Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “That's one mother of a fire,” Rey exclaimed.

  Our heads and shoulders were all but super-glued together as she, her best friend, Linda, and I continued to peer out of the second floor window of our Chinatown office, the Triple Threat Investigation Agency.

  It was just after ten o'clock in the evening, early January, and as warm as Hades. We'd popped home to see to the pets, then grabbed a quick bite at our favorite Korean barbecue joint before returning to work. The intent: update the website and complete two final reports and invoices for a couple of wayward spouse cases. We were getting pretty good at them, which wasn't a bad thing, but we also wanted to engage in more challenging detective work than following and photographing cheating partners. We'd had two formidable cases since we'd set up shop and hadn't done too badly; hopefully, there'd be a few more to allow us to hone our [neophyte] skills.

  “Isn't that Ald by the restaurant?” Linda asked.

  “It is.” I watched the ruggedly handsome detective (reminiscent of Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises) tuck a Smartphone into the breast pocket of a short-sleeved polo shirt and step up beside a tall, middle-aged, broad-shouldered man of Polynesian descent.

  “If he's here, there must have been a murder,” Rey stated excitedly.

  “And probably arson, if that's the case,” Linda murmured, stepping back to grab a half-eaten bowl of poi sprinkled with raw sugar and cinnamon. While she liked it sweet, Rey preferred taro in the form of chips and me as soft-serve ice-cream or mooncakes.

  “Let's check it out.”

  “Right, Cousin Reynalda,” I stated wryly. “Our homicide detective would love having us stick our noses where they don't belong.”

  “Yeah,” Linda concurred, spooning a mouthful of the sweetened paste past unusual button-shaped lips. “He'd probably yell at us to get off his turf and then have an officer or two escort us off. He's really not your favorite fan, JJ – not since he found out you were under the covers with Richie J, renowned local drug dealer.”

  Ald and I had had an odd warm-lukewarm-cool relationship since our second key case involving the deaths of an infamous entrepreneur and a nutty employee nicknamed Coco (actually, they'd been two of a few). Drawing a long breath, I recalled the night I'd shot a traitorous government agent to death; I'd aimed for the shoulder, but caught him in the heart. That tense scene had transpired in the main cabin berth of a sleek Alerion 41. To not blow his cover, undercover agent Richie J – real name Cash Layton Jones – had hastily devised a story to explain my presence in a drug dealer's nautical bed. The arrogant, audacious man (yeah, I sure could pick them) and I had had a short-term tempestuous on-off relationship and, at the moment, it was non-existent.

  As far as Ald was concerned, Richie J was scum and someone he was determined to put behind bars for life. Fortunately, Richie/Cash now resided in Miami, far out of the detective's jurisdiction … and my life.

  The detective must have sensed eyes on him for he gazed vigilantly around and then zeroed in on us. At that same second, like a low-magnitude earthquake, a small explosion rocked the street.

  Instinctively, Rey and I jumped back, but almost instantly, like over-cranked Jack-in-the-Box toys, the three of us poked out our heads to see the blaze surge and spiral like a meteor shower. Those working the scene rushed around as if they'd ingested mega doses of caffeine while media folks scrabbled like crabs across a pier. Two firefighters speedily escorted one of their own to an ambulance and two others transported a body from the smoke-filled laneway. Under the assortment of multi-colored lights and flames, we caught sight of a badly burned, barely recognizable being.

  “I've Gotta be Me” by Sammy Davis Jr. announced a call on my cell. I didn't recognize the number, but answered regardless.

  “Fonne, you'd better have a damn good reason for you and your colleagues being up there.”

  “It's our office. No one told us –”

  “Save it,” Ald snapped. “I don't have Shillingford's new number and I know you're on quasi-business terms with him. Get him to call me.”

  “What's up?” I asked, gazing around to find him immediately below the agency window.

  “None of your business.”

  “It will be, if Xavier's involved,” I affirmed.

  Insurance adjuster Francis Xavier Shillingford had arrived on Oahu last November. Not long after, he'd approached the agency to see if we could collaborate on insurance cases when additional investigation proved necessary. While we'd not yet worked together, the four of us had remained in regular touch and had gone out for drinks on a couple of occasions. Oddly enough, the person who'd put Xavier (which he preferred to Francis) in touch with us was none other than Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives.

  I put the man on speaker. “Did someone torch the galleries? Are Carlos and James-Henri all right?”

  Rey and Linda sidled close, curious and concerned.

  “You know the gallery owners?”

  “Not well. We'd met them over the holidays, courtesy of Xavier, who knows both from Mainland days. Are they all right?” I asked again, this time more urgently.

  “I don't know.” He sighed loudly. “But it looks like we have a body crispier than a KFC drumstick that a newbie cook left in the fryer too long.”

  “Is it … one of them?”

  “Who can tell? Jensen found Mr. Charcoal-Broiled at the rear. The fire appeared to be under control, but then it suddenly accelerated.”

  “There must be a homicide. Why else would you have been called to the scene?” Linda prodded.

  “I was at Carlos' private party earlier,” he replied slowly, as if it were an effort.

  “You?” I sounded as stunned as I appeared.

  “Listen, Fonne, I can appreciate art like any highbrow, even when there's thick swirls of vivid color and distorted human-like forms, and abstract objects jammed together on one canvas, carving, or sculpture,” he groused wearily. “Now, are you going to call Shillingford or give me his number?”

  “Are you going to let us come down there?”

  He cursed softly. “I'm coming up, and you're going to have him on the phone when I get up there … or else. Is the downstairs door open?”

  “It will be,” I replied tersely with a nod to Linda.

  Our nimble-footed fellow P.I. raced from the room as he disconnected.

  “He sure is p'o'd,” Rey commented as we took seats on the sofa.

  “That may be an understatement,” I said dryly.

  Putting on Hello Kitty faces, we turned to the office doors and waited.