by Tyler Colins
“Here's what you're going to do…”
Over the next several minutes, I learned more than I ever wanted to about stitches, sub-dermal skin layers, avoiding hemorrhaging, and tying off knots.
Cash's eye opened and closed a couple of times during the procedure, but whether he was actually aware of what was happening was difficult to gauge. Had that been me, I'd surely have yelped, shrieked, and/or cursed (and probably cried like a baby, too).
The last knot tied, I wiped a thick layer of sweat from my forehead before gently washing blood and grime from his face, neck and hands. It was only when all was done that I realized I'd been gnawing the scab from the Bishop Street stumble. Instinctively, I dabbed it with disinfectant. Ouch.
“Let's move him to a bed.”
I gave an are-you-for-real look. Cash was six-two of solid, well-formed muscle.
He offered an encouraging smile.
I offered a tart one in return. “Your agency's going to pay for the mess in the guestroom, too.”
The task wasn't as difficult as I'd imagined it to be and we got Cash settled in the double-size bed, under a sheet and blanket. I was considering whether to remove his leather loafers when the phone rang. Colt followed me into the living room.
“It's Donnie. The doc's on his way up.” He hesitated and then quietly asked, “Is he all right?”
“He will be,” I responded casually. “He'll be grateful for your help.”
“Hey, he's a pal from days gone by and he's in trouble.”
“You're a good man, Donnie Mitchson.”
“Can I ask you something?” There was trepidation in the question.
I laughed, but not with cheer. “The two of us parted ways a wee while ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
I thanked him again and disconnected, and turned to find Colt but three feet behind.
“The doctor's here.”
“Frank made good time.”
“If I ask what happened, you're not going to tell me, are you?” I asked dryly.
“You're right, I'm not.”
I should have saved my breath. I moved into the kitchen to prepare coffee, which would undoubtedly prove beneficial to all concerned. Again, he followed.
“About your cousin…”
“You and Cash did what you had to do to try and extract information. It's the job. Don't worry about it,” I said curtly, filling a pot with filtered water.
“I liked Rey. She was funny and fun.”
I shrugged and moved to the door when there was a hearty rap-rap-rap.
A medium-sized Asian man with a boyish round face offered a terse nod and strolled purposefully into the living room with a black leather satchel hanging from a soft small hand. He acknowledged Colt and offered me a quick smile.
“JJ, this is Dr. Frank Hanada.”
I stepped forward to shake the extended hand and found myself leaning in close to study a familiar visage. “Wow, you look –”
“Like Masi Oka, yes, I know. I hear that a lot,” he said with a sigh. “If you're planning on any Five-0 jokes, I've heard them all.”
“I was going to say that you bear an uncanny resemblance to my nephew Quincy's best friend, Kenny Tanaka.” With a fleeting smile, I stepped back into the kitchen, where Colt still hovered. “Why don't you show 'Masi' where to find Cash?”
Chapter Twelve
Three hastily sucked back coffees and 3:05 a.m. found prickly Dr. Hanada departing for the office. As he was fully awake anyway, he figured he'd catch up on SOAP notes and miscellaneous paperwork.
Colt escorted him to the rear stairwell and returned with a tiny smile, as if he and the doctor had shared a joke. He leaned heavily into the door after closing it. “Frank says you did an awesome job of cleaning and stitching for a first-timer. If you're looking to apprentice, drop by.”
I smiled apathetically in return. “You look like you need a serious dose of sleep.” So did I. The only ones getting any were my carefree canine and her sedated boyfriend.
“I need to get out there.” Carefully, he pressed a bandaged hand to his eyes. The other arm was suspended in a makeshift but sturdy splint.
“And do what?” I asked blandly, propping elbows on the kitchen counter. “Play Superman?”
The chuckle was as tired as he. “You're right. Maybe I could lie down a bit?”
“Stretch out in the lanai and feel free to use the throw blanket draped over the armchair.”
“You'll keep an eye on him?” he asked, scanning my face.
I nodded.
“Frank will be sending someone over this morning to help move Cash.” Colt started to walk towards the lanai and stopped. “I was starting to tell you earlier that … I did like Rey.”
“You could have called her,” I said flatly.
“She wants the whole enchilada.”
“Meaning?”
“She's looking for a serious relationship, not friendship.”
“Is 'friendship' all you're prepared to give?” I scanned an unreadable face.
“Right now.”
Grabbing a pen and notepad from a jam-packed drawer under the counter, I jotted her number. “She might surprise you.” And me.
“I still have it somewhere, but thanks.” He took the paper and moved into the lanai.
As I ambled into the guestroom, I wondered if another cup of coffee should be on the agenda, because sleep certainly wasn't. Suddenly aware that a downpour was pummeling glass, I adjusted rainfall-style Roman shades and turned to view the uninvited guest through a soft amber sheen provided by two white-accent table lamps.
Button reclined alongside, one paw on his stomach. My little girl had spent several days with the man during the Howell case and there was no doubt that he'd treated her well. The kids had probably spoiled her. While I couldn't deny them their bond, I couldn't help call her “traitor” either.
I sat on the edge of the bed. Despite a pummeled face and five o'clock shadow, Cash Layton Jones was [annoyingly] still very attractive.
One eye opened. “Fonne.”
“Jones.”
“Thanks.”
I shrugged. “I thought the doctor gave you a sedative.”
“He did. I'm not feeling much pain,” he murmured with a twitch of the lips.
“What happened?”
“A brick wall.”
He spoke so softly, it was hard to hear. Tensely, I moved alongside. Proximity and Cash Jones were best avoided like egg salad and fried chicken gracing a picnic table all sundrenched afternoon.
“You look like you hit one, too. Did you kiss another sidewalk?”
I'd greeted two last month. Instinctively, I fingered my mouth and chin.
His lips started to pull into a grin, but stopped, and a soft groan escaped. “Do I look as crappy as I feel?”
“Worse.”
“Do you want to kiss my boo-boo?”
“I'd love to.” I held a fist an inch from his nose. “With this.”
He managed a weak smile. “Where's Colt?”
“Resting in the lanai.”
Taking a slow breath, he whispered, “I saw you.”
Saw…? Before I could ask where or when, he peered across the room.
Colt hovered in the doorway. “I heard chatter. Everything okay?”
“Everything's fine,” Cash responded dully. “Fonne?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you take off my necklace? It's chafing my neck.”
Fumbling with the silver clasp, I recalled the first time I'd seen it – in a pool hall called Neddy's. Cash had dropped by my table as I'd waited for Benny, a link to locating Xavier Konani. I'd sensed a bit of an ego and thought he might view himself as a stud, lady's man, or wolf in sheep's clothing. Of course, I'd had a lot of different thoughts about Cash Layton Jones since – none complimentary.
“I'll put it here, on the nightstand,” I advised curtly and stood. “Get some rest, Jones.”
Once again, Colt trailed behi
nd as I strolled to the kitchen.
“What's up, besides you?” I asked drolly as I got a bottle of Evian from the fridge.
“A few aches and a need to get out of here,” he said wryly, watching Button scamper to the water bowl.
“I'm feeling the need, too.” I pulled out keys and a leash from a wicker harvest basket and moved to the closet.
“Are you heading out?”
“So it would appear.” I slipped a ladybug-themed raincoat over Button while I donned a mustard-yellow rain jacket plus matching ankle boots. With my black leggings, drivers couldn't miss this walking bumble bee.
Into the night, Bumble Bee and Ladybug took wing.
* * *
Upon return an hour later, the men were gone. The blood trail, however, wasn't. Nor were the crimson stains on the two-seater. I sighed and made a mental list to buy heavy-duty cleaning products. I suspected, however, that a new rug and upholstery would be the end result.
There was no note and I'd have been surprised if there was one. Where had they gone? How was Cash faring? Did I really care? Yes, sadly and stupidly I did. But I'd get over it.
I chuckled darkly and got Button an early breakfast. There was no point in sleeping; I was meeting Kent at nine at the corner of Piikoi and South King. The day might just as well begin now – with a Red Bull and a visit to the fitness room downstairs.
First things first, though. Energy drink in hand, I stepped into the guestroom with fresh sheets. Pulling aside a jumbled blanket and sheet, I found the wolf pendant. I was about grab it when it dawned on me that it seemed … posed. Cash would certainly have taken it with him, so why was it still here? An unexpected twinge, a gut feeling, suggested he was providing a message and, on impulse, I raced to the kitchen to grab my cell phone.
I took a couple of photos, but neither spoke to me, so I eyed them from different vantage points. …Was it possible that the “pose” was meant to represent the letter T? What might it stand for? Someone's name? I couldn't think of anyone with – hold on. What about T for Trango, as in the drug-running gang that William Powell and his cohort had been involved with? No. Too obvious and hardly news. Considering Cash's line of work, what would T stand for? Trafficking. Terrorism. Threats. Treason. …Treachery. …Turncoats.
An excited Button scampered in with Chuck the Cluck, a rubber chicken Cash had bought when we were still seeing each other, uh, when he was using me for information-gathering purposes.
“Sorry girl, your boyfriend's gone.” I scratched her head. “And you're still a traitor.”
…Traitor? …As in Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane?
* * *
A fine mist enveloped me like steam-room vapor, but a dark sky suggested dense rain would soon return. It was gusty, too, as if we were experiencing the tail end of a tropical storm. As I waited for Ric to finish addressing an assistant, I slipped off the PVC rain jacket hood and rearranged a bulky nylon water-resistant drawstring bag so it wasn't pulling my left shoulder.
“If you find something of note in my brother's North Shore refuge, I want to know about it.” A threat lingered beneath Ric's honeyed words.
Standing at the designated intersection, I scanned puddle-heavy streets. Kent, driving a Cherokee-red Mustang, should be pulling into view any moment. He'd dropped by Fugger's to pick up a spare key for the North Shore retreat. The chauffeur hadn't been keen on passing it on when initially approached, but Ric's okay ensured the key was ours for the day.
“Did you hear?”
“I heard,” I replied curtly.
“Are you going to call me when you're done, hon?”
“I'll call, but what are you expecting us to find?”
“Remnants of Coco Peterson maybe.”
“Remnants?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. “As in…?”
“Jewelry maybe. A tattoo maybe.”
Again, mention of both. By the way, do you know if there's any truth to the rumor that Coco's sucking up the big one? Kent's question tumbled around my head like dice in a crap game.
“Is he dead?” I demanded. “Did you or your brother kill him?”
“You're the detective, hon. You tell me. Check in around nine tonight – hold that thought. I'll check in.” Ricardo Mako Picolo disconnected.
I stared at the cell phone, not sure whether to curse or laugh at the man's audacity. And just because he'd previously mentioned an incentive, who'd decided I was on the Picolo payroll?
A horn that belonged on a freight train and not a classic car sounded. Kent Winche waved cheerfully from the driver's seat of a very bright, highly polished 1965 Mustang Convertible.
“Very nice,” I commented nonchalantly upon opening the passenger door.
He winked. “It's got character … like me.”
“You, Mr. Winche, are a character.” With a droll smile, I slipped onto the leather seat.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you awake?”
“Barely.” Prying open one eye, I glanced at my peppy driver. “It's been an extremely long and eventful night.”
“Somebody got lucky, huh?” Kent snickered.
Ignoring him, I attempted to settle in. Which was less comfortable: a stiff car seat or a bed of nails?
Drake's “Hotline Bling” faded as did Kent's singing. In addition to a decent voice, the man displayed some promise as a detective. He'd made a number of phone calls yesterday, including two to the names provided by Chester Franken – Canon Thiebault and Melville Querul – and uncovered some tidbits about Jimmy Silone Picolo III, which he'd shared earlier when we hit the H-1.
Besides Picolo's passion for arrack, he'd enjoyed properly processed espresso with a twist of lemon. He'd loved gnocchi and linguini, and preferred his steaks rare and served with risotto. Racquetball was played weekly, opera listened to regularly, and crime dramas with lawyers as central characters watched when time had allowed. The suave entrepreneur had had a girlfriend named Lula, a forty-something “stunner” who lived on Maui, interestingly enough not far from the Strettas. And, of course, the man also owned the Haleiwa hideaway we were headed to: a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house that he'd escaped to whenever possible.
It had never been officially confirmed – or denied – that Picolo had been into racketeering, or loan-sharking for that matter, and no one questioned was willing to validate a potentially darker side of Picolo and his empire. As for a contract having actually been initiated, only Canon Thiebault had cagily acknowledged that there may have been one for someone – or someones – that had “royally pissed off the big guy” (and if anyone approached him about it, he'd vehemently deny having uttered one word).
“We're here!”
I jumped and returned to the present. Arms on a round silver-and-black dashboard clock said it was 10:45 a.m. We were parked at the top of a long driveway, beside a charming ranch-styled house sitting on a good tract of landscaped land in a peaceful neighborhood abounding with large lots and handsome houses. Vehicular traffic was light. One person was walking a Borzoi in the drizzle and a landscaper was packing up a van.
Even during our short time in this line of work, the gals of the Triple Threat Investigation Agency had learned to expect the unexpected. I reached into my bag and pulled out a Beretta M9A3. I'd wanted something combat-ready and intimidating, something that could accommodate a silencer (gunshots could prove so damn loud). The Luger LCP 380 Auto that Cash had given me the morning he'd walked out was keeping socks company. You can't play detective and not have a gun. Cash's short-but-not-so-sweet words had made sense; if you were going to be a detective, you'd better have first-rate protection available.
Anxiously, Kent regarded the weapon. “Are you any good with that?”
“I'm getting better every day,” I assured him with a thin smile. Two days after the Howell case had officially wrapped up, I'd set life as gun owner in motion. I'd recently completed the required gun safety course and had filed a permit application.
Loading and cleaning the gun came fai
rly easily now and visits to the range occurred as time allowed. I had a long way to go – because shooting off an ear when aiming for the heart was not in the shooter's best interest (given the shootee would have ample time to retaliate), but I'd get there.
To ensure it was readily handy, I tucked the Beretta into my raincoat pocket. “Do drive on, James,” I said with a mock British accent.
Kent laughed and pulled into a two-car carport. Hopping from the Mustang, he opened the passenger door and extended a lightly bandaged hand. “Me lady.”
Taking it, I stood and curtseyed.
He scanned the vast property. “Do you suppose someone's watching?”
“Anything's possible.” As I surveyed the area, the drizzle erupted into a downpour that was thick like coconut syrup; visibility was far from excellent.
Grabbing a leather knapsack from the backseat, he dug into the pocket of a jacquard-print flannel shirt jacket for the key that would open a heavy, ornately designed door. Taking a quick anxious look around, he inserted it into the lock.
High ornamental 11' ceilings and thick beams, and tall angular windows, abounded throughout the luxurious open interior that had been decorated in a style reminiscent of Santa Fe.
“Where do we start?” He dropped the knapsack onto a veined China-black marble foyer floor alongside a pretty metal floor vase.
Where indeed? Where would Jimmy Picolo hide something of value or consequence? For that matter, where would he hide “remnants” of Coco? Well, food was one of the man's many businesses, right? And he was known to regularly enjoy primo meals. “I'll take the kitchen.”
He looked surprised.
“Jars and bins, cupboards and fridges make for great hiding places.” Entering the immense living area, I placed my bag on an ultra-modern sapphire suede ottoman, which matched two loveseats and a long low-back sofa.
Impressionistic posters and oil paintings lined pale-blue walls above highly waxed Brazilian cherry-wood floors while sapphire and terra-cotta trim pulled the massive space together. From what I'd read and heard, this was not Picolo's typical taste. Whose was it? A trendy designer's? A lover's? Lula's? … Did it matter? Not to ill-fated Jimmy Picolo.