Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  I rolled my eyes as he deliberately unfolded the letter, smoothed it out, then scanned it. I whispered to Ms. Yamato, “Big man on campus.”

  She pursed her lips and gave me a knowing wink. I was beginning to feel as though Gloria and I could order a pizza and have lunch before Meyer had finished his machinations. Finally, he seemed satisfied and passed the letter to her.

  “This looks like it’s been around a bit.” She smiled, then her face turned serious as she read. “This is the letter—that’s my signature. This was an unusual request because Mr. Shapiro asked that we add you as a signer on the box in the event of his untimely death—and he didn't want you to know about it. You have proof of death?” She gazed at us with cool, brown eyes that conveyed her condolences.

  I said to Meyer, “She needs the death certificate.” Then, to Gloria, “We’re trying to figure out who killed him. We think there’s something in the box that will tell us why he was run down.” I’d tried to sound convincing and confident, but Gloria appeared unconvinced.

  She glanced over the death certificate, then said, “I’ll be right back.” She stood and walked with a smooth, floating grace towards a gate into the teller area.

  I hissed at Meyer, “What was that all about?”

  He nodded as if I were a beginning student in the college of life. “You can never be too careful.”

  I glanced at the ceiling and wondered if Kimu had been speaking to some of the Hawaiian gods. Maybe, collectively, they’d decided I’d been a bad boy and needed punishment, lots of it. My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the gate as someone let Gloria into the super-secret, bank-teller-only area. A minute later, she came back through the gate, this time holding a small card in her hand. She smoothed her skirt with one hand while she handed the card to Meyer with the other. She said, “I’ll need you to sign this. Here, and here.” She pointed and I noticed that her well-manicured fingernail had a diamond in the middle of it.

  I felt like I was in love, or at least, lust, and wondered what she’d be like when she let her hair down. Would her skin sag? An old Van Morrison song began playing in my head. “G-L-O-R-I-A.” Uh-oh, I was being unfaithful to Harris and we hadn’t even gotten started.

  She smiled at me and winked as Meyer did his thing. I smiled back. Whew, I was becoming a regular Casanova. “Um, there are a few bills that may be coming in for Mr. Shapiro. We’re not sure when they all come in or if there’ll be enough of a balance to cover them.”

  She said, “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about that. The creditors need to be notified of Mr. Shapiro’s death.”

  “We know what regular bills he has; we just don’t know his current balance. Can you give Mr. Herschel that?”

  She nodded and turned to her computer. A minute later, she jotted down an account number and a balance, then another.

  She handed the paper to Meyer, then picked up the card Meyer had signed and said, “Now, let’s get you into that box, Mr. Herschel.”

  Meyer made another big deal of closing his briefcase. While we waited, I glanced down at her left hand and saw the rock on her fourth finger. The stone was almost the size of a golf ball. Crap. Forget her. There were plenty of other women out there for a smooth, handsome guy like me. I leaned back in my chair and said, “I’ll wait here.”

  Meyer grabbed my shirt sleeve and pulled. “Nope. You’re going in with me.”

  Gloria stood and said, “I’ll show you the way.”

  The three of us formed a line on our way to the gate. She floated, I failed at a macho swagger, and Meyer toddled along behind. A smiling girl behind the counter buzzed us in and Meyer signed a card showing that he’d accessed the box today. Gloria took us into a vault lined with boxes. Big ones, small ones. High ones, low ones. Yeah, all kinds, all sizes.

  She ran the diamond-tipped red fingernail along the box numbers until she came across 1017. “Here we go. Would you like to use our privacy room?” Over to the side, I noticed a closet about big enough for one of us and a box. I shook my head. No way I was getting in there with Meyer. No way. Sharing the apartment was bad enough.

  Meyer caught my bobble-head doll head movement. “No, thanks,” he said.

  She inserted his key and hers into the box, twisted both clockwise, then pulled on the box. The sucker just kept getting longer and longer. It was like watching a magician pull a broom out of a top hat. She placed the box on the table and said, “I’ll be right outside. Call when you’re ready.”

  Once she’d left us alone, we opened the lid. There were two items in the box; a small, computer flash drive and an envelope about an inch thick with the label, “From Mr. Kanakua.” I assumed it would be more instructions or perhaps important records from this Mr. Kanakua. Boy, was I wrong.

  Meyer picked up the envelope and slipped his finger under the flap. He ripped it open and small white packets filled with a powdery substance tumbled onto the table.

  Time not only stood still, but I think it took a vacation on Maui while we stared at the packets. Under my breath, I muttered, “We are in such deep shit.”

  Meyer pointed. He said, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Such deep shit. Yeah, that’s what you think it is.” An image of Meyer rummaging through his briefcase flashed into my mind. Why hadn’t he just dumped the contents out onto Gloria’s desk? That way, she’d have been able to testify that we didn’t bring the drugs into the bank.

  I tapped Meyer on the shoulder and put my finger to my lips. He shrugged, made a funny face like “huh,” then put the packet back into the envelope. I assembled the rest of the little packets, stuffed them back into the envelope and set the proverbial hot potato back into the oven. We shoved the computer storage device into Meyer’s briefcase and replaced Shapiro’s safe-deposit box. I called out, “We’re finished!” Boy, were we.

  Chapter 29

  There’s nothing quite like stumbling onto a drug dealer’s stash to send your adrenaline level into the stratosphere. My heart jackhammered in my chest loud enough to make me barely notice my shaking knees and dry throat. I could only hope that Ms. Yamato didn’t see the fear in my eyes. I’m pretty sure she watched us more closely than she had when she’d let us into the cage. I couldn’t rid myself of the anxiety I’d felt as I’d stared out through the bars of the bank vault. It reminded me of a convict waiting for exercise time in the yard. Perhaps prison would be better. You’d get amenities, even conjugal visits—assuming you had someone to conjugate with. Since my prospects in that department appeared to be dimming with every man that even glanced at Harris, it made sense to me that nothing could make up for the bad food and grumpy inmates.

  We stood outside the bank and I breathed in the fresh air. The sun beat down, completely unbothered by the few white puffy clouds that painted streamers across the sky. I let the trades caress my face with their gentle touch and closed my eyes as I drank in the moist air.

  Once my knees felt like they could do their job of keeping me upright without constant attention, I asked Meyer, “Do you know what that was in the box?”

  He leaned forward and half-whispered, “Drugs?”

  I nodded. “It looks like Bob’s partners were smuggling and he must have figured it out. That’s what Daniels wants. The drugs—not some stupid violin.” I glanced at Meyer, who looked hot under the collar. “Sorry.”

  He waved away my apology. “So what now?”

  “We need to find out who those belong to. Otherwise, it just looks like they belonged to Shapiro—or worse, to us.”

  “So now Bob’s going to be labeled as a drug dealer?”

  “That’s what it’s looking like.”

  I could see the anger boiling inside as he stomped away.

  “Meyer! Wait. I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “We think Stone’s doing something funny—maybe illegal, right? Why don’t we visit a few of his neighbors and see what they can tell us?”

  Meyer stared at me. “Are you nuts? W
e already pissed off Willows, now you want to go after the other partner? You have gone off the—”

  “No! He’s not going to know we’re there. I used to do this for a living. Trust me, it’ll work. If Stone’s around, we pretend like we’re a couple of mixed-up old farts and walk away. After we snoop around a bit, we check that flash drive from the bank. By then, we should have enough information to point the finger at someone other than Bob.”

  It took a little more persuasion, but Meyer eventually agreed. Logically, there just wasn’t enough evidence to force an in-depth police investigation of both Shapiro’s and Lau’s deaths. To me, they seemed related. But, the who and why still didn’t make sense. If Harris was going to get the reward—oh shit, Harris! I needed to call her with an update. That’s when my cell phone rang. It was from the Waikiki Sands. Now what? “McKenna.”

  “This is Zoe over at the Sands. I reached our owner and he tells me that he hasn’t let anyone use his car. He’s pretty distraught. Do you know where the car is now?”

  “Try Willows Construction. I saw it there yesterday. It looked pretty clean.” Or freshly painted.

  “Thanks Mr. McKenna, I’m going to owe you one for this.” We both disconnected.

  “Looks like the car was stolen,” I said. “I’ve told her where to find it. Maybe that will stir things up a bit.”

  “They’ll get rid of it,” said Meyer.

  “Huh?”

  “That Willows character saw you and me at the car. Bet you ten bucks it’s gone already.”

  I hate it when other people are right. I called Harris on the way to Stone’s business. There was no answer, so I left a message. Stone Music was in an older commercial section on Kalakaua Blvd., which had been named in honor of King Kalakaua, the Merrie Monarch, whose reign began in 1874 after his predecessor died without naming a successor. This particular stretch of the street was old, but clean. There were no vagrants, no drug deals happening, no hookers on the corner. So, while it hadn’t been renovated, as many sections had been with new condos, offices or shopping, it reflected an older feel of the islands. Not one of culture and beauty, but cheap, fast growth.

  The king had been passionate about art, music, and parties and had brought in a period of economic prosperity to Hawaii by signing the Reciprocity Treaty of 1875, which eliminated the tariff on sugar. Today, there’s even a Merrie Monarch Festival dedicated to the king’s memory to perpetuate Hawaiian traditions. But over the years, concrete, steel, and glass had replaced that passion for the arts.

  The front entrance to the Kalakaua Commercial Offices building was like any other forty-year-old commercial building, double glass doors on aluminum frames, an overhang that protected you from the elements for a few feet, and a tiled entrance that had seen better days. The directory on the wall immediately inside the front doors said that Stone Music was in Suite 104. We decided to take a walk around. Maybe we could find Stone’s suite and see whether he was in.

  Suite 101 was around the corner from the directory on the right-hand side of the hallway. Wooden-framed doors with frosted-glass insets that had suite numbers etched into the glass marked the entrance to each business. Small nameplates with the names of the businesses hung on the wall to the left of each door. We passed 101 and its opposite, 102, then bingo, 104. I tried the doorknob, but the door was locked. A sign said that they would return at 9:00 AM.

  Meyer glanced at his watch. “Damn near noon.”

  “Maybe they never came in today. That’s good.” I motioned to the door opposite Stone Music and said, “Let’s see if these guys know anything.”

  According to the sign, Clacket Insurance occupied 103. Inside, I heard the tapping of fingers flying over a keyboard. The door squeaked as I pressed against it, and a young girl’s voice greeted me. “C’mon in, we’re here!”

  Inside, the elegance of the room startled me. I’d expected more of the forty-year-old low-budget atmosphere from outside the office, but inside, it was modern and tasteful. At least one island watercolor hung on each wall, the furniture included a rattan couch with fluffy, dark-patterned cushions, a coffee table and a side chair. The aroma permeated the air and made me feel energized.

  The “girl” behind the desk was actually a woman who I guessed to be in her forties. Her high-pitched, youngish sounding voice reminded me of a high-schooler. “May I help you?” She had a smile that brightened the room.

  I said, “Um, yes. We were sort of trying to find someone over at Stone Music.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh. Them. They’re out today.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you think very highly of them.”

  She turned her attention back to her computer and said, “Try again tomorrow.”

  “I’m not a friend of his or anything. In fact, we’re dealing with the estate of one of Stone’s business partners and wanted to get some answers about why he was abusing the partnership agreement.”

  “He abuses everything and everyone. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Nasty neighbor?”

  Her eyes flamed as she shot a glance in my direction. “He’s a freak. Whatever. Please leave. Just—go.”

  “You’re very pretty when you’re angry. Actually, you’re pretty all the time.”

  The hardness in her face softened. “I’m not twenty, mister.”

  “You’re a lot prettier than a twenty-year-old.”

  She bit her lip, but it was a feeble attempt to hold back a smile. “You must have been pretty slick—in your day.”

  Ouch. Talk about hitting below the belt.

  She swallowed hard. “Let’s just say I made a mistake once.”

  “So did Bob Shapiro.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The partner we represent. He was killed in a hit-and-run a few weeks ago.”

  I saw recognition in her face. “I read about that.” She glanced down at her fingernails for a few seconds. They were painted a bright red, but one was chipped. She pushed at the flaking nail. “Do you think Stone had something to do with that?”

  “Maybe. There seems to be a lot of strange things that have happened during the past couple of weeks. Did you know anything about Stone personally?”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  That struck me as odd—or maybe not. “That doesn’t mean you never, um, saw Stone.”

  She glanced at the ceiling; her jaw tightened. “Fine. He asked me out a few times. We went to dinner, but there was always this distance. You know, like he was playing you—or had a scheme. He had lots of those.”

  “Schemes?”

  She nodded and started to turn back to her keyboard.

  “Does he ever use drugs?”

  “Mister, I’ve already said too much.”

  “What about MySpace?” I said. “Wasn’t he big on that?”

  The color drained from her face, she closed her eyes as if she wanted to block out the world, the question, and a memory. When she opened her eyes, they were wet with tears. “Shit. Yeah, he’s addicted to that. You’ll find everything about him there.”

  Surely he wasn’t that stupid. And what could he have done to this woman to make her so upset? “What’s everything?”

  Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head and wiped at a dribbling tear. Her words tumbled out between sobs. “Just—because it’s there—doesn’t make it—true.” She waved us out the door while she muttered something about Stone getting what he deserved someday.

  Meyer tugged on my shirt-sleeve, so I started to follow him out. I guess I’m developing a bad case of white-knight complex or something because I stopped in the doorway and said, “We could make him pay, you know.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, then turned back to her computer. Meyer and I left and stood in the hallway. I had an itch to check out another business in the building, to learn more about what Stone had done to the insurance gal.

  Meyer said, “What did she say?”

  I blinked at him in amazement. He’d missed that entire conversati
on?

  “Batteries died in my hearing aid sometime this morning.”

  I spoke loudly, probably loud enough for anyone in the building to hear me. “I’ll tell you later. I’m going into this office over here, see if I can learn more about Stone. You want to wait here?”

  He nodded, then leaned against the wall.

  The next office I entered was for a CPA. There were two desks, two people, and about eight million files scattered everywhere. A man with slicked back reddish hair sat behind one of the desks, a woman with a scowl behind the other. As I entered, the man said, “Did you see the Darrell file?”

  The woman retorted, “No. And I told you to file it away when—” She stopped and glanced up at me. She pasted a “Welcome Stranger” smile on her face and said, “Can I help you?”

  I nodded at both of them. “Yes, I’m representing a deceased partner of Mr. Stone’s and wondered if you might be able to answer a few questions.”

  The woman said, “I’m afraid not, we don’t know much about his business.”

  At the same time, I heard the man mutter, “Son of a bitch.”

  I said to the man, “So you know Mr. Stone?”

  The woman stifled her laugh, but the man just let it out. “He’s a blowhard.”

  “John!”

  “Sorry. He’s not a very nice person. Doesn’t play well with others.”

  John had a thin, almost invisible mustache that he fingered as he spoke. I wanted to tell him to stop mumbling, but thought better of it. “I’m already aware of that. He likes to brag a lot, doesn’t he?”

  John glanced at the woman and said, “What about it, Catherine? He’s the one that was shooting off his mouth.”

  Catherine looked flustered. “It’s just him spouting off.”

  I said, “About what? His business? The partnership? His sex life?”

  They each stared at the other, then at me. John said, “Molly, across the way? She’s a nice lady. We’ve known her for years. She’s always had a level head. Then, she hooked up with Stone one night. He date-raped her. She’s never gotten past it.”