “Maybe you can finish early and go to Ho‘okipa.”

“I'm not holding my breath about getting to the beach, even if it is Ho‘okipa.”

Storm smiled at Mike's teasing, but it faded when she remembered one of the errands she wanted to accomplish. Visiting a twelve-year-old orphan with a gunshot wound wasn't going to be easy.

She had to drive around a bit before she found the Property Assessment offices, and in doing so, she made a detour around a badly damaged, once-elegant restaurant surrounded by warning signs, crime tape, and a handful of official-looking people. The site of the explosion that had tied up traffic on Wednesday. Still under investigation, and it probably would be for days. She parked a few blocks away and walked by the place. The whole left corner of the building had been ripped off, revealing a scattering of dining tables and tattered linens, along with part of the sign, which now said “—lue Marine.”

When she got to the Property Assessment offices, she was sweating from the bright, hot sun. Inside, though, the air conditioning was set to January in Nova Scotia. The clerk who told Storm that Sally was at lunch wore a sweater buttoned to the neck.

“She should be back in a half hour.”

In her sleeveless linen blouse, Storm was covered with goose bumps, so she headed back outside. On the other side of the shattered restaurant was a small mall, which was sure to have a sandwich or coffee shop. She skirted the yellow crime tape, but along with all the other pedestrians, ignored the signs to use the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

It was hard not to stare at the destruction. The missing wall reminded her of the open side of a doll house where the petulant owner had reached in and tossed furniture, draperies, and wiring into a violent tangle. The dangling table linens were blackened and torn and dining chairs leaned, askew. Storm looked away from the dark stains on the carpeting.

Three police officers, alert but not vigilant to the point of obsession, patrolled the area and watched pedestrians and traffic. They weren't fiddling with the holsters on their hips, or speaking into radios.

Storm squinted in their direction. One of the cops looked like the guy she'd seen last night. And how had Damon introduced him? Moana. She remembered because it meant
ocean
in Hawaiian. A soft word for a man with a hard job.

She waved at him. All three officers' heads swung her direction, but only Moana walked over.

“No stopping, please.” He pointed at the signs directing people across the street, through the busy traffic. The closest crosswalk was a block away.

“I met you last night. I was with Damon.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sadness softened the authority in his eyes. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Storm Kayama. You're Sergeant Moana, right?” He nodded, and Storm asked what had been on her mind all day. “How's the little girl?”

“I called the hospital this morning. She should be okay, barring infection or other complications. She got shot through the shoulder. Lucky, considering.”

“Does she know about her dad and sister?”

“Yeah. We talked to her.” He looked down at his shoes, somewhat dusty from the bomb detritus. “I thought I'd take my daughters to see her this afternoon.”

“I can't help thinking about her. You think I could drop off a little gift?”

“Sure, any support would be good. Though she's getting a lot of attention from the hospital personnel.”

“Does she know what happened?”

“She's been told, but I'm not sure she understands. Hell, I'm not sure I do.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, but Storm thought he might be trying to hide anguish that had crossed his face. He braced himself and continued. “She told us her dad was crying, and that he had a gun. She started to run away, and heard the shots. She keeps asking,” Moana cleared his throat, “about her sister.”

Storm looked at the ground. If she looked in his eyes, she'd tear up. “That's terrible.”

“It is. Seems Yoshinaka had gambling debts and had missed a couple rent payments. It looks like he just got real depressed. He had high blood alcohol levels.”

“Any chance he was into a loan shark?”

“Could be.” Moana's gaze slid away from hers.

For sure, Storm thought. He just can't talk about it. “Poor kid's going to need all the help she can get.”

“We're trying to find family in Japan,” Moana said, then looked over his shoulder. A big sedan had pulled into the building's parking lot, right up to a strip of crime tape. Four doors popped open and four suits emerged from the car.

“I've gotta go.”

Storm watched Moana hurry off. If the coconut wireless was operating at full efficiency and the pregnant clerk's information was accurate, those were the JTTF agents.

Storm found a sandwich shop, picked up a copy of the newspaper, and sat on a bench to eat. The front page was covered with a photograph of Hiroki Yoshinaka's house, with police cars, two ambulances, and Damon's pickup on the front lawn. Storm could see her own shadowy form in the front seat of the truck. Unidentifiable, thank goodness. The story of the murder/suicide continued onto page two, and Storm didn't read it.

On her way back to the Property Assessment office, only one police officer hung around outside the restaurant, but the sedan still sat in the parking lot. She could imagine Moana and his colleague picking their way through the rubble with the Federal agents.

Sally was back from lunch and was happy to look up the land lease records for Lara's shop. “It's held by Mālua LLC.”

“Do you have the names of the corporate officers?”

“Ichiru and Ryan Tagama are the president and chief operating officer, respectively.” Sally read over the fine print. “They do have another investor in the property,” she said. “Paradise Consortium holds ten percent.”

“I'm helping Lara Farrell set up the corporation. Are there any liens on the land?”

“Not that I can see here. It looks as if it's owned clean and free.”

“Thanks,” Storm said, and began to leave, but turned back. “Say, what was the name of the restaurant that was bombed?”

Sally didn't have to look that up. “Blue Marine. Fine dining, known for their seafood. They weren't normally open for breakfast.”

“You wouldn't know who owns it, would you?”

Sally typed in information on her computer. After a minute or so, she hit the print button, scooped up some papers and said, “Paradise Consortium.”

“Who are the officers and owners?”

“That's coming out in the news. Some conglomerate, a combination of local guys—I have their names—and a couple big investors from Japan.”

Storm was a decent upside-down reader, so she could see the address of the corporate headquarters, here in Kahului. If she had time after her morning appointments, she might drop by. “Who are the local investors?”

Sally mentioned three names that were unfamiliar to Storm, but the fourth was Ichiru Tagama. Ryan's dad.

“Does the company own other businesses?” Storm asked.

“Let me see here.” She tapped away on her keyboard, and her eyes flicked across the screen.

“It's public knowledge?”

“Sure. But sometimes the companies are owned by other companies and so on. I might have to dig around.”

“Shell corporations?” Storm asked.

“Depends if they have any assets or operations. It happens, especially when foreign investors are sheltering taxable money in local investments.” She paused. “Looks like Paradise Consortium owns two hotels, a handful of restaurants and bars, and two or three residential properties.”

Sally seemed to enjoy gossiping about elusive property owners, so when the thought came to her, Storm decided to ask one more question. She unfolded the newspaper she'd picked up earlier and pointed to the murder/suicide story. “Any chance we could find out who owned this house?”

“Wow, I heard about that. Sad, yeah? You know the address?”

Both women leaned over the paper. The mailbox was visible, and the number 4028 was easy to read, even in the grainy photo.

“I need the street name, too,” Sally said.

“I saw the name—it's a fish. Kumu? Kamanu?”

Sally typed, then scanned the computer screen. “Those poor little girls.” She sighed, but stopped mid-inhale. “Oh, that's interesting.”

“What?” Storm asked.

“I went back to the screen with Paradise Consortium's local holdings.” She hit the print button, then handed a sheet of paper to Storm. “Look, Paradise Consortium holds the title on 4028 Kumu Street.”

Storm stared at it.

Sally pointed to the list. “Same group that owns Blue Marine.”

Chapter Eleven

The address for Paradise Consortium was located a few blocks from the Property Assessment offices, and Storm drove right by it the first time. It was one of those multi-story storage units that were springing up throughout the state. Big, expensive buildings on prime real estate. She pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and checked the street number again. This was an office for a conglomerate that owned millions of dollars of real estate? Her curiosity was piqued.

A front office with a wide, open window was just inside the front door. A bell to get attention sat on the countertop, along with a lineup of Plexiglas business card holders. It looked like there were a number of businesses located here.

In the office, a man with a cell phone pressed to his ear paced back and forth on the industrial carpeting. He spoke loudly in Japanese-accented English and gesticulated with his free hand. Storm didn't want to interrupt, so she took a step back and looked around.

Doors appeared at regular intervals down a long corridor, which was lit by caged light bulbs dangling on long wires. The concrete floor was clean, but lacked any pretense of comfort or luxury, and the hall ended in a steel door that was stenciled with a sign, “Exit Stair.” Perhaps there was an elevator down there, too, but Storm couldn't tell because the ceiling light at the end of the passageway had burned out. If light hadn't spilled from one of the unit doors, it would be quite dark.

The clerk hadn't acknowledged her presence, so Storm ambled toward the open unit. She was about halfway down the corridor when the man in the office noticed.

“Hey, stop!” He slammed the office door and dashed down the hallway. “No entry without authorization.”

Storm turned around. “Sorry, you were busy. I'm interested in renting a unit.”

“We protect the privacy of our clients,” he panted. “Come to the office. I'll show you rates.” Sweat trickled from his hairline. “What are you storing?”

“Antiques,” Storm said. “My mother left me some very nice pieces. I'm going to open a shop.”

“Our security is excellent.”

“Obviously.”

“Let me show you some available units.” They were back at the office and the man let himself in while Storm waited at the counter.

“What size unit do you need?” he asked from the other side of the counter.

“Some of the furniture is quite large. I'll need at least seventy or eighty square feet.”

“We have units that size.”

“I may need a phone line, too. Is that possible?”

“Yes, we can set up phone and fax facilities. For a fee, you can have wireless internet access.”

“How about a mailing address?” Storm asked.

“Yes, of course. You would pick up mail here.” He gestured to a series of cubbyholes at the back of the office. “Let me get our rate list and floor plan for you.”

He slapped a document on the counter and turned it for her to see. It was a diagram of units, but what drew her attention were his hands. Both pinkies were chopped off at the first knuckle.

“Could I see an ID, please?” he asked.

Storm dragged her attention from the missing fingers. “Um, I don't want to move furniture to the second floor. Do you have something on the first floor?”

“Maybe. The ID?”

Storm dug around in her bag. “I must have left it in the car.” She dumped a hairbrush, a compact, and two lipsticks on the counter.

He looked doubtful. “Security. I must see ID.”

Storm had heard stories about missing fingers as a sign of allegiance to the Yakuza. Ten or fifteen years ago, the organization had been quite active in the islands, particularly in real estate adventures, as it was an effective way to launder large amounts of cash.

She eyed the guy. No tattoos crawling up his neck, but his collar was buttoned and the shirt had long sleeves. She was leery of handing her ID over to this guy.

“I don't have it right now. I can give it to you when we sign the contract.” Storm scooped her things back into her purse. “I need references from some of your customers.”

The phone rang again, and the man answered it. Storm hesitated a moment, then folded the contract and put it into her bag with the hairbrush and lipsticks. She gave the man a little wave, but he was speaking to someone in Japanese and had resumed pacing and gesturing.

Outside the building, she hopped into her rental, turned the ignition, rolled down all the windows, and set the air conditioner to high. A turkey could roast in there, and she was beginning to. Drops of sweat crept down the sides of her face.

She readjusted the vent and took a moment to remove the contract from her purse. Nothing too interesting about it. Across the top of the torn paper was Ma‘alahi Storage, with phone and fax numbers, in both English and Japanese. There was also a hand-written doodle in Japanese that Storm couldn't read, followed by $18,765. Apparently the office manager had been using the contract for scratch paper.

Storm shrugged to herself, rolled up the windows and exited onto the main thoroughfare. She didn't look back, so she didn't see the office clerk at the building's entrance. He watched her drive away and chattered into his cell phone.

***

At a red light, Storm called the office and made a report of her day to her ever-protective and efficient secretary.

“Two things,” Grace told her. “Call your Aunt Maile and Hamlin's on his way home.”

“He is? That's great news.”

“I thought so, too. Finish up with the dive shop and get back here. Don't forget your aunt, either, or she'll be on the next plane to Maui.”

That part was true, Storm thought. “I'll call her. But the dive shop business is a little more complicated than I originally thought.”

“I've heard that before.” Grace hung up.

On her way to Maui Memorial Hospital, Storm had a chance to ponder the ball of tangled ends she was trying to unravel. Lara hadn't been forthcoming with the information Storm needed to set up liability protection. Instead of volunteering that Ryan and his father owned the land under the shop, Lara had mentioned it as if it were afterthought, even as Storm was begging for the information. Ryan was a little better, but he'd ducked out before Storm got the specifics about water, electricity, and the other stores in the little mall.

It was not the kind of thing she could let go. What if, God forbid, there was a lawsuit against the shop? Not only would Lara and Ryan blame her, she could be sued for legal malpractice.

Several other things niggled at her, more misgivings than specifics. Damon had quickly changed the subject when they'd talked about Lara's family. Storm supposed he felt it wasn't his place to discuss it, but there'd been something in the way he'd clammed up after bringing up the death of Lara's sister.

Another concern was the fact that the older Tagama did business with Paradise Consortium. It could be nothing, as he seemed to be a wealthy, well-connected businessman. Local bars and restaurants would be logical investments. But when the pushy, chop-fingered clerk in the storage facility where Paradise Consortium had its office insisted on her ID, alarm bells sounded.

She needed to find answers to a long list of questions, but by the time Storm drove into the hospital parking lot, her mind was on the child with the gunshot wound. This visit had little to do with her legal clients. Storm had been twelve, the same age as Carmen, when her mother killed herself. It had affected everything in her life, just as this event would color Carmen's life. This visit was for herself and, she hoped, another little girl.

A volunteer at the information desk in the lobby gave her directions to Carmen Yoshinaka's room. Despite her nervousness and the desire to turn around and leave, Storm knew why she was there.

Storm's father died four years after her mother. For most of those four years, her father had been moody and preoccupied. Even if he was staring across the dinner table at her, he'd been elsewhere. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone, recognizing his despair, had stepped in. Storm had had her rebellious period—the purple hair and tattoo—but they'd been there. And they still were. This twelve-year-old had no one.

Worse yet, Carmen's father had tried to kill her. The kid probably recognized this on some level, even if she couldn't tell the police about it. Storm's parents may have left her, but they didn't try and take her with them.

There were two nurses in Carmen's room. One sat on her bed and read a story from a children's book.

Storm had picked up a big white teddy bear in the hospital gift shop. It was half the size of the child on the bed. The nurses smiled, but Carmen looked surprised. “Aunt Kiki?”

“You look a little like her aunt,” one of the nurses explained.

Storm was buoyed by the idea of the child having an aunt. “No, I'm a friend. My name is Storm. Your dad worked with some people I know, and I heard you got hurt.”

She handed the furry bear to the little girl. “I hope you feel better soon.”

Carmen's eyes were very large in her pale face. “Where's Daddy? And Crystal?”

Storm was glad Carmen didn't see the anguish on the face of the nurse with the book. The other one froze in the act of adjusting the window blinds.

The nurse put down the book and hugged Carmen. “They can't come visit,” she said. She motioned for Storm to take her chair by the bed, and she tiptoed from the room.

Storm remembered her mother's death. She'd been the one to find her mother in bed, and had phoned for help when she couldn't rouse her. She still remembered how one of her mother's friends had patted her head and told her that her mother would wake up. Storm's hopes had soared, then plummeted into loathing.

“Do you like animals?” Storm stroked the bear's fur.

Carmen's eyes stayed wide, and after a moment she nodded. “I have a kitten.”

Storm sat up a little straighter. “A real kitty? Um, the kind who has to go outside?”

“Her name is Neko.”

“What color is she?”

“Orange.”

Storm drew a careful breath. “Do you leave water and food out for her?”

Carmen frowned. “No, silly. She lives on my bed. Daddy won't let me take water in my room.”

“I see,” Storm said, and hoped she really did. “Do you think she'll like your bear?”

Carmen thought for a moment, then nodded. “Can you bring Neko to me?”

“Yes, I'll do that,” Storm said.

The nurses came back with a doctor. All three wore concerned expressions.

“I'll see you later, Carmen.”

“Will you help me go home?”

“Yes.” Storm nearly choked on the word. Where would home be for this child? She stood up to give the doctor her place at Carmen's bedside, but she would be back. After all, she had to find Neko.

On the drive back to Wailea, her mobile phone rang, but she didn't reach for it. Whoever it was could leave a message. She was wrapped in empathy for Carmen Yoshinaka. The child's sad eyes had left a piercing ache in Storm's chest.