Pull it together, Corvelli. It’s Friday afternoon and the next is going to be one hell of a week. Motions will be filed, the investigation on our end will begin with a fury, including tracking down and getting statements from witnesses, sorting through hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs, and trying to assemble some sort of defense. But for now I need to dull my senses, so I head to Kanaloa’s to drink myself into the night.
When Suzie sets a mai tai in front of me, I push it away, ask for a Glenlivet on the rocks. It’s an unusual order for an outdoor beach bar in the middle of the day, but I’m feeling too dark for rum. Dark, even with the sun pounding on my back, trying to penetrate my Panama Jack, even with the beach just behind me, even with girls in thin wet bikinis sitting on either side of me. I take a long, hard pull off the single malt scotch when it comes, open the top three buttons of my bright yellow Tommy Bahama shirt. I’m cooking out here; it’s too fucking hot.
Baseball’s on the flat screen in front of me, the Dodgers and Padres, but I can’t seem to pay attention to a single pitch, the phone call to Milt now replacing the monologue from Jake in my mind. “’Cause you’re so fucking good?” Was that a shot?
“What do you need?” Milt had said. Because I only call when I want something from him? Because Milt took me under his wing in Manhattan and I fucked up and left?
The Glenlivet slides smooth as silk down my throat and I take a deep breath, thinking about Josh. There was a message from his aunt on my voice mail this morning, but I ignored it. The kid wants to see me. And some part of me that I never knew existed wants to see the kid. But the part of me I’m more familiar with is too invested in this case, too invested in this client.
Every instinct in my being is screaming for me to run from Erin Simms, especially after all that transpired when I fell for Nikki Kapua. Still, I feel drawn to her, to her case, to her cause. It’s as though I’m being held against my will and relishing some sordid pleasure every moment of my captivity.
“Everyt’ing awright?” Suzie says, staring at me. She’s a sweetheart but I’m in no mood to talk.
I nod without looking at her, press my prescription sunglasses higher on my face. “What time does Koa come on tonight?”
“Oh,” she says, glancing at her watch. “He’ll be on at six, I t’ink.”
I throw back the Glenlivet, slide the empty rocks glass toward the back of the bar. “Another, Suze,” I say. “Please. And make it a double.”
* * *
A few hours later there’s a plate of gnawed Buffalo wings in front of me. I don’t recall eating them and I sure as hell don’t remember ordering them, but when I glance in the mirror behind the bar, I look like the love child of my bright orange Jeep and a fifth of scotch. I must have eaten them. That what’s called in the law “a reasonable inference.”
I remove my hat and sunglasses, hop off the barstool, and stagger around the corner to the men’s room, where I intend to wash my face. Maybe pee myself silly while I’m at it.
I swing open the door, bypass the sink, and go straight for the urinal. I unzip my fly and let the good times roll, the bland restroom tiles doing some strange native dance on the wall in front of me.
The door squeaks open behind me, and my eyes instinctively dart to the mirror above the sink. Look at this guy, I think. Big and bald and as white as a wedding dress, with steroid-enhanced muscles bulging beneath a tight black T and denim jeans.
This is Hawaii, pal. No one wears black unless it’s formal wear. And jeez, what’s with the goatee? You flew to the tropics, bub, not back to the early nineties.
“Corvelli?” he says as I start to shake myself dry.
Dazed, I turn before tucking myself back into my fly. Big mistake, because next thing I know, his catcher’s mitt–size fist is on a collision course with my face. He connects, and I’m sent flailing backward against the urinal, the porcelain striking me hard in the back just above the waist.
My body sinks to the floor and is rewarded with a black combat boot to the ribs. Then he grabs two fistfuls of sunshine, pulling me up by the collars of my Tommy Bahama shirt. I grip his bald skull, try with my thumbs to gouge out his eyes, but as soon as I feel the sweet, soft texture of eyeball, he swings me toward the mirror, grabs me by the back of the head, and hurls me face-first into the glass. The mirror spiderwebs at the spot where my forehead struck. But just as I register the blood on my own reflection, he has me by the rear of the head again, and this time when he aims my face at the mirror, he holds nothing back.
I hear glass shattering and see white-hot flames flickering before my eyes. My legs suddenly go out from under me, but not until my left cheek finally hits the cool tiles do I realize that I am about to experience the bittersweet mercy of passing out.
CHAPTER 17
When I come to, Koa is standing over me, holding a dirty bar rag packed with ice.
“Here,” he says, trying to place it on my left eye.
I push his hand away, wave him off. “Put those cubes in a glassful of Glenlivet and bring it back stat.”
Koa backs off a bit and points to my midsection. “First you’re gonna have to put that away. This is a family place.”
I lower my chin to confirm I’m still hanging out of my fly, then tuck myself back in.
“What the hell happened?” I say.
“If I had to take one guess, I’d say someone kicked your haole ass.”
“Thanks,” I tell him as I extend my right arm so that he can help me up. The question is, why did someone kick my haole ass? As I steady myself on my own two feet, holding onto the sink, my alcohol-soaked mind searches for the answer.
I turn and stare into the smashed mirror above the sink, examining the telltale signs around my mouth. It’s as good an excuse as any. “I think maybe I ate that guy’s Buffalo wings.”
I’m standing in front of the sink washing off the blood and Buffalo sauce when Koa asks if I need help getting home. “I can call you a cab, Kev.”
I glance at my watch. “Maybe in a few hours,” I tell him. “For now, just snag me a seat at the bar.”
“No worries. Your Panama Jack is still on the barstool, saving your place.”
* * *
From my seat at Kanaloa’s, I gaze up at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort and flash on the night of the fire. Before that blaze, everything seemed to be going so well; I had not a worry in the world. A cougar, a kid, a client, and an ass-kicking later, and it seems as though my entire life is about to cave in. Jake’s all but ready to bail on our partnership, and I can’t say I blame him. I placed us in a precarious financial position, and I still can’t really explain why. And suddenly I have a young, arrogant prosecutor gunning for me. Might be best for everyone involved if Maddox wins his motion to have me relieved as Erin’s counsel. Problem is, I don’t like to lose. And I sure as shit don’t like to lie down in the middle of a fight.
Well, in a physical fight, sure. But in a legal battle? Not my style.
Suzie sets a mai tai in front of me but I don’t complain. The rum feels good going down, washing away the tangy blend of blood and Buffalo wings.
My left eye is sore; I feel it puffing up, so I ask Suzie for some ice. Fortunately, the sun is setting, the sky already a brilliant purple-red. Soon night will disguise my injuries and I’ll be a new man again.
As the sky fades to black, Koa lights the tiki torches and Kanaloa’s begins to overflow with tourists, most of them from the neighboring resort. A local band takes the small stage and soon we’re somewhere over the rainbow again.
While Koa mixes tropical cocktails, the two of us begin bullshitting, just as we did before the fire. He asks me about the kid, and I tell him the whole story, how I reluctantly made a new best friend.
“That’s a nice thing you’re doing,” Koa says, sliding a fresh mai tai in front of me. “This one’s on the house.”
I add, “I took in a stray cat last year, too, you know.”
But Koa’s attention has turned to the gat
e. Slinking through the entrance in a tight black dress is maybe the sexiest young woman I’ve ever seen, drunk or sober. She’s followed by a motley entourage, and it strikes me that she’s probably a celebrity.
“Who’s that?” I ask Koa.
“That, Kevin, is Miss Hawaii.”
I take a long, hard pull off my mai tai, then say, “I like her name.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Miss Hawaii and I are seated at the far end of the bar away from the stage.
“So, Miss Hawaii…” I say.
“You don’t have to call me Miss Hawaii.” Her smile lights up the night. “Call me Kerry, I told you. C’mon, you can remember that. Otherwise, it’s Miss Naikelekele. Take your pick. But no more Miss Hawaii, all right?”
She’s half native Hawaiian, she tells me, her father a Caucasian film director from Los Angeles. Whatever the blend, it’s intoxicating, and tonight she’s dressed to the nines, her long straight jet-black hair shimmering, the fire from the tiki torches dancing in her wide Polynesian eyes.
“So what do you do?” she says between sips of her Blue Hawaiian.
Before I can answer, Koa cuts in. “Kevin here is a big-time lawyer,” he says, leaning over the bar. “Criminal defense.” As though it’s a mere afterthought, Koa picks up the remote and changes the channel on the flat screen behind the bar. KGMB News: Hawaii Now.
Luckily, with the band playing, the television is on mute, because sure enough, there it is, footage of me heading down the courthouse steps with my client on the day bail was set. Then I read the bright blue banner at the bottom of the screen: CORVELLI DEFENDS SUSPECTED KO OLINA FIRESTARTER.
Kerry gazes from the screen to the vast resort that’s still operating, its Liholiho Tower without a top. “The fire here?” she says. “You’re representing the woman accused of starting it?”
I bow my head once, waiting for Miss Hawaii’s reaction, a lump forming at the top of my throat.
“That’s so fucking cool,” she says finally.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Koa,” I say, “one more round.”
Two minutes later Koa sets the drinks in front of us and recites my favorite phrase after not guilty: “On the house.”
CHAPTER 18
It’s nearing noon, Monday, when Jake first reaches for his yellow legal pad. He snatches a pen and with a shaky hand begins jotting down a list of possible witnesses.
Flan slaps his cell phone shut before he reenters the conference room. He takes a seat and opens his file without a word about his daughter Casey.
The Law Offices of Harper & Corvelli are all business this morning. Jake and Flan have even been instructed to wholly ignore the various cuts and bruises on my face. I told them little about Friday’s incident at Kanaloa’s other than that it may be Buffalo wing–related. Neither man seemed terribly surprised, which is fine, because there’s simply no time for further explanation. See, Luke Maddox finally gave up the Simms file through his secretary three hours ago, when I marched over to his office, cell phone in hand, forefinger poised over the speed-dial number for Judge Sonya Maxa’s chambers.
“Ever work an arson case before?” Flan asks Jake.
Jake shrugs, shakes his head no.
Flan turns to me. I glance up, chewing my lower lip, and it’s all the answer he needs. This is a first for us all. Anyone watching us sift through the crime scene photos—trying to make out the floors from the ceilings, the char from the carpets, the corpses from the furniture—would know it.
It’s all so goddamn grotesque.
I push my share of the photos away for the time being, take a hit of Red Bull, and grab the pleadings. Pleadings, at least, feel familiar—ugly white pages declaring war, setting forth the crimes charged and sparing us much of the gory details. But the pleadings aren’t going to be going before the jury; these monstrous photographs are. So I hold myself back from flipping each one over so that they’re face down on the table. There’s no hiding what happened at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort that night. There’s only procrastination.
“Nine counts of murder,” Jake says with a sigh, motioning at the complaint I’m holding.
“Eleven,” I correct him. “Today’s Honolulu Star-Advertiser says two victims died from their injuries late last night, one of them a firefighter. By this afternoon we’ll be looking at an amended complaint.”
“Waiving the prelim?”
“Now? You bet.”
The preliminary hearing to determine whether there existed probable cause for arrest was something I originally thought we might win, considering the state’s rush to arrest and charge Erin Simms. But learning this morning what the state has in the way of evidence has caused me to do a one-eighty. No chance of dismissal at the prelim. In fact, barring some miracle, this case is going all the way to trial.
“Here’s what they have,” I say, flipping through a report prepared by a veteran arson investigator named Inez Rios. “Point of origin is likely the far left-hand corner of the room, opposite the bed.”
“How do they know that?” Flan asks.
“Point of origin is the area where they find the most damage. That’s where the fire burns hottest and longest.”
Jake leans forward. “How about the cause?”
I scan the next page. “Cause is listed as incendiary, simply meaning the fire was intentionally set, as opposed to accidental.”
“How did they determine that?”
“Rios discovered an accelerant, specifically charcoal starter fluid at the point of origin. And there was a trailer leading from the point of origin to the bed.”
Flan asks, “What’s a trailer?”
“A trailer could be any material placed near the accelerant to spread the fire from its point of origin,” I explain. “Could be gasoline-soaked towels or newspapers, even gunpowder. In this case, it was a trail of the accelerant itself.”
“Why not just start the fire on the bed? That’s where the victim’s body was found, right?”
“Right,” I say. “I suppose whoever started the fire didn’t want to watch the victim burn to death. Or smell his burning flesh. This way, she or he could have turned and ran before the fire ever reached the bed.”
“Maddox will use that,” Jake says, “to show that the perpetrator knew the victim, couldn’t just stand there and watch him burn.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Then again it’s likely every suspect we come up with to cast reasonable doubt will have known the victim, too. I don’t know how much further we’ll be able to go than the guest list. Anyone outside the wedding party, we lose motive.”
Jake nods. “Let’s move on to the stuff that really hurts us, then.”
I don’t need to look at Rios’s report to tackle that issue. “Ignition,” I say. “Rios claims with a hundred-percent certainty that the ignition was a Zippo lighter found at the scene.”
“Erin’s Zippo,” Flan says.
“Correct. That’s their smoking gun. The lighter was hers, there’s going to be no getting around that. It has her initials on it and I’ll bet everyone in the wedding party has seen her with it at one time or another.” I don’t mention that I’d seen her with the lighter myself the night of the fire, when she’d been arguing with the victim at Kanaloa’s.
Jake says, “Do we have an out?”
I shrug. “The usual. We can argue her handbag was lost or stolen that night.”
“Weak.”
“I agree. And a little too convenient. But it will also cover another vital piece of evidence.”
“The key card to the hotel suite?”
“Bingo.” Erin’s key card to the honeymoon suite is missing. The key card wasn’t discovered in the fire, and thus far—at least as far as we know—Erin’s little leather Fendi hasn’t been found either. The argument is simple: Erin’s Zippo and passkey were both in her handbag, but someone else gained possession of the handbag between the time it was last seen with Erin and the time when the fire started. We don’t
yet know how long that window is; for that we’ll have to hit the pavement. Obviously, the larger the window the better.
I turn to Flan. “We’re going to need to learn everything we can about the victim, Trevor Simms. And not just what we can find out from the wedding party. Book a flight to San Francisco soon as we finish the interviews here on the island.”
Flan nods.
“We’re still waiting on the autopsies,” I add, “but the ME’s report on Trevor Simms is going to be key. I’m particularly interested in the toxicology findings.”
Flan purses his lips. “Think he was so drunk he set himself on fire?”
“Hell of a way to suicide,” Jake says, straight-faced.
I shake my head. “What I want to know is whether Trevor truly passed out from alcohol, as Erin suggests, or whether he was drugged.”
Jake had no luck at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort last Thursday. Everyone from Maintenance on up provided the same response: No interview of any sort without one of the resort’s lawyers being present.
Flan had even less luck at the Kapolei fire station. “You’ll find everything in our reports,” Chief Gary Condon said. “Now if you don’t mind taking yourself someplace else, Mr. Flanagan, my men are understandably upset today, and no one’s in any kind of mood for your questions.”
Fortunately, we now know from discovery that the valve to the water main was indeed turned off, and that when it was dusted for prints the valve came up clean.
“Moving on.” I pull a large manila envelope toward me. “Erin’s memory is cloudy, so we’re going to have to reconstruct her timeline from the moment she and Trevor left Kanaloa’s to the moment she was first seen outside after the fire. No one has come forward with an alibi, so our only hope is that something was captured on camera. The prosecution has turned over hundreds of photos, and I suspect, if we do our jobs right, we can locate hundreds more from that night alone. Then there are the dozens of security cameras at the resort.”
Night on Fire Page 9