by Lee Goldberg
Steve held up three fingers, lowering one at a time as he made his points. "No one has asked you for advice. It's not a case I'm working on. And it doesn't involve one of your patients."
"That's not true," Mark said defensively. "Danny Royal was my patient. He came to me with his jellyfish stings."
"You're reaching. You want to know my theory?" Steve didn't wait for an answer. "For you, running around the island asking questions about a murder is your idea of a vacation. You're having a great time. I saw the look on your face at the fire last night."
"I don't take any pleasure in the suffering of others," Mark said.
"No, but you take a lot of pleasure in solving mysteries," Steve said. "And you can't leave this one behind."
"What would you like me to do, Steve?"
"Think about letting Kealoha do his job and the two of us enjoy the rest of our vacation."
Mark was quiet for a moment, considering what Steve said, then he nodded. "You're right, we came here for rest and relaxation. I should have fun."
"Finally, you're grasping the concept. Take it easy. Enjoy what Kauai has to offer."
"I will." Mark pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
"So what do you have in mind?"
"I thought I'd go down to First Bank of Kauai for a look at Danny Royal's financial records and anything he might have in a safe-deposit box. Want to join me?"
"Sure." Steve sighed and got up.
Sgt. Ben Kealoha was waiting for them inside the bank with Arliss Brewer, the bank manager and chief loan officer, and Earl Ettinger, Danny's accountant. Kealoha was armed with a court order allowing them to see all of Danny Royal's bank records and to open a safe-deposit box, assuming he had one.
He did.
They found the usual mortgage documents, deeds, and insurance policies, as well as $100,000 in cash and half a dozen passports for Danny under a half a dozen different names and nationalities.
Stuck amid the mortgage documents for the restaurant property, Mark found one of Danny's souvenir recipe cards, a tantalizing picture of lemongrass-seared island opah on one side, the recipe and a handwritten note on the other.
Re: Ideal Oven, Ask Jim Lowe. A loose, trendy cook
The only other information on the card was the preprinted address and phone numbers for the Royal Hawaiian and, in almost microscopic type, the name and address of the company that made the cards.
Kealoha asked Brewer if he could borrow the bank's conference room to talk and to go over the cartons of financial information Ettinger brought and that the bank had collected for them.
Brewer agreed, and even offered to provide all the fresh-ground Kona coffee they needed. They gladly took him up on his hospitality, and, while Ettinger patiently waited outside, they interviewed the bank manager about Danny Royal.
Brewer was a man in his midforties with too much gel in his short hair. He looked quite comfortable in a coat and tie, despite the humidity and heat outside. Seeing a banker in typical business attire in Kauai somehow seemed strangely out of place to Mark.
"What can you tell us about Danny Royal?" Kealoha asked.
"Mr. Royal was a conscientious, dependable, hardworking businessman," Brewer said, sitting ramrod straight in his chair. "He came here with nothing and rose to become a pillar of the community."
"I've always wondered," Steve said, "what's it take to become a pillar?"
"He ran a successful business and took an interest in the community," Brewer said. "He gave money to local charities, donated services, promoted tourism, and was a member in good standing of the Chamber of Commerce."
"So basically, it's something you buy," Kealoha said.
"It's also about character, Sgt. Kealoha," Brewer said.
"And Danny had plenty of that," Steve replied, spreading the passports out like a poker hand. "At least half a dozen of them we know of so far."
"Mr. Brewer, you said Danny came here with nothing," Mark said. "What did you mean by that?"
"When he came here four years ago, he rented the Outrigger House property from us," Brewer said. "It was a poorly run restaurant that went under and defaulted on its mortgage payments, so we assumed ownership of the property and furnishings. Mr. Royal rented it all from us to start his own restaurant, slowly fixed the place up, and once the business took off, we sold the building to him."
"When did he open his account with you?" Mark asked.
"Shortly after he started renting the Outrigger property," Brewer said. "We deducted his payments directly from his accounts."
Mark took out a pencil and began taking some notes on a legal pad. "What was his balance?"
"When he first opened the account?"
"Yes."
"About nine thousand dollars," Brewer said, referring to some documents in front of him.
Kealoha covered his mouth as he yawned. Steve didn't know if it was because he was bored or because he'd been up all night at the two arson scenes. It was probably a little bit of both. Suddenly, Steve felt a yawn coming on, too.
Mark made a note on his pad. "Did Danny take out a loan with the bank to pay for the improvements he was making in the restaurant?"
"No," Brewer said, "He paid for that himself."
"Where was the money coming from?"
"I understood he had some family money or something," Brewer said. "The account shows that, for the first year or so, he received regular transfers of eight to nine thousand dollars every month."
"From where?" Mark asked.
Brewer referred to the paperwork again. "Numerous banks on the mainland and abroad."
"When you say abroad," Steve asked, "would you be speaking of the Cayman Islands?"
"One of the banks involved was situated there, yes," Brewer said.
Kealoha snickered. "And that didn't raise any alarm bells with you?"
"Sergeant, if I got alarmed every time we received a transfer from a Cayman Island financial institution, I'd have to shut down the bank," Brewer said. "It is not uncommon for people of substance to put money there to avoid excessive taxation."
"I'm confused, Mr. Brewer. I thought you said Danny started from nothing," Mark said. "People with nothing don't usually have accounts in the Cayman Islands."
"Perhaps what I should have said was that he didn't initially bring much capital into his business and that he lived modestly at first. As his business grew, he increased his investment and assumed debt accordingly," Brewer said. "He was a patient and careful man when it came to his money and ours."
"We heard he'd owned some restaurant franchises in New Jersey," Steve said.
"He might have worked in the restaurant industry before," Brewer said, "but I was always under the impression that this was the first business of his own."
"You don't check these things out before you loan a guy money?" Kealoha said. "Because if that's the case, I'd like to borrow some money before I leave."
"I don't know anything about his previous business endeavors," Brewer said, "beyond the fact that no red flags showed up when we checked his credit."
Mark glanced at the handwritten note on Danny's recipe card. "Have you ever done business with anyone named Jim Lowe?"
"The name doesn't sound familiar, no."
Mark asked a few more questions, Kealoha yawned a few more times, and then Brewer was excused. Steve noticed that Mark had filled three pages of his legal pad with notes and figures.
Earl Ettinger, wearing slacks, was invited in next. He was a short, balding, round-faced man wearing an untucked tan silk shirt with a mild floral pattern that gave him the illusion of being a little taller and thinner than he actually was. He was holding a thin leather briefcase that gave him the illusion of being more important and professionally occupied than he actually was. And he was smiling, giving the illusion that he was actually glad to be there.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Earl said.
"Thanks for coming down, Mr. Ettinger," Kealoha said.
"Call me Earl,
please," Earl said, passing his business card all around before taking a seat and setting the briefcase beside him on the floor. "How can I help you?"
"We have some questions about Danny Royal," Kealoha said, yawning.
"Fire away," Earl said, smiling even bigger, giving the illusion that now he wasn't just happy, but thrilled to be there.
"From what Mr. Brewer told us," Mark said, "it seems that Danny was very frugal with his money when he first arrived here."
"Yes, indeed he was," Earl said. "Rented a little apartment in Waimea and drove a used car he bought off one of the rental agencies."
"He paid cash for both?"
"Yep," Earl said.
"I understand he was getting some money from other banks," Mark said.
"A little less than ten grand a month from other accounts he had here and there," Earl said.
"Here and there," Mark repeated, sorting through some of the bank account statements until he found what he was looking for. "That would include the five accounts he had in different banks here in Hawaii with balances of about nine thousand dollars each."
"Yes," Earl said.
"And then there were the occasional transfers from other banks for nine thousand dollars or less."
"Right."
"That didn't strike you as odd?"
"How so?"
Mark and Steve shared a look, then Steve asked, "How did you and Danny get together, Earl?"
"He came in and had me do his tax return," Earl said. "It was pretty simple that first year. He hadn't opened his restaurant yet."
"Did someone refer him to you?"
"No, he just walked in to the H&R Block at the Kukui Grove Mall," Earl said. "They open up a temporary outlet in one of the vacant storefronts around tax time every year. Lucky for me I was free when Danny came in."
"Lucky for both of you," Kealoha said, stretching in his seat, trying to stay awake.
"That was the day my own accounting firm really began," Earl said wistfully. "In a sense, Danny and I grew up together in the Kauai business community."
"He was a pillar," Steve agreed.
"How did Danny pay for the improvements he made to the restaurant?" Mark asked.
"He paid cash," Earl said. "Danny didn't want any debt hanging over his head, not until he had a steady, dependable cash flow."
"As opposed to the steady, dependable cash flow from all his other bank accounts," Kealoha said.
"He'd rather spend his own capital than take on risk," Earl said. "I thought that was sound financial thinking, and I proved to be correct. He incorporated, paid himself a salary, and loaned much of it right back into the business until the restaurant was a success."
"I see," Mark said. "And then he took out loans to buy the Outrigger property and his house on the beach."
"Yep," Earl said. "He didn't even trust himself with a credit card until a couple years ago, and then only one."
"Are you familiar with a vendor Danny might have dealt with named Jim Lowe?" Mark asked. "He might have sold Danny some ovens?"
"Doesn't ring a bell," Earl said. "But you're going back a lot of years. You'd have to look at the canceled checks."
"I'll do that. Thank you, Earl," Mark said. "You've been a big help."
Earl rose with a smile. "I hope you'll remember me at tax time."
He started to hand out his card again, but Steve stopped him. "You already gave us one."
Earl winked. "Give one to a friend."
CHAPTER TEN
As soon as the accountant left, Mark leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I think it's pretty clear what Danny Royal pulled off here."
"Maybe I'm just dead tired," Kealoha said, "and incredibly bored, but it isn't totally clear to me. I see the pieces, I'm just not sure how they all fit together."
"Let's start at the beginning. We know that Danny Royal was in hiding with a new face and a new identity," Mark said. "You can easily buy both."
"In L.A., you can buy good identities any day of the week on the sidewalk on Alvarado Street," Steve added. "Driver's licenses, social security cards, birth certificates— the works, for as little as a hundred dollars."
"But Danny had another problem that wasn't quite so easy to solve," Mark said. "He had a lot of money he'd taken from somebody that he had to put into play without raising any attention. Unlike most crooks, Danny was smart enough to know not to be greedy, that to avoid detection you have to be patient instead. You have to invest or leverage the money, replacing the cash with assets, little by little over time."
"You don't go out and buy a Ferrari, or go gambling in Vegas, or move into a mansion," Steve said. "You keep a low profile."
"Which isn't easy to do with a couple hundred large in your pocket," Kealoha said. "Not that I'd know what that's like."
"The banks have to notify the federal government of any deposits over ten thousand dollars, so Danny opened dozens of accounts just shy of the limit, kept some cash on hand, and put the rest in the Cayman Islands," Mark said. "He used that money to rent an apartment, buy a cheap car, and to lease the space for his restaurant."
"The restaurant became the Laundromat for his money," Steve said. "He paid cash for everything he could, then once the place got going, he paid himself a salary, loaned the business money, basically funneling his money back through the restaurant any way possible."
"He paid his taxes, established credit, took out a mortgage, and within a few years the money was clean. He was finally making real money rather than laundering what he already had," Mark said. "He'd become legitimate. But he never stopped being afraid."
"How do you know he was scared?" Kealoha asked.
"The fake passports and cash he kept in his safe-deposit box," Mark said. "I'm willing to bet he had more cash and IDs hidden in his house in case he needed to make a quick escape."
"Odds are you're going to find out his social security number is legit," Steve said. "Probably belongs to some upstanding citizen who paid his taxes, never got in trouble with the law, and died five years ago. Or he's still alive in some rest home somewhere, not even sure what his own name is."
Kealoha stood up, yawned, and stretched. "So where do we go from here?"
"We go back to Los Angeles tomorrow," Mark said sadly, then adding hopefully, "unless there's something more you need from us here."
Kealoha shook his head. "You've already done more than enough. I'm going to grab some lunch, then start going through all this stuff."
"We could start on it for you," Mark said eagerly.
"No, thanks," Kealoha replied, much to Steve's relief. "I've lined up some detectives at the station to help me out. Stop by HQ on your way to the airport and I'll fill you in on what we've got."
Mark and Steve walked outside, pausing on the steps of the bank to take in the day, the warm sunshine, the sleepy pace of Lihue, a town that seemed architecturally trapped in 1977.
"You don't look happy," Steve said.
"We've hit a wall," Mark said. "The story ended here; it began somewhere else. We just don't have a clue where."
"It's not our problem, Dad."
"Then why do I feel this intense pressure right behind my eyes?"
"I'm not a doctor," Steve said, "but it sounds to me like you need a vacation."
There was nothing more Wyatt could do in Kauai, so he took the first flight out to Los Angeles. On the way, he turned on his laptop and browsed over the material he'd gathered on Mark Sloan and his son.
He'd analyzed their credit card statements, their phone bills, their DMV records, and managed to get a look at Steve Sloan's service record. Privacy no longer existed for anyone—except men like Wyatt, whose survival depended on it. Wyatt paid a high price for the sophisticated software and database passwords he'd acquired, but it was worth every penny to have unfettered access to bits and bytes of people's lives.
As soon as he landed at LAX in the late afternoon, he rented a car and drove to a storage unit he kept in Canoga Park, a bleak corner of the S
an Fernando Valley filled with auto body shops, apartments overstuffed with illegal aliens, and warehouses where porno films were shot.
The storage units were covered with gang graffiti and were protected by a live-in manager, who liked to tool around the property in his golf cart and had put rattrap boxes in every corner and alcove.
Wyatt walked up to his little closet. A cheap $10 padlock was all that protected his tens of thousands of dollars' worth of sophisticated electronics and unsophisticated weapons. Anyone who put expensive locks on their storage units might as well put a placard outside that said: GOOD STUFF INSIDE. COME AND GET IT!
He left the weapons, took the electronic goodies, and drove through Las Virgenes Canyon, down the Santa Monica Mountains, and into Malibu, the exclusive beach community for the very rich. Having just left Kauai, Wyatt was struck by the contrasts between the two iconic visions of sandy paradise.
They both had long beaches, palm trees, and almost endless sunshine. What Hawaii didn't have was a Berlin Wall of obscene houses, tall fences, and a traffic-clogged freeway cutting people off from the beach. And even if anybody got to the beach, what little sand that wasn't eroded away was covered with raw sewage, used syringes, and TV production crews hauling in fake palm trees, fake dunes, and swimsuit models to sell the world on a paradise that didn't exist.
But other than that, Hawaii and Malibu were virtually the same.
Mark Sloan lived on an exclusive stretch of Malibu across from the colorfully dated Trancas Market, where people with multimillion-dollar homes shopped for groceries in flip-flops, cutoffs, and sweatshirts and pretended they were beach bums.
Wyatt discovered in his research that Mark bought the house cheap in an auction held by the DEA, who'd taken the prime property from some drug dealer. Mark lived on the top floor and his son lived on the first floor. They shared a front door, but there was separate access to the bottom floor from the beach. That was the door Wyatt used to break in after he disabled the alarm.
Wyatt spent the next two hours methodically and efficiently infesting the house with electronic bugs. He opened up their computers and installed chips that would allow him to capture each keystroke and, when they were on-line, see whatever they saw in real time. The image would be transmitted to his computer and, if he wasn't there, would be captured on his hard drive for later viewing. He used another piece of electronic wizardry to clone their cell phones so he could eavesdrop on their calls at will or, when he wasn't around, have them recorded by his computer for playback.