The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “I’m glad you’ve got someone with you,” Storm said.

  Virtually no one was on the road, and salt spray drifted over the pavement, thick as fog. Storm rolled up the car windows against the blustering wind, and kept the windshield wipers moving against the salt that hazed the glass and saturated the air.

  The night was opaque as a velvet cloak, partly because the spray obscured any moonlight that might have shimmered on the water. Streetlights were reduced to an anemic blur. Where the road ran close to the beach, around Ehukai and Pipeline, the ocean’s presence was a palpable but invisible force that sent shock waves through the earth. The car’s headlights shone feebly through the mists, and Storm leaned forward, squinting to see past the clouding windshield. Stephanie quietly twisted a wad of tissue in her lap.

  “You know where he lives?” Storm asked.

  “Just past Sunset Beach.” She sounded tense. “There’s a little road. I’ll show you.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  Stephanie didn’t say anything right away. “I drove by. I wanted to see what kind of place he’d rented.”

  “Is it nice?”

  Stephanie nodded. “Probably rents for three or four thousand a week.”

  The women lapsed into silence again, as the car, in its cocoon of light, pushed through the darkness. The murky air limited the scope of the headlights, and just as Storm caught sight of the water flowing across the road, the little car plowed through it. Stephanie drew in a sharp breath as their momentum faltered.

  Storm downshifted into second and kept the car’s velocity at a steady, slow pace.

  They must be close to Sunset Beach, and about thirty yards from the ocean. Wind battered the VW, and Storm gripped the wheel with both hands.

  Whenever the surf got high enough, the road washed out. Though she couldn’t distinguish the beach or water to her left, Storm knew some of the waves were big enough to surge over the sand and reach the road. She wished she could see them. She desperately didn’t want to miss the timing of a gigantic set across this narrow stretch of road. But the night, outside the halo cast by the headlights, was an impenetrable wall, and the ocean, several yards farther out, a heaving, unpredictable mass.

  “I see the Sunset Beach sign,” Stephanie said. “We’re close.”

  Storm didn’t answer. She hunched over the steering wheel, trying to see into the blackness on her left, attempting to judge whether the splashing water under the car’s wheels was rising or falling. It wasn’t getting any deeper, she decided, which was an immense relief, because this was the only road. They had to come back the same way.

  “We’re just going to drive by, that’s all. We can’t hang around and take the risk that the waves will rise and the road will be blocked.”

  “Yeah, that sounds okay.” Stephanie sat forward in her seat, as if she, too, were physically urging the Beetle along.

  “I see his street,” she said. “Turn left up there.”

  The road climbed onto a raised point of land that was the site of a lovely housing development. Enormous houses with spectacular views sat shoulder to shoulder in a high-rent neighborhood.

  “There it is.” Stephanie pointed to a home at the end of a cul-de-sac, lit by low modern globes that illuminated a short driveway. The house was a modern design in all-over cedar shake, with towering windows. Lights were barely visible in a front room facing the ocean.

  “I don’t see Ben’s car,” Stephanie whispered.

  “It’s probably inside,” Storm said. Three wide, paneled garage doors were closed tightly.

  “Yeah.” Stephanie sounded dejected.

  “We can’t stay,” Storm reminded her.

  “I know.” Stephanie’s eyes raked the structure and she rolled down her window to peer toward the lighted area. “That’s probably the living room. Can you see anyone?”

  “No.” Storm squirted fresh water on her windshield to clear it. “I guess no one will notice if I turn around in the driveway.”

  She swung the VW into the driveway and set off a motion-sensitive spotlight over the garage doors. By the time she’d put the car in reverse, Marty Barstow had opened the front door.

  Stephanie rolled down her window. “We’re looking for Ben. Is he here?”

  Barstow squinted into the night. “Stephanie? Who’s with you?”

  Storm rolled down her window. “I am.”

  “What do you mean, you’re looking for Ben?” he shouted.

  “Isn’t he here?” Stephanie had the door open before Storm could coast to a stop.

  “No,” Barstow shouted. “He lives with you, remember?”

  Stephanie climbed out of the car. Her hands gripped the top of the car door. Storm put the car in neutral, set the hand brake, and leaned out the window. The wind whipped her hair around her face. “Stephanie was worried because he didn’t come home. Have you seen him?”

  “Not since this afternoon.” Barstow’s voice climbed with concern.

  “When was that?”

  “After the meet, around six. We wanted to take him out for dinner, but he said he wanted to get home.”

  Stephanie’s hands tightened on the doorframe and her face began to crumple. “Come on, Marty. Don’t play games with me.”

  “I’m not!” There was enough alarm in his voice to convince Storm he told the truth.

  “What are you doing still up? Has he called you?” Stephanie asked. Tears streaked her face and her long hair rose in the stiff breeze.

  “I was on the phone to Australia.” Barstow looked at his watch. “But I’m going to call the police.”

  “We’ll report it together.” Stephanie slammed the car door and walked toward the house.

  Storm could smell the ocean on the buffeting wind. She would just have to hope the waves didn’t get any higher. “Does he have a girlfriend? Did he leave the contest with anyone?” she asked.

  “He might be with Gabe Watson,” Barstow said.

  “Let’s phone him,” Stephanie pleaded.

  Barstow frowned at the two women. “You might as well come in for a minute.”

  “We can’t stay,” Storm said. “The surf’s rising.”

  “It’s supposed to be twenty-five feet or more by morning,” Barstow said. He picked up a phone on a table in the foyer. Storm and Stephanie watched him wordlessly for a few moments. “No one answers. But that doesn’t mean anything,” he added quickly. “I sometimes turn off the ringer at night, too.”

  Stephanie made a despairing noise. Storm had to hand it to Barstow, who patted her hand, even if he looked uncomfortable doing it. He pushed three numbers on the handset and made a report to the police. He gave a description of Ben and his car, and the names of some of Ben’s friends, then repeated a series of phone numbers where he or Stephanie could be reached.

  “They’re starting now.” His shoulders drooped with relief. “I was worried they’d want to wait until morning.”

  “They’re looking for him?”

  “Yes, they’ll be in touch with us. You’d better get going. They’ll probably call your home.”

  “Thank you,” Storm said. Stephanie was ten feet in front of her, and making a dash for the car.

  “Storm, are you free to meet me tomorrow? I won’t take much time,” Barstow said in a low voice, out of Stephanie’s earshot.

  “I’ll be at the contest,” Storm said.

  “I’ll be too preoccupied once it starts.” Barstow rubbed his chin, which was dark with a day’s worth of beard. He looked tired and drawn. “Look, I’ll be at my partner’s house tomorrow morning. Could you come there?”

  He dug in his jeans pocket for a scrap of paper and jotted some words. “Here’s the address. It’s closer to you than this place. You know where Chun’s Reef is?”

  “Sure,” Storm said. She’d had some good rides at that break a few days ago, before Nahoa’s body had rolled ashore.

  “Any chance you could be th
ere by eight?”

  “Does this have anything to do with Stephanie?”

  Barstow shook his head. “No, a local guy has been harassing me about the holding period we’ve had.”

  “What’s his name?” Storm said, though she had the feeling she already knew. Buster DeSilva’s name was popping up frequently.

  Barstow didn’t surprise her. “DeSilva. Old-time surfer with issues.”

  Storm didn’t doubt that DeSilva had issues. From her discussion with him, she knew that he was a passionate believer in the old ways. He’d be strongly opposed to contest organizers who “reserved” a beach using local muscle.

  Her gut told her he was harmless, but she knew it would be unwise to overlook conflict, with what had happened to Ken and Nahoa. She also wanted to get a feel for Marty Barstow, to see if he brought up anything about Stephanie and the divorce. It might help her represent the woman’s interests.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you,” Storm said.

  She trotted out to the car, where Stephanie waited. Eight o’clock was going to arrive way too soon. All she wanted at that moment was to safely negotiate the road ahead and climb back into bed with Hamlin.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was nearly four when Storm fell into bed beside Hamlin, who was fast asleep until she nuzzled up next to him.

  “Your feet are cold,” he said, and draped one leg over hers.

  “Yeah,” Storm said, and didn’t know anything further until light peeked through the closed blinds and she smelled the aroma of strong coffee. She rubbed her eyes and turned over. Hamlin was already up and the bedside clock read seven-fifteen. What she really wanted to do was drag him back to bed, but she’d told Marty Barstow she’d meet him at eight. Damn. At least she had time for a cup of coffee.

  “Why don’t I go with you?” Hamlin said, when they both settled with their full mugs on the lanai overlooking the ocean. “We can be co-counsels.”

  “Hamlin, what would you say if I decided to come along on one of your depositions, or to visit one of your clients?”

  He frowned at her. “We’re not at the office.”

  “So what? This guy has a legal question. If it turns out to be in conflict with my representation of Stephanie, I’ll be the first one to suggest that he talk to you.” She slurped from her coffee mug. “I doubt it, though. He mentioned another, unrelated concern.”

  Hamlin glowered in the direction of the ocean. She could tell he knew she was right, but he didn’t like it. Not with Nahoa’s death hanging over their heads.

  “I won’t be alone. His partner will be there,” Storm assured him. She went into the cottage to get dressed. On the way out the door, she called Stephanie to see if Ben had shown up, but the roommate answered the phone.

  “I gave her a couple of Valium when she got in last night,” the woman said hoarsely. She sounded exhausted. “We haven’t heard from Ben.”

  “I’m going to meet with Marty Barstow, and I’ll ask if he’s heard from him. Hopefully, he’s over there.”

  “I’ll tell her,” the roommate said. “She’ll give you a call later.”

  Finding O’Reilly’s beautiful beach rental was no problem, though parking was an issue. A Porsche Boxter sat next to a Corvette in the short driveway, and Storm’s hopes leaped for a moment, until she realized the car was navy blue, not the black one Ben had been driving. Storm made a U-turn and found a parking place off the shoulder of the highway. Hers wasn’t the only car on the stretch.

  The house sat just far enough back from the beach to be out of the high-surf zone, but Storm could smell and taste the tang of the ocean from the back of the house. She pushed the doorbell.

  “Come in,” a man’s voice hollered.

  Storm pushed open the door, which was already slightly ajar, and walked past what looked like an office. That door, too, was partly opened and she could see the glow of a computer screen. It made a “you’ve got mail” sound as she passed. Men’s voices came from the front of the house, which smelled of good coffee.

  When Storm got to the kitchen area, she stopped in admiration. The entire front of the house was one big room, and the wall facing the ocean was almost entirely glass. A fireplace sat in the corner of one side of the area, with comfortable leather furniture clustered around it. The other side of the space was a modern, stainless steel kitchen, cluttered with coffee mugs, dishes, and cooking utensils.

  Barstow sat on a bar stool at a granite-topped island, and the man Storm knew as O’Reilly stood on the other side of the island. He operated what looked like a commercial espresso maker. The aroma coming from it was divine, and much more appealing to her than O’Reilly himself, who wore nothing but a loosely fastened, drooping lavalava.

  He leaned over the counter, offered his hand, and held on to hers for a moment too long. “The exotic and alluring Ms. Kayama. I’ve heard about you.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Storm didn’t mention that she’d heard about him, too. Instead, she kept her eyes on the guileless, blue-eyed smile, and hoped that his sarong didn’t catch on a drawer pull. Storm had the feeling he’d already checked her bra size, and was so skillful at it that she hadn’t noticed.

  “I make a great latte, if you’d like one,” he said.

  “Take it,” Barstow growled. Dark circles underscored his bloodshot eyes. “You probably had less sleep than I did. You hear anything from Ben?”

  “No,” Storm said. “Have you?”

  Barstow just shook his head.

  “I told you,” O’Reilly said, “he’s pissed at both of you.” He gestured with the cup he handed Storm. “Not you, the ex.” He glanced back at Barstow. “He’s probably with that blonde.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” Storm asked.

  O’Reilly shrugged and his lavalava slipped an inch. “I meant that gorgeous dame Pi'ilani was hooked up with. Aren’t she and Ben good friends?” He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  “You’re just jealous.” Barstow glared at him over his own coffee cup. His cell phone rang, and he picked it up, barked a few orders into it, and disconnected.

  “True, but I’m a patient man.” O’Reilly shrugged again and Storm directed her gaze to the glorious view out the window.

  Barstow, in her line of sight, rolled his eyes. His phone rang again, and he said a few short sentences before hanging up. “Questions about the set-up for today’s rounds,” he said in explanation.

  “It starts at noon?” Storm asked, and he nodded. A sliding screen door opened behind her and she turned at the noise. “Goober,” she said, surprised. “Howzit?”

  Goober was coming in from the side of the house, and he barely glanced her way. He looked like he’d awakened and put on the same board shorts he’d been wearing all week. Or maybe he’d just slept in them.

  “Sunny wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth,” he snarled at O’Reilly.

  “Ooh, someone’s in a bad mood this morning,” O’Reilly said.

  “How’s the ear?” Barstow asked.

  “Fine. I can surf.”

  Barstow’s voice was kind. “It’s out of our hands. Those are the breaks.”

  “You need someone to drive the jet ski for Kimo,” Goober said.

  “Sorry, kiddo. Doctor’s orders.” O’Reilly turned on the steamer attached to the espresso maker.

  Barstow waited for the racket to stop, then spoke kindly. “It happens to the best of surfers, and you need to heal before you head back into the water. You could get an infection.”

  O’Reilly handed Goober a mug of coffee, but the young man ignored him. Storm noticed that O’Reilly’s hand trembled. He quickly set the mug on the counter, and turned to the sink.

  Goober stared, pale and somber, at Barstow. “Please,” he said softly.

  “It’s out of my hands this time,” Barstow said. “You’ll have other opportunities.”

  Goober held Barstow’s gaze for a half-second longer, then t
urned on his bare heel and headed for the front door.

  He was halfway down the hall when Barstow spoke again. “Did you see Ben yesterday?” He used the same soft tone he had when Goober stood right in front of him.

  Goober glanced over his shoulder. “He met a tourist. Maybe he’s with her.”

  The circles under Barstow’s eyes seemed to become less pronounced with this news. Storm was relieved, too.

  She turned to him. “What did you want to ask me?”

  Barstow had mentally shifted gears and wore a thoughtful expression. “What do you know about this guy DeSilva?”

  “Not much.”

  “You ever met him?”

  “Once.”

  Barstow nodded, as if he’d already known the answer. “What’s your feel for him? You know, from the coconut wireless.”

  “As far as I know, he has a good reputation in the community.”

  “Teaches martial arts, doesn’t he? You know if he has an arrest record?”

  “I haven’t had reason to look.”

  “Is that difficult?”

  “Might be. Has he threatened you?”

  “Yes.” Barstow looked thoughtful. “Yes, you could say that. I also heard that he’d threatened Nahoa Pi'ilani.”

  That got Storm’s attention, which was exactly what Barstow had intended. And while O’Reilly had his back to them and kept busy by scooping coffee into the espresso machine, his head was cocked as if he didn’t want to miss a word.

  “How so?” Storm asked.

  “Something about being a sacrifice to Lono. You ever heard of that?”

  “I don’t put much store in those things.” Storm looked directly at Barstow. Though circled with fatigue, his eyes glittered, as if he’d been waiting to see how she’d react to this inflammatory tidbit.

  Storm wasn’t in the mood to play games. “What’s your concern in this?”

  Barstow looked down and took a sip of his coffee. “He sent a letter to our parent company and threatened, as a Native American, to sue for loss of public access to the shoreline.”

  “When?”

  “A few weeks ago, when we established the waiting period.”