Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

  * * *

  As I amble back in the direction of the cougar and the kid, I turn and spot the honeymooners we’d seen arguing at the bar, now huddled in each other’s arms, the young woman sobbing uncontrollably into her husband’s chest. I sigh heavily, Tatupu’s words echoing in my head. Property damage is one thing, even if that property happens to house some of the finest cougars to visit the Hawaiian Islands. Even had the big bad fire consumed my favorite beach bar, it was still something to watch, something to experience, something to tell Jake and our investigator Flan about in the morning at Sand Bar over a few a.m. mai tais. But now that people have perished here …

  I do a double-take as I pass the newlyweds. The guy she’s with isn’t the groom at all; he’s someone else entirely. Suddenly it hits me: the newlyweds were on our floor, in the room adjoined to the kid and Grandma’s. The door adorned with the baby blue garter. I take another glimpse, wondering why then the bride is fully dressed, decked out in the same red dress she wore earlier to Kanaloa’s.

  “Who was that guy you were speaking to?” the cougar asks, as soon as I elbow my way back through the crowd.

  “Cop,” I say.

  “What did he want?”

  “Just has some questions.”

  “Where did he say the blaze started?”

  Before I can respond, it hits me like a brick to the back of my head. Who? What? Where? When is obviously next. That’s right, the cougar is a freelance journalist. I’m sleeping with the enemy.

  Suddenly the kid tugs on my blanket, nearly yanking it off. “Where’s my grandma?” he shouts.

  I kneel in front of him, offering a sympathetic look but no answers. Lying doesn’t seem right, but telling the truth seems a whole hell of a lot worse. “The jury’s still out, kid,” I say.

  The kid stares back at me, dumbstruck, tears rolling down his crimson cheeks. “What?”

  As I fumble for another answer, the cougar kneels on the kid’s other side, speaks softly in his ear. Whatever she’s telling him appears to calm him, and I realize that whatever that is, it doesn’t really matter now. Whether Grandma’s dead or alive, the kid will have plenty of time to process the verdict. No need to send him into a state of shock just now.

  I stand and stare at the long line of yellow fire trucks, recalling the big bright red engines that paraded down Willard Avenue past my own grandmother’s house in Totowa, New Jersey, twenty-five years ago. They rolled by in the daylight once, maybe twice a year, lights flashing, firemen waving, tossing Blow Pops and Tootsie Rolls to the kids on the street. The parade held some kind of purpose, I’m sure. Maybe to commemorate Memorial Day or Labor Day or the Fourth of July. Something like that. All I remember now are the lights and the candy—and my grandmother at my side, holding my hand, preventing me from running into the road, boarding one of the trucks, and leaving my childhood behind forever.

  Koa says, “I’m going to take off, Kevin.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back to the present. “If they get this inferno under control before it reaches Kanaloa’s, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nod my head, my attention drawn to a dark-skinned African American man slowly approaching us with a pad in his hand. He’s wearing a bright yellow jacket, the big bold black letters HFD no doubt printed on his back. He is still a few persons away, taking statements.

  I slip through the crowd toward him, not quite anxious to answer questions but to ask some. Well, one to be exact.

  “Excuse me,” I say, when there is a break in the conversation.

  The man holds up one finger, not the offensive one, so I wait while he finishes taking the woman’s statement.

  The men in yellow are dispersed now throughout the crowd, seeking those individuals with cameras and video recorders first. Investigators are all around, scanning the crowd, observing the observers with binoculars and cameras and video recorders of their own. This is potentially an arson and homicide investigation. Gathering evidence early on is crucial.

  A few minutes later the man in yellow steps over to me. “Name?”

  “Kevin Corvelli,” I say, grudgingly. “C-O-R-V-E-L-L-I.” Frustrating as it is, I know he won’t answer my question until I answer a few of his.

  “Are you a registered guest at this resort, Mr. Corvelli?”

  We go through the whole spiel, from how many drinks I consumed at happy hour to how and when I took the cougar back to her room and did the dirty. Then we finally get to the kid.

  I tell him the entire story.

  “Pineapple boxers?” he says.

  When I’m through, the investigator, who has identified himself as Darren Watts, tells me to hang on a few minutes. Watts steps away, puts his radio to his lips, and says something I can’t quite make out. Then he vanishes into the crowd.

  I stare over at the cougar and the kid, heart in my throat, the sick feeling in my stomach growing more intense by the second. Wondering how the hell the kid’s going to handle this.

  I swivel my head, a little dizzy from the stress. The looker is still in the middle of the crowd, bawling into some other guy’s chest. A sick horrible thought, the type we all experience but never admit to, flashes in my mind: Hey, Kev. Looks as though she’s single again.

  I push the thought away as the investigator Darren Watts returns, one of those you-know-what’s-coming looks on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Watts says quietly, looking past me at the kid, “but I’m afraid the child’s grandmother didn’t make it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Kid’s name is Josh,” I tell Jake.

  My law partner and I are sitting across from one another in our conference room, his Zippy’s bacon and egg breakfast strewn across the expensive mahogany table as though a bomb just went off. Since Jake was gracious enough to cover for me in court this morning, I don’t say anything. Besides, I can tell he needs the grease. Poor bastard’s hungover as hell.

  “Kid’s mother, Katie Leffler, drowned in the Pacific behind their North Shore home just a few weeks ago,” I continue. “Middle of the night. She’d been working on a second bottle of Pinot. Apparently decided it was a good time for a dip. Current took her. Her body was discovered on the rocks the next morning.”

  Jake whistles, a morsel of overcooked bacon soaring in an arch across the table. I take a deep breath and hold my tongue.

  “Grandma was here on the island to collect the kid,” I say. “To fly him back to the mainland. Nevada or New Mexico, I think.”

  “No father?” Jake says.

  I shrug and try to keep the emotion from my voice. “According to the kid’s great-aunt Naomi, the father has never wanted much to do with the kid. He’s a confirmed bachelor, a bit of a ladies’ man, and the kid apparently cramps his style.” I watch Jake shovel a plastic spoonful of runny eggs into his mouth. “Anyway, Mom and Dad never married, but she stayed here in the islands so the kid would have a father nearby. Clearly, things didn’t work out the way she intended.”

  “How did she wind up here in the first place if the family’s from the mainland?” Jake asks, taking a cautious sip from his coffee.

  “She was attending UH,” I say. “Majoring in marine biology. Quit as soon as she got knocked up and moved out of the dorms, rented a small home up North Shore.”

  “And the father?”

  “The dad’s former military. Joined the Army right after high school in Charlotte, North Carolina. Transferred to Schofield Barracks here on Oahu a few years later. Apparently left the Army in 2003 to avoid the Iraq War, but remained in the islands and took on odd jobs. Think he fixes cars for a living now.”

  “Even with the mother and grandmother both out of the picture, the dad still doesn’t want the kid?”

  “Aunt Naomi is going to bring in a family lawyer to have a talk with him, but she’s not holding her breath.”

  “A shame,” Jake says.

  I lower my eyes. A shame. Just saying the words is enough to clear our consciences of just about anythin
g. So long as we express our disapproval of a horrendous situation, we’re off the hook. I see the kid now, trembling and white with shock, with not a single human being itching for the pleasure of watching him grow up, and all I can say is, “It’s been known to happen.”

  Jake sets his cup of coffee down and stares up at me. Before he can speak, I glance out at the Honolulu skyline and change the subject.

  “So the fire…” I say. Everything I know about the blaze is splattered on the front page of the copy of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser resting on the chair beside Jake, but I elaborate nonetheless. “Nine confirmed dead, five in critical condition at the Queen’s Medical Center, including two firefighters. Police and Fire haven’t released anything yet as to cause.”

  Jake pushes his plastic container away from him. “According to the paper,” he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “some witnesses say they heard an explosion. You hear anything, son?”

  “I was passed out on rum,” I tell him. “You could’ve fired a cannon across the bow of the bed and I wouldn’t have woken up.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  I grimace, wondering why the hell people always tell you how lucky you are when you narrowly escape a tragedy. I could have lost all four of my limbs, one of my ears, half my jaw, but so long as I were still breathing, albeit with the aid of a Saab-sized ventilator, some son of a bitch would still come by and tell me how goddamn lucky I was. No, I wasn’t lucky, not last night. If I were lucky I wouldn’t have been at the resort in the first place. I would have been home, spread out on my Egyptian cotton sheets, my windows open, a cool breeze blowing in, with my ten-year-old Maine Coon cat Grey Skies curled up at my feet.

  Jake lifts the newspaper off the chair and sets it on the table. “Some are thinking terrorism,” he says, squinting down at the print.

  “Some are always thinking terrorism,” I say. “It’s the new Journalism 101. Scare people, boost ratings, boost sales.”

  Jake runs his hand through his ever-thinning white hair. Seems to me he ages a month every week.

  I sit back, cross one leg over the other, and gaze out the colossal conference room windows, swallowing the view. “Thanks for covering for me this morning,” I say without looking at him.

  “No worries,” he says.

  “So how did it go in court?”

  Jake shrugs. “Son of a bitch is charged with his fifth DUI in as many years and still has the balls to accuse me of smelling like booze.”

  I don’t say anything but I can smell Jake from here, yesterday’s poison gushing out of his pores like the BP oil spill. “Rough one last night?” I ask.

  “Had a long bout with Mr. Daniels,” he says, turning his head toward the ceiling. “Used to be we got along just fine. No more, it seems.”

  “Jack Daniels, huh? I thought Alison hates Jack. What happened? You two finally run Whiskey Bar out of Jameson?”

  “No Alison last night,” Jake mutters. “Just me.”

  I swallow hard, knowing damn well Jake desires me to ask and pitting it against how little I want to. If I don’t fill the silence immediately, he’s going to launch right into a monologue, I know. Not going to wait very long for my prompting. And once Jake starts talking, well …

  “Her and I,” he says, “we’ve been on the rocks the past few days.”

  Too late, I think. Here it comes. I might as well direct the conversation because I’m going to hear about this one way or another. At least if I ask, I’ll earn some points in the friendship department, maybe get him to cover for me again in court tomorrow, in case I decide to head back to Kanaloa’s this afternoon to tie one on.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say. And I am. Without Alison I’ve little doubt that Jake would have already drunk himself to death. “What’s going on? She leave you?”

  Jake looks up at me with watery bloodshot eyes and bites down on his lower lip. Jake first met Alison Kelly, a forensic scientist with the Honolulu PD, last year during our first trial together. I’ll be damned if he didn’t ask her out while she was on the witness stand, testifying to the scientific credibility of lip print analysis. Since then Jake and Alison have done their drinking together as a couple, which, as any alcoholic will tell you, is the only cure for drinking alone.

  “Other way around,” Jake says, mid-sigh.

  “You left her?” I uncross my legs and lean forward, absolutely shocked and barely trying to hide my surprise. What abominable offense could she have committed to have caused my partner Jake Harper to leave a gorgeous, smart and sexy, utterly understanding woman like Alison Kelly?

  There is a long pause from his side of the table, as Jake puffs out his chest and refuses to swallow his pride. “She quit drinking,” he finally says.

  There is a light rap on our conference room door, then the familiar squeak that drives me bat-shit crazy but I’m still too lazy to oil. Our receptionist Hoshi pops her head in.

  “Kevin,” she says, “you have a call on line three. She says her name is Erin Simms.”

  I glance at Hoshi and tell her to please take a message, that I can’t take any calls right now. I turn back to Jake, whose eyes continue to focus on the conference room door. I swing back around and find Hoshi still standing there, her hands clasped together in front of her as though in anxious prayer.

  “I’m sorry, Kevin,” she says in a small voice, “but I really think you should take this call. The woman on the phone sounds panicked, and she insists that it’s urgent.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Fifteen minutes later I’m in my electric-orange Jeep Wrangler on H-1 West heading up North Shore to a spot called Hidden Beach. It was the only place Erin Simms would agree to meet, and even then, only after I assured her it was the most private place on the island. She’s frightened, she said, and from the sound of her voice over the telephone that was an understatement. She’d been watching the local news all morning, flipping across our three main local stations, and just now learned that she’s been named “a person of interest” in the Kupulupulu Beach Resort fire.

  Traffic is light, a far cry from the hell on H-1 heading into Honolulu on a weekday morning and the horror heading out from about four to six in the early evening. That’s why I often try to leave my office on South King Street by three P.M. Well, that and because Kanaloa’s offers a variety of enticing drink specials from four to seven.

  Right now driving is fine, and I can almost enjoy the ride, with the soft top down and soothing Jack Johnson melodies pouring out of my speakers. Only I’m none too thrilled to be meeting a prospective client related to the Ko Olina resort fire. It’s big news already, I know, not just on the local stations but on CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. Last thing in the world I want right now is another press case, particularly one that’s gone national. Jake and I have been content handling an array of drug, burglary, and assault cases of late. They pay the bills, my dark hair stays dark, and there is plenty of time left over to enjoy this island paradise.

  But this Erin’s voice sounded so desperate I couldn’t help myself. Even as my brain begged my lips to say no, I was telling her that everything would be okay, that I’d meet with her, if not in my office then anywhere on Oahu that she wanted. It was only a few moments before my mind finally flashed on Hidden Beach.

  Hidden Beach is a secluded spot few locals and fewer tourists even know about, a remote block of sand that can’t be seen from any road. I was introduced to Hidden Beach by my first lover here in the islands—a beautiful, young Hawaiian woman named Nikki Kapua, whom I met while conducting witness interviews during my first homicide case in Honolulu.

  I take the exit for H-2 and head north through some congestion in Wahiawa, relieved when I’m finally hit with the scent of fresh pineapple from the Dole Plantation. The northern part of Oahu remains rural, thanks largely to efforts opposing urban sprawl. With the mammoth Waianae Mountain Range on my left and the pineapple fields to my right, I could very well be traveling through America’s agricultural heartland, were it
not for the draw of the azure Pacific Ocean just beyond.

  Ten minutes later I’m gliding through the beach town of Haleiwa, which is relatively quiet now but will be bustling with surfers come winter and the hulking North Shore waves that accompany the season. I bear left past Dillingham Airfield, gazing up as a stream of skydivers in rainbow parachutes drift by in a diagonal line overhead. Then I glance in my rearview mirror as I slow my Jeep for the last half mile. Very soon I’ll be running out of road.

  At the end of the pavement, I roll to a stop and shift the Jeep into neutral, then into four-wheel drive. Another glimpse into the rearview to make sure no one sees me, then I put the Jeep back into drive and press down slowly on the accelerator.

  As soon as my tires hit dirt, I become anxious. Between the massive jagged rocks and the city-sized craters, I feel as though I’m navigating the surface of Mars. Even wearing my seat belt, my head smacks against the side window, and my right knee cracks against the steering wheel more than once. If you ask me, off-roading isn’t damn near as exhilarating as the commercials would have you believe. And it’s sure as hell not as safe.

  I nearly flip the Jeep over as I strike a large boulder then mercifully level off. The Jeep’s temperature gauge reads ninety-three degrees and I wonder just when we’ll escape this infernal heat wave. Even in a light Tommy Bahama T and shorts, with a UH baseball cap protecting my head, I’m cooking like a kalua pig at a luau. I could use a dip in the cool Pacific. Come to think of it, a cold hard drink of Coke and 151.

  There are, of course, no bars on the mile and a quarter of treacherous terrain between Farrington Highway and Hidden Beach, just a dozen or so old telephone poles and lengths of tall dense greenery, along with the majestic Waianae Mountain Range shielding us from civilization.

  I jolt to a stop across from the pole marked 196 and throw the Jeep into park. I unhook my seat belt, fling open the door, and drop onto the rock-hard dirt, my size-12 sandals kicking up enough dust to make me cough.