Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “No shit?” Rey asked bluntly.

  “No shit.” Smithers smiled, then sobered. “The arson was a means to cover up a more sinister crime.”

  “Murder,” I said.

  “Murder indeed.”

  “Damn,” Xavier murmured.

  “He was dead before the fire reached him. Sergeant Obermeier is inclined to believe that Carlos killed the woman at the rear of the adjacent gallery, tucked her amid trash cans along the steps, and doused her with accelerant before setting her on fire. Leo, our chemist, is looking at ILRs—”

  “ILRs?” I interrupted.

  “Ignitable liquid residues. When a fire accelerant is used, they remain at the scene.”

  “But just because those ILRs are at a scene, doesn't mean they actually belonged to the accelerant, right?”

  “That's right.”

  “Carlos would never murder anyone, but saying he did, why would he risk burning both galleries?” Xavier asked crossly. “Why not have taken her body elsewhere, like the ocean or the mountains?”

  “Witnesses are a liability—”

  “Someone offed him, for heaven's sake.” The adjuster lowered. “What was he? Collateral damage?”

  “While it's possible that he was 'offed', it hasn't been officially confirmed. Listen. Carlos had access to accelerants; they were within arm's reach. He had two studios—a professional one for Nestor Ceviche and a small one where he himself dabbled in oils whenever the mood struck … Take a look.” Smithers moved the head carefully and pointed. A praline-sized indentation could be seen. He then pointed to another a little farther back. “If the first one didn't lend itself to epidural hematoma, the second would have. It's quite possible that he struck his head against the desk he was found prone alongside.”

  Like an inquisitive med student, Rey studied the wounds carefully. “So, what happened? He hit the desk twice? He thought the pain was so divine the first time, he threw himself against it again?”

  “Obermeier told me there was an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the floor. There'd been copious amounts of champagne at the 6-tu-8 party. Carlos loved his bubbles and enjoyed bending his arm when he threw dos. You know that, A.” He stared at the body. “It's quite possible he killed that woman, set her aflame, and figuring he had time because the fire was at the rear of the other gallery, hastened back to the office to collect something: evidence, documents, who knows? Maybe in that rushed nervous state—and a need for liquid courage—he gulped back the champagne and it overwhelmed him.”

  Xavier chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully as I stepped alongside my cousin and we both surveyed the body. Finally, angrily, he asked, “Does Obermeier explain Carlos' death the same way you do? That Carlos killed the woman and then, knowing the fire would spread quickly, ran back to the office to grab something? And as he's rushing madly around and chugging champagne, he trips … twice?”

  “There was a sturdy antique pedestal desk in his office if I remember correctly, not a discount-store special. There was also a marble sculpture. Why not? Yes, he trips. Whomp, desk! He slips sideward. Whomp, sculpture! Lights out. Permanently. It's not an impossible scenario, my friend.”

  “No, it's not,” Xavier acknowledged with a deep frown. “But I don't buy it. I don't see Carlos killing someone, and certainly not in such a brutal, cold manner. But, if that were the case, why kill her in the adjacent gallery? Why clumsily hide her body? Carlos was a cool and calculating type, not inept or impulsive. That doesn't sit well, at all.”

  “Maybe he wanted to get back at James-Henri by torching his gallery. I was told they'd just broken up again and it was very ugly this time around—as in spread the word, and dirt, to the art community across the globe ugly. Maybe she was a witness to his intended crime. Maybe she caught him in the act and he panicked… One action, or accident, certainly precipitated another.”

  “Carlos didn't mention anything about a break-up when we met the evening before so it must have happened later that night or the day of the fire.” Xavier drew a long breath and shook his head with resolve. “I can't believe it was an accident any more than I believe he killed someone or set that fire, no matter how pissed off at James-Henri he might have been.”

  “Has anyone considered the possibility someone killed the woman, then went after Carlos?” I put forth.

  Smithers and Xavier eyed me for several seconds, and Xavier finally asked, “Why hasn't Obermeier proposed that?”

  “Perhaps because Carlos' cell phone was found near the woman's body.”

  “No one mentioned that,” Rey frowned.

  “The cell could have been planted,” Xavier declared. “Carlos has two heavy-duty debilitating depressions in his head. That's fact. The rest is conjecture.”

  Smithers' downward-turned lips drew into a tight line as he returned Carlos to the vault.

  When he came back, Xavier started to ask, “You tested for alcohol and did—”

  “We tested for a lot of things. In fact, we're still testing. We're fast, but not that fast, particularly when we're short-staffed.”

  Dejected, Xavier sighed loudly. “What about the origin of that blast?”

  “Everything's being investigated, A.” Smithers squeezed his friend's shoulder. “We'll find answers, I promise.”

  “And they'll clear the black marks alongside Carlos' name,” I affirmed.

  “We still need to discover the woman's identity,” Linda pointed out. “Any leads? Any recently missing women? Someone who didn't return home that night?”

  “Most likely she was at the little soiree. Investigators have the guest list, but I understand a few people still have to be contacted,” Smithers answered with a patient smile. “There's always a possibility she broke into James-Henri's gallery and Carlos caught her.”

  “And he meted his own form of vengeance?” Xavier asked heatedly.

  Smithers held up a soft hand.

  “… Come to think of it, James-Henri and Carlos were both interested in collaborating with a couple of local artists. One is a friend of Cholla's, James-Henri's half or step sister.” He slapped his forehead. “Say, has anyone accounted for her?”

  “I spoke with him for a couple of minutes this morning. He didn't mention anything and I'm sure he would have if she were missing, given they're very tight.” Franklin Smithers pulled out his Smartphone and held it forth. “But you might want to confirm.”

  Chapter Five

  “Of course.” I winked at my cousin and her best friend. “Uh-huh. Count us in.”

  Both were seated on a concrete border by the Hawaiian Hilton Village Pier, where the Atlantis submarine and sailing excursions happened regularly throughout the day. The afternoon Tradewind Sail was just pulling away.

  “Hey! Wait for me!” A William “Frank Cannon” Conrad double raced with amazing agility toward the vessel, a small black knapsack suspended from a fleshy shoulder and a pricey Sony hanging by a wide strap from a thickset neck.

  “Oh-oh.” Rey's eyes clamped shut. “I can't watch.”

  “Oh no.” Linda sucked in a breath.

  Dumbstruck, I could only goggle as the rutabaga-shaped gent soared like a premier danseur engaging in a brisé … only to take out two crew members as he tumbled onto the deck like a circus clown plunging from a trapeze.

  “Wow,” Linda breathed.

  Rey opened one eye. “Yow.”

  After leaving Xavier at the morgue, the three of us had decided to stroll to the Hilton for exercise and sunshine while determining arson-case logistics. Two other potential assignments had come in during the morning: one to discover if restaurant staff were stealing from the owner and the other to locate a runaway teen.

  “What are we being counted in for?” Rey asked, finishing a can of diet Coke.

  “Honey's surprise birthday party Saturday after next. The kids are throwing it. So far, twelve people are confirmed—including us—and four more will advise shortly. We're to bring taro buns, coleslaw, brownies, and ice-cream.”

>   Rey gave a thumb's up and turned to the sparkling ocean where countless swimmers, waders, and surfers congregated. Linda switched to sitting on hot sand and, stretching jean-clad legs, leaned back onto her palms as she slipped into thought.

  I scanned the tourist-heavy Fort DeRussy Boardwalk, a path that began at the Hilton and cut off near the Waikiki Shore Hotel. “What's the plan of attack?”

  “Talk to James-Henri Ossature and get the scoop on the galleries, his many off-on relationships with Carlos, especially this last one that turned 'ugly',” Rey replied. “And request a list of friends and foes.”

  “Let's check in with Ald for updates,” Linda put forth.

  “I'm not sure he'll share,” I advised.

  “He'll do it for Xavier. They're pals.”

  I tilted my head one way and then the other. He might accommodate Xavier if it helped with the insurance investigation; he'd certainly not do it for me. Taking a sip of warm POG (passionfruit, orange and guava juices combined), I gazed at the net-covered Tropics Bar & Grill on the east-south corner of the vast Hilton property. Seated under large clay-colored umbrellas, several happy tourists chatted amiably over food and drinks, excited about the day's adventures and those still to come.

  At a corner table sat a striking woman with a platinum-blonde beveled bob and plump dark-red glossy lips that shone like gold lamé under the afternoon sun. Even at this distance, it was evident she was stunning with high, lightly rouged cheekbones and deep-set powder-blue eyes enhanced by thick, dark lashes.

  She sipped white wine as she scanned the beach while her companion, a unique-looking muscular man who resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger during Mr. Universe days, was preoccupied with an iPhone. A weighty, intricately etched Borgia poison ring—with what appeared to be a sizeable round emerald—graced a slender index finger while a crystal-encrusted collar necklace drew the eyes to a long, graceful neck. Odd, but she seemed familiar. Then an image from the other evening came to mind. Hold on. Wasn't she the woman by the barrier the other night? Although part of her face had been obscured by a hat, those memorable dark lips had been in full view, as had the ring.

  Our eyes met.

  Smiling, she held up the beaded glass in toast before speaking to the man.

  “Hey!” Rey's bare foot kicked my ankle. “Earth to JJ.”

  “Sorry, but I could have sworn …”

  “What? You saw a 'ghost' again?”

  My cousin was referring to the last time we were seated at the Tropics—at the start of our second big case, in fact—and I'd mentioned sighting two ghosts. Gazing along the path, I'd spotted Cash Layton Jones and Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane, the traitorous government agent I'd shot in the heart. (As an FYI, my aim was improving.)

  About to thrust forth my tongue like she often did when vexed or feeling petulant, an overwhelming need to peer back took precedence. Red Lips and Companion were gone.

  “Why the knotted brow?” Linda asked.

  I hesitated, then mentioned the couple.

  “You sure it was the same woman?” Rey asked skeptically, slipping on canvas espadrille flats.

  “No.”

  “Well, if it was her, it was a coincidence.” Linda.

  “There are no coincidences.” Rey.

  “Moving on,” I smiled. “Let's find out what financial issues Carlos had.”

  “James-Henri would know.”

  “We need a copy of the guest list, too.” Linda got to her feet.

  “Ald was there for the 6-tu-8 do,” I reminded them. “He could supply one.” Providing he was willing to help.

  “Let's also see if there were any disgruntled artists or business associates.” Linda pulled Rey to her feet. “When do we start?”

  “In the a.m. when we can start fresh. Let's check in with our two new potential clients this afternoon and then enjoy a quiet evening,” I suggested.

  “I've got an errand to run first thing,” Linda said with an odd smile. “We can meet at the office at ten and take it from there.”

  “I'm going to try and connect with James-Henri today.” Rey pulled out her cell from a stunning Proenza Schouler bucket bag (faux, my cousin was both loathe and sad to admit). “I put his number in contacts.”

  While she called, I told Linda I'd drop by the station to see Ald in the morning.

  “Maybe we should do that together. He may not be so … aloof.”

  “I'll be fine meeting Ald on my own. Besides, you have that mysterious errand. Don't worry,” I said with more assurance than I felt. Perhaps arriving with gifts—extra-large lattes and malasadas (popular Hawaiian donutes) from Sammy's on South—wouldn't hurt.

  * * *

  Persistence was Rey's middle name (among others), but she had no luck connecting with James-Henri Ossature, despite leaving six voice-mail messages. The man was off the radar, maybe even off Oahu.

  As for those two potential clients, they became bona-fide ones.

  Mr. and Mrs. Askey-Prescott wanted us to find sixteen-year-old Cameron Wilkie, named after an eighteenth-century relative who'd played some part in the Battle of Baton Rouge, bugle boy perhaps. Not only was the mission to bring home their only son, but to convince him to stay. Neither Linda nor I thought it possible, but Rey—Optimism and Obstinacy, two more middle names (among others)—believed it doable, given our success several months ago.

  Xav, short for Xavier (yes, another one), was the teenaged son of Honey Konani and a fairly decent kid with a semblance of intelligence—when he was clean. Our endeavors had resulted in runaway Xav being located, brought home, and shipped to rehab on Maui. Sadly, he'd escaped and returned to the seedier streets of Honolulu where, several days later, he'd been found in an alley, nearly dead from an overdose. The frightening ordeal had impelled the teen to retry rehab, this time with successful results. In addition to receiving tutoring for missed classes, he'd embraced a lost love: surfing. Honey, his sister Kalei, and the three of us were keeping the faith that he'd continue on the straight and narrow.

  Like Xav, Cameron Wilkie Askey-Prescott had run away a few times; unlike Xav, he wasn't a drug user, but why he was prone to taking frequent flight had yet to be discovered.

  Quentin Forrester, owner of Crabby Crabs, a popular Hawaii Kai seafood restaurant, had noticed a considerable drop in revenue the last four months; he wanted to know who on staff was responsible. Linda, having waitressed once upon a time ago, agreed to wait tables Fridays through Sundays for a few weekends to see if she could learn something. She'd start this coming weekend.

  Tomorrow, the Triple Threat Investigation Agency gals would officially throw themselves into learning everything about individuals and events related to the gutted galleries. The rest of Thursday, however, was going to be spent in our respective condos, playing with pets, watching HBO, and eating favorite take-out. In the building “disco” elevator, I left Rey gleefully clutching a large pizza carton and Linda happily hugging an extra-large tofu BLT with grilled portabella mushrooms.

  After sucking back a saimin combo and Chantilly-haupia cream puffs, Button and I walked along the Ala Wai Canal. The tan-mocha-cream rescue dog was a mix of Havanese, Schnoodle and Chacy Ranoir, and made for a very funny looking (albeit very cute) canine. Just over a year old now, she and I had bonded the second our eyes met at the shelter. I don't know what had possessed me to go there that rainy day, but I was so grateful I had.

  As Button and I settled in for the night, I couldn't help but think that this case would be—as Francis Xavier Shillingford had called it—a lollapalooza.

  * * *

  Answering the mobile phone in the office-den with a stifled yawn, I idly glanced at a metal weather-station clock that, in addition to time, advised of humidity and temperature.

  “Is this the Triple Threat Investigation Agency?” a soft, prickly voice asked.

  … Crispy? Sleep slipped from my body. “It is. It's just shy of midnight. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Which chick's this?”

  I swal
lowed a retort. “The one with the honey highlights.”

  “And black-flow-lava eyes?”

  “One and the same. The name's JJ.”

  “JJ, right.” His soft, thin whistle was reminiscent of a White-Throated Sparrow. “I tried A and he's not answering.”

  “Maybe he turned his phone off.” A wave of weariness washed over me and I leaned into a wall. “The guy's been working long hours.”

  “Maybe, but it's not like him not to be available.”

  I forced a neutral tone. “What can I help you with, Crispy?”

  “I been asking around. The fire wasn't set by anyone in my circles.”

  “You mean your firebug friends?” I asked dryly.

  “Incendiary friends, if you don't mind,” he gibed.

  “Big word.”

  “For a pyro kinda guy, yeah?” The humming sound reminded me of pigeon laughter.

  Crispy gave the impression there was more to him than meets the eye. “Is it possible that it could have been a pro from another island or the Mainland?”

  “It was no pro. From the details I got—don't ask where—this fire was strictly amateur. Successful, yeah, but real amateur.”

  I frowned. “Could it have been a pro making it look amateurish?”

  “Anything's possible, as they say, but there's a pride factor; hear what I'm saying?”

  “I hear.” And sighed. “Will you dig a bit more?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have any thoughts?”

  “… I'm thinking someone really didn't like one or both of the gallery guys and decided to make a statement.”

  “What about the unknown woman who died?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time.” He disconnected.

  * * *

  “Good and ample choices. Sam makes the best.” Ald nodded to the dozen freshly-baked boxed treats on an immaculate desk and took another sip of a vanilla latte (he, like me, had a preference for sweet coffee drinks). “But you'll have to come up with better bribes than A-1 coffee and scrumptious donuts, Fonne.”

  I slipped back on a chrome chair with a thin upholstered seat; a panel of nails would have proven more comfortable. “A DQ strawberry sundae? Crispy golden shrimp wonton in Chinatown? Or food-truck fish tacos?”