For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “Does it tell you how to pick up mermaids?” I asked.

  “Gently…. You’re quite the poker player. Been playing a lot?” “Only since my divorce. Got a lotta time on my hands.”

  “I hear ya.”

  You could say I was back in business. I’d not only lost my share of the house that Brenda and I had made mortgage payments on for nearly a decade, I had lost the lease on my office, a second floor suite in that three-story dive near where Nimitz meets Nu‘uanu. The new owners arrived with ideas of converting this rundown building to upscale, close-to-work lofts. In the meantime they felt compelled to double the rent. With lease prices and the value of land skyrocketing throughout the island, I moved my stuff out and tried conducting my private eye business out of the tiny apartment I was renting from Ah Sing, an old family friend. End result? I hadn’t seen a paying customer in months, spent my time tying up loose ends on old cases, and was seriously contemplating a career shift.

  In the meantime Brenda, a copywriter turned weekend anchor-woman on the local Fox News affiliate, had gone to town with her new beau, a former Aussie golf pro who looked disconcertingly like John Stossel. His constant shoulder problems had forced him to retire from the game prematurely, but he had learned that the camera liked him and worked his way into the TV-anchor business. He found a co-anchor gig at the same station where Brenda worked, then gave that up to become a golf instructor-slash-realtor. In short time he bedazzled my wife, moved into my house, and rewrote the storyline. Guess who got to be the villain.

  Now that I was aboard the Suze, lulled by its subtle rocking, my thought was, I could get used to this: floating office; a floating home.

  After bidding adios to Andy I returned to my apartment and crashed out on my futon. When I got up it was dark. My watch said 8:15. I ate some granola soaked in lukewarm water, all I could scrounge up in the dank apartment, then crashed again till morning, having no idea what day it was. When I awoke I rolled off of my futon, got dressed, picked up some coffee and breakfast at the fabulous Mickey D’s, then returned home and began packing. Lots of my stuff remained in boxes from my previous move, so, compared to past address and zip-code changes, this one looked to be a breeze.

  I deposited the check Andy had given me at the Media Hawaii FCU. I had joined this credit union half a lifetime and several careers ago. I took out some pocket cash and trekked on over to the nearest Western Union, made out a money order, then, back in my apartment/office, dug up a postage stamp, stuck it on an envelope containing the money order and a note to old Ah Sing, first thanking him for his infinite patience, then saying, Here’s the rent for April and May. I’ ll be out by May 18. Kind as he was, I didn’t want to scare him with a check, not after the way the last one I wrote bounced higher than a Steve Nash feed to Amar’e Stoudemire. I also gave him information on where to send the part of the deposit not eaten up by extraneous expenses. If he wanted to charge me for carpet cleaning, though it was a filthy old rug to begin with, I was fine with that. I was equally fine if he kept the entire deposit.

  Andy had explained that it usually took years to get a boat slip in the crowded Ala Wai Boat Harbor, but since the boat was already moored there, I could move right in—that is, after filling out the proper change of ownership forms and taking it over to the Division of Boating and Ocean Recreation in the DLNR building, where I’d have to fill out a Principal Habitation Permit.

  I picked up a quick lunch at Rainbows, then headed toward Mānoa. I passed up on the FedEx-Kinkos and headed toward Inkstop, a hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop printing operation deep in the valley. Thought I might get me some business cards. This was a step above writing down my name and number in bleeding ink on some napkin, a methodology formed during my crime beat days. I squeezed in all the information I could within the two-by-three-inch space:

  DAVID “KAWIKA” APANA

  private investigator

  Specializing in Missing Persons • Infidelity Investigations • Child Custody Background, Asset, & Bank Searches • Legal, Financial, or Personal Matters Indigent clients welcome

  Ala Wai Boat Harbor Slip #514

  Honolulu, HI 96815

  With my set of identical cards—I kept shuffling and picking one, just to be sure—I drove around town, posting them on every bulletin board I could find: at shopping malls, supermarkets, community colleges, even on the makeshift walls fronting construction sites, amongst the graffiti.

  As muggy weather set in, in its usual untimely way, I spent the next few days moving my essentials—clothes, bathroom and kitchen stuff, some paperbacks, the futon, a thirty-year-old Takamine guitar in need of new strings—to the boat. Except for the few items I thought I could take to a consignment store, or to Rainbow Books, I dumped everything else.

  Within a week I was back in business, so to speak. All I needed was a client or two.

  And that’s where she came in.

  Part One

  THE GLINT OF DIAMONDS

  1

  (Day 1—Monday, May 21) I wasn’t prepared for her. Standing in freeze frame in my sloop, thinking about renaming it Bill, or George—anything but Suze, a name only a trial lawyer could love—I watched her materialize. She seemed to have come with the weather, the slight northern breeze that had blown away the mugginess of the past week. No longer a soft-focus watercolor, she was dramatically real as she stepped up to my slip, checked the number, it appeared, saw me gazing at her, and asked if I was David Apana. When I nodded she introduced herself as Minerva Alter. She was a lean though voluptuous blonde wearing a shortie mu‘umu‘u. Spaghetti straps held this nothing of a dress up, exposing tanned, well-toned shoulders. She looked to be in her mid-fifties. If forty was the new twenty, a claim I did not challenge, perhaps to assuage my having turned that corner, she was visible proof that a double nickel may just be the new thirty-five.

  “Is this your office?” she said.

  “For now.” I put down the bag of rubbish I was about to take to the nearby trash bin, helped her onto the boat, and had her sit on the only deck chair. The cabin was a mess of boxes, not ready for visitors, and had I known someone would come so soon I’d have stocked my mini-fridge with drinks.

  “And you are a private detective.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I discreetly buttoned the top buttons of my loose-fitting rayon shirt. It was frayed from wear and I liked it that way. My watch said it was 9:30 and my stomach wanted breakfast. I had earlier settled for coffee.

  “I don’t know how to say it but to say it. Are you good?”

  “I’m not good with self-evaluations. Better you ask some former client. I could give you some names.”

  “I don’t want names, references, or whatever. I just want someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone … look, I … I saw your card.” She crossed her legs, fiddled with her handbag. She pulled out what looked to be a change purse. Opened it, snapped it shut. “I’ve never hired a private eye before. And I need somebody good.” She opened her purse again, pulled out a cigarette pack, then put the pack back and snapped the purse shut. If she asked me if smoking was allowed, I would have to say Yes. Just stop doing that, and then I’d light up myself.

  She must have sensed my ambivalence, for she followed with, “If you know someone who’s better suited for my case, I’ll pay you for that information.” While she was shoving the purse back into her handbag I noted her accessories: a diamond ring, diamond earrings, a jade bracelet.

  I could have made a few bucks by offering her a name or two and calling it a day. I cleared my throat. “It all depends what you’re asking for, ma’am. Going to an agency has its advantages. They may have more reach. More access to certain resources. The costs could be prohibitive, though. At least a thousand up front. Then a hundred twenty per day, plus expenses. If you’re lucky, she’s found within the week. If it goes on for, say, a month, we’re talking four and a half grand minimum.”

  She shut her eyes, maybe to do some mental calculations. She opened her eyes and sa
id, “I don’t care how much it costs—”

  “On the other hand, an agency would have several cases going and may not be as quick to follow up on things. I work alone, so I don’t have to check in with anyone and can go wherever a case takes me.” I wondered if it was a wayward husband case. She must have been a stunner well into her forties, though I now noticed some telltale grays among the blonde strands. Her diamonds earrings sparkled. When she fingered a loose strand to put it behind her ear, her jade bracelet slipped an inch toward her elbow. “If you could just tell me what it is you want I could make my best recommendation.”

  “I want you to find my daughter.”

  “I see.” Is this a missing child case? If so, fuck me. “How old is she?”

  She dug through her handbag and pulled out a small photo album and handed it over.

  I opened the compact album and immediately saw the smiling face of a little child holding hands with a beautiful blonde. I groaned.

  “The recent photos are in the back,” Minerva said.

  “My god, that’s you?” Damn, she was beautiful. Still is, in a certain light.

  Minerva Alter nodded absently.

  As I skimmed through the dozen or so photos I saw the transformation: a little girl with no front teeth standing next to a dark, leather-skinned man in shades; that same girl with her mom; a gangly, awkward teenager with braces; a high school graduate in a white gown bedecked with leis, standing between mom and a pale, balding fella; a twenty-something woman in a pareu, then on stage, in an evening dress, wearing a crown and holding a bouquet of flowers.

  The final photo seized me. There she was, staring at the camera, challenging it, not surrendering herself to its probing lens. She no longer bore the sweetness of childhood; she looked to be in her mid-twenties. It was an outdoor photo; there was ocean and what appeared to be two little islands behind her.

  “This is her?”

  “Yes. That’s Caroline. You recognize her?”

  “No. I just … she’s … striking. Mixed, huh?”

  “Her father’s Hawaiian-Chinese—on his mother’s side. He never was sure about his real father. Thinks he was a mix of Filipino and either Puerto Rican or Portuguese.”

  My prospective client looked Scandinavian, her weather-beaten skin suggesting some previous involvement with sun worship. I shut the photo album.

  “Where is her father?” I said, cutting to the chase. That question usually answered a lot of others.

  “Valley of the Temples. Cemetery lot 46B.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. He was murdered.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lino Johnson.”

  I tightened my grip on the album. That was a left hook from out of nowhere. The murder of Lino Johnson was a seminal event in local lore. He was shot point-blank on a Chinatown street almost two decades ago. There were suspects, a couple of career criminals with gunpowder residue all over their mitts and arms, but no ballistics match. And since police found little beyond the circumstantial stuff, no one ever went to trial. As far as they were concerned, the killer or killers had done society a favor.

  “Do you have any idea who … killed him?”

  “That’s ancient history, far as I’m concerned. Right now I’m only interested in finding my daughter. Are you up for this?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m up for it. But I’m gonna need your help.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need her home address, any information you can give me about her workplace, her habits, her relationships. I need to know the names of friends, acquaintances, any interesting characters she may have been in contact with. Anyone she might have had any kind of beef with.”

  “She’s been living on the North Shore, works in film, loves the beach, has a—”

  “Wait. Hang on a second.” I stepped down into the cabin and returned with a pen and pad.

  “You were saying?”

  “She’s been staying on the North Shore with her boyfriend Matthew. When she has stuff to do in town, she stays with me.”

  “Her mailing address?”

  She paused. “Never thought of that … where she gets her mail. Very little comes to my place, so I’m guessing that most of her mail’s going to the North Shore residence.”

  “So, this North Shore residence …”

  “That’s Matthew’s family home. Well, it’s only his mom now. And the assortment of grandkids she gets stuck with.”

  “Have you talked about this with Matthew’s mom?

  “Every day. She hasn’t seen or heard from either of them.”

  “Maybe they needed some privacy. Based on what you’ve told me—”

  “Matthew and Caroline have their own space, an add-on that she and Matthew built. She’s the type that ‘needs her space,’ which is why she’s also done some house sitting. I think that helps when they have disagreements.”

  I wrote down House sitting. “Do they fight much, she and Matthew?”

  “Oh dear, don’t let me give you the wrong impression. They’re passionate about everything. If they fight, it comes from that passion. They love each other dearly.”

  “You were mentioning film work?”

  “Yes, that’s a big part of her life. She’s been investing all her time and energy into an independent film she starred in and helped produce. I don’t know if it’ll ever get released. As far as I know, she’s been living off of grants and the money Matthew brings home. He’s a lifeguard.”

  “Money problems?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. She just happens to be in a business where making money is a crapshoot. It hasn’t paid off yet.”

  Her hand shook, like she needed a cigarette. I wasn’t offering.

  “Here’s a dumb question: Where’s Matthew?”

  “My guess is he’s with her…. I’ve talked with Connie—Matthew’s mom—and she told me that except for a phone call from Matt on Mother’s Day, she hasn’t seen or heard from either of them since May third. That’s the day they left on what was supposed to be a short trip to the mainland. They do travel, mind you, sometimes for weeks at a time, but Caroline has always called me. That’s the thing I don’t get. She’s always checked in—every few days.”

  “That does seem … odd.” I didn’t want to say disturbing.

  I jotted down some notes.

  “First I figured they went sailing,” she said while I was writing. “Matthew has a sailboat.”

  “Maybe that’s your answer,” I said as I put the notepad in my shirt pocket and opened the photo book again. “There’s no cell phone tower in the middle of the Pacific.” I perused the pictures.

  “That’s what I thought. Then I learned that his boat is still docked in He‘eia.”

  “The boat harbor?”

  She nodded, looked toward the horizon. She didn’t like what she saw, so she looked straight at me. “I’m confused. I don’t know if she’s with Matthew. They did have a falling out about a month ago and she did stay with me a couple of days. But they made up.”

  “You said she likes the beach.” I was looking at the last photo. Shot from her waist up, wearing a bikini top, Caroline had to have been standing near the shoreline. The color of the water behind her was turquoise-green.

  “When she’s not working she’s always at the beach. Usually Kailua, where Matthew works as a lifeguard, or at Lanikai. I went there a few days ago. Seemed kinda hopeless, asking people if they’d seen her. I showed them pictures. Nothing. I talked with a couple of Matthew’s fellow lifeguards at Kailua Beach. They haven’t seen him.”

  “How much of that area did you cover?”

  She tsked. “Not much. Those beaches are huge. Thought I would get sunstroke.” She took a breath. “I’ve been making calls, going from beach to beach. You know how many beaches there are just on the Windward and North Shores?”

  Way too many when you’re looking for someone.

  She looked defeated. “I began to realize,” sh
e continued, “I don’t know how my daughter spends her days. I know she was recutting the film, but where does she do that? I’m going crazy.”

  I held the open photo book so we both could look at it and pointed to the last photo. “This was definitely taken at Lanikai. That’s Nā Mokulua way in the background. See?” The two islets were set back on the right. The photographer had taken pains to get the tiny islands in the picture. Blown up and framed, this photo would look great on a wall. “Whoever took this picture has an artistic eye.”

  “My guess is it was Matthew.”

  “He’s good.” I’ve used several different cameras and telephoto lenses when working cases. A couple of my cameras have a portrait mode, to ensure that the subject remains clear while the backdrop remains fuzzy. When you’re doing it in a hurry, which is often the case in my line of work, you want to dial in the aperture beforehand and hope your preset gets you the shot you want. Matthew, if he’s the one that took this shot, knew exactly what he was doing.

  I shut the photo book and looked at Minerva. “I’ll need names. Friends, acquaintances, probably the same people you’ve called.” And I’d probably check out the same areas she’d gone to. Maybe there was something that she missed.

  She fingered through her bag and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper, unfolding it as she handed it to me. “Here. It’s a list of the people she hung out with. Names and numbers, including Caroline and Matthew’s cell phone numbers and the North Shore address.”

  “Good. Just what I need.”

  “And”—she pointed to the last names on the sheet—“those are a couple of her exes. Karl is the most recent, though that’s been over for quite a while … and”—she pointed near the bottom—“those are people that she interacted with in recent months. I got it from an address book on our home computer.”

  “I’d like to look at that computer.”