I said, “You could have it tuned.”
Meyer winced. “I can’t hear it hardly at all. It probably needs to be tuned.”
I nodded. Why didn’t I think of that? He lowered the violin and began a detailed examination. He started at the neck and worked his way down to the body. His eyes suddenly narrowed and he said, “What the—” He handed me the violin and said, “Be right back.”
He went into the kitchen and grabbed a refrigerator magnet from the refrigerator door, then began rummaging around on the floor. He returned a few moments later with a knife and the magnet. He pried the magnet off the back of the decorative cover and tossed the cover to one side. “Never liked that one anyway.” He set it on the table and began poking at one of the f-like holes while he held the small magnet immediately above the hole.
“What are you doing? Have you gone off the deep end?”
“There’s a key here. It’s got a little metal tag on it, so I should be able to—”
My jaw dropped as a little tag popped up and stuck itself to the magnet. “That’s a pretty good trick.”
Meyer winked at me, then grabbed the tag between his left thumb and forefinger. He put a gentle pressure on the key. “I was an engineer for forty years. You learn a few things.”
“Now what?”
“This was glued on. I just need a little more pressure and—”
I heard a snapping sound and watched as Meyer held up the key and its dangling tag, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Looks like it’s for a safe-deposit box.”
“Or a locker. There’s a number on it.” He squinted at the tag. “One, oh, one, seven.”
Why would there be a key without some sort of explanation? I glanced around us. Paper everywhere. There was plenty of opportunity for explanation in this mess. I checked each piece that had come from the box; most was large-sheet packing paper, but one single letter-sized piece had escaped our attention as we’d unpacked. I smoothed it out and read aloud:
Dear Meyer:
If you’re reading this, something terrible has happened to me. Unfortunately, I have unwittingly become involved with people who care about nothing more than making money. I don’t want to involve you in anything that will cause you danger, so I’m simply going to appoint you as executor of my estate and instruct you to sell or liquidate all of my possessions in the easiest manner possible. My partners may want to purchase my share of the airplane. Please sell it to them at any fair price.
You may also deduct a fee of 10% of the estate to compensate you for the time and effort involved in dealing with my affairs. Once you have liquidated my estate and deducted your fee, please donate the proceeds, less any expenses that you may incur, to the family of Roger Lau. The only thing that I ask is that the money be used solely for educational expenses for his two sons. Should there be any remaining balance after the boys have completed college, I request the Lau family donate the balance to the Boys and Girls Club of Honolulu.
It was signed and dated by Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., on May 2, 2011. The letter was witnessed by Gloria Yamato. Meyer seemed to deflate as I placed the letter on the table. His arms fell to his sides. I righted a chair and helped him into it.
At this point, we had two options. Call the cops, again. Or try to sort this out before we made that call. My instincts said to play the cards we’d been dealt and stop bothering the cops until we knew something concrete. Otherwise, we stood a really good chance of being ignored when we’d need them most.
Meyer sniffled and said, “Why? Why’d this happen?”
“I think we’re pretty close to finding out.” I surveyed the apartment. “Maybe we should leave this for another day? I’d like to look over Bob’s records again to see what you’re dealing with. I’d also like to see what this key fits. And who’s this Gloria Yamato?”
He shrugged. His facial features themselves appeared dulled by the shock of seeing Shapiro’s letter.
“Let’s get out of here. We’ll go back to my place and check things out. Maybe we can figure out what you’re supposed to do with that key.”
We packed the violin back in its box, put the key onto a spare ring of Meyer’s and folded Shapiro’s letter neatly so that it would fit in Meyer’s wallet. Then, we got in the car and Meyer dutifully drove us back to my apartment.
In the moment before we approached my place, my heart nearly stopped. What if mine had been ransacked too? But, when I looked through the window, I saw that everything was in order. No chaos. No turned over furniture. I’d been spared. Apparently, whoever had trashed Meyer’s apartment didn’t know or care about me, or simply hadn’t found me—yet. That put us back to Willows—maybe.
Where to start? My first order of business was to learn more about the big contractor man and his shiny black car. He’d pissed me off, so I put him at the top of my list. I did an internet search for Oahu vehicle registrations, which the counties handle in Hawaii. Unfortunately, I found out quickly that I’d need both the vehicle identification number and the plate number to get anything. But, what about the Waikiki Sands parking permit on the dashboard? I grabbed the phone book and found the number for the complex.
A friendly female voice answered the phone, “Office.”
“Is this the Waikiki Sands?”
“Sorry, I thought it was one of the tenants. Yah, this is the Sands.”
“My name is McKenna. A black sedan with a parking sticker from your condo nearly caused an accident yesterday and I’d like to get the owner’s name.”
“You would have to talk to HPD about that, sir.”
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected, so I lied. “Ordinarily, I would have called them right away, but I didn’t get the license number. It might have been driven by someone other than the owner.”
“Some of our owners do make a vehicle available to selected renters.”
“This car was recently at Willows Construction.”
She sounded perplexed. “Why would it be there?”
“You don’t have an owner who works there?” I’d fully expected it to be Willows' car. “Was it stolen?”
The earpiece rumbled as if she were repositioning the phone. “What did you say the car looked like again?”
“Black Chevrolet. Late model. In very good condition.”
“Did it have nice wheels?”
“Hmmm. Don’t recall. Maybe.”
“Can you hold on for a minute?”
“Sure.”
I heard music, the sweet sounds of an island rhythm by Braddah Waltah. I hummed along and was feeling pretty relaxed by the time she returned. “Nice music,” I said.
“Thanks, we pay enough for it.” She clucked like a frustrated mother hen.
Hmmm. Not good. “Is it missing?”
“It belongs to one of our owners who lives in Washington. And you’re right, it’s not here. I’m going to contact the owner. Maybe he let someone borrow it without letting me know. Thanks for calling me.”
So the car didn’t belong at Willows Construction. “And that accident? It was a hit-and-run a few weeks ago.”
“Omigod! Seriously?”
“I think so,” I lied again. I’d probably never see the Pearly Gates unless I could afford a good lobbyist. “Can you call me back when you find out? I’m investigating that accident and some related incidents.”
“What’s your number?”
And that was that. Now we had a line on the car. Was it really the one used in Shapiro’s hit-and-run? Who knew? There had certainly been enough time to have any minor body damage fixed, but why was the car at Willows Construction? Meyer cradled the violin while he stared at me.
He said, “Well?”
“The car belongs to a mainlander. I’ll bet he’s a Washington Huskies fan. It’s missing. She’s going to contact the owner and see if he loaned it out.”
“Why were you talking about Bob’s accident?”
“I concocted that to keep her motivated, but, who knows, maybe it’s the
car that ran him down. I thought it might lead back to those guys who harassed you. Anyway, it’s a long shot. Let’s look at his business records, I want to nail down where he banks and see if that’s where the key came from.”
He held out the violin and said, “That’s strange. Look at the top seam.”
I looked at it. “So?”
“Where the side and the top meet. Look at the seam.”
I examined it and said, “Looks like wood to me.”
“Cryin’ out loud. You may be able to hear, but you can’t see worth a damn.”
I rolled my eyes and thought, I can see better than you can hear, buddy.
“It’s been taken apart and glued back together again.”
“What about it?”
Meyer’s face turned a bright red. ”What about it! They did a crappy job! Disassembling a violin should be done by someone with some skill. Not just a moron with a tube of glue and a knife.”
“Huh?”
He shoved the violin towards my face and pointed. “Can’t you see how sloppy a job that is?”
Sure. No. Maybe. I shook my head. “Don’t tell me you built violins, too.”
“I had an instructor who was an amateur violin maker. He was always talking about craftsmanship. I thought he was nuts because he’d spend months making a single violin. Now it seems kind of interesting. Like we might be able to—you know, leave something behind.”
I understood. “Well said. I’ve been wondering more about that lately.”
Meyer sighed, “When you’re young, you just want to rush through. As you get older, you appreciate the process more.”
“Speaking of processes, I need to start going over these business papers again. Maybe you should pay attention since you’re the executor.”
“I just wanted something to keep me out of the apartment until this was over. Now . . . ” His voice trailed off, he started getting that distant look people get when they remember an old friend.
“Okay! Let me see that letter.” He extracted it from his wallet, then passed it to me. I set it to the side for easy reference, then grabbed the box I wanted and began poring over the records. I pulled the checkbook and noted the bank and branch. Bank of Hawaii, the branch just a few blocks from Shapiro’s place. We checked the business checkbook; same bank, same branch. There was also a business card for a Gloria Yamato, Branch Manager. Now we knew who had witnessed Bob’s letter. And where the safe-deposit box was located—most likely.
Next step, call the bank. I dialed the branch phone number printed on the business checks.
“Bank of Hawaii, how may I direct your call?”
“Gloria Yamato, please.”
“I’m sorry, but she’s unavailable. Can I take a message?”
“I’m calling for the estate of Mr. Robert M. Shapiro, Jr. I’ve discovered that he may have had a safe-deposit box at your branch. Can you confirm for me that he did have a box there? The box is number 1017.”
The youngish sounding voice on the other end had the familiar island lilt. There was a long pause. “Oh, wait, she’s just coming in the door. Hang on, I’ll put you through.”
A minute or so later, another female voice, this one sounding older, answered. “This is Ms. Yamato.”
I repeated my question, then she said, “What was your name?”
“My name is McKenna, but I’m calling for Meyer Herschel, the executor of Mr. Shapiro’s estate. I believe you witnessed his letter to Mr. Herschel, yah?”
“Is Mr. Shapiro—did he pass away?” Her voice held an edge of suspicion.
I didn’t want her calling the police immediately after she hung up, so, at least for now, honesty was probably the best policy. “Yes. And in going through his effects, we’ve discovered that he may have had a box there. Number 1017. As you know, Mr. Herschel was appointed executor of the estate.” I figured there was no harm in repeating the key info a few times.
“Is Mr. Herschel there?”
“Uh, yah. Hang on.” I handed the phone to Meyer, who jammed it to his ear.
He squinted, then finally said, “I can’t hear so well, but if you asked if I was Mr. Herschel, that’s me. Can you talk to McKenna, he can hear.”
He handed the phone back to me. I heard an exasperated sigh. “Mr. McKenna?”
No point in making her day more difficult, I’d go with the Mister. “Yah.”
“Yes, Mr. Shapiro does—did have a box here. Mr. Herschel needs to show a power of attorney or a directive from Mr. Shapiro as well as his identification. I’ll also need something to show that Mr. Shapiro passed away. If he has that, we can let him have access to the box.”
The call ended with the usual blah-de-blah, have-a-nice-day stuff. We went through the bank statements and came to a sudden realization. Bob Shapiro had a payment due on that plane any day now. His checking account registers indicated that he might have enough in the bank to cover it, but we didn’t know what other bills might be due soon.
At one point, I said, “We may need to go to the bank, you’d better put that letter in your wallet so we don’t get caught flatfooted. You’ll also need one of those death certificates.”
“I got a better place for them.” He left the room and returned moments later with his briefcase. He put both items inside and set it on the floor. “Got a few other gems in there.”
Great. Now we had luggage to haul around the island. Anyway, most of Shapiro’s bills were on automatic payment, so money was coming out, but none was going in. Bob hadn’t been able to make a bank deposit in a couple of weeks, so his income was zero while his expenses were exactly the same. This meant that payments on the plane might bounce higher than it could fly. Worse, if the bank paid the overdrafts, the fees would be brutal. We had no idea what bills had accumulated in the past couple of weeks, what might have been paid since Bob’s last register entries, or who might be sending past due notices. The plane was in the partnership’s name, did that mean that the remaining partners could take control?
Meyer and I must have had the same thought, because we stared at each other and, almost simultaneously, said, “His mail.”
Chapter 28
We returned to Meyer’s apartment to retrieve Shapiro’s mailbox key. Inside we noticed an increasing closeness. The air felt heavy as we climbed over the disarray. Meyer vowed to make whoever had taken his Medal of Honor pay. Odor from wasting food in the kitchen overpowered our senses, so we bagged and removed the perishables. We righted furniture, then Meyer went into the bedroom. A few minutes later, I found him kneeling on the floor sorting through keys.
“I thought they were all on that big blue ring of yours?”
“These are for the mailboxes. I keep a spare for when the tenants lose one. Happens maybe once a month or so.”
This guy was just way too organized. At my place, if a tenant lost a key, they had to deal with the post office to get a new one. That usually taught them not to make the same mistake again. I noticed that each of the keys in the pile had a tag with an apartment number on it. He put each one back into the special little box on its special little hook and gazed up at me. “Gimme a hand, would you?”
I half-expected us both to end up on the floor, but he popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Thanks,” he said. “There’s a key missing for Bob’s mailbox.”
“Really?” I stared inside his organizer. There were keys on nearly every hook, including one for Shapiro’s apartment. “What’s that?” I pointed into the box.
“My copy. His original is gone. I had them both in here after I—I found Bob’s copy in his apartment.”
I pulled the spare from the box and said, “Let’s see what’s there.”
“You go. I want to pick up a few things. Get rid of this food.”
I went to the mailbox area. Much like my building, all the boxes were lined up in two rows at about eye-level. The mailbox doors had dulled with exposure to the elements. Each box had been labeled with a miniature name tag. Some had been typed
, some handwritten, on weather-yellowed paper. I searched the names on the boxes until I found “Shapiro, R.” I slipped the key into the hole, twisted and pulled. The box opened to reveal a big fat nothing. I stared inside for a minute, then, like a fool, checked the name on the box. When I’d read the name again I said to myself, “Dumb shit, they beat you to it.”
I closed up and went back empty-handed. Whoever had ransacked the apartment had probably stolen Bob Shapiro’s mail. I just hoped that the security for the safe-deposit box was better than this, otherwise that might be empty too.
We agreed to work on the apartment later and went to Bank of Hawaii, where we were directed to Ms. Yamato by one of the tellers. Ms. Yamato wore a sky-blue flowered skirt with a white, embroidered top and a navy blazer. Her name tag indicated that she was Gloria Yamato - Branch Manager. She was younger than I’d expected, probably somewhere in her early forties. She wore her hair up in that tight bun style professional women seem to like when they want to project an I’m-all-business image.
If someone yanked on my hair that hard, I’d probably cry like a baby, but maybe that was how she kept her facial skin tight. She did have nice skin, too. No wrinkles. And she didn’t wear much makeup. She carried herself elegantly, in a manner that said, “I don’t need it.”
She gestured at two rattan chairs on the opposite side of her desk, then asked Meyer for his identification. “And do you have a POA?”
“No, Bob wasn’t DOA, he made it through a couple of days before he died. But he never regained consciousness.”
I said, “He’s hard-of-hearing, you’ll have to speak up.”
She nodded. “Do you have a Power of Attorney or a letter of authorization?”
“Oh, sorry. I thought you said—forget it. Here.” He put his briefcase on his lap and extracted Shapiro’s letter. He set the folded piece of paper on the edge of the desk, then closed the briefcase.
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