Lara thought about the flowers. It was ten o’clock, and the nursing staff at the home would have finished with Barb’s morning bath. She dialed the extension on her mother’s floor and was delighted to reach a caretaker she recognized.
“Elisabeth, would you mind watering that gardenia plant for my mother? She won’t remember.”
“Oh.” Elisabeth sounded surprised. “She told me about it.”
“That’s good,” Lara said.
“Yes, I’m glad to hear it’s real.” Elisabeth thought for a second. “She probably put it someplace safe. She’ll do that from time to time.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t see it?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
It was a coincidence. How could he suspect? The realtor and she were the only ones who knew.
“Lara, are you there?” Elisabeth asked.
“Sure, I’m here. How about the orchid Stella brought? Did she, uh, hide that?”
“No, it’s on the table. She had one of the flowers in her hair.”
Lara bit her lower lip. “Thanks, Elisabeth. I’ll visit this afternoon.”
It was a message; she’d known the minute she’d seen the flowers in Yasuko’s hair. He knew she’d be on the beach when the body was found, too. He was playing them all.
Lara set the receiver down and paced back and forth a half-dozen times. She picked up the phone and dialed another number. She got her realtor’s voice mail and left a message to call her back. Probably showing some property; Sundays were busy days for realtors.
She made another call. “Ken, are you keeping an eye on him?”
“Sure, just like you asked.”
Lara could hear the sound of waves in the background. “What’s he doing?”
“Nothing. Well, he’s walking back and forth in his living room. Wearing a towel and looking pissed.”
“Good. Get back to the boat and meet me here a little before noon.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“I’m okay.”
***
Storm had little time before her meeting with Lara, but she was itching to cross-check Mark Suzuki’s information with numbers she’d pulled off Pauline’s phone log. Five minutes away from Lara’s shop, she pulled to the side of the road.
Not wanting to leave any documents in the hotel room, she’d been carrying around all the paperwork she’d collected over the past two days, and she flipped through the file she’d begun until she found the paper she wanted. Pauline had several calls to and from numbers Storm didn’t recognize, but there were also two from Lara’s cell phone and one from Pauline to the dive shop.
Storm’s first thought was that Lara was helping Stella look for the missing girls. But the calls were made yesterday morning, all between seven-thirty and eight. Stella had told Storm that Keiko left around nine.
None of the calls on Stella’s phone were made to a number designated as Keiko’s, so Storm had to assume for the time being that Keiko didn’t have a cell phone. She hadn’t had one in that closet, that’s for sure. Maybe she and Stella shared.
But Mark had noted a call from Pauline to Stella’s apartment on Saturday morning at eight-thirteen. She’d ask Stella if she remembered that call. If not, then chances were that Keiko’d picked up. The call took four minutes, too long for an answering machine or a hang-up. Long enough to exchange information.
It was time to go to her meeting. She’d review the list later, perhaps make another call to Mark for the unidentified numbers. If Akira Kudo changed phones often, maybe one of them was his. Or one of his bodyguard’s. Kudo would have other people doing the work of kidnapping young women and raiding hotel rooms. Or driving a black Range Rover.
At the dive shop, Storm watched Lara fumble with the lock at the front door. “I didn’t want anyone wandering in yet. People walk right in unless the door’s locked.”
“Are you open today?” Storm asked.
“We’ve got a dive group going out this afternoon.” Lara turned to lead Storm into the back office. Damon stopped hammering.
“Good morning,” he mumbled to Storm. He picked up his tools and left the room.
Lara watched him leave with a quizzical expression. She looked like she was about to ask Storm a question, but he’d left too quickly.
“No time off?” Storm asked. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“It’s sad for Ryan and his father. I didn’t know her, to be honest.”
Storm saw emotion—was it fear or grief?—pull at her features. What was the connection between Yasuko and these women? Stella had told Storm about the young women, but Stella hadn’t mentioned Yasuko, who worked at The Red Light, and had for a long time. Stella would know her, and if Stella’s story was true, Lara knew her too—and not just through the Tagamas.
“I heard she worked at The Red Light,” Storm said. “Stella told me about that place.”
Lara’s head whipped around. “Don’t listen to Stella. She’s got her facts all mixed up.”
“She seems to care about you.”
“I care about her, too. I gave her a job, didn’t I?”
“Keiko, too.”
“Yes, and Keiko’s a mess. You’ve seen her.” Lara pointed to a chair in front of a desk. “Let’s get to the insurance questions. As I remember, I’m paying you for that job.”
Storm sat down and laid her folder on the table. “Okay, I’ll start the clock.”
Lara sighed and took a seat behind the desk. “I’m sorry, it’s been a very long night. Hell, it’s been a long week.”
“I understand. We only have a few details to cover.”
“Where’s your briefcase?” Lara asked.
“It got stolen.”
“Shit,” Lara whispered.
“Don’t worry, no one can get into my work data. The files are encrypted.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. I have a very good tech person. Laptops are stolen too often for me to risk having cases exposed.” Another of Suzuki’s talents, for which Storm was highly appreciative.
Storm opened the folder. “And I back everything up.”
“No one could find out what we talked about?” Lara’s tan had faded.
“No, but think about it. We talked about insurance for the dive shop, a logical conversation for a new business owner. Believe me, it would take weeks to hack into my files, and even if it happened, yours wouldn’t reveal any vulnerability.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” Lara sighed. She leaned forward in her chair. “I’m going to buy the shopping center.” She tapped on the desk with her index finger. “The deal is finally coming together. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, but I thought it would be bachi. You know, bad luck.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Storm said. “This changes your insurance policy, but it’ll benefit you in the long run.”
“I hope.”
“How are you handling the real estate transaction?” Storm asked.
“I’ve got a realtor taking care of that.”
“Good. I’ll make the changes in Honolulu and fax you the papers.”
“When are you going back?”
“I’m going to the airport soon.” Storm didn’t mention Hamlin’s arrival. He might want to spend the night, but that was none of Lara’s business.
“Thank you for your help. Your understanding, too,” Lara said.
“You’re welcome.”
Lara walked Storm through the shop to the front door, where they shook hands. Damon’s tools were piled in a corner, but he was staying out of the way.
Lara watched Storm walk out the door and disappear around the corner. When she could no longer see Storm, she rushed to answer her cell phone, which was ringing in the office. She recognized the number as her realtor’s office, and assumed Mary Robbins was returning her call. But when she got through and listened for a moment to the sobbing voice on the other end,
she collapsed into her desk chair.
With a shaking voice and hands that trembled so that she could hardly hold onto the phone, Lara asked, “Where did the accident happen?”
“Honoapi‘ilani Highway. She was on the way to Kapalua.”
“How…how bad is she hurt?” Lara’s voice wavered.
The woman on the line broke down again. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Ichiru Tagama took the taxi as close as he could get to Olowalu Wharf. The driver didn’t want to leave him on the deteriorating road, but he also didn’t want to take out the undercarriage of his aging sedan.
Tagama reassured the cabbie that he wanted to stop there, and he didn’t need to wait. Tagama knew the driver would remember him. A polite, elderly Japanese local in nice loafers and a long-sleeved Barong Tagalog in a fine Pina fabric, like he was going to a wedding. Or a funeral. A bit dressy for a meeting at Olowalu Wharf.
As he’d planned, Tagama arrived about twenty minutes ahead of his scout. Ramirez was a good man, and he was punctual. He also had nine grandchildren. Tagama didn’t want him coming too early.
Tagama was counting on the isolation of the place, though it was known among history buffs and people who wanted to get away from the better known hiking trails. There were a few cars in the parking area, among them a black Range Rover. The other five cars were either generic rentals or rust-spotted locals.
Hopefully the drivers of the rentals were checking out the nearby petroglyphs or the site of the 1790 Olowalu Massacre, when American merchant Simon Metcalf slaughtered a hundred Hawaiian villagers because someone stole his boat. Only the keel of the boat was returned, along with the stripped thigh bones of the watchman. Times had changed, but human nature hadn’t.
Now he was at the site, Tagama wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake by not pinpointing a specific meeting spot. The area was bigger than he remembered, and the trees were large and provided excellent shelter. It had been years since he’d been down here. But then he heard the rumble of men’s voices, and knew he’d found his prey. Or his predators.
Tagama swallowed hard. His hands had become icy and his knees weak. Remember that strength is not always measured in muscle. They don’t know that you knew Ryan’s apartment would be bugged. And remember what these thugs did to Yasuko. You are old, and you can do this. It is right.
He whispered a prayer to Guan-Gong, Chinese general and god of martial arts and war in the afterlife. Yasuko had been Chinese by birth, brought into the water trade so long ago she thought she was Japanese until she was in her twenties. But Guan-Gong would help her. And, in seeking justice, Tagama himself.
He walked silently along the path, glad now for his loafers, which had soft, man-made soles. When he passed around the branches of a big Norfolk pine, he encountered the two big bodyguards. One had his back to Tagama, but Steven Kudo’s eyes narrowed at Tagama’s approach and the other guy turned.
Tagama allowed himself a small recoil. It wasn’t difficult; his legs were nearly boneless with apprehension. “What—” he exclaimed, and watched Kudo’s cruel smile.
When outnumbered, take out the biggest or the leader, Tagama remembered from his long-ago fighting days. Kudo would be first, he thought.
“Hello, Mr. Tagama,” said the other guy, and gave Kudo a smug look.
“Well, hello. Have we met?”
The bodyguards snickered. “Have we met?” Kudo repeated.
“I’ve got no issue with you fellows,” Tagama said. It didn’t take much effort to sound uncertain.
“Of course not.” Kudo reached into his jacket for a gun, and the other man followed. Kudo carried a Glock G20, the other guy a big Heckler & Koch. Compensating for something, Tagama surmised. He’d still take out Kudo first.
Tagama raised his hands. “I don’t carry a gun.”
“Stupid you,” said Kudo.
Tagama felt the flush of anger, a good feeling. He needed it.
The men lined up so that the three of them formed a triangle, with sides of ten feet. Tagama took a couple of steps closer. “What do you want from me? I told you I’m not carrying.”
Like he’d hoped, the men backed up. But they backed up on a parallel path, so that the three of them formed a line rather than a triangle. Excellent, Tagama thought. If they fire, they’ll shoot each other, too. The fact that neither of them had corrected the awkward geometry of the situation told him that they weren’t planning to kill him here. Either they preferred to take him to Obake, or they’d seen people in the vicinity before he’d arrived. He didn’t care.
“I’m going to put my hands straight out, okay?”
“Keep ’em away from your body,” said the thug.
“Of course,” Tagama said.
No way would he be able to hide a gun in the pockets of his slacks, and the men knew it. Tagama wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he knew Kudo and his sidekick had eyed his shirt tail for a bulge. He’d let them have a good look at his back when he raised his arms.
As he’d hoped, they relaxed. They didn’t consider that his long sleeves were for anything other than an old man’s chill.
Neither of them saw Tagama slide the light, stainless steel throwing knife into his hand where he kept it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, hidden by his relaxed fingers and his palm. By the time he smoothly raised and snapped his wrist, the two men had just begun to react.
The scalpel-like blade found its target in Kudo’s neck before their guns were raised. Kudo, startled by the slight impact, did what most people would do. He blinked and put a hand to his neck. Startled to find a handle poking out of his throat, he pulled it out. The three-sixteenths inch thick blade had done its work, though, and a gout of blood followed. It pulsed with the beat of his heart and sent a spray across Tagama and past Kudo’s sidekick, an arc of nearly twenty feet. It was an unsettling sight.
Tagama, though, was prepared for it. When the other thug’s mouth fell open with alarm, Tagama launched another knife. Another neck shot, and the guy did exactly what Kudo had done. He pulled the knife out. That instinct was too strong, and Tagama knew it. A fountain of blood followed.
But Tagama had to hand it to Kudo for his next reaction. Despite a hand clamped against the pulsing spray that jetted through his fingers, the man raised his gun with the other hand, aimed, and fired.
Tagama crumpled like he’d been hit by a car. He might have had a better chance against a car, he thought, as he went down. He landed on his back with one leg twisted under him, but didn’t have the strength to straighten it. He smelled the warm, damp earth mixed with the needles of ironwood and Norfolk pine, a pleasant aroma, and didn’t fight the little convulsion that shook him. It was hard to breathe, and the gurgling noises he made frightened him a bit. But he’d suffered worse pain.
As the blackness crept from the sides of his vision, Tagama whispered to Yasuko. “They won’t make it as far as their car, my sweetheart. And their DNA is all over the place, so the police can tie up loose ends.” Some of the last words were spoken in his mind, but that was okay. She’d understand.
Chapter Thirty-two
Questions tumbled through Storm’s head. Why had Damon’s greeting been so reserved? Why was Lara touchy and preoccupied, and why did she claim not to know Yasuko?
She had questions for Pauline Harding, too. Out in the parking lot, she unlocked Damon’s car, opened the door, and felt a blast of heat like a kiln. She rolled down the windows and leaned up against the back fender.
Pauline answered the phone with a smoker’s rumble, then reacted to Storm with a phlegmy grunt. “What do you want?”
“Have the police talked to you?”
“Of course. They don’t have shit.” There was the hiss of a match, an inhalation.
That was interesting, considering there would be evidence all over her house. What had Keiko told the police? Or not told them?
“I want to talk to you,” Storm said.
Okay, that went well. Plan B, Storm thought, and called Stella’s apartment. No one answered, so she called Stella’s cell phone. No one answered. She called the hospital next. Carmen had been admitted for observation, but Keiko had been released after the burn on her hand was treated. No one knew how she left.
“Did someone pick her up?” Storm asked.
“I have access to who’s been admitted, but I don’t know how people leave,” said the person on the other end of the line. “Patients aren’t supposed to drive,” she added.
Storm stood for a moment, thinking about what to do next. She called the mobile number Sergeant Moana had given her and got his voice mail. Where was everybody? Maybe people charged their cell phones on Sunday.
A noise distracted her, and Storm turned to watch a painter enter the shop by the side door. She waved him down.
“Will you see Damon?” she asked.
“Probably,” he said.
“Would you ask him to give me a call, please? I’m—”
“You’re the lady lawyer,” the painter said. “I’ll tell him.”
Storm took stock of her situation. The dress she’d worn to dinner the night before had a food spot in the middle of her chest and drooped from her shoulder in tired folds. Her heeled sandals felt like tightening rubber bands on swelling feet.
She would go back to the hotel. It was hard to imagine that it would be dangerous in the middle of a bright, sunny day. Goons like the guys in the black Range Rover liked to work in the dark.
In the hotel lobby, happy families and affectionate couples debunked any lingering anxieties. But a short elevator ride later, she found her room freezing cold with the air conditioning turned on high. She hadn’t done that. Nor had she dumped her suitcase on the floor and trampled her clothes.
Storm went back into the corridor and called the front desk. “I need security.”
“Room 322? Again?” said the operator.
Storm waited in the hall. Security arrived within two minutes, and she was glad to see a different man than the defensive fellow she’d had the last time her room was burgled.
Pleasing the Dead Page 18