by Tyler Colins
Cash unlocked the SUV door and waved.
Sporting broad smiles, the females in his life waved in return.
“Luv ya!”
It felt as if a dozen toothpicks had pricked my chest. He'd written those words in a note the morning he'd left without a good-bye. Who did he “luv” – his wife or his daughter? Both, obviously. More pricks ensued.
“Dang,” I murmured.
We watched him drive in the opposite direction.
“Double dang,” Linda agreed.
“Males,” Rey hissed. “Let's get out of here.”
* * *
Leaning into a tufted white-leather sectional couch in a room that served as salon and den, I nibbled freshly baked banana bread as I circumspectly watched Buddy and Ald. While she was sitting in a corner chair that matched the couch, he was sitting in an intriguing distressed iron rocking chair that seemed an odd decorating choice, considering the rest of the chic, modish décor.
Ninety minutes ago, just after I'd arrived home from the stakeout, Buddy had called to advise that the detective would be visiting and requested my presence. Eda had been called into work for a critical board meeting and Rey and Linda had gone to meet Razor at a diner near Maunalua Bay Beach Park.
If the detective seemed surprised to find me there, he'd given no indication. His greeting had been civil. “I hope you're doing well, Ms. Fonne.”
As they had several times during the last two minutes, intense Maya-blue eyes regarded Buddy with a detective's attentive curiosity. Dressed in cocoa-brown pants and a snow-white cashmere wrap sweater, her long blonde hair loose, our client was stunning, but Gerald Ives didn't seem notice; he was engrossed in ensnaring a killer.
“Let me pour a couple of glasses of wine, JJ. I'd offer you one, Detective Hives, but you're on duty.”
With a smirk, he glanced at a funky Technomarine Moore watch adorning his left wrist. “Not anymore. Duty ended at noon. I thought I'd drop by here on my way to Waimanalo. The name is Ives, incidentally, but feel free to call me Ald. That might be simpler to remember.”
Buddy chuckled and moved to a custom-made bar with frosted glass surfaces and a honey-wine finish. “Australia is Eda's wine country of preference. Does that agree with your palate?”
“Australia produces some excellent and notable wines.”
She chuckled again and uncorked a 2009 merlot as I regarded the man dressed in a fine cambric shirt and designer jeans belted with lizard skin. Since the Howell case a few weeks back, his clothing tastes had moved up a couple of rungs on the fashion ladder. Had he come into money? Or had he developed a yen for designer duds?
He caught me eyeing him and smirked. So far, no one had said much, but there'd certainly been a lot of smug smiles and dry chuckles.
“What did you want to see Buddy about, Detective Hives – uh, Ives?” I asked casually.
His handsome face clouded, but he remained silent as Buddy handed him a half-full Riedel glass. He sniffed and sipped.
“Isn't it up to your usual standard, Detective Hives – oh, sorry, Alf?” she asked flippantly, passing me a glass.
A droll smile pulled at full lips as he sniffed again. “It's pleasant enough. Concentrated on first taste. Blackberry and plum aromas. Spices in the onset; not long on the finish.”
Interesting. I'd never known him to be a wine connoisseur, but then, other than one Chinatown lunch, I'd not spent personal time with the man.
“I've learned a lot about you, Barbara-Anderson Morther. Despite the lip and attitude, you're certainly not truck driver material.”
“Bite me,” she said curtly, returning to the chair.
“And end up with a contagion?” he jested with a dark smile.
She laughed merrily and I noticed my companions sported similar facial expressions: feral. Tension filled the room like an October fog on the Thames.
“Where's your note-taking sidekick?” Buddy asked dully.
“At the hospital … becoming a grandfather.”
“A young one,” she commented quietly, regarding her wine as she swirled it in the glass.
“He married upon high-school graduation.” Ald studied her over his glass.
“Do you see something you like?”
“Not particularly.”
She laughed again.
He laughed as well and toasted her. “I will get you, Ms. Feuer.”
“Not in your ever-hoping dreams, Hives.” She returned the toast.
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It's not a challenge.” She eyed him squarely. “Because there's nothing to find. I'm completely innocent of these two murders.”
He cocked his head and regarded her at length, presented a salty smile, and took a long sip. “Thanks for the wine, Ms. Feuer.”
She smiled sweetly in return. “I'd say anytime, but I'd be lying.”
“…Would you be willing to come to the station for another formal interview?”
“To re-check facts and alibis, and eliminate me as a suspect?” Her tone was as dry as a desiccated shrub. “I watch enough crime and forensic shows. Would you like a DNA sample this time?”
His expression confirmed he did.
“Fine.”
He eyed her closely, offered a droll smile, then glanced at me and gave a quick nod.
Feeling as if I'd been little more than a bottle on a bar shelf – in sight, but of no consequence – I merely continued to savor the wine.
She walked the detective to the door and five seconds later, it slammed with a mighty bang.
“What an ass,” she exclaimed upon return.
I couldn't disagree. Gerald Ives had been anything but polite, and he certainly wasn't the man I remembered.
* * *
“What was that about?” I asked as we took seats at the bar. “He didn't grill you, just baited.”
“He does that whenever we meet. He's on a mission to catch a killer,” Buddy said wryly, “but he should look elsewhere, because I didn't kill Jimmy and the Ebster.”
The Ebster: I'd almost forgotten the odd nickname she'd mentioned but once. “Why's he called that?”
“It's kind of silly, really,” she grinned. “The first truck he drove was one that brought and removed dumpsters. Eb plus dumpster gives you the handle Ebster.”
“Silly, absolutely,” I grinned in return. “You and I need to develop a list of people that extends beyond the handful we currently have. But first, tell me more about Coco. Kent heard that he's dead. And Ric's reference to the tattoo and jewelry indicates that he is.”
“I pretty much told you all there was to tell, but let's see. Coco Peterson always thought he had balls and I'd always wanted to prove him wrong, particularly since that time he thought he'd have a chance to flash them. During our first and only Californian run together – one done for a relative of Jimmy's – he'd obviously thought I was another dumb blonde he could add to Coco's Screw List. That was a mistake. First, him thinking that. Second, him grabbing me as I slipped back to the sleeper.”
“I take it you showed him the error of his ways?” I asked wryly.
“I did. His lower teeth soared into his upper ones while the tip of a blade speared that garlic-shrimp stuffed belly.”
It took a few seconds to locate my mouth; it had sailed forth with the wine. “You stabbed him?”
She waved a slim hand in a don't-fret gesture. “It was a pocket knife, the type you'd peel an apple with. It was simply a little warning, a nudge.”
“What else about you might surprise me?” I asked with a droll smile.
“I speak French fluently and am good at racquet ball and swimming. I love all types of chocolate and – believe it or not – mac and cheese. Boxing is something I got into towards the end of my relationship with Jason-Patrice.”
She sighed softly as she refilled glasses. “I'd learned to develop backbone, to swallow fear, during my short married life with that man. As I told you, good-looking boy does not good man make. I still wear
the scars. Fortunately, they're inside, but maybe that's worse than sporting them outside, because physical ones can be surgically altered. Mental and emotional ones are much more difficult to mend.” Her smile was fleeting. “It takes everything I have, JJ, to appear unflappable … to stand up to Detective Hives-Ives … to pretend all is good with the world.”
For the first time, tears glided down that beautiful face like late autumn leaves blown loose by a light Maine breeze.
Chapter Eight
At 4:45 that evening, the Triple Threat private eyes were seated on a bench in Ala Moana Park, watching spilling waves sparkle under a soon-to-be-setting sun and drinking icy canned Cokes. I'd just finished telling them about the visit to Eda's.
Surprised to hear how cool and distant Gerald Ives had been, both suggested calling the detective to see what was up. If he was in a decent mood, maybe he'd even share details about the Picolo and Stretta killings. Though the likelihood of his imparting information was slim, it was worth a try. Onto Tuesday's agenda it went.
As for their two o'clock meeting with Razor, it had been a pointblank shock … literally.
* * *
“Good thing we dressed down,” Rey murmured as she and Linda entered a dim eatery that smelled of stale beer, congealing grease, and cheap cologne. Dressed down in Rey's case was Paige jeans at two-hundred-plus dollars.
The duo ignored whistles as they passed four middle-aged Woodstock leftovers munching pork rinds and swigging beer at a long scarred bar. Nearby, two younger men were chowing down on heaping plates of an Island favorite, Loco Moco, heavy on the rice and gravy.
My associates acknowledged a chirpy greeting from a haggard-looking waitress who could have conceivably been working there since Don Ho started crooning about tiny bubbles.
A tall, mustached man with a beachball-sized paunch was wearing a tight, dingy T-shirt advertising the merits of humungous coconuts. Drying mugs with an equally dingy towel, his expression was impassive, as if he'd been doing the job too many years to count or care.
“Straws anyone?”
Linda shot an elbow into Rey's ribs. Slapping aside crumbs, she slipped into a wide-bottomed wooden chair that could have decorated a hard-boiled P.I.'s office in the 40s. Despite a window ten feet away, no one looking in would see much beyond the spit, dust and bird turd encrusting the thick glass. Cleaning, it appeared, was not a priority.
The waitress padded over. “Nice to see ya. I'm Conee.”
The alto voice held a hint of a Texan accent. Scars and nicks lined a world-weary face that had been attractive thirty or forty years ago, maybe when she'd resided in the Lone Star state. Bleached hair, dry and coarse like tumbleweed, was worn in a 60s Anne Honey West Francis do and lacquered much as it might have been in those days – with super-glue, setting-lotion force.
“We're meeting a friend,” Linda offered, noting multiple stains on the woman's long-sleeved polyester blouse.
“Sure.” A wide smile revealed crooked teeth. “What'll you have, ladies?”
“Two cheeseburgers and fries, and drafts.”
“Gotcha.”
“Shoulda bought Tums,” Rey murmured as Conee strolled to a kitchen hidden beyond a battered door. She glanced at two old guys seated near a wall of age-stained photos of Hawaiian actors and singers from bygone eras. They were feasting on thick sandwiches drip-drip-dripping with grease. “And disinfectant.”
Linda slapped her best friend's hand. “Will you stop, Miss Snobby-Knob?”
“Why's that old coot with the glass eye watching us?” she asked under her breath.
Seated near the washrooms with a whiskey in one hand and a half-eaten sausage in the other, an acne-scarred fellow grinned, displaying yellowed broken teeth.
Linda waved in return. “Evidently, he's not seen two hot babes in some time.”
“Miss, uh, Fonney and Miss Royale, right?”
Razor's gruff voice drew the women's attention. The former assistant-bodyguard was dressed in black cotton pants, a lemon-yellow golf shirt, and black leather step-in shoes. A lightweight blazer was slung over a broad shoulder.
Rey scanned the bulky 6' 3” frame with awe. “Care for a drink and lunch? We've already ordered.”
“I ordered at the bar.” He gestured rearward with a jerk of a hairy thumb and sat.
“Thanks for coming.”
Thick sandy waves hung loosely into caterpillar eyebrows as beetle-black eyes looked from Rey to Linda and back again.
“Our client didn't do it.”
He exchanged a warm smile with Conee as she placed discount-store cutlery, paper napkins, and three frosty mugs on the table. “You're looking great, like always.”
“Food's almost ready.” She smiled blithely and moved on.
“You come here often?” Rey asked casually.
“Yeah. I like to check in on Mom,” he nodded to Conee, “as often as I can.” Sipping beer, he scanned patrons and waved at the Loco Moco guys. “If I thought your client did it, I'd have come straight out and said so – to her face.” His voice like the expression was flat, devoid of emotion.
Linda exchanged an anxious glance with Rey. “Who might have shot your boss – and maybe Eb Stretta, too?”
He sipped at length before speaking. “Beer's cold and really good.”
My friends exchanged glances, shrugged, and sipped, and were impressed: he was right.
“Jimmy Picolo had a few enemies,” Rey acknowledged. “There must have been some that stood out above the rest?”
“Old Chester.”
“We've heard about Garlic Guy. How come your boss owned a garlic farm?”
“It once belonged to a cousin, so he thought he'd get it back in the family when it went up for sale. He saw money to be made in selling pickled garlic along with the fish, and planned to give the profits to less lucky folks.”
Honor and nobility didn't seem to be part of the Picolo personality. Interesting.
“But Picolo wasn't as kind or caring with others,” Rey continued, eyeing him closely.
“Mr. Picolo had a habit of making people angry. Early this year, for example, he kind of destroyed a few guys' lives – one he bought out dirt cheap and another four he collected debts owed, which put the guys in the hole.”
“So he bought a lot of businesses and…?” Rey pressed.
“It was more like he bought up debts. Some got shut down and some got absorbed.”
“So, sometimes, he just bought them to … to get rid of them?”
Razor offered a tired smile. “Sometimes, he just liked eliminating competition.”
“And they were always small fry compared to Picolo's ventures,” Linda added.
Razor chuckled. Or maybe he grunted. It was hard to tell. “There was no point in letting them become big fry.”
The food arrived. Speaking of “fry”, Linda took a hesitant nibble and found it tasty. “Do you have any names to share?”
Razor bit into a thick club sandwich and chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as if deciding whether he wanted to divulge information. “Jeff Havlock and Lilo Dorfmeister.”
Linda jotted the names on a napkin while Rey stopped dousing her fries with catsup long enough to ask, “How long have you worked for Picolo?”
“Eight years. I started out at his ranch, shoveling manure and straw.” He appeared proud. “Mr. Picolo was in need of a new assistant in town and one of the cultivator guys, who knew me pretty good, put my name forward.”
Rey smiled. “He treated you well.”
“He gave me money to help my sister, Luisa, get off drugs. The man put food on her table, dressed the kids in decent clothes, and got them out of a fleabag apartment. He even got her a job. She's an office manager at a real estate company now. He offered to help Mom, too, but the woman's real proud.” A bittersweet smile pulled at his lips as he stared into the distance. “No matter what other people thought of him, to me and my family he was a good guy, and a fair and kind boss. He was a straight shooter and never l
ied or made promises he couldn't keep.”
“Did you know or hear anything about your fair and kind boss taking out a contract?” Linda asked casually.
Razor's eyes narrowed. “Contract?”
“Yeah, an agreement in writing that guarantees the rubbing out of a fellow human being,” Rey elucidated with a flat smile.
The man stuffed three fat fries past thin lips and chewed at length. “Never heard about one.”
Rey and Linda exchanged glances: the former's suggested disbelief, the latter's uncertainty. Neither, however, chose to push it and Rey moved on. “What about brother Ric?”
Razor drained his beer, popped three more fries into his mouth, and once again either chuckled or grunted. “That's a guy who acts kind enough and appears easy-going, but…”
“But?” Rey leaned forward eagerly.
“Appearances can be deceiving. Isn't that what they say?”
The gals murmured agreement and Rey said, “You don't owe Buddy anything –”
“You're right, I don't.” The statement was delivered with neither disdain nor displeasure.
“But you do owe Jimmy Picolo something – specifically, bringing his shooter to justice.”
A concentrated expression suggested he was deliberating. “I owe him, yeah. Look, I'm heading over to the Bishop Street office shortly to pack up my personal stuff, but I'll go one step further and nose through files, appointment books and journals, and see what I come up with.” He rose. “Try the guava cake. Mom bakes them herself Mondays and Thursdays. It's real popular in the neighborhood and they're usually gone by two. She knew I was coming so she made sure to set aside one. On the way out, I'll see you both get a big fat slice.”
They watched Razor stroll across a faded tiled floor that had seen countless feet over the decades.
“Weird dude,” was all Rey offered, sucking on a tomato wedge as she watched him speak with his mother.
Plastic bag in hand, Razor stepped into an afternoon that couldn't decide if it wanted to be gloomy or bright. Ten seconds later, five gunshots erupted. Two shrill, chilling screams of slasher-flick status bounded through the partially open door, into the time- and grease-stained room.