“Can we come in?” Kalani said. “It’s very important we talk to you for a few minutes.”
The girl kept her eyes aimed at Kalani before looking up to look at Rip. “I’m not supposed to let strange men in the house when Cherry’s not home.”
Kalani blinked several times, drawing a sharp breath, letting the words sink in. She replaced the badge on her hip and turned to Rip, her voice low. “Would you mind waiting downstairs for a minute? Maybe call the station and ask them to send somebody over? I’ll stay up here with her until they show.”
Moving his gaze from Kalani to the girl, Rip nodded, heading back down the stairs without a word.
Kalani waited. “Okay, now it’s just you and me. Can I come in?”
The girl paused briefly before shutting the door, the sound of the chain sliding along its track echoing out into the hallway. A moment later it opened, the girl already retreating back into the room, leaving Kalani free to enter behind her.
The apartment was a simple studio, no more than 20 feet square. In one corner was an ancient fridge that was once white but had yellowed with age, an industrial sized cord snaking out from beneath it and jammed into the wall. It hummed loudly as Kalani walked past, noting the sink overflowing with dishes, and the two-burner stove beside it.
A small folding table with two chairs was set up beside the oven, a box television with rabbit ears on top. The only other piece of furniture in the place was a bed, a pile of threadbare blankets strewn across it.
Along the wall were two doors, one leading into a bathroom, the other to a closet. With a quick glance Kalani could see an assortment of garish colors and fabrics hung inside, the attire of a girl peddling her wares each night.
From the looks of things around the apartment, business had been slow.
The girl crawled back into her spot in the bed and sat facing Kalani, pulling the blankets up to her chin, her face the only thing visible. From the round shape of it she looked to have been well-fed, free of any visible marks or scars.
“What’s your name?” Kalani asked, grabbing one of the chairs and dragging it over to the foot of the bed.
“Is Cherry in trouble?” the girl replied, skipping over Kalani’s question. Despite the inquiry, she seemed to be without fear or even concern, her face solemn.
Every part of Kalani wanted to be honest with the girl. Lying to her, stringing her along, would only make things worse in a few shorts minutes when the truth came out. Still, she had questions that needed to be answered, something that wouldn’t be possible if the girl became hysterical.
The fact that Kalani didn’t want to be the one delivering the news was only a small part of the equation.
Or so she told herself.
“No,” Kalani said, shaking her head. “We just need to ask her some questions about something that happened the other night. Is she your sister?”
The girl looked at Kalani a moment, as if trying to determine if she was being lied to, before nodding her head in confirmation.
“When was the last time you saw Cherry?” Kalani asked, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, fingers laced in front of her.
“Couple nights ago.”
Again, there was no real alarm in the girl’s voice as she responded, her face impassive. There was the distinct impression that this was the sort of thing that happened often, something the girl had long since stopped seeing as a point of concern.
“Does she normally stay gone for a couple days at a time?” Kalani asked. She cast a look around the apartment for anything that might offer some clue as to what had happened. From what she could see, though, the place was Spartan.
“Sometimes,” the girl replied, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “But whenever she does, she always comes back with a big bag of yummy food for us.”
Kalani nodded. For whatever faults the deceased may have had, at least she had the good sense to keep her younger sister far from it. Any hope at gleaning usable information was almost non-existent, even though she would stay until the social worker arrived. She and Rip would do a preliminary search through the apartment, but already she knew what it would turn up.
It wasn’t the first Cherry Lee Kalani had ever encountered. Such women seemed to be mobile to a fault, rarely having anything more concrete than a cellphone in their life. They were transient between apartments, neighborhoods, even cities, always in search of some place with better corners to stand on, more marks to try and obtain some money from.
There was no way Kalani could share any of this information with the girl, though, or tell her about Cherry’s death. HPD had child psychologists on staff for these things, people better qualified to help the survivors.
Reaching down into her bag, Kalani pulled out the photo of Lauren Mann and held it at arm’s length. “This is a friend of Cherry’s named Lauren. Have you ever seen her before?”
The girl leaned forward and squinted before retreating back into place, twisting her head from side to side. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Kalani asked.
Once more the girl examined the image. “Yeah, I’m sure. She’s very pretty. I would have remembered if she came here. The only people who ever did were ugly, old and wanting money.”
Kalani rubbed her hands together, not wanting to ask the one final question, but knowing she had to before somebody knocked on the door and turned this child’s world upside down.
“Is there anybody, anybody at all, you can think of who would want to hurt Cherry?”
A cloud of confusion passed over the girl’s face. “Hurt her? No, everybody loves Cherry. Why would anybody want to hurt her?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Trading in his cargo shorts for a pair of khaki chinos was as far as Kimo Mata was willing to go to blend in. His aloha shirt swung free, and a pair of leather thong slippers smacked at the heels of his calloused feet, as he walked through the lobby of the Waikiki Beachcomber.
Kimo ignored the guests and a few curious stares from resort staff, instead, setting his aim on the back corner and riding an escalator to the second floor to the Hoku Hale Showroom. Recently, the site had been the home to the Jimmy Buffet Show. Before that, the legendary Don Ho.
As he ascended, a banner promised that tonight’s headliner could put on quite a show as well.
Welcome to a Gala Benefit hosted by Governor Dwight Randle.
The sign was done in red, white and blue, the Hawaiian flag providing the backdrop for a bigger-than-life picture of Randle bedecked in a flowered shirt and lei around his neck, his thumb and pinkie extended outward in the colloquial local greeting.
A smirk pulled at Kimo’s face, resort staff bustling past him in both directions. Dressed in vests and bow ties, they jogged everywhere they went, frantic to make final arrangements for the benefit scheduled to begin in just a few short minutes.
The call had come in to Mata just before noon, a terse message on his voicemail telling him to get in touch as soon as possible. The sound of Mary-Ann Harris’s voice on his machine had surprised him at first, even more so when he returned the call and heard what she had to say.
Her mysterious source had informed her that something was going to happen tonight during the gala. She claimed to have no direct knowledge of any criminal activity about to take place, but suggested he be on hand just in case. Should her name arise in any way, she had plausible alibis for the entire day and would deny the conversation had ever taken place.
The moment her message was delivered, the line was cut off. Kimo tried twice to return the call, but each time an automated response informed him the person he was trying to reach was unavailable. He had a feeling if he tried having the number traced, it would turn out to be a burn phone.
With or without a number, he had been sure to record the conversation. Harris could attempt to deny all she wanted, but it would be tough to convince anybody it wasn’t her voice on the other end of the line.
He had planned to stop by the gala anyw
ay for a scheduled meeting, but would now be staying longer than he initially thought.
Despite receiving two enormous tips in the last week, his investigation was coming back with a lot of dead ends. The fact that the crimes included three murders made the circumstances even more astonishing, and a possible tie-in with the governor’s office and some of the more influential people in Honolulu piqued his interest.
Kimo rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of a long table, name tags lined up across it. Behind the table was a pair of young girls, both wearing spring dresses and smiles.
A few feet back from them was a pair of men from the governor’s security detail, each sporting matching sunglasses and scowls. There was no way to see where their eyes were focused as they stood in stony silence, though Kimo had a feeling both were watching him carefully, warming up for the night ahead.
“Kimo Mata,” he said, offering a half-smile to the girls, pretending the guards didn’t exist.
“Certainly,” the girl closest to him said, using a finger as a pointer and scanning the rows of nametags in front of her. Kimo found it before she did, but he opted to wait until she picked it up and handed it across to him. “Here you go, Mr. Mata. You’re a little early, but you can go on inside.”
“Thank you,” Kimo said, accepting it from her with a nod. As he did, his eyes flicked behind her to the guards, both standing rigid.
“Have a nice night,” the girl said as he circled around the table and stepped inside.
A wooden stage extended across the front of the room, a black skirt lining it, chairs for the orchestra already arranged in a sweeping half arc. A handful of musicians in black tie attire sat with their instruments as more headed toward them, ready to take their positions.
A parquet dance floor dominated most of the room, with tables and chairs scattered about. The back of the room housed the libations, bartenders and bar backs hustling to make final preparations.
Standing in the corner of the room, Kimo scanned and recorded the scene in seconds, passing over everything until he found who he was looking for. Raising a hand, he stuffed the name tag he’d just been given into his pocket and headed toward the opposite corner, cutting diagonally across the dance floor to get there.
The cavernous room seemed to ignore the sound of his slippers as he went.
Seated by himself in the corner was Sam Nakoa, hunched in his chair, thick upper body leaning heavy onto a table. He watched Kimo as he approached, chewing on a thumbnail, standing only when Kimo was just a few feet away.
“Sam,” Kimo said, extending a hand as he approached, feeling the concern in his friend’s demeanor.
“Kimo,” Sam said, reciprocating, almost crushing Kimo’s hand. “Nice pants.”
Gone was any of the jovial warmth he had exhibited in their last encounter, replaced with a heavy seriousness. Dressed in slacks and a dark aloha shirt, he seemed a far cry from the carefree man running the pineapple warehouse just days before.
Stepping to the side, Sam motioned for Kimo to take the chair he had just been seated in, pulling out the one adjacent to it. In unison they both lowered themselves, neither looking directly at the other.
“Thanks for coming so early,” Sam said, his voice low.
“You don’t have to thank me, Sam. You’re doing me the favor, remember?” Kimo replied, keeping his voice low. Through the doorway, he could see the two girls bandying about as they finished getting things ready, the guards frozen in place behind them.
“Yeah,” Sam said, nodding. “Something like that.”
“That bad?” Kimo asked, chancing a quick glance to the side.
Sam blew out a long sigh, shaking his head. Kimo could feel him trying to find the words.
“Yesterday I was able to sit down with Dany for a few minutes over at GB and ask him about what you said.”
Silence fell as another pair of musicians entered and made their way toward the stage, a man and woman laughing in an animated discussion.
“And?” Kimo prompted, moving his attention away from the pair, watching for any other interlopers who might venture too close. “He said it’s true?”
“No.”
Kimo pursed his lips, surprised by the response. Given Sam’s demeanor, he was expecting the worst. Chancing a quick glance to the side, he asked, “He said it’s not true?”
Another sigh escaped Sam, his features grave. “No.”
While the answer was a surprise, it explained Sam’s attitude. “You didn’t find out if it was true, but found enough to know it could be,” Kimo said, his voice almost a whisper, free of any inflection.
He had known enough men like Sam over the years to know that while this wasn’t as bad as finding out a cover-up was going on, not knowing for sure was a close second. Having served on the security detail for so long, the uncertainty of it would gnaw at him until an answer was uncovered.
Hellacious story or not, Kimo was almost sorry he’d asked Sam for his help. Just days ago, his friend had been enjoying his life working with the Takamine’s. Now he was here, stress etched across his face.
“Is that why you’re working tonight?” Kimo asked, his gaze still aimed forward.
“Not exactly,” Sam said. “Last night I got a call from Dany saying they could use some extra guys. He said it was completely my choice, but after he had made a point to talk to me, I didn’t feel like I could say no.”
Kimo nodded, knowing the feeling. Once this was over, he would be indebted in the same way to Sam, owing him a lot more than a few hours of work out on the plantation. He knew full well the original comment was made by Sam as a joke, but he would be sure to repay him as asked and then some.
Especially given what he was about to tell him.
There was no easy way to approach the information he had, and no way he could in good conscience refrain from sharing it. The first time Mary-Ann Harris had called, the information was after the fact. There was no need to involve the police because they were already on notice from what had happened. This time was different. This time was preemptive, a head’s up that something was about to go down.
If he didn’t go straight to the authorities, he at least needed to let the men tasked with security for the evening know. Whatever they did with it beyond that was on them.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Kimo glanced back over his shoulder, checking to be careful no kitchen staff were close by. “I got another call from Mary-Ann Harris this afternoon.”
For the first time since they’d sat down, Sam shifted his attention from the room to Kimo. “Mary-Ann Harris? About?”
Just like that, the Sam from three years before was back. No longer was he the jovial pal who spent his days overseeing the plantation, shedding the persona like a garment to reveal his true nature lying just beneath the surface. He was in complete protection mode, his senses on high alert, his body poised for action.
Fishing his phone from his pocket, Kimo pulled up the recording of the conversation. He thought of letting it play on speakerphone before thinking better of it and handing the phone across.
The large man listened intently to every word, the phone pressed against his ear, his face void of emotion. When it was over, he passed the phone back to Kimo, his fingers drumming against the table. His gaze darted from corner to corner, checking everything, his teeth sliding out over his bottom lip and beginning to gnaw on it.
“Do you think they’ll be dumb enough to try something here?” Kimo asked. “Or do you think they’re going to try and do something the governor can’t cover up?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said, his left leg beginning to bob up and down, uncertain energy pulsating from his body. After another moment of scanning, he fixed his gaze on Kimo, his stare intense. “You’re going to stick around, right?”
The look set Kimo back. Many times before he had witnessed Sam on the job, but never had that tenacity been pointed in his direction. Even now he knew he wasn’t the recipient of any ire, but the concentrated
power of the man’s stare was enough to make him uneasy.
“Yeah, I’ll be here,” Kimo said, his voice sounding a bit shakier than anticipated. “What do you need?”
Hearing the words he wanted, Sam was on the move, rising from his seat. “I need to go have a few conversations. And I might need to let some people hear that phone call.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The front gate to the house was already open as Danilo approached, his truck easing to a stop alongside the call box just long enough for the camera to get a look at his face. It was the first time he had ever arrived to see the gate open.
Zall’s presence alone should have been enough to have the place locked down tight. The mere thought of such a small misstep derailing things at this time was one Danilo would rather not dwell on.
A single tap to the gas pedal sent his truck rolling down the driveway. Already parked ahead of him was the Lincoln Navigator he knew Zall to use when he wanted invisibility. A moment of uncertainty passed as Danilo checked the clock on the dash, ensuring he was still several minutes early. Leaving his keys in the ignition, he hopped out and made his way to the house, moving fast, still no sign of security about.
Entering through the front door, he found the on-site staff already assembled in the living room. Three of them sat shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, all dressed in black, all looking supremely uncomfortable. Another three stood behind them, arms folded over their chests, eyes directed toward the floor.
Facing them on the opposite side of the room was Dr. Saiki, the first time Danilo had ever seen him outside the laboratory. His posture showed that he was just as awkward in a real life setting as Danilo imagined he might be.
And next to him was Zall, the polar opposite of Saiki in every way. He looked completely at ease as he sat staring back at Danilo, donning a $5,000 suit.
A hint of a smile played at his face. “I trust it is done?”
No formal greeting, just straight to the point.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 15