by Tyler Colins
“Of course we will – because we'll be calling him to confirm if he followed up with those witnesses.”
We climbed in and I cranked up the A/C upon turning on the ignition.
Adjusting the vents so the air wasn't blowing in her face, Rey gestured my bag. “Frankie's back and louder than ever.”
I answered and put Buddy on speaker.
“He said what?” Rey asked, bewildered, after our client had finished speaking.
“I know who you are and I saw what you did.”
Rey and I exchanged puzzled glances.
“What'd you say?” my cousin asked.
“ '¡Estupendo!' and then I hung up and stared at the phone, and waited, because as sure as God made little green apples, that guy was going to call back.” Buddy sounded more annoyed than upset or nervous. “Sure enough, he did and he said it again: 'I know who you are and I saw what you did'. My response was that Andi Garrett offered a better delivery and he'd better watch I Saw What You Did and I Know Who You Are one more time.”
“Did you recognize the voice?” I asked.
“It sounded hollow, deep and drawly, as if it had been camouflaged with some sort of technical contraption – you know, like those used in crime shows or mysteries. I should have been worried, I suppose, but the theatrics were funny. And, of course, it could have been a random crank call.”
“Not likely,” Rey stated.
I agreed. “But there's a plus side.”
“What's that?”
“It means someone – Picolo's killer – is getting edgy.”
“You're probably right. But why that particular line? What's the significance?” Rey pondered aloud.
“Maybe he's referring to the fact he saw what I didn't do: kill Jimmy or Eb. What he saw was me walking away from a very much alive Jimmy and sitting in a theater with Eda the night Eb was killed.”
“Interesting take,” Rey said. “This caller may be a real whack job.”
“We've certainly met a few in the last year,” I declared.
“Haven't we all?” Buddy chuckled and said she'd meet us for drinks during the week before disconnecting.
My cousin smiled wryly. “The plot thickens.”
“Like Aunt Sue-Lou's summer-cottage porridge, heavy on the bacon drippings.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Petey May officially on Kent patrol?”
“Confirmed. Check.”
“Kent called and texted?”
“Message and text left. Check.”
“Telephone number and address tracked down for Ichirou Hamaski, Picolo's professional and personal associate?”
“Located. Check.”
“Email with updates and to-dos sent to Ric?”
“…Check.”
“Chicken noodle soup delivered to Linda?”
“Check.”
Rey and I laughed.
“Report completed and saved. And early, too.” Shutting the laptop, she swiveled around. “Now, if only contacts and leads would return calls.”
“Detective work is often about waiting.” I smiled brightly and glanced at my watch. Two p.m. Lounging around in tank tops and cut-offs, reviewing the case and determining achievable to-dos, we'd had a fairly constructive day so far.
The mobile phone rang and Rey grabbed it. “…Uh-huh. Sure, I'll come down. Thanks, Markham.”
“Company?”
“You have a package. Back in a few.” Off she bounded on flip-flopped feet, Bonzo bouncing behind, and Button gamboling after. Neither being overly curious, they stopped at the door to await her return.
I meandered into the kitchen and grabbed two Perriers. Nothing had been ordered on-line in the last few weeks, so maybe Mom or one of the Aunts had sent something.
“Lucky lady,” Rey sing-songed as she strolled in with a long, flat florist box. “Someone got flow-wers.”
I stared, surprised.
“Shouldn't you be over the moon?” she laughed, passing the box.
I unraveled a big satiny pink ribbon and pulled off the lid to find two-dozen fragrant long-stemmed pink roses interspersed with baby's breath.
“Ni-ice,” Rey whistled. “Who're they from?” Long, eager fingers poked and prodded. “No card. That's odd. Maybe they're from your boyfriend.”
“I don't have one.”
“…Oh-oh. You've got a throw-'em-out face. They're too pretty – and pricey – to toss.”
She marched to a bedboard cabinet were vases were kept, grabbed one, and pressed it into my chest. “Put 'em in water with a touch of lemon and a teaspoon of sugar.”
* * *
Rey and I walked Button along the Ala Wai Canal, the northern boundary of Waikiki. Around dawn, kayakers could be seen traveling along the still water under a beautiful sky of indigo-plum swirls. Shameful pollution aside, it was a picturesque place; one you could appreciate running along in the mornings or strolling along in the afternoons or evenings.
At 3:15 it was blazing hot, but we'd come prepared – with baseball caps and sunglasses, major slathers of sunscreen, and lots of water. Rey pointed to a bench beneath a plumeria tree and we sat while Button lay beneath. In the shade, away from intensive rays, it felt considerably cooler.
“Frankie's kid's singing about walking over someone with her boots,” Rey advised.
I laughed and pulled out the cell phone. “Greetings and salutations.”
Rey snorted.
I laughed again.
“Sounds like someone's happy.”
“I am.” Even Mr. Slick-and-Smarmy Picolo couldn't dampen the mood. “What's up?”
“Thanks for the email.”
“No worries.”
“Thanks for living up to your part of the bargain.”
“We don't have a 'bargain', Ric.” I looked at Rey and rolled my eyes.
She grinned and crossed hers.
“Okay, if you're going to be technical, let's say we have an understanding.”
Did you call that tenacity or obstinacy? With a dry smile, I held the cell so Rey could hear. “What can we do you for?”
“Hamasaki.”
“What about him?”
“You've got him on the list you sent. If you're planning to see him anytime soon, you'd better go to the hospital. He got influenza while doing business in Montreal a few days ago. With his diabetes, he developed complications. He seems to be in bad shape and was talking about dying, making amends, seeing a priest and all that.”
“Which hospital?”
He provided details and ended the call.
“It appears Hamasaki wants absolution.”
“Do you suppose he has something major to be absolved of?” Rey asked wryly. “Like murder maybe?”
“I doubt it's murder, but maybe knowledge thereof.” I hopped to my feet and gestured the sidewalk.
As we continued walking, my cousin acquired that pensive, contemplative Reynalda Fonne-Werde look. Allowing her time to hatch a plan (because that was, without question, what was transpiring) I admired the scenery and considered how fortunate we were to live in the Aloha state. We had financial security, courtesy of our last case, as well as Aunt Mat's “hush money”. It was something we still struggled with, but not enough that we'd repay it anytime soon or turn in our eccentric aunt (she was family, after all). As private eyes with regular cases and women with no major woes, we definitely had blessings to count.
Suddenly, Rey grasped my arm, prompting me to start. “If poor Hamasaki thinks he's at Death's Door, he may want to confess all. As sisters of mercy – not unlike angels of mercy – we should hear all.”
“If we're sisters or angels of mercy, why do you have that demonic gleam in your eyes?”
* * *
“You're just what the doctor ordered,” Nurse Kandoi joked, beaming from long tiny ear to long tilted ear as she showed us into Ichirou Hamasaki's room.
Reclining on a full electric bed, his head elevated, Hamasaki looked more weary than wan. Flu and pneumonia a
side, the debonair sexagenarian, dressed in cream-and-taupe striped silk pajamas, had thick salt-and-pepper hair, high cheekbones and full lips. Manicured fingers clutched a thermal cotton waffle-pattern blanket to his chest.
“Stay as long as you like, Sisters.” She arranged two padded chairs several feet from the lethargic patient and waved before exiting.
“I feel ridiculous,” I told Rey out of the corner of my mouth.
“Nonsense,” she said under her breath. “You look divine.”
It was tempting to hit her with the large rosary hanging from a woolen belt around my waist, but the Big Guy would likely frown upon that. Dressed similarly to Cistercian nuns, the habits had been obtained through Rey's talent agency connections.
“May we sit?” Rey asked cheerily when the man gazed dreamily around the room and then focused on us.
Hamasaki's glazed eyes seemed to smile and he weakly gestured the chairs.
“Ricardo Picolo's priest – Father O'Malley – suggested you might like company,” my cousin said with a disarming smile. “This is Sister Sixto and I'm Sister Bertrille.”
I fought back a Reynalda water-buffalo snort. Hopefully, he'd not been a Flying Nun fan. (I suspected a hundred Hail Marys would be in order after this, regardless of the fact we weren't Catholics.)
“I feel as if … as if this might be the end.” His voice was as soft as an overripe raspberry.
“It's always darkest before the dawn,” she said gaily. “But you'll be fine in no time, of this I have full faith. But should you want to unload any troubles, we're here to listen … and counsel.” A heavenly ten-thousand-watt smile floated across the room. (Dang, I'd really underestimated my cousin's acting ability.)
“I'm feeling sick, Sister.”
“Are your troubles that bad, my friend?”
“No – I feel sick!”
Rey grabbed a nearby bedpan without breaking out of character and waited while the poor man threw up. Then, with a sympathetic smile, she passed antiseptic wipes.
“We're here for you, Mr. Hamasaki.” Compassion warmed her make-up-less face and I thought I saw a glowing halo above the black headdress and veil.
* * *
“We got what we needed,” Rey announced happily as we climbed into the Nissan.
“And then some, including his life as a widower raising two daughters and his success with the sake brewing company,” I chuckled, then sobered. “But Ichirou Hamasaki thinks he's confided in – and been blessed by – actual sisters.”
“If it makes him feel better, what's wrong with that, Sister Sixto?” she grinned. “Besides, it's now confirmed that Jimmy Picolo had put out a contract.”
“How you managed to extract that from him is truly astonishing,” I praised her. “But on who? We're none the wiser – hold on.”
“I'm all ears, Cous.”
“If we look at the cast of corpses –”
“Good one.”
I smacked her thigh. “Who didn't Picolo like?”
“The same person a lot of people didn't like: Coco-oh.” Her eyes widened. “You think Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood was the contractee?”
“It's a goo-ood possibility.”
Rey considered it. “How's this? Picolo puts out that contract. Someone isn't happy with his plan and retaliates. Picolo's need to be rid of Coco results in someone getting rid of him.”
“Simple and pretty sweet. I like it.”
My cousin smiled wryly. “Let's run with it … until proven differently.”
I gave a thumb's up.
“Let's see if Linda's feeling better. Maybe she'd like to join us at your place for Thai food.” She punched in her best friend's number. “…Hey, hon. Feeling better? …What's that noise?” Listening with a furrowed brow, she uh-huhed several times. “Yeah, sure. Yeah.”
“What's up?”
“Linda felt better, so late this aft she headed to the plant and asked casual questions. She ended up having drinks at The Fat Man & The Finicky Feline with a couple of employees. She lucked in with info and said she'll share that and more at the condo.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Linda's latte-colored eyes rounded like bola-bola when Sisters Sixto and Bertrille entered the condo with three hefty bags of Thai take-out. An ear glued to the mobile, she merely held up an index finger and nodded to the speaker currently located on one of two living-room antique white end tables.
Placing the bags on the kitchen counter, Rey glided over and turned it on.
“The weather, golfing, and food are fantastic here – as good as back there, but different.”
“I'm glad you're enjoying yourself,” Linda told the baritone-voiced caller cheerfully.
Fascinated, Rey dropped into one of the armchairs while I, ears perked, noiselessly pulled out plates and cutlery.
“I understand you're staying in one of the best resorts Turks and Caicos has to offer.”
Astonished, Rey and I gazed at each other over the counter, and she mouthed “Sal Marlowe”.
The former high-level corporate officer didn't respond.
“Let's cut to the chase, my friend,” Linda continued, strolling around the room, her voice as lightsome as dandelion down. “About the scamming and skimming –”
“What sca –”
“Don't deny it and don't worry. I'm not calling to point fingers, chasten, or blackmail.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“To chat.”
“About?” was the flat question.
“The murders, to start.”
“…Jimmy Picolo's and Eb Stretta's?”
“And Razor's. Eddy Galazie's run away from home and Coco Peterson's missing.”
“Galazie's run away … and Coco's missing?” He sounded like he wanted to disappear, too.
“Considering the state of Eddy's apartment, departure was fast and furious.”
A lengthy, unsteady exhalation floated across the waves and he fell onto a hard surface, maybe a deck chair or patio table.
“I don't believe you're responsible for their murders, not directly, anyway –”
“Hold on – who the hell did you say you were again?”
“Linda Smith,” she answered merrily, using her maiden name. “Let me finish and don't hang up, Marlowe, or I'll fly over there and haunt your every waking moment. I repeat: I'm not going to blackmail you, nor am I going to turn you over to the police.”
“Listen, I told you –”
“I know about the phantom vendor accounts and dummy suppliers, and falsified documentation. I also know Coco Peterson was involved, but Linton Falsch, your management accountant, was the main player.” She glanced over and winked. “Now, what you share is strictly between us.”
“And you know all this how?” The question was as icy as a January Maine blizzard.
“A few months ago, Picolo suspected something fraudulent was going on and requested Emilio Ferrarri keep a vigilant eye and perform periodic examinations.”
Rey and I exchanged concerned glances. It seemed Linda was taking serious stabs in the dark. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“I'm going to run a few things past. Are you up for it?” she challenged.
“Do I have a choice?” His voice was as crisp as over-fried bacon.
Linda glanced over and rolled her eyes. “Coco Peterson and Linton Falsch went on Mainland gambling junkets together. They were also known to get into local poker games and visit illegal gaming houses. Picolo had been aware of this for quite some time, but like anyone else, chalked it up to frivolous pastimes or foolish vices.”
“A lot of folks gamble, even his daughter. But Coco did acquire a really bad habit: boasting about having access to a cash cow. Using that phrase, even casually, can prove a grave error. People get curious.” Sal Marlowe heaved a sigh as heavy as a concrete slab. “That guy is one colossal –”
“Was.”
“Was? I'm not following. I thought you said he was missing?”
“Most
of him is.”
“Most?” The T&C tan had to be transforming into a sickly shade of white.
“Jewelry and a fleshy piece are all that remain.”
Sal Marlowe sucked in a deep, dazed breath and, with a hint of fear, asked, “How do I know you're telling the truth?”
“I have no reason to lie,” she replied nonchalantly. “On another note, you shouldn't have insinuated to Jimmy that Emilio Ferrarri was the culprit behind the misappropriation.”
He sighed softly, as if annoyed rather than troubled or remorseful.
“Why twist the embezzlement trail back to Emilio?”
“To shift culpability. After Emilio and I met, he seemed the best scapegoat, so I spoke with Jimmy about recent financial concerns that I'd become privy to. Pointing an accusatory finger at Emilio would keep Jimmy busy and distracted while he was trying to figure out what was what – and would bide Linton time to get his ducks in a row.”
“Unfortunately for you, Jimmy maintained confidence in Emilio. Together, they ascertained that Falsch was the perpetrator and later concluded you had to be involved.”
“Who else knows this?”
“Only Emilio and myself. But there are documents that would bring everything to light, should something happen to him or me, so don't get any funny ideas,” Linda warned.
Rey gave a thumb's up.
“Documents?” he asked disbelievingly.
“My dear Mr. Marlowe,” she said with enough honey to please three grizzly bears, “Emilio Ferrarri may seem honest and sensible, and even naïve, but he's far from stupid.”
When he didn't respond, she asked, “Did you kill Jimmy Picolo – or have him killed – because of the misappropriation?”
“I'm solely into money, not murder.” He sounded equally cross and scared.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“A knockout blonde truck driver.”
“She was set up.”
“Not by me,” he said flatly.
“You don't have the balls for murder,” Linda agreed flatly. “Did you resign for fear of retaliation?”
“I resigned because I was tired – of long hours as CFO and Treasurer, and Jimmy Picolo's I'm-the-man crap. The misappropriation, as you call it, was Linton's mess, not mine. Besides, I didn't see that the minimal involvement I had would be easily detectable, if at all. But from what you've told me, I guess I was wrong.” He laughed darkly.