Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “I could have helped.”

  “Do you know where he gambled?”

  “No.” The answer came too fast.

  “Damon, you can’t protect him any longer. Anyway, I’ve heard some things.”

  “Stay out of it, Storm.” A bit of steel that hadn’t been there before showed in his voice.

  She eyed him. “Let me ask you a question, then.”

  He didn’t respond. Still scraping for shreds of self-esteem.

  “How did he gamble? Pachinko?”

  “I think so. At least, partly.”

  “Sports betting?”

  “Maybe a little.” He breathed out heavily through his nose. “Heck, we all do that.”

  “Cards?”

  Damon frowned. “I doubt if his English was good enough.”

  “I thought poker was international.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” That sounded honest.

  “Where do these games take place?”

  “Lots of places. We take bets at work, in bars—anyplace there’s a TV with a game on.”

  “What bars?”

  He turned in his chair and pointed at the bar TV set, which was tuned to a baseball game.

  “What bars have Pachinko machines?”

  “Why do you want to know about Pachinko?”

  Uncle Miles used to tell her not to trust a person who answers a question with a question. “Come on, where did Yoshinaka gamble?”

  Damon looked around for the waitress, took time to catch her eye and gesture for another beer. “Why do you want to know?”

  Another question. How much should she tell him? Maybe another little shock was what he needed. “Yoshinaka might have been threatened with his daughters’ welfare. Prostitution goes on in a lot of those places.”

  “Fuck.” The waitress put the fresh beer in front of him, but he didn’t look up. He just wagged his head from side to side as if he wanted to deny the thoughts that dwelled in his mind.

  Their meals arrived right after the drink, and Storm was glad for the interruption. Damon wasn’t responding to her questions; discussing the Yoshinaka family seemed to drive him further away.

  She’d missed lunch and was starved. Her lamb chops were delicious, but Damon poked at his steak.

  “That can’t be. They’re too young,” he said finally. “They’re my daughters’ ages.”

  Storm tried to imagine how Hamlin would react to a menace of this magnitude toward children he knew. It seemed to her he’d show a lot more revulsion than Damon. Hamlin might erupt with something on the order of, “Fucking maggots, how could they?”

  Not Damon. He acted like he’d already heard a rumor and was in denial.

  “How old’s Keiko?” she asked.

  Damon’s head came up. “A lot older than the Yoshinaka girls.”

  Storm glared at him. “You knew she worked in one of the bars.”

  He moved garlic mashed potatoes around on his plate. “She’s twenty-something, and Lara’s trying to help her out. Stella, too.”

  “Stella’s helping Keiko or Lara’s helping Stella?”

  “All of them, I don’t know. You know how women are.” He stabbed at his food as if he wanted to use the fork on someone. Her, probably.

  Storm concentrated on her meal, which was delicious. “How are those mashed potatoes?”

  He took a bite. “Good. And garlicky—I like that.” He put a big chunk of steak in his mouth and chewed.

  Storm stayed on safe conversational subjects all the way through dessert. She ordered a warm apple galette with ice cream, he got the hot fudge brownie sundae, and they shared.

  “How many jobs have you done for Lara?” she asked.

  “This is my third.”

  “The remodel was the first?” Storm reached her fork across the table for a bite of his brownie and pushed her plate toward him. “That was an apartment, right?”

  “Yeah, I think she was testing me for the house, which was her big project. Has she shown you that? She’s got two rich investors bidding on it, and she’s going to make a bundle.”

  Storm remembered the day the shark had chased Lara, and how well Lara had known the Makena locale. She’d also recognized the construction guys coming from work on projects in the area.

  “Is that the one on the bluff down by Makena?”

  “It’s on the ocean side of the street, and better hidden than that place. Private, yet right on the beach.” Damon took a bite of the apple tart.

  “She’s a smart woman.”

  “Yes, she is.” His voice was thoughtful.

  “I’m a bit worried about how much she’s taking on at one time.”

  “That’s crossed my mind, too,” he said.

  “Is her mother’s health worrying her?”

  Damon finished off the last of his brownie and pushed back from the table. “She won’t be leaving that rest home. That would worry anyone.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  They left the parking lot together and said good-bye standing on the gravel next to their cars. “Thanks for dinner,” Damon said.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, so I might not see you for a while. Call me if you visit O‘ahu,” Storm said.

  “I thought you were meeting Lara tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll be at the shop? On Sunday?”

  “We’re in a rush, remember? The final push for the grand opening.”

  Damon left the parking lot first, and Storm followed. She faced a half-hour drive on a winding road, so she was glad she’d merely sipped at the second glass of wine.

  Five minutes down the dark highway, Damon’s brake lights gleamed. Ahead, the flashing blue beacons of several police cars pierced the night. Storm followed Damon into the small, crowded parking lot bordering one of the many little beach parks that dotted the coastline. The headlights of the police cruisers streamed from the cars toward the vastness of the ocean, only to dissipate feebly into a pillow of inky night. There were no people in the cars, but down by the lapping waves, flashlight beams converged in one area, where they flitted like agitated fairies, united against the dense night.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Damon pulled to a stop next to a white Corvette. Lara’s car.

  He was out of the truck before Storm found a place she could park without blocking everyone else.

  “Lara,” he shouted, and rushed toward a small group of people facing a line of police.

  Storm got out of her car more slowly. Lara and two men stood under a grove of trees whose graceful canopies sheltered the flat shapes of picnic tables and the faint glow of an emergency call box. The trio looked lonely and frightened. In the dim light, Lara wrung her hands.

  Storm hung back for a few moments, but Damon ran toward Lara and the men. A group of four patrolmen approached from the other direction, probably to keep Lara’s group from getting closer to the beach. Their manner was gentle, even sympathetic. One of police was Carl Moana.

  Lara held the older man’s elbow. Ryan stood on the other side of his father, his strained white face reflecting the search lights. He looked more shocked than the older man.

  Damon touched Lara’s shoulder. “What happened? Why are you out here?”

  Lara glanced at Storm, who’d caught up to Damon. Her eyes glistened in the dim light. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “We saw the police, and your car,” Storm said. “Can we help with anything?”

  Lara gestured to one of the policeman, who answered Storm’s question. “There’s nothing to do right now.”

  Storm caught Moana’s eye and saw the discreet shake of his head. No one was giving out information.

  Lara saw it, too. “Let’s keep our appointment tomorrow morning, and we can talk then.”

  “You’ve got my number if you need me,” Storm said.

  On the way back to her car, she slowed to observe the officials who were coming and going with resolve, but
without urgency. The engines to the cars and the ambulance were off. One of the cars was unmarked and had the plates of a county vehicle. Storm would bet it belonged to the Medical Examiner’s office. A woman in tailored business clothes softly closed the door to a police cruiser. In her hands was a big roll of yellow crime-scene tape.

  Footsteps crunched in the gravel, and she turned to see Damon. “Do you know who’s on the beach?” she asked.

  “No, but Ryan looks more upset than anyone. I wonder if it’s one of his friends.”

  “Maybe,” Storm said. “His dad looked grim, too. Almost wooden.”

  “Lara doesn’t deserve any more heartache.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” And there was nothing else to say or do. They got into their separate vehicles and eased onto the road.

  Passing cars had slowed down to see why the police were gathering. Some had even pulled onto the side of the road, along with two vans from television stations. As Storm joined the crawling line of traffic, a couple of automobiles pulled from the shoulder. Others took the open spaces. Whoever had died wouldn’t stay secret for long.

  By the time Damon turned off the main road, the line of cars had thinned to normal traffic. When Storm got into Kihei, she remembered she needed some deodorant, and while she was at it, some bottled water and juices for the room. She’d seen a supermarket on South Kihei Road a mile or so from the hotel. This required leaving Pi‘ilani Highway before the cut-off to her hotel, and she wasn’t sure which cross streets would go all the way to the smaller, parallel road. At ten-thirty, she didn’t want to loop around a residential neighborhood, setting all the dogs barking.

  She chose a street with a traffic light and made her turn. Behind her, the high, bright lights of some shiny-grilled SUV reflected from her rear-view mirror. Another car trailed behind it, all heading to the hotels and businesses along the ocean road.

  Storm stopped at the store, got her supplies, and headed in the direction of her hotel. Two or three blocks down the road, she came upon a black Land Rover, which was inching away from a green light. When she braked, the lights of the car behind her lit the inside of her car. Her own lights lit the inside of the Rover.

  With a flicker of apprehension, she wondered if the Rover had been the SUV behind her when she turned off Pi‘ilani Highway. At first, she’d assumed the driver was creeping along because he was on the phone. But she could see the back of his head, and there was no phone at his ear. Bluetooth? Maybe. But then she saw the flash of what appeared to be sunglasses in his rear view mirror.

  Suzuki’s and the assistant U.S. Attorney’s paranoia had rubbed off. Who wore dark glasses at night? Was that guy watching her? There were few other cars on the road, but she was sandwiched between two of them.

  About fifty yards ahead, an old, decal-covered car with surf racks waited to exit a restaurant parking lot. Storm slowed and motioned for the driver to move out. When he did, and shot a happy shaka from his side window, she waved and returned the gesture.

  The SUV, which now led a line of four vehicles, slowed again. The surfer put on his brakes, probably assuming the SUV driver was lost. Storm jerked her wheel hard, veering into the parking lot the surfer had just left. She was going a little too fast for the turn, and her tires squeaked in protest.

  The car behind her slammed on his brakes. So did the SUV, and the surfer’s car swerved, squealed, and came to a smoking stop after thunking into the SUV’s rear bumper. The surfer hadn’t been going fast, but his car was old and rust-pocked, and its hood humped into a rusty accordion. Water hissed from the radiator. The SUV stopped at the impact, but appeared to be unmarred.

  “Hey, assholes,” the surfer screamed, and jumped from his car. “You did that on purpose.”

  Storm, phone in hand, dialed 911. They did do it on purpose, but not for the reasons the hapless surfer thought. In the little time she’d had to come up with an escape plan, she’d only hoped her pursuers would decide not to make a scene in front of witnesses. She hadn’t meant to set the surfer up for a wreck, poor guy.

  A big muscular guy climbed down from the SUV. His dark glasses glinted. A smaller guy got out of a sedan. The big guy approached the surfer, who was half his body mass.

  The surfer was undaunted. He shouted, pointed, and stamped his rubber slippers. Storm thought she might fall in love. Meanwhile, the cringe factor of crunching metal and breaking glass had lured others to the scene, and people emerged from nearby restaurants and shops.

  For a moment, Storm considered taking off, but the thugs already knew who she was. What good would running do? So when the police cruiser arrived, Storm approached the patrolman.

  “I saw the whole thing,” she said. “The SUV braked suddenly for no reason. It looked like a setup.” She gave the officer her name as a witness and left.

  But now she had to go somewhere. These guys recognized her car. They probably even knew where she was staying.

  The first person Storm thought of calling was Stella, but Storm needed someone with a car, and Keiko had it.

  Storm phoned Damon, who sounded sleepy. “Sorry to bother you so late.”

  “S’okay. I was watching the tube.”

  “Do you have a car I could borrow? I mean, other than your truck?”

  “You have an accident?”

  “No, but I need to change cars. I think someone’s following me.”

  “I’ve got old station wagon. It’s my ex’s. The battery’s probably dead, but I can get it going. You seen the news?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. Why is someone following you?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  ***

  Ryan and Lara drove Tagama to their place. His apartment was part of the crime scene. The police were certain by the mayhem in Tagama’s condominium that Yasuko had been attacked there and taken from the premises.

  It was bad enough, Ryan thought, that Yasuko had been killed. But the fact that Yasuko’s and Tagama’s shared place was the place of her final struggle made him even sadder. For the first time in his life, Ryan knew that his father had a home he cared about. And it had been destroyed, along with Yasuko.

  Ryan walked from the car with a heavy sorrow that slowed his steps to the pace of his father’s. The old man hadn’t said a word since he’d identified her. Tagama had slipped one of the crushed gardenias from the tangle of her hair, and now that they were out of the crime scene tech’s view, he took it out of his pocket. The way he caressed the ruined flower nearly broke Ryan’s heart.

  Right before they’d left the scene, one of the detectives had rushed up to them. He was doing his best to show Tagama a kindness when he promised, “We’ll find who did this, sir.” He’d then turned to an ID tech and said, “Bag her hands. Looks like she put up a fight.”

  Lara had made a choking sound and Ryan had cringed, but he’d been watching his father. Tagama’s only reaction was to blink twice. It would have been better if he’d made a noise.

  On the way home, Tagama’s cell phone rang, but he let it go. He’d been like a statue in the back seat of the car. When bumps in the road caused him to lean, he’d come to rest upright against the door.

  Ryan got his father settled in their guest room. Tagama murmured a thank-you, closed the door, turned off the lights, and sat on the bed. For nearly a half hour, he stared out of the window. The moon was a sliver and the night was dark. He couldn’t see stars from the room, but he knew they were there, and he wondered if Yasuko was among them.

  “I’ll get him, angel,” he whispered.

  In the dark, Tagama pulled off his pants and felt the weight of his phone in the pocket. It reminded him of the call he’d received. Sure enough, his aide had left a message.

  “Tagama-san, she caused an accident. She saw either me or the Land Rover, I don’t know. When the police asked me what happened, she drove away. She didn’t go to the hotel. I lost her.”

/>   Tagama tossed the phone onto the bedside table, folded his slacks and shirt on the back of the chair in the room, and climbed into the single bed. He turned on his side and looked out the window, into the night sky.

  ***

  Damon’s directions to his home were easy to follow, and Storm arrived about twenty minutes after calling him.

  He answered the door in sweat pants and a T-shirt, probably what he slept in. “The dead person was on the news. She was a Lahaina bar maid. I don’t know why Lara was there.”

  “What’s the woman’s name?” Storm asked.

  “Yasuko Matsui. You ever heard of her?”

  “Just recently. I think she was a friend of Ryan’s father. Did they mention the bar she worked in?”

  “The Red Light.” He scrutinized Storm’s face. “You think Ryan and Lara know her, too?”

  “Ryan’s dad was involved with her.”

  “You sure?” He looked confused. “That’s a hostess bar. Lara wouldn’t have anything to do with one of those.”

  Like she’d suspected, Damon did know more about hostess bars than he’d let on. “Because of Stella and Keiko?”

  “Partly.” He dropped onto the sofa, then remembered his manners. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” He pointed to the beer he’d been drinking. “A nightcap?”

  “No, thanks. What were you saying?”

  “Lara tried to help women. She wouldn’t do anything to support a place like that.”

  “Stella told me some things,” Storm said.

  “Really?” Damon picked at a hangnail for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “You need to know something about Stella. She’s had a hard life, and one of the results of it is that she exaggerates. Oh hell, she lies.”

  “What does she lie about?”

  “You know, how bad her life was.”

  “What about Lara’s sister?”

  “She died of an overdose. Angela was a cocaine freak, then she got into crystal meth.”

  “Why’d she use drugs?”

  “She couldn’t live up to Lara’s standards.”

  “Did anyone in their family make her feel she couldn’t?”