It was an artist’s room. Not only because of the easel and the paint-brushes and the cans of paint of all sizes that sat off center; not only because of the guitar on a stand in a corner, next to an old upright piano; not just because of the large worktable that ran along one wall, a worktable that featured an editing machine, a mixing board, a projector, a boom box, lots and lots of loose papers and photos, paper clips, Post-its, staplers, pens and pencils, a set of drawing pencils, and more; not only because of the ti-leaf plant in one corner, or the funky shoe rack in the other, or the two surfboards, one short, one long, that stood next to the shoe rack; not only because there were drawings, paintings, and photos on one wall, including pictures of blues artists John Lee Hooker and Mattie May Thomas, a child’s drawing of a man I presumed to be Lino with ‘ukulele in hand, autographed surf photos, and a blowup of the photo I carried, the one of Kay on the beach with Nā Mokulua in the background; not only because the ceiling-high, built-in bookshelf next to the artwork housed as many CDs and DVDs as it did books; not only because of the cleverly designed little cutaway part that led to a walk-in closet/bathroom; not only because the walls, constructed mostly of pine, blended in nicely with the shelves that were made of cedar; not only because the wall above the worktable was painted over with plants, creating again a trompe-l’œil effect that complemented the one in Connie’s living room; not only because the placement of the bed was such that when you got up in the morning, you saw the ocean and had such a clear view of the waves at Sunset that you should be the one giving the surf report. It was the collective feeling of all these that made it an artist’s room.
I hit middle C on the piano. Then tried a C chord. It was slightly out of tune. I walked over to the funky bed-stand. Upon it sat another photo, this one a shot of a young couple locked in embrace. Both of them wore leis but were other wise topless. The woman was Kay, showing some sideboob, so I figured the guy had to be Matthew.
A kid came running from behind me and picked up the photo. “Look. Can see Auntie Kay’s da kine,” he said.
“Keanu! Put that down!” The shout came from Connie, standing by the door. Keanu did as asked.
“Nice photo,” I said to her.
“Normally I’d agree, but with kids around, everything seems R-rated.”
“Didn’t know what Matt looked like.”
“Now you do.” Keanu ran to the piano. “She’s got a new beau. Janice.”
“The one who called?”
Connie nodded. “She sounded good. High on love. Hope it’s just that. Couldn’t find it in me to tell her that Matt’s….” She couldn’t finish. Keanu was banging on the piano now. He didn’t know chords but he had a sense of rhythm. “Keanu, please, we’re talking!” The kid ran off. Connie handed me a Polo Ralph Lauren gift bag. “Receipts, tickets stubs. I put in everything I could find that may seem relevant.”
“This is great. Thanks.” I did a quick scan of the contents and pulled out what looked like a bank statement. It was for April. “This one, especially, could be useful.” Any expenditure related to travel could reveal something.
“Too bad the May statement doesn’t come in till early June.”
“We’d need a password to see it online. You have any idea how Matt constructed his passwords, or any idea where he might have hid them?”
Connie shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.”
There were draconian ways to crack a code and get into an account. But it was especially hard with banks. They have gotten increasingly wary, asking for passwords far more complicated than the name of your favorite pet … and adding other security measures, like asking you who your lover was when you were twelve.
“Mind if I”—I went over to the bookshelf—“look through these?”
“Please. Do whatever you need to do.”
“This might take a while.”
“I’ll go get your iced tea.”
The stuff on the shelves reflected eclectic tastes: CDs by Makaha Sons, Big Island Conspiracy, and Maunalua were interspersed with those by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. Bob Marley was well represented, with about seven CDs, and next to this set were CDs by Rage Against the Machine, Groundation, Norah Jones, Ka‘au Crater Boys, Tupac, and Ooklah The Moc. Below these was a mix that included Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, B. B. King, the Allman Brothers Band, the Stones, and the Beatles. I saw rock, blues, reggae, hip-hop, and pop. The books were equally diverse, from Dickens and Shakespeare to John le Carré and J. K. Rowling. School-type textbooks: astronomy, physics, geography … a shelf full of law books, including a huge volume simply titled TORTS. Books and magazines on photography and DIY home improvement. Books on Hawaiian folklore and politics: Nana I Ke Kumu, The Nation Within, Land and Power in Hawaii, a well-worn copy of The Shattered Bond….
Connie returned with a refilled glass of lemonade iced tea and a large tea cookie.
“Finding anything?”
“Not yet, but can’t hurt to look.”
“You find anything interesting, let me know.” She left. A moment later I heard her yell Keanu!
I began pulling out the CDs and books, only to see if there was anything hidden in them. I proceeded methodically. Nothing in the CD jackets and jewel cases but the expected info sleeves. Some of the books were marked here and there with Post-its. Nothing stood out, though I did find a ticket stub from an October 2006 Chris Isaak performance at the Blaisdell Concert Hall. I think I saw that concert.
Some pages were dog-eared here and there. I pulled out a mystery novel called The Hit. A folded-up sheet of paper fell out. It contained names, with question marks next to them. The penciled scrawl was hard to read, but I could make out enough of the letters to figure out that one name was Blankenship, and another was Kamana. Next to these names was a hard-to-decipher scribble that might have spelled out the word herb. Next to it was a ten-digit phone number, which I punched into my cell phone. Next to this number, partly smudged, was a time (2:30) and, possibly, a place (Buzz’s). I tucked the sheet into my shorts pocket, then checked the bathroom. There was nothing in or under the toilet tank, no loose boards on the floor or anywhere.
When Connie returned I showed her the piece of paper and asked if any of the names meant anything to her. She said Kamana was the only name she recognized. When I asked her which Kamana, since Kamana was not the most uncommon name, she said Josiah.
“Why him?”
“I’ve heard Matt and Kay talk about him. I’ve also heard them talk about other politicians. Isn’t that who we talk about when we talk about what’s going on in the world? Politicians?”
“Anything unique? Any reason why his name would be on this piece of paper?”
“Well, I’ve heard Matt say that he runs everything. And I always thought Inouye did. I don’t like to get mixed up in political discussions.”
“Me neither.”
Connie suddenly wore a disturbed look. “Was I wrong, not telling Janice that Matt’s missing?”
“You should tell her.”
“She’s so fragile….”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to tell her.” I thanked Connie and went on my way.
It was a long drive back to town. I coasted down the H-2, thinking what a luxury it is to live on the North Shore, with its miles of unadulterated shoreline, humongous waves in the winter, swimmable ones the rest of the year, space to breathe…. I was contemplating moving back out there, hanging up my PI license, and putting my trench coat, fedora, and gum-ridden shoes into a Goodwill box when I hit the famous H-1 gridlock, a section of the freeway considered to be the worst peak-hour slowdown of any freeway in the U.S. It was at a virtual stop on this hot Wednesday afternoon, and reminded me that there was a lot of talk lately about rail transit. Oahu residents were already being heavily taxed for this massive project that would change our island in ways that I didn’t want to think about. This place was already too small, too crowded, too built up, but the profits were more than compensatory for the shakers
and movers, the same parties responsible for the mess, and now they were offering solutions that would maximize their profits further. The usual story.
If there was an upside to all of this, I wasn’t seeing it.
By the time I had pulled into a parking space in the boat harbor I had gone through several more countless scenarios, some far-fetched, some couched in cosmic irony. I looked at my boat. I was home. The word home didn’t sit right. The boat seemed more like temporary storage, and I was the storage.
I did like sitting on the deck, though. Thought I could just do this, just sit and watch it all go by….
On second thought, I’d be bored in two minutes.
Hunkered in the cabin I looked over the receipts, ticket stubs, clues to where Kay and Matthew spent their time and money. I saw several Foodland receipts, one from Don Quijote in Kailua. There were a couple from Buzz’s Steak House, and a few from Longs Drugs. I looked at Matt’s April credit card statement. He was in debt about $3,700 on a $10,000 credit limit. He had charged the flight to Vegas, made a thousand-dollar payment last month. I was mapping out the dates of the various receipts and places he’d been when Mia called and asked how I was doing. I told her about my excursion to the North Shore. She said she had gathered the documents that she wanted me to see, and suggested we meet at Kapi‘olani Park, where she planned to run and maybe swim after. She suggested I bring some running gear. Before I could say What running gear? she said, “Meet me in an hour at the corner of Paki and Kalakaua Avenue” and hung up.
I looked at my watch. It was five after five. I groaned. But, having already exhausted Minerva’s friends-of-Kay list, Mia was clearly my best lead. She was bringing me information. Least I could do was put on my sneakers. They’d pass for running shoes.
10
It was almost six o’clock and still quite sunny when Mia arrived on her bike. “Let me put my stuff away, then we’ll run. And talk.”
She hopped off her bike and rolled it toward a copper-colored, black-topped, convertible Mini Cooper—not the green one I saw that first night—that was parked near the corner. She opened the split rear barn doors, removed her helmet and bike shoes, and placed them in the cargo well. Then she removed the wheels from her bike frame and managed to get all that in there too.
“Just did a warm-up around Kahala,” she said as she shut the doors and opened the driver’s side of her two-door wonder and pulled out a pair of shoes and a can of Red Bull. I watched as she multitasked, stepping into her shoes while tanking up on caffeine.
“Thought your Mini was green.”
“Les owns two minis,” she said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail and used a scrunchie to keep it in place. “I get to drive them whenever I’m house-sitting.”
“Luxurious.”
“Let’s run up the hill,” she announced.
“What for?”
“So we can talk. I like to run and talk. I fall into a comfortable pace that way.”
“I talk better standing still.” My legs and lower back still ached from all that trudging on the beach.
“C’mon. Let’s try it.” She pointed to the Nike logo on my shorts. “Just do it.”
“Cute.”
“Supporting corporate pirates, I see.”
“Always…. I like your Nike watch.”
“It was a gift … from Kay.”
“Hmm…. Let’s talk about Kay.”
“Sure. While we’re running.”
“When did you last see her?” I was asking as she ambled off. Shit. I tried to get my footing as I followed. I had lost some ground already. She looked back and probably realized I needed to warm up. She slowed down considerably. I caught up.
We ran mostly on the sidewalk, avoiding walkers and bike riders in the limited shared space. The high point of Diamond Head Crater loomed high above us on our left while a cluster of houses, some under construction, filled the visual plane on the right. Plumeria and mango trees surrounded the older cottages, most of which were decorated with ti-leaf plants. Fallen plumeria flowers littered our path.
“Kay’s had an eventful year.”
“How so?”
“I’ll give you the gist…. About a year ago, she landed the lead role in an indie movie. She knew this guy, Zhou … Zhou Lin Tseng, I think. He was from Taiwan. He had made a short film for his MFA project with the Academy for Creative Media at UH. He wanted to turn it into a full-blown movie. The guy had secured some real funding, Taiwanese investors, so I heard. He got Kay involved and she enlisted Matt. They both helped with parts of the script.”
“Matt?” Connie didn’t mention this.
“Yeah, Matt. He majored in English before law school. According to Kay, he has a knack for dialogue.”
Not bad for a lawyer turned lifeguard.
“Kay was burned out on acting,” Mia continued. “She wanted a more ‘behind-the-scenes’ role. But Zhou kept saying he needed someone who looked like Kay and she realized at some point that he had really written the part for her. Matt also coaxed her to do it, so she reluctantly, very reluctantly agreed….
“She was hesitant at first,” Mia continued, “mostly about acting in a movie, but once she commits to something, she gives it her all. They filmed it here and in Thailand.” Mia turned to look at me. “I had a small part.”
“You got killed off?”
“No, just exploited. Anyway, they filmed it in like six weeks. But when they were done filming, Zhou immediately took on another project, a martial arts film. Maybe he thought his film was dead in the water, something he wasn’t up to trying to market, plus he had a lucrative offer to do something more commercial…. Maybe that was his intention all along, I don’t know … I mean, before Zhou got this other offer, he was hot to take the completed film on the festival circuit. But he also had visa problems, you know how that goes…. So Kay—since she was co-producer, co-screenwriter, and the star—she took over. She and Matt began taking the film to various festivals.”
“Like Sundance?”
“Yes. That was back in January. They also went to one in Austin … one in Seattle. I know ’cause I met them there. Toronto … and … PiFan—that’s in South Korea.”
“What’s PiFan?”
“Puchon International Fantastic Film Festival.”
“Fantastic film?”
“You know, as in fantasy? That’s the focus of the festival, but they do accept other genres.”
“How nice of them. Did it show here? In Hawai‘i?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. In fact, the last stop on their tour was right here, at the Hawai‘i International Film Festival.”
“HIFF,” I offered.
“This was in March,” Mia continued. “We were all there. Even Zhou showed up for that one.”
“So Matt helped to write—”
“And produce. He was great. He even wrote up a grant. Talk about—”
Jack-of-all-tirades. “Heard he went to law school.”
“Yeah, UCLA. He studied entertainment law.”
Connie had said Copyright law. Maybe it’s the same thing.
“I brought some photos,” Mia said. “Of both Kay and Matt.”
“Awesome.” Couldn’t hurt to have more. “Matthew sounds like an interesting guy.” Shit, the road was getting steep. I felt some strain in my calves, moving down toward my heels.
“Well, you don’t win over someone like Kay without being interesting.”
“Interesting as in person of interest?”
Mia stopped running and faced me. “If you think Matt’s a suspect in her disappearance, you’re fucking crazy.”
I raised my hands, surrendering. “I don’t think anything. I’m just gathering information.”
She shook her head and began a sprint uphill. I chased after her.
“I know,” she said when I got alongside her. “You’re just doing your job.”
“I’ll …” Catch your breath, Kawika. “… assume that Matt is innocent.”
Mia said n
othing.
“Kay sounds pretty special…. Any idea where she might be?”
“I wish I knew.” She may have been reassessing her decision to work with me, just as I was wondering how I got roped into running.
“This may sound dumb, but since I’m on a roll, I’ll ask: You and Kay, the two of you house-sit for a Hollywood director…. Wouldn’t he be the guy to turn to, let’s say, to help promote a film?”
“Les did help. That’s how they got the film into those festivals.”
“Tell me about the film.” Damn, the road was even steeper now.
“It’s a love story, taking place in a sweatshop in Saipan—”
“—which triggered her interest in sexploitation. Sounds like a blockbuster.”
“Lines around the block…. Don’t squeeze your hands.”
Before I could grasp the connection between long lines and hand squeezing, Mia added, “You’re running tight. Keep your hands loose. Like this.” She showed me. “Other wise your shoulders tighten up,” she added. “The key to running is to let your legs do the work, while keeping your upper body relaxed.”
“I relax better on a lounge chair.”
“I bet you do.”
“So this film.”
“Kay played the mixed-race daughter of a haole corporate tycoon and his Korean wife. Her father, Mr. Legit with his three-piece suits, turned out to be in cahoots with the sweatshop owner. He made a killing in Indonesia violating child labor laws, and now was trying to maximize his good fortune by expanding his operations into Saipan….” Mia paused to take a deep breath, showing that she was human after all. “The plot takes a nasty turn when a fourteen-year-old girl kills herself after being raped by the sweatshop manager. Song Jin—that’s Kay’s character—she grew up in a privileged environment. So goes to Saipan to visit her father. While there she learns about the rape and is livid when she sees how these women live. She goes after the sweatshop manager. Confronts him. He attacks her. Looks like he’s going to rape her too, and she ends up—spoiler alert—stabbing him, like fifteen times. She kills him.”
For a Song Page 8