Primitive Secrets

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “That’s all you need.” Hamlin held the elevator door open for her and they got out. “Have you talked to Detective Fujita about it?”

  “I haven’t had time, but I will.” The breath snagged in Storm’s throat. She pondered telling him about the herb-gathering incident with Aunt Maile, but stopped. It was too bizarre.

  “If I’d got hold of Lorraine yesterday, I might have been able to stop this.” Storm’s voice shook.

  “Storm, you can’t blame yourself. She goes every week.” Hamlin sighed. “The cops are sure it’s a hit and run.”

  “But if I’d told her about the guy who rammed me?”

  “You think she wouldn’t have bought her groceries?” Hamlin looked at her with sad eyes.

  Storm didn’t answer and Hamlin shoved open a door that stood ajar. They entered a room lit with the greenish glow of monitors. Backlit by a screen, Lorraine’s husband sat by the bed with his head bowed. Storm thought he might have been dozing, but he raised his face slowly to them. His eyes were glazed and swollen.

  “Any change?” Hamlin asked softly.

  The neck wattles trembled on Ben Tanabe’s neck when he shook his head silently from side to side. Storm moved to the bedside and involuntarily took a step back.

  She would never have known the person in the bed was a woman, let alone Lorraine. Clear tubing ran from the purple mottling on the shaved scalp; other tubes of varying sizes ran into her nose, her mouth, under the sheet to hidden parts of the lumpy form. Her facial features were swollen and dark, flecked with darker material at the corners of eyes, nose, and mouth.

  Storm couldn’t breathe; her chest had seized in an inflated state and wouldn’t move. She swallowed three times in a row, and then forced herself to take a step closer to the bed.

  “Oh, Lorraine,” she murmured. “Lorraine, please get better.” Storm reached out to the older woman’s arm, then withdrew it when she connected with an IV line. She wasn’t sure where the real Lorraine was. She stepped back and knelt down next to Ben Tanabe.

  He glanced at her only once and positioned his gaze back on the bed. When he mumbled, Storm leaned closer to hear him.

  She opened her mouth to say, “Pardon?” but he began to speak without being prompted. With a little start, she realized that he spoke to himself. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know…”

  Storm’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at Hamlin, whose face was dark in the shadows of the room. “What can we do for her…for him?”

  “Say a prayer,” he whispered. He squeezed the old man’s shoulder and moved toward Lorraine’s still form. Hamlin reached out, snaked his hand under some clear tubing, and squeezed Lorraine’s hand. He closed his eyes tight, opened them, and turned to go.

  Storm stumbled after him.

  Halfway down the hallway, neither of them had spoken a word. The tapping of high heels echoed closer and closer on the tiles. Meredith Wo turned the corner. With a brief nod to Storm, she put her hand on Hamlin’s arm and stepped close to him.

  “Has she spoken again?” Her head was tilted back to look up at Hamlin’s face. Storm watched the sleeve of her gauzy shirt flutter against Hamlin’s chest.

  Hamlin shook his head. He could have taken a step back, Storm wasn’t sure. Meredith looked at Storm, her almond eyes so dark that Storm couldn’t read them. “She wanted to tell you something, Storm.”

  “We don’t know for sure, Meredith,” Hamlin said.

  “That’s what you said, Ian.”

  “She has a terrible head injury.”

  “I see.” She shook her head. “What a shame. Is there anything we can do for Mr. Tanabe?”

  Storm answered, though Meredith had addressed the question to Hamlin. “The firm needs to support him. We should send flowers, bring him food. Each person should visit when they can.”

  Meredith and Hamlin looked at Storm. Wo spoke first. “Good idea. Why don’t you send a memo around the office Monday?”

  “We need to start now. Could you talk to the other partners?” Storm said.

  Meredith cocked an eyebrow, looked back at Hamlin, and walked away. Hamlin walked with Storm to her car. It had rained while they were in the hospital and the yellow streetlights reflected dully from the wet blacktop. The air hung motionless around them, dragging their moods to the level of the mists that hovered below their knees.

  “Will you be okay to drive?” Hamlin looked past her shoulder to ask the question.

  “Yes, thanks.” His face looked gray in the shadows. “Uh, could I buy you a beer? Or a sandwich?”

  “No thanks. I’d…I’d better get going.” He gave her a little wave and headed toward the other side of the parking lot. Storm lost him in the shadows of the big monkey pod tree that spanned the area. In the day, it shaded cars from the scorching sun. Tonight, it dropped tears into the darkness.

  Storm stopped by Leila’s house to pick up Fang, but she declined Leila’s invitation to spend the night. “It’s too late. Leila, Hamasaki’s secretary was in an accident. I’ll call and tell you everything tomorrow.”

  With Fang tucked under one arm and a bag of goodies from the bakery that Leila insisted on giving her under the other, Storm headed for home. She was glad she had company when she opened the door to her dark little cottage.

  She was doubly glad Fang was with her when she heard the knock on the door ten minutes later, not that the cat could do anything to protect her. She wondered if Fang would be offended if she were to add a Doberman to their tiny family.

  Storm flicked on the front light, relieved that she’d locked the door behind herself, and peeked through the window. “Hamlin! Are you okay?” She opened the door to the aroma of hot pizza.

  “I got to thinking about the break-ins in your neighborhood and thought I’d make sure you got in all right.” His eyes looked green as a forest at twilight in the glow of the porch lamp. “Is it too late to take you up on dinner?”

  “Come on in. I’ve got beer.” It was the one thing Storm could count on not having grown green fuzz in her refrigerator.

  Hamlin left a trail of delicious aromas as he walked to the living room and plopped the box onto the coffee table. Storm hurried from the kitchen with a couple of plates and two bottles of Beck’s. They sat on the couch and scooped melting cheese, black olives, and onions back onto thick wedges with their fingers.

  Storm sat back with a sigh. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” Hamlin took another bite and wiped his mustache with a paper napkin. He chewed a moment, then spoke. “You were right about supporting Tanabe. And Meredith should approach the partners, not you.”

  “Didn’t look like she liked me suggesting it.”

  “She’s pretty strong-willed,” Hamlin said.

  “You know her well, don’t you?” Storm asked, then hoped the floor lamp next to them wasn’t bright enough to show her reddening face. She shoved a piece of pizza in her mouth.

  Hamlin picked stray black olives out of the box and popped a few into his mouth. “Yeah. She was the one who lured me away from the prosecutor’s office into private practice, though it was Miles who solidified my decision.”

  “How’d it happen that Meredith was working with the prosecutor?” Storm asked.

  “She had a medical negligence case, a strong one, but Meredith wanted to get criminal charges approved so that the doctor would be tried for wrongful death instead of just malpractice or negligence.”

  “Wow, the guy must have really screwed up.”

  “He did, but he didn’t deserve to be tried as a criminal.” Hamlin shoved a few onions back onto a wedge of pizza. “He was seventy-two, a neurosurgeon who should have retired a decade before this case, but he was famous for developing this technique for fusing cervical discs. He was also one of those guys who live on past glories. Drove a big Mercedes with vanity plates with the name of this technique on them. He even had special
tools patented for this surgery. The manufacturer used his name and often called him in to work certain cases and run seminars for residents and other doctors.

  “Anyway, he was doing a case and nicked the patient’s spinal cord. Unfortunately, it was a forty-five-year-old woman with four young kids who ended up quadriplegic.”

  “God, that’s awful.”

  “Yeah, it was tragic.” Hamlin sat back with a sigh and rearranged some olives on his pizza slice.

  “But how could Meredith turn it into criminal negligence?”

  Hamlin took a long pull on his beer. “Meredith comes from a big Chinese family. She’s probably related to half of Chinatown. Her first cousin’s son—is that a second cousin?—was a resident anesthesiologist on the case and observed the whole thing. Said the doctor’s hands shook like he’d been on a three-day binge. Another of her uncles was a major in the police department. The department was getting bad press lately and wanted a big collar.”

  “I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the doctor. Was he really drunk?”

  “That’s what Meredith’s family was convinced of and she set out to prove it. Drunkenness would justify criminal charges.”

  “What do you think?”

  “No one thought to take blood alcohol levels at the time of surgery. I doubt very much he was drunk. The guy’s hands trembled because he was old and nervous. He shouldn’t have been doing the operation, and he knew it.

  I think the prosecutor’s office made a mistake in allowing the charges, but by this time, there was a volcano of emotion ready to blow. There should have been compensation for the family and all that, but because of the criminal charges, the case got huge publicity.”

  “I remember reading about it. Didn’t the doctor have a stroke during the trial?”

  “Yeah, he was devastated. You could tell he felt betrayed. All these people who had used his fame and skill backpedaled so fast they were falling over each other. His lawyers got the charges reduced. There was no proof of drunkenness, but the damage was done. He’s in an institution and Meredith got a big out-of-court settlement.”

  “And became the youngest partner in my uncle’s firm.”

  “That’s right. And I came on board soon after.” Hamlin did not sound proud of the fact.

  “You helped her get the criminal charges?”

  “She didn’t get the charges, remember?” Hamlin met Storm’s eyes. The scar on his chin stood out white in the lamplight. His mouth was tight under the bushy mustache.

  Storm suddenly got it. “When did you break up with her?”

  “Right after I joined the firm. I tried to resign, but Hamasaki talked me out of it. He said Meredith would act like the relationship never happened and that I shouldn’t sacrifice my position if it was where I wanted to be.”

  Storm sat back and chewed on a bite of pizza. This rang true. It also explained Meredith’s familiarity with Hamlin. And Meredith had phoned his home to tell him of the accident. Storm watched Hamlin reach for another piece of pizza, then pulled her eyes away from the athletic slouch of his body on the couch.

  She wished Hamlin had told her about this earlier, though when she thought about his actions, Storm was fairly sure that Hamlin was no longer Meredith’s lover. But something else was bothering her. Hamlin had been more upset at the hospital than she would have expected, as if being there had touched a deep source of sadness in him. In the parking lot, he had seemed downright depressed.

  The living room lamp threw a comfortable arc of light across his face and half of the pizza box. Though subdued, he no longer looked as pinched and gray as he had earlier.

  Storm plucked at a string of cheese that drooped from a bite she’d just taken and sorted through a barrage of thoughts. Hamlin drew on his bottle of beer, caught her eye, and raised his eyebrows at her as if he wondered what she was thinking. She gave him a little smile. She knew he was a good lawyer who, like the others in the firm, made a living convincing people. And she hoped he was telling her the whole story.

  Chapter 19

  The ringing phone was a surprise intruder on their melancholy peace. Storm started, then reached for it with a sigh. Hardly anyone called her after ten, and it was much later. “Hello?”

  Meredith’s voice came over the line. “Storm, Lorraine died about twenty minutes ago. Is Ian there? I tried his apartment, but no one answered.”

  Storm handed the phone to Hamlin. She was aware that her face had telegraphed anguish to him. His jaw muscles were clenched when he took the phone from her. After a few monosyllabic responses, he hung up.

  Storm’s eyes spilled over. “Oh, no.”

  Hamlin draped one arm over her shoulder and turned her to face him. He rested his cheek on top of her head. The prickly hairs of his mustache brushed her forehead and she leaned against his chest, soothed by its sporadically uneven rise and fall. In a few minutes, she looked up at him. His eyes were dark with pain and he stared into a dark corner of the living room.

  “Good grief, Hamlin, what’s going on?” she whispered.

  “What was on that list?” His voice wavered a bit.

  “I told you what I remember.” Storm looked up at him. “The only unusual conversation was an argument between Hamasaki and his wife about David’s diabetes.”

  “A family problem.”

  “Right.” Storm sank into her seat. “What do we do now?”

  “We try to help Tanabe, hope he’s got good friends and family to lean on.”

  “Do we need to talk to the police again?”

  “We can try.” Hamlin lowered her into a chair. “The guy who hit Lorraine ditched a stolen truck and got away. He even left an empty vodka bottle rolling around on the floor. Cops don’t suspect drunks of having a plan other than getting from one bar to the next. This was the kind of accident they see way too often.”

  “I suppose.” Storm took a deep breath.

  Hamlin stroked her hair. “You need some rest,” he said.

  She nodded under his soft touch, glad for the comfort. She felt so guilty she couldn’t look up at him. Could she have prevented Lorraine’s death?

  “Storm, did you find out who Hamasaki was meeting with on Tuesday night?” Hamlin whispered into her hair.

  “Not exactly, but I found the appointment book.”

  “No kidding? What’d it say?”

  “Some initials, I couldn’t decipher what he meant. And I had to send it to Fujita. Good grief, I’d forgotten about it.” Storm shook her head. “I’m exhausted, Hamlin. I can hardly remember what day it is.”

  “Would you feel safer if I slept on the couch?”

  “Here?”

  “No, at the neighbor’s.”

  Storm had to smile. She could feel the warmth of his body from a foot away and she looked up at the scar on his chin, white against the tawny skin. Someday she’d have to ask him how he got it, but tonight she didn’t trust herself. Those sympathetic arms felt too good. “No, go on. You need a good night’s sleep, too. I’ll be all right.”

  When she closed the door behind him, though, the room was so still she could hear the kitchen faucet drip. When Fang padded around the corner of the kitchen, she scooped her up in both arms. “Want to keep my feet warm tonight, furball?”

  Despite her sadness about Lorraine, Storm slept as if the pizza had been laced with sleeping drugs and when the cat woke her up by sitting on her chest and purring into her face, she was surprised to see that her clock radio said nearly ten o’clock.

  Fang had been patient, but once Storm was vertical, the cat demanded attention. By the time Storm pulled on shorts and a tee-shirt, Fang had given up on mere meows and had left for the kitchen where she batted her bowl against the refrigerator door.

  “All right, all right.” Storm dumped a can of fishy stuff into Fang’s bowl, then stood with her hands on her hips. The cat’s purrs were punctuated by gulping noises. May
be Fang had the right idea. Though she didn’t have much of an appetite, breakfast would help her face the day, too.

  Two cups of coffee and a bowl of Cheerios later, Storm noticed the message light blinking on her answering machine. She pushed the play button and listened to Aunt Maile’s voice give her Bebe Fernandez’s phone number and ask Storm to call back as soon as she could, she had something she wanted to tell her. The time of the message was shortly before she’d arrived home from the hospital the night before.

  Maile’s phone number was busy, so Storm dialed Bebe’s. A warm, older woman’s voice sounded delighted to hear from her and invited her over. She gave her rather complicated directions which involved driving all the way up the Wai’anae coast, then taking a couple of gravel roads back toward the mountains. It was going to be an hour and a half drive each way.

  Some O’ahu folks would spend the night if they had to drive that far in one day. Storm had spent her college undergraduate years on the mainland, though, where people drive an hour and a half just to go to a movie. She looked forward to it, as the coast was beautiful and she hadn’t been on the leeward side of the island for several years.

  When she hung up the phone, it rang. Leila was on the line with an invitation for tennis, then dinner. Storm smiled. Her friend’s proposal sounded like a ray of sunshine poking through the black cloud that had been following her around. She hadn’t seen her tennis friends or worked out for over a week, not since Uncle Miles’s death. It was just what she needed. “I’ve got to drive to Wai’anae. What time were you thinking of playing?”

  “How about four? We’ll play for a couple of hours, then meet here and cook burgers on the grill.”

  “I’ll meet you at the courts.” Storm hung up and looked at the kitchen clock. She had time, but she had to get moving.

  She was twenty minutes out of town, barreling west on the H-1 freeway, when she remembered that she hadn’t connected with Aunt Maile. She’d call her later from Leila’s.

  Storm always found the Wai’anae coastline to be one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in the Hawaiian Islands. Massive lava rocks were strewn from the mountaintops as if Pele and another Hawaiian goddess had been playing jacks. The great boulders marched across hot white sands to the sapphire ocean. The beaches were wide and interrupted only by the jet-black boulders and a few fishermen, surfers, and the ubiquitous coolers of beer.