‘That little black book isn’t helping things though.’
‘Then if I do say, “Ahh, fuck it” and don’t bother, and the FBI stick their head in — which is looming up on the horizon — and they finally pinch her, knowing the feds they’ll say I was covering up for her because she’s an Australian. She’s only got to say, “Yes, I was paying him off”, and, bingo! I’m up shit creek without a paddle.’
‘And a hole in your boat.’
‘But if you think that’s good, Les, try this one.’ Mick stopped and stared directly at Norton. ‘Right in the middle of all this rattle I’ve got a serial killer running around necking hookers. Mainly hers.’
‘You’ve what!?’
‘I’ve got some ratbag, fuckin’ United States Marine, a fuckin’ jarhead, running around stabbing molls with a bayonet.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Yeah. And they’re trying to cover this one up too. It doesn’t look good for the tourism industry. You know, they want happy, smiling hula girls with leis and grass skirts. Not some nut carving sheilas up with a knife. Plus the marines have just closed ranks and want to do their own investigation. They say it’s a military matter and it’s not one of them anyway.’
‘How many has he killed?’
‘Six. Five of hers and one street hooker.’
‘Shit! He’s not fucking around.’ Les suddenly flashed back to the pros avoiding him on Kalakau the previous night. He probably looked like a soldier with his shortish hair and build and the way he was striding along the footpath in search of an ale. Word would certainly be out amongst the working girls and they definitely wouldn’t be taking any chances. ‘So how do you know it’s a marine?’
‘The weapon. A standard issue M6 bayonet. Plus he’s a strong fucker. He only stabs them the once, right in the heart. But he jams the blade up that hard he smashes and slices straight through their ribcages or sternums breaking the bones.’
Norton shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yeah. But apart from the other rattle, I’d like to catch this bastard. I’m not all that rapt in jarheads. And I sure as hell hate nutters running around killing women, even if they are hookers. Which is why I want to have a word with this Aussie sheila.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Andriana Hazlewood.’
Les shook his head. ‘Can’t place her. What’s she look like?’
‘I’ve got one lousy photo of her back at my office. And that was taken by a newspaper on the mainland.’ Mick stared at Norton again. ‘What are you doing now, Les?’
‘Not much, I don’t suppose.’ As soon as he said that, Les got a feeling he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
‘Why don’t you come back to the station with me for a while? I gotta pick up my pay. And I can show you what’s going on.’
‘Yeah… righto. Why not?’ There were people on the beach, the sun was out and the water looked blue and inviting. Police stations never did much for Norton at the best of times and he could think of a lot better places to spend his time on a holiday in Hawaii. Still, Mick wasn’t a bad bloke; Norton still had almost a week to go and it would be something to talk about back home.
‘Come on. I’m parked just down near Bennies.’
They walked back to Mick’s car, which was a blue Buick of some make and model. But it was about the same size as the taxi Les got from the airport. Mick had picked up noticeably now, obviously happy at getting a few things off his chest. When he switched on the radio Les noticed it was the same station he’d been listening to in his room. The Dixie Cups were warbling ‘Chapel of Love’ as they drove along Ala Wai Boulevard, passed the canal, then crossed a small bridge heading towards the police station on Beretania Street.
For a Sunday the traffic was still fairly heavy and although Mick pointed it out, Norton almost missed it because of the trees and Xmas decorations that almost obscured the sign above the front saying Honolulu Police Department. It was a big, cream, three-storey building on the corner of Hale Makai and Beretania, with steps and green railings out the front, set into a gentle green slope with enough trees and shrubs to make a nice park. Opposite was a gallery, some other small office blocks and a long, single-storey building with a sign saying ‘Goodwill’ above the door. Going by several racks of old clothes in the window Norton tipped this to be some kind of St Vincent’s store or whatever. They cruised past to where the sloping park separated the main building from an underground parking area that looked almost like a bomb shelter. Mick turned left, stopped at a boom gate, showed his ID, then drove inside, where he manoeuvred the Buick into a parking spot and switched off the engine.
‘This way, mate,’ he said, opening his door.
‘Yeah, righto,’ answered Norton, doing the same.
The parking area was huge and there were plenty of people driving or walking around. Now and again a huge Harley-Davidson would rumble past carrying an equally huge cop straddled across the seat all in black with a white helmet and dark sunglasses, just like in the movies. Mick seemed to know everybody and everybody seemed to know him; they’d wave and call out and Mick would do the same. Mick clipped a photo ID onto his shirt as they walked across to a solid metal door where he slipped a card into a slot. The door swung open and they stepped through.
Inside was bright, modern, air-conditioned and carpeted, with fluorescent lighting overhead. It was neither garish nor spartan and reminded Les of most office buildings he’d been in — except this one smelled new and swarmed with cops of both sexes in neat black uniforms. As soon as they spotted Mick their faces would seem to light up and it was all:
‘G’day, mate.’
‘Ger day, mate.’
‘Good day, mate.’
‘Gar day, mate.’
‘Gur day, mate.’
To which Mick would smile and reply:
‘G’day, Stan.’
‘G’day, Vince.’
‘G’day, Wes.’
‘G’day, Yolanda.’
‘G’day, Rodrigo.’
There was also a fair bit of banter and camaraderie, obviously because Mick was the only Australian cop there. But Les detected that Mick was pretty popular all round, which would probably be because of his sporting abilities and the fact he was a straight-up bloke who would back his fellow officers to the hilt. No doubt the word was also out that Mick was getting the shitty end of the stick with his Diamond Head assignment and they were taking the piss a bit there as well.
Les followed Mick along one corridor, then into another and another, past offices, closed doors and partitioned-off areas, into another partitioned-off area with a woman sitting at a desk surrounded by filing cabinets. They greeted each other then Mick went to a filing cabinet, flicked through some envelopes before pulling one out which he checked, then he smiled over at Les.
‘At least I’m drawing some overtime, cruising around Diamond Head trying to see what I can see.’
‘Something,’ nodded Les.
‘Come on, this way,’ said Mick, pocketing his pay envelope.
They walked down another corridor, past a gym, then turned left at a water bubbler into another corridor. The police station had a good feel about it and an air of not being a bad place to work. The other thing that struck Les was how neat and tidy all the cops were in their shiny black shoes, crisp white T-shirts and black uniforms with creases sharp enough to slice rump steak. Not like some of the cop shops Les had been to in Sydney, where they flopped around in daggy blue shirts, their guts hanging out over daggy blue pants that slid over old riding boots topped off with a half pie cowboy hat clamped on their melons. Another corridor took them into an enclosed courtyard full of trees, indoor plants and Hawaiian and American flags, where Mick pushed a button next to a lift. There were more smiles and ‘g’days’ from the passing cops, the lift opened and they went up one floor.
Another corridor led past a sign saying ‘Narcotics and Vice’ to another that said ‘Homicide’. ‘This is it,’ smiled Mick.
They turned into a small office with green carpet and light green walls. There were about six desks and swivel seats, computers, filing cabinets pinned with mug shots and corkboards on the wall pinned with more mugshots. There was a photo enlarger, a fax machine, phones, more filing cabinets with plants and personal effects sitting on them, and other police paraphernalia that you’d find in just about any police station in any big city anywhere in the world. Seated at a desk on the right in a red floral shirt was a tall, dark-haired detective about thirty something, with a neat moustache and an easy smile.
‘Hey, Iron Head,’ he drawled, in a typical, slow American voice as they walked in. ‘How are you… mate?’
‘G’day, Honesto,’ Mick smiled back. ‘How are you goin’, mate? Hon, this is a mate of mine from Australia. Les Norton. Les, this is one of Honolulu’s finest. Honesto Figueroa.’
‘G’day, Honesto,’ said Les, offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, mate.’
‘Hello, Les.’ The other cop shook Norton’s hand and his smile got wider. ‘Christ! Another Aussie in the place. One’s more than enough. And this one talks even worse than you do.’
‘Get out. You seppos just don’t know how to speak the Queen’s English, that’s all.’
‘At least we don’t talk through our noses all the time.’ Honesto gave Les a wink then turned back to Mick. ‘So, you having another look for Mr Walker, are you?’
‘Yeah. He’s about due to go off again.’ Mick moved across to a desk with his name on it and riffled through a couple of memos.
‘Well, I’m going for a coffee.’
‘Yeah. Good idea,’ replied Mick absently.
Honesto stood up and Les was surprised how tall he actually was. ‘Nice talking to you, Les. How long you here for?’
‘About another week, Honesto.’
‘I might see you before you go back. Enjoy your stay in Hawaii.’
‘Thanks, Honesto. I’m sure I will.’
The tall detective moved across to the door; as he got there he turned around. ‘Hey, Iron Head. Don’t forget to be nice to your Aussie girlfriend out on Diamond Head. You never know when you might need a root yourself. Isn’t that what you Aussies call it?’ He gave Les a wink and strolled off, laughing at his own joke.
‘You see what I gotta put up with?’ said Mick, making a gesture with his hands.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘But they all seem like a pretty good bunch.’
‘They are,’ agreed Mick. ‘I couldn’t work with better people.’ Mick flicked a couple of memos across the table. ‘It’s just bad luck I’m lumbered with all this shit. Anyway, pull up a chair.’
‘Yeah, righto.’ Les got a swivel seat and sat down alongside Mick.
Mick produced half a dozen manila folders from a filing cabinet, spread them across his desk and was about to open them when the phone rang. Les didn’t try to overhear the conversation. He stared down blankly at the folders, then, glancing up as a couple of cops walked past in the corridor, began to wonder just what he was doing there.
‘Right,’ said Mick, putting down the phone, ‘here’s what’s happening. Or, as we like to say, a profile on our alleged suspect, whatever.’
He opened up the folders, spreading a number of colour photos in front of Les. Les stared grimly down at the photos of six young women laid out on tables in a morgue. Even in the white stillness of death and with their eyes closed Les couldn’t believe how pretty five of them were. It was a macabre feeling for Les because somehow he thought he shouldn’t feel that way. But he just couldn’t help it. Five of the girls were Asian, with blonded hair and smooth, brown skin. They all looked about sixteen and had petite faces and pouty lips, rather like a young Brigitte Bardot. What type of Asian the girls were Les couldn’t guess as the blonde hair threw him off — Japanese, Thai, maybe Cambodian? The sixth girl, however, wasn’t all that pretty. She was black, skinny, closer to thirty and her tizzy afro hairstyle made her look just like a cheap hooker. While Les was looking at the first lot of photos, Mick pulled out some other closeups of the fatal wounds. Where the blade had gone in there was a neat gash about two inches wide. But around the gash was this awful bruising, or ‘severe haemorrhaging and trauma’ as Les noticed was typed on a report next to one of the photos. The Asian girls were all dark-skinned, but even on the black girl there was no mistaking this vivid blue patch about four or so inches square. It was roughly the same size and shape as a man’s fist. Apart from that, and a smaller bruise on each girl’s jaw, there were no other mutilations.
‘So how long’s this been going on, Mick?’ asked Les, picking up one of the photos for a closer look.
‘A bit less than a year. Five of the girls are Korean, the other one came from New York. She was found dumped in a doorway near the Kapalama Military Reserve. The others were all found near the stairs in their apartment buildings.’
‘They must’ve been taking whoever it was back to their flat for a bit of porking?’ suggested Les.
‘It looks that way,’ nodded Mick. ‘Then they got a bit of something on the side.’
Les took another look at one of the wounds and chuckled at the typical police black humour. ‘Is there any sort of pattern to the killings, Mick?’
The cop shrugged. ‘Only that there’s always been a full moon. But —’
‘And what’s with this… Mr Walker?’
Mick handed Les another closeup photo of one of the girls’ faces and a magnifying glass. ‘These are out of that photo enlarger. But if you look closely at the bruises near their chins, you can make out “SF”, and a piece of rope and an anchor. That stands for the marine motto: “Semper Fidelis”. What he does, after he stabs them, is belt them on the jaw and leave his calling card. Like the Phantom does with his skull ring. You know… Phantom… Mr Walker. “Ghost who walks.”’ Mick shrugged a smile. ‘It’s just a silly nickname we made up.’
‘Yeah, right,’ nodded Les. Examining the photos Les could make out something similar to the tattoo he saw on the bloke’s arm in Bison Jacksons. ‘Have you got any idea what this goose looks like? Have any… witnesses come forward?’
Mick pushed over an identikit photo. ‘A caretaker and a couple of women said they saw someone who looks a bit like that hanging around. But they were pretty unreliable. And there’s about a million mugs around look like him.’
The surly face and moustache also reminded Les of the bloke he had belted in Bison Jacksons. But he declined to say anything for the time being. ‘One thing I’ve noticed, Mick, all the stab wounds are neat and perfectly horizontal. They’re not all over the place or on any sort of angle. You know what I mean?’
‘That’s because of the way he comes in.’ Mick picked up a plastic letter opener with ‘HPD’ along the side, held it in a thrusting grip, with his thumb along the blade, and lunged it towards Norton’s chest. ‘See what I mean? Only this guy really belts it in hard. You saw the trauma around the wounds.’
Les moved the letter opener away from his chest with an index finger. ‘Yeah, right.’
They mulled over a few more things about the killer and went through the photos again and Les agreed that Mick certainly did have a nice nutter on his hands and the sooner he had him locked away the better it would be all round.
‘So how about showing us what you got on this Aussie madam. What’s her name? Angela…?’
‘Andriana Hazlewood.’ Mick pulled out a thinner file, opened it and slid the contents across to Les. ‘That’s her. That’s her address and that’s the number of her answering service. Which is about all I’ve got on her. I’ve tried to see her and her lawyer more or less told me to fuck off. I fronted her at a shopping mall one day and she more or less told me the same and that she’d have me up for harassment. I was lucky her bodyguard didn’t break me in half as well. He’s a fuckin’ monster.’
Norton shook his head. ‘I can’t…’
Mick nodded a thin smile. ‘I know just what you’re thinking, Les, but the law over here i
s different. They’ve got that many laws against harassment and entrapment, especially if you’ve got money and good lawyers. I’ve practically got to have a one hundred per cent waterproof case going to ask her what time’s the next bus, let alone drag her in for questioning. And she covers her tracks like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Yeah, fair enough.’ Les flicked through the file then pulled out a black-and-white photo. It was a woman in her late twenties wearing an expensive-looking pleated dress with auburn-blonde hair bobbed slightly under her chin. She was wearing sunglasses and was turned side-on to the camera, but she had this unmistakable cheeky smile on her face. The photo was taken at a flower show in San Francisco of all places. Les looked at the photo, then looked again at the smile and gave a double blink. ‘What did you say this sheila’s name was?’
‘Andriana Hazlewood. Why? Do you know her?’
Les thought for a second then shook his head. ‘No. She just looks a bit like a sheila on TV back home, that’s all.’
‘They all look like someone on TV, don’t they?’ Mick folded his arms and breathed a kind of exasperated sigh. ‘To be honest, Les, I’m not that mad keen to nick her. But I’d just like her to get to the shithouse out of my hair before the FBI put their head in. You know — pack up your brothel, lady, and get the fuck out of Dodge. But I would like to have a mag to her about this nutter killing her hookers. That naturally have no connection whatever to her.’
‘Yeah, I understand, Mick. It’s a bit of a bummer. How long’s she been here?’
‘About two years. She calls herself a yacht designer. She’s got a fuckin’ green card, she’s got money to prove it, she’s even one hundred per cent kosher with the Internal Revenue Service. If you didn’t know better, you’d say she was a solid citizen.’
Les stared at the photo. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘She looks like just another well-groomed businesswoman doing her best.’
Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Page 5