***
Mrs. De Rego knew her husband. Knew him well. At two in the morning, a car had driven up in front of the De Rego home. A groggy Domingo was helped none too gently to the porch and dumped unceremoniously on the worn wooden floor.
By six, after rolling down the three steps to the walkway, Domingo managed to stand up long enough to blunder his way back up onto the porch and into the house. Motivated by more than just a desire to fulfill her promise to the police, Mrs. De Rego put in an immediate call to the station.
“Hell, Hank,” Corky said, as they walked over to the interrogation room, “you arent going to get much out of De Rego this morning. He looks like death warmed over.”
“Well, were sure as hell going to try. Well pour coffee down him. It should help some. This stations coffee is enough to get a corpses attention.”
They peered through the one-way window at the figure slumping over the table, then squirming, then leaning back in the chair, mouth open, as though gasping for air. Hank grudgingly admitted Corkys description hadnt been wide off the mark.
Dressed in work pants and a dirty tank top, the forty-year old Domingo De Rego at the moment looked an additional ten years beyond that. Two days growth of beard, a long, dried scratch on his face, lanky black uncombed hair falling down over his eyebrows, and bloodshot, unfocused eyes all contributed to a picture of someone who had just had a long fight with the bottle. Clearly he had ended up as the outright loser.
“What do we know about him?” Corky asked.
Hank handed her the folder he held in his hand. “Hes half Mexican, half Portuguese. Married, with two kids. Grade schoolers. He was born over on Oahu, but his folks split up when he was just two or three. The old man took the kid back with him to LA. He was raised by his grandmother. High school dropout.
“Long police record, but all minor offenses. Came here about two years ago with his family and worked in construction. The Malalani hired him nine months ago and fired him the day before yesterday. Nothing much on him here. His wife charged him with assaulting her, then dropped the charges. He was picked up on a DUI about a year ago, but his blood alcohol level was just below the legal. Which brings you up to date.”
Corky quickly leafed through the half dozen pages. “O.K. Im as ready as Ill ever be.”
“Lets go, then,” Hank said, pushing open the door.
For several moments, De Rego was just barely aware of the lieutenant pulling a chair up to the table. He was even less aware of the sergeant putting a recorder, a note pad and the folder on the table and hitching a chair up across from him.
Following the usual preliminaries, Hank said, “Start talking, beginning with what happened at the Malalani the day you were fired.”
The voice brought the eyes into focus. They drifted back out again, then returned to fix on the Lieutenant. “Wha…What?”
A guard entered with coffee and placed a large Styrofoam cup of it in front of the suspect. De Rego peered at the steaming black liquid and shuddered.
Later, in reviewing the tapes, Corky found a half-hour passed before the coffee and repeated questions finally began to produce any semblance of coherence and continuity from the suspect. Then the gist of De Regos description for the morning of Onos murder corresponded in broad outline to what they had garnered from other witnesses. He had been on the fire line by eleven the previous night, had left well after four, gone home and slept until seven-thirty.
“Damn bitch went off to work and didnt leave me no breakfast. I figured Id get some from the kitchen at work.”
“When did you get there?”
“Seven-thirty. Maybe later.”
“You said you got up at seven-thirty.”
“O.K. O.K.! Maybe I got up earlier, I dunno. I went to the employees cafeteria. They were almost done serving, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and a roll and went over to the shop to punch in.”
Corky checked back on her notes to confirm Carlton Chang had remembered seeing De Rego. The supervisor had not only seen him, but had even talked to him about the Ono murder when De Rego had asked him about all the police.
“Did you talk to anyone at the cafeteria?” Corky cut in, watching him closely. She could see the growing alertness behind the bloodshot eyes. He was obviously trying to decide what she knew, and it became apparent from his answer he had decided she knew a good deal.
“Yeah. The kitchen supervisor.”
“What did you talk about?”
“The murder, naturally. Carlton was all excited about it and pissed „cuz Old Hooknose was screaming about not getting the dishes done fast enough to keep up with breakfast.”
“Then?” Hank took up the questioning again.
“Then I went to work. Only the fuckin machine shop supervisor was on my case „cuz I took a swig from a bottle I had stashed away in the parts room. Hell, I just needed something to clear my head. Shit! I was up all night at the ridge fire. What the fuck do they expect? Well, first damn thing I know, hes got Old Hooknose down there. Well, I got pissed off and told him what he could do with the whole damn Malalani, and he gave me my walking papers. Bastard!”
“What did you do the rest of the day?”
“I stayed home. Watched television. I didnt go out again until the next morning.”
“What time?”
“Maybe seven. Maybe seven-thirty.”
“You didnt tell your wife youd been fired?”
“Shit, no! Shed a gone on ranting and raving about how shes supporting the family, and how I cant keep a job, and all that kind a shit. I figured Id go out and get some kind a work, and not tell her about being fired.”
“So where did you go?”
De Rego shrugged. “Downtown. I bought a paper to look at the ads and sat and drank coffee and had some breakfast. There wasnt nothin in the want ads, so I walked around, looking for signs in store windows. You know, help wanted stuff. I never did find nothin.”
It took more prompting on Hanks part to find out what happened next.
“I dropped into the Prince Kuhio, figuring Id have a quick one, then maybe go over to the Plantation and see if there was work there. Except some of the guys came in, and we got to drinking. Guess it was pretty late by the time I got home.”
“So you drank all day?”
“Yeah.”
Corky and Hank surveyed the disheveled, bleary-eyed prisoner who was holding his coffee with both hands. He was still shaking so much the liquid in the half empty cup was almost sloshing over. The officers looked at each other, both now convinced he was telling the truth, at least about his drinking. They also decided to keep probing for as much more of the truth as they could get from him.
***
“You going to hold him, Hank?” Corky asked when they had gotten back to his office.
“Cant see much point to it. He couldnt have killed Ono. We know for sure he couldn't have. And about all we have on him for the Perreira killing is his lack of an alibi.”
“He was damned reluctant to admit he was having it off with her.”
“Whats it prove? I wouldnt exactly be eager to talk about having been doing some extracurricular humping with someone who turns up murdered. Once we did get him to talk about it, he didnt try to underplay it. They were sneaking around the hotel grounds when both of them were off shift, and he admits it.”
“What bothers me is hes the only one I can think of who could have convinced her to meet him in Shishi Gulch.”
“Hell, Corky, you were the one arguing how it was about the last place in the world to do any screwing.”
“OK. So maybe she was the one who wanted to see him again. Maybe she wanted to tell him she was breaking off the relationship. They couldnt exactly meet at either her house or his. He couldnt go back to the Malalani to meet her there. Thats the trouble with living on a small island. You cant go anywhere where theres people without running into someone you know.”
“Why couldnt she have just called him up or sent him a note, if she wanted to
tell him it was over?” Hank sounded skeptical.
“Both of those could be pretty risky. Too much danger of one or the other of the spouses finding out. You heard De Regos wife. She would have been happy to have an excuse to dump him. And, from what Mary Ann said, Chichi was real scared of her husband and had reason to be. If word got back to him, he might have done more than beat her up. Maybe she just wanted to break it to De Rego gently by doing it in person.” Corky paused, then decided to throw a bone to Hanks favorite prejudice. “Women take these things pretty seriously, you know.”
The first response to Corkys new analysis was a grunt, but the skepticism had evidently diminished.“Yeah, and so do some men. With his temper, she might just be asking for it, meeting him in secret like that. Look what happened to her. I think thats a real possibility. Of course, the other possibility is her old man. He might have suddenly found out he was sharing and didnt much care for the idea. Its time to talk to him.”
Corky looked doubtful. “We going out to his place or are you having him come down here?”
“He works the night shift at the Plantation and said hed be up until ten. So I figured we could catch him at home.”
Hey, Hank, theres still something else about De Rego we should look into.”
“Yeah? Whats that?”
“What about the scratch on his face, the one he cant account for but thinks he might have gotten when he rolled off of his front porch?”
“Its a dead end. One of the first things Clyde reported back on was how him and Rhinemuller went over Chichis fingernails with a magnifying glass and took scrapings. There wasnt a trace of skin or blood under them. She couldn't have scratched him.”
“How about a kiawe thorn?”
Chapter 14
Kay went over her notes as she sat behind Masa Onos desk. Nick had contributed the office and had even volunteered to run down the people she wanted to question. She had to warn herself his seeming eagerness to help had already masked several sins of omission. But I havent caught him in any glaring lies so far, she thought, checking over what they had just discussed. A soft rap at the door interrupted her thoughts.
Kay rose quickly to greet Tokumi Maruyama. A friend of her familys, the small, frail, grayhaired man had taught Japanese on Oahu for many years. Kays mother had been one of the pupils who, after regular school hours, had gone off to the small stucco building near downtown Honolulu. There, she and a dozen other Nisei children gathered for an hour-and-ahalfs instruction in the language of their ancestors.
Tokumi, called senseiteacherby students and acquaintances alike, had finally retired and moved in with his daughter and her family on Elima. Still active, he frequently took on translation tasks. Kay was always glad to employ him whenever she needed to work with older Japanese or Japanese nationals who knew little or no English.
“Come in, Sensei. Its so nice to see you again.”
“Its nice to see you again, too, Keiko. We havent had any business for a long time. Thats the only time I ever see you.” A smile creased the face into even deeper wrinkles, as Kay arranged three chairs in a semi-circle in front of the desk and guided Tokumi to the middle one. They chatted about family and friends as they waited for the first of the interviewees to arrive.
When she had learned the bodyguards and Onos daughter-in-law spoke only Japanese, Kay had toyed with the notion of having either Sigrid or Nick act as interpreter, but then quickly dismissed the notion. In this case, the relationship of those possible translators to the persons she wanted to question would, at best, have been an inhibiting factor, at worst, it would have been an invitation to outright deception. So she welcomed the chance to give employment to Tokumi, and she also valued the old mans acute perceptiveness. He not only translated, he also invariably gave her his own impressions of the nuances the language barrier prevented her from catching on her own.
The Panther, whom Nick had identified as Junichi Ushiroda, entered the office with his usual lithe and graceful movements. Tokumi rose and formally introduced himself, and the two sat down. Kay estimated the younger man was approaching forty. His narrow, expressionless face was both alert and relaxed. More and more he seemed like a cat not actually on the hunt but still ready to pounce on any prey straying by. Yet he seemed equally ready to drop off into a brief sleep if no unwary victim presented itself.
Once again, Kay was impressed by the superb quality and impeccable tailoring of a suit so out of place in the informalatmosphere of the resort hotel. Hes being well paid, she thought. Very well paid.
“Could you tell me how long youve worked for Mr. Ono?”
There was a pause as the question and response were translated.
“About ten years.”
“What were your duties?”
“I began as one of his chauffeurs, and I still did drive him occasionally here and in Japan. Later I became something of a messenger for him.”
Kay decided to plunge ahead. “Did you view yourself as a bodyguard?” The questions translation brought a smile to his face.
“Inevitably I considered myself to be one.”
“Did Mr. Ono give you any reason why he wanted you to act as a bodyguard?”
“He had received occasional threats over the years. While he didnt feel he could really be protected against someone genuinely wishing to do him harm, the presence of a constant companion would at least be discouraging to some of his less persevering enemies.”
Kay recognized the formalized language as being Tokumis but knew the substance was the Panthers. “Could you tell me where you were and what you did the night he died?”
“Certainly. He and Mrs. Ono retired at ten-thirty. I went to my room, watched a Japanese movie from the hotels collection, and went to bed a little after midnight. I woke up shortly after six when Mr. Yamamoto called me to tell me what had happened, and I went down to the kitchen as quickly as I could.”
“You didnt leave the room during the night?”
“Not between ten-thirty and six-thirty the next morning when Mr. Yamamoto called me.”
Kay checked the notes she had taken in her interview with Nick and set about verifying his answers. The verification came, accompanied by only minor variations, and those chiefly of emphasis.
“Did you know Mr. Onos daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Could you describe the relationship between her and her father?”
“Cordial.”
As she had many times before, Kay wished she knew the language. The answer had been far more than a single word. She was recording the conversation, but knew she was unlikely to take the interview to some other translator, mainly because she trusted Tokumi so implicitly. “Cordial,” probably caught exactly the flavor of Junichis much longer response, she decided.
“Could you describe her to me?”
The answer focused on Keiko Sugiyamas physical appearance which was not what Kay was looking for and, with some effort, she managed to steer the response around to the daughters personality. The picture he gave added only one feature to the sketch drawn by Nick.
“She was…,” he paused,“…impulsive.”
A search for examples of Keikos impulsiveness produced redefinitions rather then actual instances of such a trait. “She did things on the spur of the moment.” “She did as she pleased.”
In a quick aside and exchange with Tokumi, Kay confirmed her impression the bodyguard was not condemning Keikos behavior but simply reporting it.
Kay switched to the son and his wife. Here, again, there was little new. Shigeru appeared as the devoted son who had gone to an American college in order to learn marketing techniques. These wouldprove of value in his career with his fathers electronics business. Mariko Ono was a traditional daughter-in-law. She was shy and self effacing, with no command of English, and ideally suited to her role as the loving mother of the child she was now carrying.
Sigrid Ono received the Panthers approval, as did her first husband. When asked about the details of the cr
ash, his story differed little from what Kay had already learned about the tragedy. He did add the interesting note about how he had been there at the time of take-off, since he had chauffeured Yoshi to the airport.
The interrogation went on for a total of some fortyfive minutes. Kays conclusion after he left was what she had been thinking all along. Nothing much had been added to what she already knew or suspected. Tokumis post-interview comment simply reinforced her independent assessment of the Panther. “A black belt,” he said. “I am sure he is one of the best.”
***
The heavy features of the man who sat in the chair opposite her and next to the interpreter were deceiving. They belonged to someone far taller than normal, to some massive giant. Kay found Noboru Nishimuras appearance disturbing, and hoped her face did not reflect her feelings. She knew that, as with any physical deformities, people tended to look away from those possessing them, or at least pretended to.
In this instance, Kay could hardly indulge in such luxury and made no attempt to do so. Instead, she studied Nishimura closely, as he answered the questions transmitted through Tokumi. The wide-spaced intelligent eyes, set under an enormous brow ridge, stared out at her. Rugged cheekbones, a long broad nose, an elongated chin and large ears sticking out prominently from the heavy-boned face held her fascinated attention. As Nishimura answered one of her questions, a hand she knew was three times the size of her own moved across the heavy-featured face as though to rub away unseen cobwebs.
While his movements seemed slow and plodding, Nishimuras answers, in a deep bass voice, came quickly. His story paralleled the one told by his fellow bodyguard. He too had retired early; instead of watching television, however, he had gone straight to bed at ten. He had awakened at about five-thirty and gone down to the lobby to buy a copy of the Asahi Shinbun, only to encounter the police and an agitated staff.
The Yoshinobu Mysteries: Volume 2 Page 43