Mahu Vice

by Neil S. Plakcy

  He paid the bill and said, “I’ll see what my schedule’s like for next week and I’ll call you.” I had a feeling that he wouldn’t. He did let me leave the tip—which was more than I’d have spent on dinner with a date at a restaurant of my choice. It made me feel better about the way things were ending—but only a little.

  TREASURE HUNT

  Wednesday morning, as promised, I picked Ray up on my way to work. “Any hope you guys are getting a second car?” I asked, cranky after my failed date with Dr. Phil, and after battling early morning traffic to get over to Ray’s place.

  “I’ve got a line on a used SUV. I do a couple more special duty gigs, I can put a down payment on it.”

  “You learn anything last night?”

  He shrugged. “Next door neighbor lady didn’t like the girls—they dressed like tramps. Nobody I talked to heard or saw anything.”

  “We could track down the doctor whose license was used for the clinic,” I said. “Maybe he knows something.”

  When we got back to the station, Dr. Hsing-Wah Hsiao was easy to find, considering he’d been dead for five years. The first hit I got on Google was his obituary. “Another dead end,” Ray said. “This case has a million of ’em.”

  I e-mailed the obit to Ricky Koele so that he could follow up on the clinics licensed in the good doctor’s name.

  We put in a couple of hours reviewing arrest reports for prostitution and otherwise trying to track Norma and the two dead women in Makiki. I checked Doc Takayama’s report on Jingtao; he cited “reddening of the perianal region, together with multiple linear shallow fissures within the anal canal and moderate edema of the distal 5 cm of the rectum.”

  “What does that mean, in layman’s terms?” Ray asked, looking over my shoulder.

  “Somebody butt-fucked him pretty badly.” I shuddered, remembering my ER visit after Lucas had left me bleeding.

  Ray didn’t look too happy either. “A john?”

  “Can’t say for sure. All it means is that he was sexually active.” I thought about the boy Dr. Phil had treated and made a note to show him the picture of Jingtao that Tatiana had drawn. If he could identify the boy, then maybe the records of his hospital visit would give us a lead.

  Just after nine, Karen Gold at Social Security called with an address on Treasure in Hawai’i Kai, and we drove out there. It was a nice apartment building with a lobby and a locked front door, and we had to call the management company and ask them to send someone over with a key to Treasure’s apartment.

  While we waited, we got coffee from the Kope Bean in the Hawai’i Kai Town Center, where the Disney version of Aloha ‘Oe was playing on the sound system, Tia Carrere singing the song Queen Lili’uokalani had written. I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics: aloha ‘oe means “farewell to you,” and we’d said that to too many people on this case already.

  “Gonna have to put the medical examiner on speed dial, this keeps up,” Ray said.

  “I can’t remember the last time we had a case with four dead bodies and almost nothing to go on,” I said, looking out the window at the mountains across from the center. Clouds were massing at the tops, casting strange shadows down the valley. “Maybe Treasure knows something. That is, if she’s still alive.”

  We drove back to Treasure’s building, where a pleasant-faced haole with flyaway light brown hair met us. “I’m Stephen Viens,” he said. “You guys the detectives?”

  We introduced ourselves, and he let us in the front and took us up to the second floor. “Miss Chen?” he said, knocking on the door. “Miss Chen, you in there?”

  There was no answer—which didn’t necessarily mean that Treasure Chen was in the apartment and unable to answer. At least there were no visible pry marks. Viens opened the door and we walked in.

  “Not much of a housekeeper, is she?” Ray asked. The living/dining room looked like somebody had gone through it in a hurry—papers, newspapers, cosmetics, and clothes scattered everywhere. The good news was that the place smelled like lilacs, courtesy of one of those plug-in air fresheners, rather than like a dead body.

  Treasure’s bed was empty, and the bedroom and bathroom bore similar signs of a quick exit. “I’ll leave you to your business,” Viens said, and Ray and I spent the next hour or so going through what Treasure had left behind, looking for anything that might tell us where she’d gone.

  There was precious little. I found the envelope from a greeting card in the bedroom wastebasket. The return address was “E. Chen,” with an address in Waikiki. “Maybe a relative?” I asked Ray.

  “Could be.”

  Treasure’s wardrobe was a lot like that of the girls in Makiki—slinky dresses and high-heeled shoes—though her underwear was much higher class. “Fancy stuff,” Ray said. “You know how much panties like this costs?”

  He held up a pair trimmed in lace, with a pattern of roses. “I bet you’re going to tell me,” I said.

  “Hundred bucks, easy. Julie likes this brand, but it’s not like she’s got a drawer full of it.”

  “Too much information.”

  “Hey, you’ve got your area of expertise, I’ve got mine. That’s why we make such a good partnership.”

  We swung past E. Chen’s address in Waikiki on our way back to the station. It was a nondescript high-rise on Ala Wai Boulevard, just down the street from Harry’s. The doorman told us that E stood for Emerald, a very nice Chinese woman who worked in a bank, he thought. “Hold on,” he said. “I might have one of her cards here.”

  He pulled a big book from underneath his desk. “Sometimes I have to get hold of a tenant at work,” he said, as he paged through it. “You know, leaky pipe, special delivery, that kind of thing. Yeah, here it is.”

  He handed me a card. Emerald Chen was an executive vice president with China Trade Bank, with an address a couple of blocks from the Aloha Tower. At the luxurious building, we had to show our badges to a security guard in the marble lobby, who called upstairs and then directed us to the twenty-first floor.

  The elevator doors opened to magnificent vista of Honolulu harbor, the autumn sunshine glistening off the water. A barge was navigating the Sand Point Channel, and a jet was landing on the reef runway at Honolulu International. Jake Shimabukuro was playing the ukulele softly over the sound system. A young Chinese man in a business suit approached us. “You’re here to see Ms. Chen?”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Is she available?”

  “Let me take you to her office.” We followed him down a hallway to a corner office with the same expansive view. Emerald Chen was somewhat older than I remembered Treasure, and not nearly as attractive. She was short and a little stocky, but her hair and makeup were immaculate and she wore a woman’s Rolex with diamond accents.

  “How can I help you, detectives?” she asked, after we sat down across from her massive teak desk.

  “Do you recognize this envelope?” I showed her the one I’d picked up in Treasure’s apartment.

  “I thought you might be here about my sister,” she said, sighing. “She’s not in trouble again, is she?”

  “I think she might be. Four of her business associates have been murdered in the last week, and we’re worried Treasure might be in danger.”

  “What a charming euphemism. Business associates. I know what my sister did for a living, detective.”

  “And what is that?” Ray asked.

  “When Treasure graduated from high school, I offered to pay her tuition at any college, but she declined. She became a lingerie model, and for that you can read ‘high-class prostitute.’” She frowned. “After about six months, she found herself a rich criminal.”

  “Tommy Pang,” I said.

  “You knew him?”

  I nodded. “I investigated his murder.”

  “So you met my sister. She’s a beautiful woman, and smart enough to know how to use that beauty to get what she wants.”

  “What happened to Treasure after Tommy Pang died?”

  �
�She tried a few legitimate jobs. She was a restaurant hostess for a while, and she worked behind the makeup counter at Clark’s, then at a real estate company, selling time-shares. But she ran into a woman she’d known at the lingerie store and got drawn back into that business.”

  “Norma Ching,” I said.

  “You’ve done your homework, detective.”

  “Someone shot and killed Norma Monday night. As well as two women who worked at the clinic with her and Treasure. We’re worried Treasure is either dead or on the run. Have you heard from her?”

  Emerald Chen looked deflated, like she’d always expected the worst from her sister but still hoped for the best. “No, I haven’t. As you might guess, we’re not close. I’ve never approved of her lifestyle, and she’s rejected my efforts to help her.”

  “She may not be in a position to reject you anymore,” I said. “If she contacts you, will you let us know?”

  “Do you think my sister killed these women?”

  I shook my head. “I think she discovered the two victims in Makiki, and she called 911. As you said, she’s a smart woman. She must have realized she was a target, and she took off. Do you have a current picture of Treasure? We could use one to help us look for her.”

  She reached around behind her to a photo in a silver frame. “This was taken last year, at my grandfather’s birthday,” she said, handing it to me.

  Treasure truly was a beautiful woman, a head taller than her older sister. There was a faint family resemblance between them—but in the photo they looked like a beauty queen and her chaperone. Treasure had a slim face, rounding to a narrow chin. Her cheeks were flat planes, and her eyebrows were carefully plucked. Her black hair was glossy and curled around her face.

  “May we take this with us?” I asked.

  Emerald nodded, and I slipped the photo out of its frame. Ray and I stood up. “Be careful, Miss Chen,” I said. “If someone wants to kill Treasure, you don’t want to be in the way.” We gave Emerald our cards and the young guy showed us back to the elevator.

  “Can you find that picture my sister-in-law drew of Jingtao in the murder book?” I asked Ray as I pulled out of the office building’s garage. “I want to see if Dr. Phil recognizes him.”

  “Dr. Phil your date?” Ray asked, opening the three-ring binder we kept all the information about the case in.

  I told him about the boy who’d come to the ER. “They really ought to have stronger reporting requirements,” Ray said. “Here it is.”

  “I’m with you, brah. But try convincing a bunch of hospital bureaucrats of that.”

  I pulled up in a loading zone next to the ER and left Ray in the car. The Chinese triage nurse paged Dr. Phil, and I cooled my heals by her desk as she checked in a thirty-something guy bleeding from his forehead, an elderly woman who had broken her arm, and a baby with projectile vomiting. I was glad that I sucked in science so never considered a medical career.

  It was about a half hour until Dr. Phil had a moment between patients.

  “What’s up, Kimo?” he asked.

  “You recognize this kid?” I showed him the sketch of Jingtao.

  He looked at it and frowned, then motioned me off to the side, out of the nurse’s hearing. “Sorry, but a lot of Asians look alike to me. Haven’t been here in the islands long enough to start making distinctions.”

  “You think anyone else might recognize him?”

  “Worth a try.” He turned back to the nurse. “Xui Li, do you recognize this kid?”

  She looked at the picture, then nodded. “Beautiful boy. Hard to forget. He was here what, two weeks ago? He was attacked, wasn’t he?”

  “You think you can find his records?” I asked. “Dr. Phil said he was brought in by an older man?”

  She shook her head. “Not without a subpoena. Hospital rules. But I can tell you I remember the man with him told me he didn’t have insurance. I’m willing to bet you he probably left a false name and address.”

  I went back to Ray. By the time we returned to the station, the autopsy results for the three women were in. Norma had been killed first, at least an hour before the two Chinese girls. Doc’s report said that the young women’s physical condition, including their dental work, implied that they had grown up in mainland China.

  Ballistics results showed that the same gun had been used on all three women, and Larry had demonstrated that the pry marks on both doors matched. “How do we connect these murders to Jingtao and the arson at the acupuncture clinic?” I asked. “There’s a circumstantial connection, but arson and homicide are two very different crimes. What if we have more than one bad guy?”

  “Then we’ve got a hell of a case,” Ray said.

  REMEMBERING LUCAS

  Billy Kim from the ballistics lab called a little later. “You guys want to come down here? I’ve got a match on the gun used in your shootings.”

  Ray and I went down to B1, passing Vice on the way, and I wondered how Brian Izumigawa was holding up. I hadn’t heard from him, which I took as a good sign. Maybe Mr. Hu was too busy with other problems to chase down Brian.

  “What have you got?” I asked Billy. He was a skinny Korean guy who knew everything there was to know about ballistics.

  “A cold case. A John Doe.” He pulled up the results on his computer monitor and showed us how the bullets matched.

  “What do you know about this victim?” I asked.

  Billy shook his head. “Not much. Steve Hart caught the case.” Steve was another detective in our squad. I’d had a run-in with him early, when I took away one of his first big cases. It was nothing to do with him; a bomb had gone off at an event I was attending, resulting in a high-profile death, and because of my personal connections I was determined to be the guy to break the case open. It was also what brought me and Mike together, but that’s another story.

  Steve Hart still held a grudge against me, though I’d tried my best to be a good guy since then. Sometimes our shifts overlapped, sometimes not. That day, he came in a couple of hours later, and Ray and I waited until he’d settled in at his desk to ask him about the dead John Doe.

  “No leads.” He was a tall, rangy haole, a California transplant with a chip on his shoulder. “You think you can do something with it, be my guest.”

  He dug around and found the folder, which Ray and I took back to my desk. The first thing we saw was a photo of the dead guy, and I knew that I’d seen him before. But where? His eyes were closed, but otherwise his handsome face was untouched. He had the slimness and pale skin that I’d come to associate with those addicted to ice, the smokable form of crystal meth. Had I arrested him? Seen him hanging around Waikiki?

  I closed my eyes and focused—and then I realized he was the hustler Mr. Hu had paid to fuck me, who had tried to use me to bargain with Vice.

  My first few encounters with Mr. Hu were pretty vanilla, but quickly the stakes escalated. It seemed that he had made it his personal mission to break me. Each time I went to the mansion, he had constructed a new scenario to debase or degrade me, and each time I couldn’t help but go through with what he asked. I had toyed with the occasional bondage or sadomasochism fantasy in the past, and I think my sense of self-worth had been so knocked down after breaking up with Mike that I relished the chance to indulge in some of those darker sexual passions.

  The last time I saw him, we were in the living room of the mansion in Black Point and he asked me if I’d ever been with a prostitute. I’d laughed and said, “I don’t need to pay for sex.”

  “But when you pay, you get what you want.” Mr. Hu was handsome in his way—tall, a bit stocky, always beautifully dressed in expensive suits, Egyptian cotton shirts, silk ties, diamond cufflinks. Most of the time he stayed fully clothed; when he did strip down, I saw silk bikini briefs that retailed for a hundred bucks or more.

  “I get what I want,” I said.

  “Yes, but what about what I want?”

  I slipped my right foot out of my deck shoe and raised my le
g so I could stroke the inside of Mr. Hu’s thigh through his suit pants. “What is it that you want?”

  “I want to see you naked.”

  “You do, do you?” I said, beginning to unbutton my aloha shirt. I was proud of my body, though by that point in my relationship with Mr. Hu I’d been skipping most of my athletic pursuits in favor of visiting the mansion in Black Point. I stood up to shuck my shirt and step out of my pants, and I was uncomfortably aware that I’d put on a few pounds around my waist.

  Mr. Hu saw it, too. “Not so sexy, are you?”

  “I can leave if you want.” I stood there in my boxers, my stiff dick already poking its head through the slit. Of course, I wasn’t going anywhere, but I couldn’t help trying to be assertive.

  “No, you will do,” he said. “The boxers, please.”

  I pulled them down and stood there before him, as if I were on display for his purchase. “There is something about you, Kimo,” he said, appraising me. “I don’t know quite what it is. You are a handsome man, but I see many, many handsome men. I appreciate your enjoyment of sex—your willingness to transcend your own boundaries.”

  “And you like the fact that I’m a cop. That turn you on, Mr. Hu? You have cop fantasies?”

  He smiled tightly. “I have had my own experiences with the police. For the most part, not erotic at all. No, it is something inside you, something I am trying to bring out. Appetites you have repressed.”

  That was scary. If I’d been repressing appetites, it was with good reason. We don’t need to act on our every desire, after all. “Please step over to the wall, face it, and place your hands against it,” Mr. Hu said.

  “Assume the position,” I said, as I placed my hands in the cuffs mounted there, and he locked them shut. “You going to pat me down? Think I might be carrying a concealed weapon?”

  “Your weapon is clearly evident.” He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around my eyes as a blindfold. “We will try something new tonight.”

  With my eyes covered, I felt my other senses heightened. I thought someone else had entered the room, though whoever it was walked very quietly. He came up behind me, and Mr. Hu said, in a voice underlaid with desire, “Eat his ass.”