Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “We were … are.” Gerald Ives leaned back, his acute gaze never leaving mine. “You're trying to prove Buddy Feuer innocent; I'm trying to prove her guilty. That's a conflict of interest if ever there was one.”

  “That shouldn't serve as a barricade or stop us from maintaining a civil relationship,” I stated.

  He nodded to Jason as the second espresso found its way on the table. Dropping in another cube, he sipped slowly as those intense eyes studied me again. “You should know that we found a Glock earlier today. Considering it showed up in Fabrio Triste's apartment –”

  “Whose?”

  “You know him as Razor. It showed up after we'd already gone through it.”

  “That could have been sloppy work on your part.” My gaze and tone was as bland as a vanilla wafer.

  “Possibly, but unlikely. I'm good at what I do and so are the people I work with.” A measuring gaze swept across my face, down to my hands gripping the edge of the round table. “An anonymous tip came in at nine this morning.”

  “How f'g convenient,” I said caustically.

  “Does Buddy Feuer own an assault weapon, by chance?”

  “Sure.” I smirked. “She owns a whack of military-style semi-automatic rifles and uses them regularly.”

  He smirked in return. “Did she use one on Triste?”

  “I was with her when Razor was gunned down.” What other surprises might Ald deliver?

  His lips grew taut. “She could have hired someone. Triste – Razor – was killed with a Ranch Rifle, a Mini-14 semi-auto, used by a professional or, at the very least, by someone with superb shooting skills. The gun for hire emptied the magazine as easily and accurately as a landscape artist sculpting a hedge on an affluent Kahala estate. Do you know much about them?”

  “What?” I snickered. “Landscape artists? Affluent Kahala estates? Or ammo and guns?” I held up a hand before he could retort. “The Ranch Rifle is manufactured by Sturm, Ruger and Company, Inc. Compact and versatile, and portable, it's one of the better, more reliable semi-autos out there.”

  “Have you been studying Weapons 101?” he asked drolly.

  My smile leaned toward surly. “Yes.”

  He threw back the espresso. “Why would a society girl become a trucker of all the professions open to her?”

  “She did it on a dare. Partly.” I shrugged. “Our former society girl wanted to distance herself from a world she'd been born into and could never return to.” I shrugged again and finished the wine. “Okay, you found a Glock. No doubt you found Buddy's fingerprints on it. You wouldn't have found the true killer's, because he or she used gloves.”

  “It wasn't registered to her, but to Jason-Patrice Feuer, her husband,” he said casually.

  “Her dead ex-husband–”

  “Who was killed as a result of a highway accident,” he finished smugly. “A truck hit him… It wasn't hers, was it?”

  “Is that your feeble wit asking, Detective Hives?”

  Ald laughed.

  “My understanding is that the accident was a result of a guy in an auto hauler who was in a hurry to get somewhere pronto. The fact it was raining cats and dogs didn't deter him from speeding like an Olympic sprinter taking the finish line.”

  Ald studied the second biscotti as he waited for me to disclose more.

  “Had Jason-Patrice lived, he'd probably have gone after Buddy at some point. He was a man possessed – about a lot of things – and he'd taken his frustration out on her on more than one occasion.”

  He remained mute.

  “You haven't arrested her yet, though,” I commented coolly, finding his silence nettlesome.

  “The Glock's a clincher, Fonne –”

  “It's part of a colossal frame-up,” I declared, slapping the table. “Oh, go for it – arrest her. Ric will have her out on bail in no time.”

  “That, I don't doubt,” he scowled. “You, Fonne, have been consorting with some questionable if not dubious people.”

  Talking about Coco had been on the agenda, but it could wait. I glanced at an elegant clock featuring a goddess' face. It was 3:45 and I had to be ten blocks over in fifteen minutes to meet Rey. Linda had begged off as she'd gotten into Makjo's Hallowe'en treat-filled pumpkin last night. Two dozen mini M&M packages, ten Hallowe'en kisses, and three super-size chocolate-mint 'tinis had resulted in a bloated belly and massive headache. Bonzo and Pepto would keep Linda and her achy body parts company for the rest of the day and evening.

  “I have to go.”

  “Why? Will you turn into a pumpkin?” he smirked.

  “Something like that,” I smirked in return.

  “You said you wanted to share information.”

  “I said I wanted to do an exchange.” I stood. “When are you going to do the dirty deed?”

  “In the next hour.” He grasped my hand gently. “Look, Buddy Feuer aside, maybe we should start over.”

  I pulled free. The man's cool-lukewarm-cool behavior was puzzling. “I have to go.”

  “Maybe you're up for a stroll or beers this weekend?” he asked casually.

  “Maybe.” I pulled out a half yard from my purse and lay it on the table. Before he could respond or resist, I waltzed onto the boulevard.

  * * *

  Four p.m. found Annia, Rey and I seated in three vintage-linen teal wing chairs, enjoying scorchingly dry martinis in the corner of an attractive retro-styled bar that catered to the moneyed and up-and-coming. The establishment was fairly empty and quiet, save for Adele singing softly in the background.

  “You're both looking tense, ladies,” Annia commented. Self-assurance and poise veiled the CMO like a fine couture gown.

  Bambi innocence crossed my face. “Are we?”

  “You're smiling at everything I say and your cousin's nodding at everything, but you're listening with one ear between the two of you. What's up?”

  I waited for the server to place a bowl of macadamia nuts on the glass table. A merry gap-toothed smile and sparkling Pacific-blue eyes that hinted of of mischief reminded me of a rascally relation in an English play or weekly British series.

  Rey picked up a round salted globe and eyed it as she asked a question that had made the rounds, “Could one of your gambling pals be your father's killer?”

  Annia waved a glass swizzle-stick sporting two plump olives. “They're limb snappers. Nothing more.”

  Rey watched the swizzle-stick being used like a mini conducting baton. “Are you aware that some people think you might be behind your father's murder?”

  How plucky of my cousin to put that out there.

  Annia's expression was as dry as the martini. “That wouldn't be surprising. A lot of people don't like me.”

  “Does that bother you?” I asked, watching closely.

  “I could care less. My associates lean toward the envious and cutthroat,” she sniffed and started conducting the baton again. “But to be perfectly frank, sweeties, I have a compelling motive for murder. My rich daddy left me lots in his will and I owe lots. Maybe I couldn't wait a couple of decades for him to pass.” A sinister smile worthy of Alex Fatal Attraction Forrest pulled at rose-red bow-shaped lips. “I'd had a few gripes with the old fart – I say that with affection – and he wasn't always my favorite person. In fact, there were a couple of things he did that left an exceptionally sour taste in my mouth. The police could have considered that, but they're too fixated on your client to look seriously elsewhere.”

  Rey's mien resembled that of a Valentine Day cherub. “We heard you weren't in Rich Papa's will.”

  She smiled tightly and brushed imaginary lint from a sleeve. “You heard wrong.”

  I exchanged a glance with Rey and changed the subject. “Do you know of anyone who might have seen Buddy at the time your father was shot?”

  She met my gauging gaze and offered a coy smile. That mouth was so perfect you had to wonder if it, too, had been surgically enhanced. What did it matter? Fake or real, she was attractive. Fine lustrous
pearls adorned her slim neck, dainty ears and hands, and a casual yet elegant Lanvin suit only added to the sophisticated, well-heeled look. I felt like Very Plain Jane sitting alongside the woman, unlike my cousin who, dressed in a sport-red pencil skirt, white linen sleeveless blouse, and Valentino patent-leather pumps, looked great and appeared extremely self-assured.

  “I wasn't there, dearheart, so I wouldn't know. Why not check with Beune? I understand the dear man's a superhero host – in everyone's face and space at every given moment.”

  Rey's grass-green eyes latched onto sand-brown ones. “Have the police questioned you in depth?”

  Annia's expression wavered between annoyed, vexed, and bored. “They asked questions.”

  She wasn't going to reveal more, so I nodded at my cousin and rose. “We'd better get moving.”

  “If we don't have a chance to chat at Daddy's 'party' tomorrow, give me a call, sweeties. We'll do drinks.” Her tone and smile were as real as a three-dollar bill. Someone like Annia didn't get where she was by not playing the game or mood of the hour, in this case portraying a casual acquaintance.

  Rey offered a Cheshire-Cat grin. “We'd love it, dearheart.”

  As we exited through a paneled door, she muttered, “We'd have learned more at 7-11 and had a big icy Big Gulp to boot.”

  “We could pop by J&B's this evening and talk to Beune.”

  “We're certainly dressed for fine dining,” she affirmed.

  “Osso bucco anyone?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Two-story J&B held an old-world, traditional steak house feel with cranberry-red leather chairs, white linen tablecloths, candles, and Tiffany-style lamps. Given tonight was All Hallows' Eve, thick fake cobwebs and grinning plastic skeletons were suspended from various fixtures. And, wouldn't you know it, Bobby “Boris” Pickett's “Monster Mash” was playing when we entered. Staff attire consisted of black pants and long-sleeved shirts with gold trim, save for two bartenders, who sported satin tuxes and capes à la Count Dracula.

  At half past five, only ten of fifty tables on the first floor were occupied, but most seats in the large loft upstairs were taken. Rey and I sat on two corner bar stools and people watched as we drank Perriers and waited for Beune Lachance. Awaiting drinks, cocktail snacks or companions, most of the patrons were professionals who'd had enough of the office and/or boss and/or clients.

  At 5:45 the host and owner of J&B sauntered purposefully towards us in size fourteen leather loafers with a long slim hand outstretched. Unlike staff, he wore white linen pants with a baby-pink short-sleeved shirt. Tall, lanky and dashing, he did indeed look as described: David The Pink Panther Niven.

  Once introductions were completed, and an Evian had been poured into a crystal goblet for Beune, we got down to business: acquiring patron names who might have sighted Buddy at the time of Picolo's death.

  “I gave it some thought after you called earlier and I do recall three people who may prove of assistance.” He spoke with a faded English accent (having originally hailed from Brighton with the uneventful moniker Tom Brown). “I've spoken with them and they're fine with you contacting them.”

  Ms. Harriet S. Noote, a widow and frequent lone diner, had left seconds behind Buddy while Mr. and Mrs. Roi, weekly regulars, had decided to wait outside for their driver in and around the time Picolo was shot.

  We thanked the genial gent and promised to return to try the chef's acclaimed dish: chevre du couer. (My French was limited to a six-week evening course, but didn't that mean heart of horse?)

  * * *

  I welcomed Gail with an effusive grin as I flourished an arm. “You look as lovely as ever.”

  Dressed in lime-colored capris with a bright floral blouse, HPD's Administrative Specialist all but pirouetted into the foyer. Slipping off flamingo-pink ballet flats (which matched lip gloss and large hoop earrings, but clashed with beet-red hair), she waved to Rey and Linda seated in the living room. Button trod over and received a hearty paw shake and joy-filled hug, much to my princess' pleasure.

  “Iced tea?”

  “Sounds good.” She removed round black-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes. “What a crazy, long day.”

  As I poured a tall one, she strolled forward and dropped beside Rey on the blanket-covered two-seater. After quickly exchanged pleasantries, she related the reason for the impromptu visit: to share down time with friends, after providing Kent and Coco findings, of course.

  “Who do you want to know about first?”

  “Surprise us,” Linda grinned. (By late afternoon, Advil, lots of water and warm broth had revived our friend's flagging health.)

  The fifty-year-old started to reiterate familiar family and school facts.

  “We know all that,” Rey interrupted with a pretend pout.

  “Do you?” Gail asked smugly.

  “I'm guessing you're about to deliver a bombshell,” Linda said, her expression hopeful.

  “A small one maybe,” she teased, laughing as Button leapt onto her lap and made herself comfortable. Small olive eyes gazed from one face to the next. “When you called, JJ, you mentioned DP, Kent Winche's stepfather.”

  “I mentioned a few things,” I acknowledged.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Only that he died seven years to the day he and Kent's mother were married.”

  “Winche's mother's name, by the by, was Leanora Bonnie Jones at birth – born on Big Island to a hotel cleaning maid and plumber. Flint Winche, the father, was a mechanic. The stepfather, DP, was a carpenter.” Gail leaned forward and gazed from one face to the next. “DP, by the by, stands for Druson Patrick.”

  The three of us sat up, erect as flagstaffs.

  “As in Druson Patrick Peterson, Coco's dad?” Rey asked, stunned.

  “As in.”

  “Wowwww,” flowed from three sets of lips like lava from Kilauea.

  “Why didn't Kent mention that Coco's dad married his mom?” Linda demanded.

  “Let's ask him,” Rey proposed.

  “Let's not for the interim,” I suggested and turned back to Gail. “Do you have any additional bombshells?”

  “Did you know Kent was a stripper when he was sixteen, and arrested for an altercation in a nudie bar?”

  A hushed obscenity slid through Rey's Clara Bow lips.

  “I thought you'd find that of interest,” Gail said with a fleeting smile. “In terms of the rest of his life, it's fairly mediocre. Winche worked on an Alaskan cruise ship line for a year and then got a job at a Juneau seafood plant for two. While there, the guy belonged to fishing and hunting clubs, and won a couple of awards in marksmanship competitions. In 2002, he returned to Hawaii.”

  “Did he get arrested for anything else?” Linda asked.

  Gail shook her head.

  “And Coco? Was there anything out of the norm?” I prompted.

  “Nothing out of the norm, but he also lived in Alaska for a year –”

  “When Kent did,” Rey offered.

  “That explains the bond,” Linda exclaimed, reaching over to slap her best friend's lean thigh. “They were closer than he let on.”

  “No wonder he's so worried about Coco being dead – in essence, he's Kent's brother.” Gail frowned. “Do we know if he's truly dead?”

  Linda looked at Rey, who looked at me, who looked at Button sleeping peacefully on Gail's lap. Button wasn't going to respond, so the three of us continued playing the looking game.

  Finally, Gail crossed her arms, her expression chary. “Spit … it … out.”

  I went to the fridge to retrieve the “remnants”.

  * * *

  Once Gail heard the details, she advised we speak with Ald first thing in the morning. Although we agreed it was the right and best thing to do, we didn't exactly promise. We'd play it by ear … or tatt, as the case may be.

  “Now, onto this Coltrane person,” Gail continued, once “Coco” was safely hidden back in the fridge.

  Surprised, I looked fr
om her to Rey.

  My cousin's smile leaned toward sassy. “I called Gail to get an address. It might come in handy.”

  “By the by, you all owe me dinner at Nobu's.”

  “Which we'll be happy to pay in full,” Rey purred.

  “Coltrane owns a two-bedroom condo in Diamond Head and has two cars: a Mitsubishi and Audi, in case you're interested. Both are fairly new models and top of the line,” she explained. “His cover – from what Rey told me – is drug-world mediator to a sundry of thugs and villains. I discovered nothing to suggest otherwise. He's like a shadow.”

  “Among other things,” Linda said flatly.

  “I know someone who may be able to shed more light, but he's in Cali for a few days on undercover business. I'll touch base when he returns.”

  “You really do go up and beyond the call of duty, don't you?” Rey's tone and gaze reflected admiration.

  “I try.” She smiled briskly. “Do you really believe Coltrane is a traitor?”

  I bore holes through Rey, who presented a Lucy-Van-Pelt smile. “If we can't trust Gail, who can we trust?”

  “Yeah?” Gail demanded with feigned affront.

  “You know, it's only a little before ten. Does anyone feel like engaging in a little bit of espionage?” Linda asked coyly.

  “You mean, spy on a certain Diamond Head condo?” Rey grinned and hopped to her feet. “I'm so in.”

  * * *

  An hour later, we were parked eight cars down from Colt's twenty-floor upmarket building. Stockpiled with drinks and snacks, pillows and blankets, we'd made ourselves comfy-cozy in the Nissan – with an ecstatic-to-be-invited-along mutt, sporting her favorite polka-dot dress.

  Because Hallowe'en partyers were in abundance, we'd taken side streets; even here, away from the nearby busy boulevards of Kalakaua and Kuhio, costumed people regularly trekked past.

  “Hey! Look at the pig,” Rey exclaimed.

  “Just because I got a ginormous strawberry milkshake does not make me a pig,” Linda huffed.