by Tyler Colins
“They remained mere allegations.”
She smiled darkly, nodded once, and took a teeny sip of Evian.
“Is there anyone else you think we should check out at this juncture?”
“Try Eb's brother, Jem. He might be able to help. I'll give you his number.”
“What about Coco?”
She tilted her head one way and then the other. “I'll provide one for him, too. I hear he's been MIA, though.” She was about to offer a rundown, but was cut off by her friend's arrival.
“It smells good in here,” Eda Kona said gaily as she swung into the kitchen courtesy of an eyebrow-arched door with handcrafted etched glass. “You must be JJ.” She had a deep, husky voice that sounded odd coming from a small, nearly non-existent mouth. Standing 5'5”, she had a golden-brown flawless face I'd have been inclined to describe as fetching. Extending a palm-frond slim arm, she hastened forward.
“So much for a perfectly relaxing Sunday.” She smiled and pumped my hand. “I'm sorry about not being able to get back sooner. Our one-hour emergency meeting turned into four.”
“Ain't it grand to be needed?” her friend grinned.
The woman sat on a long natural-slate bench in a rustic oak breakfast nook. Noticing two crispy baguettes resting on a wooden cutting board, she sniffed one and then the other.
“Ricardo Picolo wants JJ and her associates to find his brother's murderer.”
Eda grimaced as she slipped off a candy-pink cotton jacket. “If Jimmy was slime, then Ric is sludge.”
“I'd recently thought of Ric as slime,” I chuckled. “You're not a fan, either?”
“Jimmy, at least, had class. He could be quite civil, and very charming, but his brother?” She shook her head like a toddler refusing to listen to her mother's command.
“Stay for dinner, JJ,” Buddy said as she began chopping a large red onion.
“I'm meeting Kent Winche for drinks at seven, but thanks for the invitation.”
“Oooh, a drink with Mr. Weird & Sexy,” Eda chuckled, picking up a serrated bread knife.
“He's not dangerously weird, is he?”
Eda and Buddy looked at each other and simultaneously said, “That remains to be seen.”
They laughed and Eda drove the knife through a baguette as if it were a poached Moonfish.
Chapter Six
Ten of seven Sunday evening found me sitting with Kent Winche, pretty boy and gossip extraordinaire, at Le Circle. The upscale Waikiki lounge was located near Seaside, between Kuhio and Kalakaua. According to Buddy, whenever she was in town, time permitting, she and “Pretty Boy” would either meet at The Fat Man & The Finicky Feline, a Kapolei family-run diner where Picolo plant employees hung out after work, or at The Crock & Ladle, a pub in Aiea, not far from where he lived in a sizeable single detached house.
The mid-size establishment was filled with inviting and luscious scents. If you hadn't been hungry upon entering the small marble-accented foyer, you were by the time you reached the handsome host at the head of a long narrow bar. And if you hadn't felt comfortable following the effusive middle-aged gent to your table or booth, you were by the time you were seated with elegant food and drink menus in hand.
We were in a booth in the sconce-lit rear, noshing on piquant grilled calamari and sautéed lemon-scented prawns. Kent's drink of choice: sour-apple martinis. I'd opted for a vanilla-orange blend called Citrus Orchid, the flavor reminiscent of Creamsicles I'd enjoyed as a kid at the seaside.
“So, you're a private eye,” he said slowly, studying my face. He could have been a department store mannequin for all the emotion or warmth he'd exuded since we'd sat down. The thirty-six-year-old was wearing shoulder-length hair in a half-ponytail and sporting a Tommy Bahama Aloha shirt with a subtle floral print, Diesel jeans, and black Converse sneakers. The clothes were similar to those Cash Layton Jones might wear.
Once again, I ignored the twinge. I'd not thought about the man for a month, and now reminders seemed to be coming at me like beachside birds to a decked-out picnic table. I re-focused on Kent Winche.
A huge X-shaped scar on the neck below the left ear granted a blackguard-like appeal. Buddy had told us that the X had been carved into his neck when he was sixteen by a neighborhood drug dealer, a young dangerous hood who enjoyed taunting and bullying when the toxic products he sold got under his own skin. It was also said that the dangerous hood stopped breathing long ago, when his degenerate life had been silenced by a young attractive vigilante who'd never been located, maybe because no one had cared enough if there were one less spaced-out drug dealer in the world.
“I'm fairly new to the business, but I'm learning the ropes quickly.”
Kent's intriguing cinnamon-colored eyes continued to study as he sipped.
“I heard you're a great talker, but you seem to be at a loss for words.” I smiled wryly over the glass. “Do I intimidate you, Mr. Winche?”
He flashed a brilliant toothpaste-ad white smile that could have lighted both floors of the chichi lounge that dared to charge twenty dollars for one martini. For the extravagant price, however, you did get fancy frosted stir sticks shaped like tiki torches.
“What can you tell me about the deaths of Picolo and Stretta?” I bit into a crustacean that tasted of a Mexican summer: tart and fresh and spicy.
“Stretta? You mean the poor jerk found in a laneway with the same number of bullets in the same place as Jimmy – hey, whadya think?” He nodded to an over-tanned, leggy, bleached-out blonde waitress and gestured another round.
I gave the woman the once-over. “She's pretty, like Madonna in her prime. And given that she's not more than twenty-one, I'd say she's a bit too young for you, don't you think?”
His eyes followed “Madonna” to a chrome-heavy bar lined with colorful bottles, tall unlit crimson candles, and a half-dozen wrought-iron sculptures that leaned towards the distorted more than abstract. “I wouldn't say too young, but probably not too bright. I can't take the marble-brained ones anymore, no matter how great they look.”
I swallowed a smile. “I heard your 'too cute' logic re Buddy. I'd rather the official reason for her not having committed the murders is that she wasn't within five-hundred yards when bullets were propelled into both men's gray matter.”
Kent's grin drew attention to perfectly aligned teeth. “Ric bought it, hon. He's the one you should worry about … more than the police maybe.”
It was my turn to study him. “What's your take?”
He stared into his empty glass as he pondered. “I'd look at Chester Franken, the former general manager of a Maui organic garlic farm Jimmy bought four months back. Old Chester got into,” he smiled impishly, “a big stink when he got bounced. He'd set roots there for a good decade.”
I groaned and smacked my head lightly against the crimson-colored wall.
“Old Chester, not being the brightest bulb in the bunch,” another impish smile, “hissed and spat big time. When he moved back here to live with his younger brother Edgar, who also works at the pickling plant, he started hanging out at The Fat Man & The Finicky Feline. He'd get drunk and make threats and scenes. Unfortunately for him, some of Jimmy's close associates were seated close by on a couple of occasions. The ass must have a death wish, 'cause he's still doing it.”
I acknowledged “Madonna” with a nod as she slid a fresh neon-green drink before Kent and a crystal clear one before me, and waited until she and Kent finished exchanging small talk about Sonny Rollins, whose music was playing softly in the background.
“Anger and vengeance make for good motives.” I made a mental note to track Old Chester down. “Next.”
“Ric was peeved off at Jimmy. It seems Big Bruddah had stole Little Brother's girl.” He fished out a sliver of candied apple from a stylish glass and popped it into his mouth.
“Do you know why Little Brother sold his interest in JSP?”
Kent stopped chewing and smirked. “Ric wanted to fly solo. He's greedy, selfish, self-absorbed
, money and power hungry, but he's also always been on the up and up. He lost respect for JP II back when and wasn't keen on seeing JP III acquiring Daddy's nasty habits.”
Interesting. Could it be that smarmy, slimy Ricardo Mako Picolo had scruples? Hold on. If I go down, you're dead. So, he didn't do anything dishonest, just killed people…? I took a long, thoughtful swallow. “Why 'inspire' me to find Big Bruddah's killer?”
My martini companion frowned. “Maybe he wants to make sure that whoever shot Jimmy doesn't come around to shoot him. If the killer's found, Ric's safe. Besides, they're blood, right? There's got to be some kind of familial bond there, regardless.”
“So he'd said.”
“Whoever did the killing has to be a professional and may already be gone – as in Mainland gone.” He offered a quick smile. “But, you know, there's at least a dozen guys Jimmy Picolo pissed off last year alone, so there's a good possibility that someone local did it. You sure have your work cut out for you.”
I regarded The Source. Maybe the agency could use his information-gathering (gossip marshaling) skills. “Have you ever wanted to be a detective?”
“Yeah, since I watched reruns of Magnum P.I. as a kid,” he smiled, grabbing the last piece of calamari.
“Would you like to make extra dollars being one?” I grabbed his hand before he could shove it into his mouth. “I'm aware of your tale-telling talents, so be forewarned: this requires you to know when to talk and when to shut up.”
“Listen, sweetie-pie, I know exactly when to do both, especially if there's money involved.” He bit off half of the calamari and placed the other half to my lips.
Which I accepted as a strange little covenant. “Is two thousand enough?”
“If it comes with you.”
I eyed him guardedly.
“You have to be my slave for a day.”
I burst into laughter. “In your dreams, sweetie-pie.”
“Crap. Then can I be yours?” It was hard to tell if Kent Winche was being serious; his eyes seemed to constantly sparkle with mischievous zeal.
I offered an enigmatic smile. “You'd never survive it.”
He studied me, then grinned. “You've got me intrigued. Maybe death would be worth the price.”
“You'd certainly know you've gone to heaven,” I joked, feeling strangely naughty, in a playful Cousin Reynalda way.
“I'm so in, JJ.”
We clinked glasses and he reached across to twirl my loose hair around long, slim fingers. “What color is that?”
“Natural,” I responded with a wry smile, pulling back.
He laughed and the sound was as attractive as he: rich, deep, and breezy. “By the way, do you know if there's any truth to the rumor that Coco's sucking up the big one?”
The little bombshell caught me by surprise, but I kept my tone and expression neutral. “I heard he was missing in action, but doesn't he do that a lot? Buddy mentioned he can go off the grid and get into mischief.”
“True. But he also calls if something's up.” Kent sighed and smiled tightly. “Maybe he hooked up with some bimbette or got caught up in a poker game or cock fight.”
I grimaced, not caring for betting based on animal performance.
“So, partner, what's the first assignment?”
“You should ask around – nonchalantly, of course – if anyone had it in for your peanut-eating boss. Forget longtime grudges, because chances are they'll continue to be longtime. Let's go after people who had more recent crosses to burn when it came to Picolo and weren't keeping mum about it.”
We finished the drinks and left money to cover the tab and tip. Kent waved farewell to the young waitress as we stepped into a blustery evening. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It felt as if a powerful storm was lingering beyond view, waiting for the right moment to swoop across the island like a Midwest tornado. Hopefully, it would hold off until Faith and I were inside the movie theater.
Chapter Seven
“Why are we watching his house?” Linda asked, removing a strawberry scone from a large bag of pastries we'd brought along to keep us busy and fed while we did stakeout, and holding it forth. “I thought you relegated the guy to trash-can memory.”
“Curiosity got the better of me, so I called Petey,” I confessed ruefully, taking a corn muffin. “For some inexplicable reason, I felt a need to see the house, maybe catch a glimpse of his wife and kids. I guess, in some strange way, it will help bring closure. I … I have to know.”
“I'd wanna know, too,” Rey affirmed, stretching forward from the rear so her head was between Linda and me.
My friends had dropped by early this Monday morning with large coffees courtesy of McDonald's. The plan: establish an agenda for the week. When they heard I'd intended to do surveillance work from nine to eleven, they'd insisted on tagging along. I'd wanted to do this on my own, to appease foolish (injured) female curiosity, but they'd pestered and plagued until I'd finally confided in them.
We were parked in a rented Toyota Corolla behind a cable van four doors down on the opposite side. There were only six cars, including ours, on the long tree-lined street, but I doubted we looked conspicuous … unless, of course, someone had sighted us when we'd initially parked and was wondering why we were still seated.
My cousin peered in the bag, shrugged, and pulled out a raisin bun. “We've been here an hour and there's no sign of life except for the cable guys and that old man walking the three poodles.”
“It's just after ten, so most people are at work,” I advised. “But there are two SUVs in the driveway, so someone's definitely home.”
“Unless they take transit,” Rey pointed out. “Those are pretty nice cars for a pretty nice house.”
Linda murmured agreement and sipped water from a bottle. “It's not something I'd expect a government agent to live in, but I suppose he earns a good salary in his dangerous line of work.”
Cash's white single-level house had an attached two-car garage and spacious lawn lined with Star Jasmine hedges. It wasn't as expensive as some of the other houses in the neighborhood, but it was far from cheap. Neither were the two shiny-clean, luxury SUVs parked on the winding driveway: a Lexus RX and Cadillac SRX.
“Say, I almost forgot – Colin called late last night.”
“Colin?” I asked my cousin, bemused.
“That fellow actor from my agency.”
I murmured in recollection as I absently bit into a muffin I wasn't hungry for.
“What little he had to share was kinda interesting,” she teased with a gleeful smile.
“We're listening,” Linda said with a playful jab.
“Colin connected with an associate named Ichirou Hamasaki, who knew Picolo professionally as an initial investor in JSP and personally as a deep-sea fishing pal. It seems that Picolo had mentioned a contract while catching sunbeams and ahi off Waianae.”
“A contract,” Linda and I repeated, looking at each other.
“A gun-for-hire contract.”
“Anyone in particular?” Linda asked excitedly.
Rey smiled ruefully. “That, unfortunately, he didn't know, but Hamasaki had thought Picolo was joking. Apparently, our deceased fish pickler had a unique sense of humor – as in dark, dark, dark.”
“That's something of note to add to the Picolo file,” Linda said. “Whether it pays off or fizzles out remains to be seen.”
I nodded absently and an email that had arrived early that morning suddenly popped into my head like a drawn champagne cork. “Hey, guess who's coming for a ten-day visit next March?”
“What do we win if we're right?” my cousin asked wryly.
“The privilege of having me stay in your condo for those ten days,” I jested, playfully poking her head.
“Ha, ha.” She poked back.
“Is it family?” Linda asked gaily.
“Nope.”
“Foe?” she joked.
“Nope.”
“We give,” she said with a merry smile.
“Augustus Lewis.”
“Sheriff Lewis from Connecticut?” Rey asked, her eyes as spherical as full moons.
“He and the helpmate are celebrating their thirtieth. His means are limited, given all he does for the kids and grandkids, so I thought it might be nice to let him and Hildy have the condo while they're here.”
“That came as a total surprise – who'd have guessed he had four kids and three grandkids?” Linda chuckled.
“He did seem like the bachelor sort,” Rey replied. She perked up and nudged my shoulder. “Hey, the front door's opening.”
Hastily we yanked down baseball caps – Dodgers for Rey, Mets for Linda, and Wilmington Sharks for me. I grabbed a road map to cover the bottom half of my face, while Rey placed Vogue before hers, and Linda dove beneath a copy of the World Atlas of Wine.
Sporting Ray-Bans, Cash stepped into the sunny morning. He'd obviously just showered because his hair hung loose and damp. Dressed in black pants, white shirt and loafers, a leather laptop satchel was suspended from one hand and a cell phone was clutched in the other. He scanned the street, from habit no doubt, and hastened down four steps to the Cadillac. Behind him followed a golden-blonde woman in her mid-thirties and a girl of eight or nine, maybe ten.
Cash's wife was pretty, that was evident, but also heavyset. Like her mother, the daughter had shoulder-length blonde hair and a lovely oval face. Both wore the same white capris and pink tank tops and white flats, while floppy straw hats were clasped in hands.
“Is it a holiday today?” I asked softly.
“Maybe the kid's sick,” Rey whispered. “Who'd have thought he'd have a fat wife?”
“The kid doesn't look sick and the wife's not fat,” I whispered in return.
“She's got some serious poundage there, Cousin Jilly.”
“Who'd have thought he'd be into someone so zaftig,” Linda murmured, awed.