by Tyler Colins
“I'll get an email address from George so I can forward the photo. I'll suggest the guy's been lurking around, asking questions about Picolo and Coco … and Sal Marlowe … and that he said he has damaging information for sale. Maybe George'll act in response.”
“Maybe … if he isn't part of Colt and Kent's little 'partnership' and knows you're trying to trip him up,” I replied wryly.
“There's only one way to find out.” She smiled smugly. “As for Mr. Winche, let's see what kind of rise we get.”
“Before or after we confirm the demise of Coco?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was 7:00 p.m., a couple of hours after Rey had called Kent to request a spontaneous “catch up get-together”. Seated on a rough concrete slab at the edge of a stony, weed-lined lot near Maui Nights, a nightclub that catered to a young dance crowd, I sipped black coffee from a Styrofoam cup while Rey sucked back Red Bull and Linda slurped a strawberry-apple smoothie.
Kent dropped onto a slab alongside. “Howzit?” He messed my loose hair.
I felt like a pet lab. “Woof.”
He grabbed the cup and took a swallow. “Yow! Where'd you get this? The corner dive?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Stick to the fries and onion rings,” he winced and, pulling out a package of spearmint gum, hastily jammed two pieces into his mouth. “That's high-octane shit, man.”
“What's with the headgear?” Rey motioned the colorful woven head covering. “Are you trying out for a part in a Dr. Seuss production?”
He fingered it as if it were a delicate spider's web. “I got it when I was on the Mainland a short while back.”
Rey eyed the misshapen accessory critically. “Never took you for a hat man.”
“I have at least thirty, but I have to be in a mood to wear them, like when I go boating or partying.”
I tossed my empty cup into a nearby overflowing receptacle that appeared not to have seen a garbage collector in a fortnight, and watched a couple of young men saunter past. Both sported extended goatees and several ounces of ink on their arms and necks. One smiled in greeting, revealing two gold front teeth, while the other scratched his backside as he waved a fat, half-smoked joint. “Did you hear any exciting news since we last met?”
He grinned, looking self-assured. “There's underground gossip that a couple of Jimmy's employees who'd been cooking the books may have killed him.”
We appeared suitably surprised and Rey held a hand to her breast. “Really?”
Kent nodded excitedly, then grew somber. “But it appears there could be a Buddy connection, too. Rumor has it she recently needed some serious cash and requested it from the wrong folks.”
Rey, Linda and I exchanged stunned gazes, and Rey demanded, “Who told you this?”
“Some guys I have beer with now and again.” He brandished a long, slim hand. “But, like I said, rumor has it.” He leaned close, his expression as mischievous as that of a garden gnome. “I snuck around Annia's last night. The place was empty.”
Rey frowned, I winced, and Linda gasped. He must have headed there after the stop at Colt's.
He appeared perplexed by the reaction. “I tried all the first-floor windows and doors, but didn't have much luck. I was about to try my luck with the second floor, but Antonia the maid drove up, so I made a quick exit.”
“What if an alarm had gone off? You could have been arrested,” Rey chided, her vexed expression suggesting what the three of us were thinking: the man was clearly not as intelligent as he was attractive.
“Forget that.” Kent waved off the concern as if he were flicking a gnat. “What's more important is the fact that I got a return call. You'll love this.” Crossing his arms, he raised his eyebrows up and down for dramatic effect, but it made him appear ridiculous more than anything else. “Annia had been seen slipping out a rear door around ten the night Daddy Picolo got shot. And she didn't sneak out alone.”
My question was flatter than a flapjack. “Do we get three guesses or beg for the escort's name?”
“That depends,” he drawled, leaning close, “on how you beg.”
Rey grabbed him by the shirt collar. “Spill it or I'll take that stupid hat of yours and stuff it in a place that would bring new meaning to the phrase 'unpleasantly uncomfortable'.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “You're funny.”
“I'm not joking.”
A silent power struggle ensued as grass-green orbs locked on cinnamon-brown ones.
“She left with that lawyer guy that was at Jimmy's farewell party,” he finally grumbled.
“Roch Chandrake,” Linda offered.
“Yeah, Chandrake. What do you suppose that means?”
“That she needs his services or they're having an affair,” Rey replied flippantly.
His eyebrows merged into one. “I'll buy the affair, but not legal services at ten. Besides, what about that business of the maid stating her employer was home early, feeling and looking sick?”
“She may have thought she'd need Antonia to corroborate her story at some point,” I answered.
“From what I've heard about Annia, it wouldn't surprise me if she and Chandrake had planned to hook up secretly later that night – like in a hotel – and that's why she was playing sick,” Rey said. “The guy is married, after all.”
“We should sneak into Annia's soon. We have a solid reason to do so now.”
“We wouldn't find anything of note,” Linda declared. “If she were involved in her father's murder – or the others – she'd be too smart to leave incriminating evidence around.”
“But she's not the killer, just a woman who loves men and swinging as much as she does gambling,” Rey affirmed. “We don't need to waste time investigating her any further, unless we want to paw through her dirty laundry. Personally, I can think of more useful things to do.”
“Are you sure she's not the killer?” He looked surprised.
“As sure as the Easter Bunny delivers baskets of chocolate goodies and colorful eggs,” she replied glibly.
“Then it could only be Buddy.”
“It's not,” Linda said flatly.
He looked questioningly from one face to the next. “Then … you know who it is?”
“The person who wasn't pleased at having Coco – your stepbrother – killed.”
* * *
“You know Coco's my stepbrother?” Kent smiled brightly.
“Why'd you never mention it?” Rey asked bluntly. “And don't say it was because we never asked.”
Unfazed, he laughed merrily. “We pretty much hated each other during our youth. When we finally buried the hatchet, so many years had passed that we didn't see any need to share the relationship with others. In retrospect, it does seem kind of silly now.”
“You don't seem shocked by the fact he's dead,” I commented.
“I've suspected it for some time, and I've mentioned the possibility to you,” he pointed out, eyeing us warily. “But how do you know?”
“We have proof,” I replied casually.
“Like what?”
Rey fished out the photo of Colt. “Know him?”
Kent's face remained passive as he studied Colt's smiling face. “He looks like an actor. Is he?”
“No, but he may be the person responsible for Coco's death,” Linda responded.
“Really?” He scanned the photo for several seconds. “Is the dude a gun for hire?”
“He's an undercover agent posing as a drug dealer,” I explained nonchalantly. “One who had very probably once been in Picolo's back pocket.”
Kent glowered and we could almost hear his mental cogs whirr. “I don't get what his being an agent or in Picolo's pocket has to do with Coco being killed.”
I threw out a couple notions willy-nilly, the words sailing forth like spilled booze at a Prohibition speakeasy; hopefully, they'd make sense and/or illicit a reaction. “Picolo was murdered because he put out a hit on Coco,” I repeated
. “Coco's killer couldn't have anyone knowing what he'd been contracted to do, so he got rid of the first person who could burn him: his employer, Jimmy Picolo. Razor had to go, too, because if he hadn't already been in the know, he'd probably have stumbled on the truth.”
“What about Eb Stretta?” he challenged.
Avoiding the question to which I had no answer, I pointed to the photo and looked as serious as Hamlet about to launch into his final soliloquy. “This man's the connection to everything that's gone down.”
He pulled off his hat and stared at it for several seconds, then inhaled deeply. “I could do with a drink.”
Linda gestured a Mexican restaurant across the street advertising “the best sangria and mojitos” south of the H-1.
He nodded. “Let me stop at an ATM down the block. I'll meet you there in ten.”
“This could blow up in our faces,” Rey declared as we watched him stride purposefully down the sidewalk. “You know he's going to contact Colt.”
“Of course he is,” Linda agreed flatly. “This is either the stupidest thing we've ever done –”
“Or the smartest,” Rey exclaimed.
“Or the most dangerous,” I added.
With cunning smiles, we high-fived one another.
* * *
The hour spent with Kent went quickly, if not awkwardly. He seemed miles away as he sipped Corona and we nursed diet Cokes. Was he anxious about what we'd told him? Did he think we might talk to the police about Colt? Did he even care? Or was he simply preoccupied with thoughts of Coco?
When we parted ways at the corner, he provided one of his toothpaste-ad smiles, pecked our cheeks, and said he'd touch base Friday or Saturday.
“Do we want to drive to his place and watch?” Linda asked with a half-smile as Rey and I climbed into the back of her Echo. She turned on the radio at low volume. The Wanted were finished singing about being glad we came.
“For what? Colt's arrival?” Rey asked tartly. “Even if he went over there, what would we do – press our curious faces against a window and hope we heard or saw something incriminating? Besides, Petey's following – hey, he must be good. I didn't see him anywhere while we were with Hat Boy.”
“He's got years of experience,” Linda said airily. “One day, we may be just as good at melting into walls and trees.”
I rubbed my face, feeling disheartened and fatigued. “It's too bad we have nothing concrete to go to Ald with.”
Linda started the car. “Emilio may luck in and find something soon.”
Rey chuckled. “Given Kent's told Colt we think he's a killer, among other things, he won't be calling for another date.”
“Our top priority right now should be to find out why Picolo put out a contract on Coco,” I said. “Once we know why, everything else should fall into place.”
“Someone has to know,” Linda affirmed as she checked mirrors. Her cell announced a call and she turned on the speaker.
Emilio was on the other end. Breathlessly, he asked, “Did you hear?”
“Hear?” she asked, glancing back worriedly.
“There was an explosion at Balz to the Walz!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“A charbroiled mess, isn't it?” Emilio sighed woefully as firefighters, police officers, and emergency personnel worked what was left of a four-alarm blaze. “Thankfully, no one was inside.”
After the explosion shocker, we'd rushed to pick up the finance manager at the corners of 7th and Waialae, ˖̂˖̂ three blocks from his house (Zippy's oxtail soup had been a must-have stress reliever).
At half past nine, the shadowy night was sultry and breezeless, but there were enough lights to illuminate a blockbuster movie set. The smell of charred wood and smoldering furnishings mingled with the nummy scent of freshly popped popcorn, thanks to Butt-R-E Popping Passions, a distribution and manufacturing company located in an adjacent unit. White puffs lay in colossal mounds of fragrant, edible saltiness. If we'd arrived an hour earlier, we'd have viewed a profusion of inflated, misshapen kernels showering the sky like a spectacular fireworks show.
We were propped against the Echo three-hundred yards from the hectic scene, not far from a cluster of probing media personnel and curious onlookers. The level 4800-square-foot structure bore a cavernous, sooty hole on the east side where the main and finance offices of Balz to the Walz had been located. According to a couple of chatty spectators, the explosion that occurred just before eight had shaken buildings two blocks over before erupting into a volcanic flow of flames and popcorn. Luckily, the fire department had arrived in record time and done an exceptional job of containing the dangerous scene. Unluckily, the detonation had not only destroyed financial and personnel records, and enough popcorn to feed filmgoers in twenty cinemas, but taken out the mainframe and a beautiful historic banyan tree in one fell swoop.
Her weary gaze on a group of officers conferring over cruisers and on cell phones, Linda sighed and crossed her arms. “So much for finding anything related to Colt Colter. Whatever may have been filed there is forever gone.”
“Not so fast.” Emilio gently jostled her elbow with his. “Curiosity got the better of me after lunch yesterday, so I drove here after work. It took considerable data sifting in the vault, but I located monthly $20,000 payments made over two years to C.O.L.T. Inc.” He jostled again. “I 'borrowed' the folder.”
Jubilantly, Rey slapped his broad back, nearly knocking the squat man into the pavement. “Great stuff!”
He smiled ruefully. “If there was more to be found, it won't be now – at least not at Balz.”
“We'll just have to be extra inventive, and vigilant, in our searching.” Linda squeezed his shoulder. “Dang, Emilio. If you'd come here tonight instead of last night…”
Rey offered another healthy slap to the back. “Ya did good.”
I surveyed the crowd to see if a familiar face was among it and focused on a fellow with hair so red, even the cover of night couldn't camouflage it. Standing by a firetruck, he seemed engrossed in the scene, but not enough that he didn't feel eyes upon him. Scanning the area, his gaze soon crossed mine. Off he raced like an Artic hare being pursued by a fox.
My cousin noticed my concentrated gaze. “What? You think Colt would stick around for the after-effects?”
I pointed to the left. “I just saw Red-Head – I mean, Eddy.”
“Are you sure?” She looked around quickly.
“He's gone.”
She grabbed my arm. “Let's go after him!”
“He's too speedy. Forget it.”
Linda jerked a thumb at the buckling, blackened building. “Now we know where another missing cell phone went.”
“Maybe we should take the box to Ald,” Rey suggested, sitting on a sidewalk curb.
I sat down alongside. “Even if there are teeny pieces of the cell phone to be found at the scene, there's no way to prove they came from that box.”
Emilio concurred. “Without anything tangible, you'd be laughed out of the station. This guy would either have to confess his guilt or be caught in an illegal act.”
A pout pulled at my lips. “Your findings don't really prove any illicit doings either, at least not yet, so we can't do anything with those.”
“But we definitely know Kent and Colt are in cahoots,” Rey stated with a pensive frown. “After Kent's call, Colt must have raced over here. Bam! All connections to Picolo are now smithereens.”
“Which is why the Bishop Street office was also bombed,” Linda affirmed. “Coco's contract was probably in the documentation that was converted into confetti.”
“Do you think Jimmy would have kept an actual murder-related document?” Emilio looked stunned. “That would have implicated him, too.”
“It depends on how it was worded,” she responded. “He may have wanted something tangible in the event that anything – pardon the pun – blew up in his face.”
Emilio's round face grew rigid and he focused on a reporter interviewing Pu
ffa the Poppa Clown, the popcorn company's colorful mascot. A bright and breezy face complemented a puke-green plaid suit, ginormous gingham bow tie, and outlandish size 20 shoes with pom-poms. (Anything for publicity, I supposed.)
Petey was right. Even if we'd successfully broke into Colt's townhouse, we'd have found little. The man was a master of his crafty craft and would have ensured that nothing incriminating could be found. And, going forward, Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane would not only be exceptionally wary, he'd be downright dangerous. For the moment, we'd have to leave him be. Kent, on the other hand, could still prove of use.
“I'll bet you're thinking we shouldn't go near Colt for the time being,” Rey said flatly.
“You're reading my mind, Cousin Reynalda.” I looked up at Emilio. “Will you stay on C.O.L.T.?”
“You know I will.”
“And we'll stay on Kent,” I affirmed.
“Like salt water on taffy,” Rey avowed indomitably.
* * *
Ric had agreed to meet Rey and I for breakfast at Wailana Coffee House on Friday morning. Linda had slept over at Makjo's and was planning a day on the North Shore with her vacationing beau. Rey had to be at the studio for eleven for another tuna-poke commercial shoot and I had to be at the station for ten for a meeting and to cover the noonday weather report for a sick intern.
The last time I'd been here had been with William Pierponce Howell. We'd shoveled in delicious banana pancakes as we'd despairingly discussed his case. He'd written the agency a $41,000 check, the fee plus an [extravagant] bonus. A few days later he'd been arrested … and a few days after that he'd been found dead, courtesy of eight bullets to the brain.
“The banana pancakes are pretty good, I hear,” he said, perusing the menu.
“I can attest to that,” I said dryly as a bubbly, middle-aged waitress arrived to take orders.
“Any thoughts re the second explosion that destroyed another one of your brother's businesses?” Rey opened a small bottle of Advil. She'd managed to thwack her head against the elevator door when she'd sidestepped an eager, simpering, caffeine-loaded courier who'd rushed in with a life-size male mannequin in magenta and plum sequins.