I filled Rian in about my meeting with Richards, thanks in part to his pointing out the matchbook cover. That’s when I had an epiphany.
“You knew something was coming down…. That’s why you sent your son to Wellington.”
“Kid needs to see his mum sometimes.”
“I’m sorry, Rian.”
“Comes with the turf, brah.”
A very fat moment passed.
“Time to come clean, Rian.”
“Come clean?” He looked at his palms. “I always wash my hands, especially after touching my—”
“I’m talking about rigging my boat for surveillance, I’m talking about matchbook covers and a fake New Zealand accent.”
“Fake?”
“Yeah, fake. Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”
“Rian’s still good.” The accent was gone. “Long story short, I used to be in the Coast Guard, then moved over to ONI.”
“Naval Intelligence?”
“Yup. Did my twenty, then retired. Seriously. Even got me a boat—to retire with. But you know how that goes.”
“No, I don’t know. How does it go?”
“You get restless…. Really, you thought it was fake?”
“Actually, I had no idea. That was what we poker players call a bluff.”
“Damn.” He shut his eyes. He knew he had blown it.
“So what are you doing now? Freelancing?”
He nodded, grimly. “Hate it. Ain’t worth the pay. Worse, the agency and I have come to have, what you might call, vastly different worldviews.”
“You and the agency.”
“Yeah.” It came out like a sigh. “Sorry, mate.”
“You’re gonna tell me which agency?”
“I think you know which agency.”
I didn’t, but wondered why he’d think I did. “The kid really your son?”
He nodded.
“Does he know?”
“That he’s my son?”
I frowned. “C’mon, Rian.”
“Yeah … he knows some.”
“Makes you vulnerable.”
“I can handle it. He can handle it. You see, Kawika, you can’t—can’t—live with fear. But what I’ve learned through the years is, you can’t promote it either. I mean, I can’t.”
I thought about Richards and his kids. That made him vulnerable. “Who were you spying on me for?”
“Damn it! Don’t you get it? I wasn’t spying on you. I was spying on your friggin’ boat!”
“My boat?”
“Yeah. They sent me here. To this damn spot. I hated it at first. Didn’t want to leave Barbados. But I’ve adjusted … and then, you appear, a new owner, some private eye with issues, you set up your shingle and start taking in clients. I convinced my superiors to let me stick around till I found out what this all meant. The point is, you’re not the target. You’ve never been the target.”
“Why this boat?”
“Drugs, boyo. Crystal meth doesn’t come from the sky. It has to come from somewhere. And there’s been a lot of shit coming in. Way more than usual, like someone found the right spigot. When it rains, it pours.”
“But why this boat?” I acted like I knew nothing.
“The shit’s been coming in on boats that look just like yours.”
“Is there a Nogales connection?”
“You mean Nogales, Arizona, or Nogales, Sonora? Not that it fucking matters. You fall in a hole in one country and you come out in another…. Well, if that’s where you mean, no. But you’re close. This boat of yours used to belong to one Eleazar Caballero, former Point Loma resident who used it in drug runs around Cabo San Lucas. Appealing to the cruise ship crowd. We heard he sold it to a lawyer by the name of Geary, dirt cheap. And we happen to know that Geary’s been telling people he got the boat at a federal auction. ‘Dirt cheap’ may be the only part of this that’s true. I was assigned to track him. Not you. We didn’t know if he was planning to carry on the trade here in Hawai‘i. Then, out of the blue, he sold it to you.”
“But no sign of drugs.”
“No. You don’t look too good. Want me to take you to emergency?”
“I’m fine…. You ever see anybody on the boat, besides Geary?”
“No. And we’ve gone through the boat a few times.”
“Like when Kawika Jr. hooked me up to cable?”
“Yep. But by that time we were making sure there were zero traces of ice. At that point I was trying to help you.”
“Your son, he an agent too?”
“Nope … just a whiz when it comes to electronics. I can’t keep up with all this friggin’ technology, so I turn to him…. I suspected there might be some stuff hidden on board. We searched and searched, but couldn’t find it. What I do know is that it’s a specially equipped boat.”
“Specially equipped how?”
“Oh god, you don’t know? You got a top-of-the-line motor. Twin Volvo Penta IPS 500s—”
“Geary told me 350 horsepower.”
“He probably read it in the manual. Your fucker’s been upgraded for speed. Couldn’t you feel it when we were out there? The way we were flying? If you knew boats, you’d know this one has Kevlar hulls.”
“How long you been watching this boat?”
“Since May ninth.”
“Nueve de Mayo … just about a week before I came along.”
“Never even got to know the prior owner. Just waved at him once…. Look, I’m gonna need you to carry on as if this conversation never happened. That guy Richards, he’s onto something. Something bigger than this crystal meth business. On my end, I need to file reports. Let it play out. A word of caution: There were traces of crystal meth in the hold, so whatever you do, don’t bring any drugs on board.”
“No, I’ll leave that for you.”
“Ouch.”
“You were good. Good cover.”
“Mahalo.”
“CIA teach you how to play guitar?”
“Yeah, they got a special school for that.” He said this somewhat disdainfully. “Actually, it’s DEA … last job.”
“Yeah. Till you get bored again.”
I stepped off the dock and onto my boat. I turned to him. His arms were folded, thumbs pressing the edges of his chest.
“A private eye with issues?”
He rolled his thumbs outward, toward me, tilting his head at the same time.
Back in my cabin I fought the urge to pull out all the wires and dismantle any spy apparatus that may have been installed by that trumpet-playing brain-picker, but Rian had told me to act like this conversation never happened, so I had to let it go. Had to remember I was probably being watched. I swallowed another handful of Advil caplets to keep both the headache and rib-ache at bay, finished the coffee, lay down for a minute, and found myself reliving poker night at Andy’s house. What did he know? And did he have any connection to Amber? And why am I thinking about Amber? Who fucking cares about Amber?
Maybe it was those mega-doses of painkillers combined with the caffeine. Maybe the lack of sleep. I felt something coming on, like delirium. I adjusted my pillow, tried to roll on my side, but the pain in my ribs caused me to gasp. I had to lie on my back.
Too many lines were crossing and I was having the hardest time keeping things straight. Give me A’s for a thousand. There was Double-A, the snitch to the stars, the snitch to end all snitches. Andy, the reason I live on a boat. The reason they’re watching this fucking boat. Amber … at this rate I’ll never reach the Z’s. Gimme numbers for fifteen hundred. Forget Double-A, ’cause we got Double-0 Seven … digits spinning around in my head like it means something. Like it was telling me that 007 is simply Loo upside down. Mrs. Loo…. What the fuck happened to Les’s cleaning woman? Has she gone missing too?
The delirium passed. I had come to a fork in the road, with three discernible paths. I chose the one lit in Amber. While I had enough sense to know how absurd it appeared that I would try to find a person who didn’t want to be f
ound in the hopes that she could lead me to a missing person who might want to be found, I had a hunch to follow.
She had come to the boat twice; I wasn’t around the first time, but Rian had seen her. She sang well enough to have a gig. And, like Bobby McGee, she sang the blues. I got out of my bed, opened up my laptop, got online really quick and easy (thank you, Kawika Jr.), and began searching all references to the local bar scene and narrowed my search to pick up on any reference to the blues.
I found eight venues that had featured blues acts in their recent history: Lewer’s Lounge, Lani’s, Chuck’s Cellar, Hawaiian Brian’s, Mango Season Music, Brasserie Du Vin—which was near Indigo, Back Stage Jazz Lounge, and the Jazz Minds Art and Café. This was getting me nowhere. I needed another angle. I thought back to when she came by. She had no car, unless she had parked elsewhere. She could have walked here. I then prioritized my search by proximity to the harbor. One by one I invaded each site, most of them Myspace or that upstart social network, Facebook, checking every posted photo. The only person pictured in any of the photos that looked anything like her was a customer and it was from behind. The hair matched, but I couldn’t see the face. I downloaded and printed the photo.
When I looked at the photo I thought, Here you go again, Kawika, going about this the wrong way.
I googled “Waikiki nightclubs.” Got a whole bunch, including Cinnabar, Excalibur, Club Bar None, and Desdemona’s.
I scrolled through every nightclub home page. Went through numerous photos, most of which featured young people partying. I examined each photo, thinking I’ll find this needle in this fucking haystack even if I have to scrutinize every haystack needle.
It became a meditation, a deliberate process to which I was willing to devote hours.
I was so tired by the time I saw something that I almost didn’t see that something. I was back in MySpace hell, paying for all my sins, staring at a face, one that looked quite familiar. The hair color didn’t match, but I was sure it was her. I downloaded and printed that picture too.
I knocked on Rian’s boat. By now it was late in the afternoon and I wondered what he’d been up to.
He stepped out of the cabin. The look on his face suggested he knew I had gone through his stuff. By my account that would make us even.
Before he could say anything I told him, “I could use your help.”
“Emergency?”
“No. Track down someone.”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
“I think that to find my missing girl, we’re gonna need some help from our lead singer.” I showed him the photo.
“That’s the redhead.”
“I think that’s her. And I think I know where she works.”
“Shall I bring a gun?”
“Yeah, bring it.”
The restaurant was less than two miles away. We probably could have gotten there faster by walking, considering the afternoon traffic heading west, but it was better that we saved our energy for whatever would come next.
The place wasn’t open for dinner yet, but workers were setting up. Rian said he’d go in through the back way. Asked me to give him a minute.
She was the very first person I spotted when I walked in. The second she saw me coming she dropped her tray on a table, reversed direction and walked quickly. Right into Rian.
“Tsk, tsk,” Rian said as he seized her by the arm.
“I told you, I didn’t expect him to get hurt.”
“Hurt? He’s dead.”
“You think I don’t know?” She trembled.
She sat down at one of the tables, visibly crushed. A fellow waitress came by. Amber asked for a couple minutes. The waitress asked us if we wanted anything. I said no.
“What happened to you?” she said when she saw my face.
“Price of doing business.”
“So you guys do work together.”
“You could say that,” Rian said.
“You sound different,” she said to Rian, who had dropped the Kiwi accent.
“You look different,” I put in. “So … talk.”
“I didn’t expect anyone to get hurt. Oh my god. What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing. We just want to know who put you up to this.”
She put her hands over her eyes. “I tell you and I get killed.”
“What if we could guarantee your safety?”
“Like you guys could protect me from the cops.”
“A cop put you up to this?”
“I’m pleading the fifth.”
“This is not a courtroom.”
“Listen carefully,” Rian said. “We’re investigating police corruption. We’ve been working with the FBI, the DEA, and the Department of Homeland Security. We’re already pulling guys in. In fact,” he handed her his cell phone, “call your guy. I’m sure he’s already been arrested.”
“Not with his dad running things.”
Right then I knew who.
“Lieutenant Froom put you up to this?”
“It wasn’t him.”
“But he was involved. And he was trying to implicate me. Why?”
“I told you. It wasn’t him. It was somebody working with him.”
“Another cop?”
“I know nothing about this other guy. Only talked with him on the phone. Got my instructions from him.”
“What did he sound like?”
She looked down at her work sneakers. “Ridiculously upbeat. Made it seem like it was all a joke or something. I only went for it because I thought it was a joke. You know, like one of them elaborate practical jokes.”
“You must have some notion as to why they sent you.”
“I don’t fucking know. All I know is they were trying to stop this reporter from, I don’t know, reporting something. I told the guy I’m not doing this if someone’s gonna get hurt. And he promised me that no one was getting hurt.”
“Which reporter?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“Look Amber, or whatever your name is,” Rian said, “my partner here used to be a reporter. He knows everyone in the business. So just give us the name.”
“Winsom? I only know ’cause I remember saying to myself, ‘Win some, lose some.’”
“Sounds like my mantra.” I looked at Rian. “That’s Steve Winsom.”
“The muckraker for The Weekly. I’ve seen his byline.”
The restaurant manager came by. “Can I help you guys with anything?”
“It’s OK, Ray,” Amber said.
“Yes, Ray, it’s OK.”
Ray wasn’t buying.
“It’s police business,” I said.
“Is Stephanie in trouble?”
So that was her name. “We’re done with Stephanie—for now.”
Rian and I stood up.
“Did you know Gerard?” I asked her.
“No. Never met him. Just read about him. Sounds like he was a great—” She choked on the last word. Cleared her throat. “—great guy.”
“What did you get for doing this?” Rian asked.
“I got a student loan paid off.” She looked up at us. “Pretty sad, huh?”
“Pretty sad? Next time you go to a karaoke bar with friends and take hold of the microphone, think about this ‘great guy.’ Think about what he meant to his loved ones. Channel that. You’re gonna kill.”
As Rian and I left, I said, “Haven’t eaten since breakfast, and breakfast wasn’t much. Feel like getting something?”
“We were just at a restaurant.”
“Not to eat. ’Sides, they weren’t open yet.”
“I’m up for a meal, but we gonna talk to that Winsom fella?”
We? “Your accent’s back.”
“Was getting so used to it.”
“Yeah, we’re gonna talk with Winsom,” I told him.
“Then let’s see if he’ll meet us in a restaurant.”
“I like your idea.”
49
I called
the Weekly office and asked for Steven Winsom. When he came to the phone, I told him who I was and who I was looking for. He sounded nervous, but said he knew me by reputation and was willing to meet with me. Since the Weekly offices were downtown, not far from Beretania Street, I suggested the Zippy’s on Vineyard and Maunakea. I also told him I was bringing a friend. I told him he was trustworthy.
Rian and I said very little during the twelve-minute drive. It was only when we got near Zippy’s that I said to him, “FBI, DEA, and Homeland Security? Too bad you didn’t include the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“I wasn’t making it up.”
I was pushing the door that led into the restaurant when he said this. I had just spotted Winsom. I looked at Rian. “We’ll continue this later.”
Steve Winsom was a wreck. I was a wreck, too, he noted, but I was sure I didn’t look as haggard and tense. Prematurely bald, he reminded me of the guy who was on the bridge when Edvard Munch started painting. Winsom confirmed that when he arrived at the Diamond Head tunnel around 1 a.m. that evening to meet up with Gerard, Gerard was already face down on the ground. He said he checked to see if he was breathing. He wasn’t. He said he was never more scared in his life and he ran down Monsarrat till he got to a pay phone. He didn’t want to use his cell phone because he didn’t want the police to know who was calling. He called 9-1-1 and reported a body near the tunnel entrance.
When he said this, a thought occurred to me to try the number I had pulled off of Matthew’s note. I opened my phone and pressed dial. Winsom’s phone went off and we looked at each other and shared a much-needed relief chuckle.
“Well, that settles that.” I shut my phone.
The waitress came by with three glasses of water and menus.
We all ordered coffee and scanned the menu. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, if you call it that, so I went for the corn chowder, hoping it would come with saltine crackers, and a fish sandwich. Rian ordered a mushroom burger and french fries. Winsom was content with just coffee.
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