by Mike Befeler
“That’s good. My health teacher told me that people should exercise every day.”
“That and not eating too much,” I said, patting my stomach. “I’ve kept myself pretty trim for an old grandpa. You don’t have to worry. With the energy you expend, you burn off any fat before it can form.”
“I like swimming more than walking,” Jennifer said. “I’m going to be in eight swim meets this summer when I get back home.”
“You do the swimming and I’ll do the walking,” I said.
“There’s another advantage to swimming,” Allison chimed in. “Keeps kids clean.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes again. “Aw, Mom. That has nothing to do with it.”
We reached the surfing beach and watched the surfers catch waves and paddle back out in the foam.
“You have to be nuts to do that,” I said.
“Oh, Grandpa. It’s fun.”
“Not for me.”
We watched a female surfer dart in and out of a wave.
“That’s going to be me in a few years,” Jennifer said, holding her chin high.
“Pretty big wave,” I said.
“Yes, but I made good progress during my first lessons. I’ll be ready.”
After an hour or so, Denny said, “Let’s head back to the car and find somewhere to eat lunch.”
My stomach growled. “That’s a good idea. I’m ready for some chow.”
“Aw, Dad,” Jennifer said. “Do we have to leave so soon? Let’s stay a few more minutes.”
“Get moving,” Denny said. “After lunch we’ll stop farther down the road.”
Jennifer sighed and turned away from the ocean.
We all walked back along the side of the road until we reached the spot where we’d parked. No car.
“It was right there,” Denny said. “I remember that curved rock.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I even remember it. Looks like Henry’s bald head.”
Denny shielded his eyes from the sun with his right hand and looked both directions along the road. “It’s been stolen.” He extracted his cell phone and reported the theft, reading the license number off the Avis keys.
“Now what do we do?” Allison asked.
“Wait for the police to arrive,” Denny said.
Moments later, a tow truck pulled up next to us. A man with a tattoo of an eagle on his arm leaned out the passenger side. “You folks looking for your car?”
“Yes,” Denny said. “It’s been stolen.”
The man laughed. “Not stolen. Towed. You parked in a tow-away zone.”
“You’re kidding,” Denny said.
“Nah. Look up there.” The man pointed.
Sure enough. We’d all missed the NO PARKING sign up ahead.
“We’ve been towing cars for the last hour. We’ll give you a ride to yours.”
“What is this?” Denny said. “Some kind of scam.”
“The police contract with us to clear cars away from the no-parking zone.”
“But look at all those cars parked along the highway,” Denny said, waving his hand.
“They’ll all get towed,” the man said.
Denny shook his head in disgust, and we all squeezed into the back of the truck. After maybe half a mile, the driver pulled into a grass field full of cars.
When the truck stopped, Jennifer shouted, “There it is! The red one!”
I hadn’t even paid any attention to the color of the car.
Denny took care of the payment and returned to the car. “I’ve been ripped off, but they seem happy,” he said with a scowl.
“Lucky you come Hawaii,” I said.
We found a hamburger joint and after eating drove toward Ka’ena Point. Jennifer spotted some surfers and held her dad to his promise that we’d make another stop. I told them I’d stay and guard the car from any more over-ambitious towing services. We rolled down the windows and I moved to the driver’s seat to get the best breeze. After the three of them had scrambled down to the beach, I closed my eyes and relaxed.
A few minutes later, there was a tapping on the side of the car and I opened my eyes to find a uniformed policeman standing there.
“Would you please step out of the car,” he commanded.
“Sure, Officer,” I said and opened the door.
“May I see some identification?”
I pulled my wallet out and showed him my driver’s license.
He looked at it. “This expired a year ago. Driving a stolen car with an expired license. You wait right here.”
I was ready to explain that I didn’t drive anymore, but he had already returned to his car. At the same time, he kept an eye on me.
He spoke on a phone in his vehicle and then returned to me.
“Please place your hands on the car,” he said, and frisked me.
“I’m a little old for this, don’t you think, Officer?”
He handed my driver’s license back. “Your name is flagged in our database as a murder suspect. You’ve been driving a stolen car with an expired driver’s license. Care to give me an explanation?”
“Look, this car was rented by my son. If you check the rental records, you’ll find that out. And I haven’t been driving it.”
He glared at me. “I’ve had enough of people arguing with me today. I’m taking you in.”
“Check with my son. You’ll see this is all a mistake. He’s down at the beach with his wife and daughter.” Then it struck me and I almost laughed. “My son reported the car stolen because it had been towed away. He forgot to call again to say he found the car.”
“Come on. You’re going with me.”
“Let me leave a note on his car, so he’ll know where I am.”
“Don’t give me any more lip.”
I found myself in the locked back seat of a police car.
When we reached the Waianae police station, they booked me and put me in a holding cell. I grasped the bars while my cellmate—a spaced-out hippie in a tie-dye robe—snored on a cot. “Call Detective Saito of the Kaneohe Police Department. He knows who I am.”
Sitting on a small stool, I looked over at my groggy companion who was regaining consciousness.
“Hey, man,” he said, “can you lend me twenty dollars?”
“Why’d I want to do that?”
“I’ll get you some good dope when we get out.”
“No thanks. My brain’s already screwed up enough.”
He tried to lurch to his feet, but collapsed back onto the cot, and fell asleep again.
I’d have crooned a few bars of “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” except I couldn’t hold a tune worth a tinker’s damn.
Half an hour later a police officer stopped by my cell.
“Any word from Detective Saito?” I asked.
“No. But we left a message and—”
“I have to reach my son. I should be entitled to a phone call.”
He glowered at me. “What’s the number? I’ll dial it for you.”
“I don’t remember. Let me see if I wrote it down somewhere.”
I rummaged through my wallet and found a scrap of paper with Denny’s name, the word “cell phone,” and a number written on it.
“This is a mainland number,” the policeman said.
“It’s his cell phone,” I said. “He’s nearby.”
The officer dialed and said, “I have a Mr. Paul Jacobson here to talk to you.”
He handed me the receiver through the bars.
“Dad, where are you? We were worried. We thought you’d wandered away.”
“Just a little misunderstanding with the local constabulary. I’m in the Waianae police station. Come bail me out.”
“What are you doing there?”
“The police and I have this thing for each other. I’m here inspecting their jail.”
Chapter 19
Fifteen minutes later, Denny, Allison, and Jennifer charged into the police station. I could see them enter from where I stood in the ho
lding cell.
“Reinforcements have arrived,” I said to my cellmate, who was snoring with his mouth wide open. I considered stuffing one of the socks lying on the floor in his mouth, but decided, instead, to watch what my family would do about my incarceration.
I could hear Jennifer’s voice. “You need to let my grandpa go. He doesn’t belong in jail.”
I heard Denny shouting about false arrest. All the turmoil was getting nowhere. I cleared my throat and screamed above the din, “Denny, show them the car rental agreement!”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Denny raced out of the building to return moments later with a red folder in his hand.
Finally, one of my jailers ambled over and unlocked the door.
The clanging of the keys woke up my hippie friend. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Hey, man, can you lend me twenty dollars?”
“You need a new line,” I said, and dropped a twenty spot on his cot.
“Thanks, man,” he said. Curling up with the twenty-dollar bill, he went back to sleep.
“What’d you do that for?” the policeman who was standing there asked.
“Doing my bit to support the local economy.”
The policeman led me to the lobby.
“Can you take a picture of Grandpa and me next to his jail cell?” Jennifer asked.
“No,” Denny said. “This isn’t Disneyland. Let’s get out of here.”
“Aw, Dad.”
As we exited the building, Denny turned to me. “How do you get yourself into these situations?”
“Me? I was sitting in the car minding my own business. You were the one who neglected to call the police to inform them that your car wasn’t stolen, after all.”
“And having an expired driver’s license?”
“It’s only an ID. No danger of me driving.”
Denny and Allison didn’t say much on the return trip. Sitting next to me in the back seat, Jennifer whispered in my ear, “That was a cool jail.”
I whispered back. “You wouldn’t have liked it as much from the other side. I think I prefer my cell at the retirement home.”
We arrived back at Kina Nani with no further “encounters of the police kind” and my family accompanied me up to my room.
“We’re planning to go to Turtle Bay tomorrow and stay overnight,” Denny said. “How’d you like to come join us for a little change of scenery, provided you can stay out of trouble with the police?”
I grimaced. “As long as you don’t report any more cars as stolen, I’m game.”
“Good. You and I can also get in a round of golf while we’re there.”
“Now you have my attention,” I said.
“You need to retrieve your clubs and pack an overnight bag.”
I looked around my dwelling. “Now that you mention it, where the hell is my golf equipment?”
“In a storage area on the first floor. When I moved you in, I stashed your golf clubs down there. Inside a bin, along with some excess junk from your condo.”
“So when do we start this expedition?” I asked.
“We’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning.”
“Fine. I’ll be ready with my putter and dancing shoes.”
Denny opened his wallet, looked at a slip of paper, and wrote something on the notepad on my kitchenette counter. “Here’s the storage location. Row seven, cage eleven. There’s a lock you can open with the small brown key on your key chain.”
“I’ll cart the golf equipment up here after you leave.”
“With your memory, Dad, how have you been doing on not losing your keys?”
“The system works. When I’m in my apartment, I keep my keys on that stretchy bead bracelet on the inside doorknob. I’ve been able to remember to put them back when I return, so they’re always ready for me the next time I go out.”
My family departed and, for a fleeting moment, I only had the memory of one day: Jennifer’s enthusiasm—even wanting to have a picture taken in front of the jail cell; Denny with his quiet efficiency, except for forgetting to call the police, which led to my being locked up. Uh, oh. Was he starting to have memory problems like my dad and I had? Was I passing on a defective memory gene?
No use thinking about that. I had work to do. I had to find a way to clear my name. I didn’t want to end up like that hippie in jail.
The discussion with Denny rattled around in my defective brain. Then the image came back to me of the policeman unlocking the cell. He had a ring with keys. I had my set of keys on the doorknob. Keys. It clicked with what I had read in my journal. The man with the scar on his cheek had duplicate keys to my room and the trash chute. I just had to find him.
My thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Mr. Jacobson. I’m calling to check on how you enjoyed your stay in the Waianae jail.”
“Who is this?” I said, not recognizing the voice.
“Detective Saito.”
“Ah. The police officer who’s investigating the murder.”
“The same.”
“To what do I owe the honor of your call?”
“I thought your taste of jail life might cause you to admit your role in the Tiegan murder,” he said.
I thought back to what I had read. “That’s pretty perverse logic. Why would spending time locked up convince me to spend more time in jail?”
“If you were cooperative, it would reduce your length of sentence.”
I laughed. “Detective, at my age anything over twenty minutes might be irrelevant. I could kick the bucket anytime. No. I think my preference is to clear my name and enjoy my last few days, months, or years, in the comfort and company of decrepit old people.”
“Have it your own way. I’m closing in on you, Jacobson.”
“Yeah. If you’re done threatening me, I have some work to do.”
“Actually, I’d like to stop by to speak with you in person.”
“Be my guest,” I said.
“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes, more or less.”
“Fine. I’ll be in my room, or down in the storage area retrieving my golf clubs.”
“Aren’t you kind of old for golf?”
“Nah,” I said. “I still like to whack things with my clubs.”
After I hung up, I looked out my window at the fading light of dusk. There was one thing you could say for Detective Saito. From what I had read, he was persistent. I just didn’t want to end up like one of the butterflies in his collection with pins through my wings.
I strolled to the elevator and after waiting long enough that I could have walked down and back up three times, it arrived to transport me to the first floor.
“Where’s the storage area?” I asked the receptionist.
“Back of the building by the service entrance.”
“Is it locked?”
“Yes. But your room key will open the door.”
I found it, let myself in, and entered a cavernous dimly lit warehouse with two levels of cages. My footsteps echoed and I sniffed the aroma of old furniture mingled with dust and mildew. The place reminded me of a setting for a gothic drama.
Coming to a stop, I spotted numbers on the end of the aisles. I heard a scraping sound somewhere in the room. I listened again, but heard nothing.
I located row seven and found cage eleven up on the second level.
I heard a sound again.
“Hello?” I said, and heard the quaver in my voice.
No answer.
The place gave me the creeps. I could just imagine what you could find in some of these cages.
Looking around for a means to reach the second level, I spotted a gurney with ladder attached. I wheeled it over and climbed up to unlock my bin.
Inside, stacked, were my golf clubs, some dusty suitcases, two old lamps, and some unlabeled boxes. I extracted my golf bag, put the lock back on the bin door, and navigated my way to level ground.
I looked up at the ceiling. I half expected to see bat
s hanging there.
Heading up the aisle, I heard a crash, a scream, and a thud coming from the back of the room.
With my golf bag on my shoulder, I moved as fast as I could toward the sound.
I peered into each aisle I passed, until I reached one where I spotted another gurney ladder.
My eyes scanned downward.
A man sprawled on the floor with a pool of blood around his head.
Chapter 20
I bent over to examine the injured man, who was lying on his back. One of my golf clubs slipped out of the bag, clattered to the cement floor, and splashed some of the blood onto my pants and shoes.
Taking my golf bag off my shoulder, I scrutinized the injured man more closely. Didn’t recognize him. Local man in his thirties with a goatee and dark hair. He didn’t move.
My heart was racing faster than when I was with Marion. The man needed help fast. I lurched up the aisle, out of the storage room, and stumbled to the front desk.
“There’s an injured, unconscious man in the storage area. Get some help.”
“I’ll page Doc Fry and call an ambulance,” the woman at the desk said.
A few minutes later, a man in a white coat raced down the stairs. He carried a medical bag. I led him into the storage area.
In the distance, I heard a siren. Soon, two paramedics arrived with a stretcher. The doctor had stemmed the bleeding, but the man was still unconscious. Then a short stocky man in a dark suit showed up. He watched the proceedings.
“Who found the injured man?” he asked.
“Me,” I said.
He eyed me. “Well, Mr. Jacobson. At the scene again.”
“Who are you?”
“Detective Saito. I was coming to see you, remember?”
“Yeah. I didn’t recall what you looked like.”
Detective Saito bent over the body while the doctor continued to minister to the man’s head.
“What’s the prognosis?” Detective Saito asked.
“Head trauma. He’s unconscious but breathing.”
The paramedics lifted the injured man onto the stretcher and carried him out of the storage area.
Saito turned to me. “Know who that was?”
“No,” I said. “Should I?”
“He’s the one you’re always telling me to go after instead of you. It’s Moki.”