by Robert McCaw
When all the astronomers and technicians had assembled with champagne glasses, opera music filled the room, a spotlight snapped on, and Cepheid minced into the center of the room. The robot tapped its champagne glass with its other claw, and the chatter of the guests died down.
“I have come,” the robot said, using its godlike voice, “at the behest of the Alice Foundation, that faraway body that funds much of our research, to express the trustees’ thanks for your loyalty and devotion to our mission. Without your support, Dr. Masters’ momentous discovery, which has brought great honor to the foundation, wouldn’t have been possible. The trustees salute and honor you.” The robot raised a claw to its forehead and snapped off a sharp salute. Laughter rippled through the group.
Conversation erupted as Cepheid marched out. Masters’ guests radiated good humor. “He’s clever,” Koa said softly to Nālani. “Just think of the goodwill he’s won tonight.”
“Well, I’m happy,” Nālani smiled.
Koa wandered across the room to where Gunter Nelson stood alone watching the other guests. “Good evening, Gunter,” Koa began, “you hear about our discovery?”
“No.” Gunter looked puzzled.
“We found an adze makers’ workshop and graves near Keneke’s body out at Pōhakuloa.”
For an instant Gunter looked like a rat caught in the beam of a flashlight. Then he recovered. “Really?”
“Yeah, unfortunately, grave robbers got there ahead of us.”
Again, Koa thought he had caught Gunter off guard. “You’re kidding.”
“Keneke ever say anything to you about archaeological sites out at Pōhakuloa?”
“Like I said, Detective, I don’t remember talking to Keneke about Pōhakuloa.”
Well, Koa thought as he walked away, I gave him a second chance.
Before Koa left with Nālani, Director Masters drew him aside. “Any progress on the investigation, Detective?”
“Some, but we don’t have a suspect.”
“My people giving you their full cooperation?”
“Yes, at least from my perspective.”
As they left, Julie Benson gave each of the honored guests a small tote bag emblazoned with the Alice logo. Inside her bag, Nālani found a plaque inscribed with a letter of appreciation from the CEO of the Alice Foundation. Nālani was one of those people for whom respect and appreciation mattered almost as much as money, and she was thrilled.
When they arrived home that evening, Koa had an answering machine message from Zeke Brown, the Hawai‘i County prosecutor. When Koa returned the call, Zeke answered on the first ring. “Zeke Brown,” the prosecutor’s voice boomed through the handset, which Koa quickly pulled away from his ear.
“Hey, Zeke, it’s Koa. You looking for me?”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you at home, but the duty sergeant said you’d split. Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I wanted to bring you up the curve on this Kaho‘olawe obsidian thing. You know we found cash deposits to Jenkins’s bank account, a whole bunch of them, ranging from $7,000 to $9,000 and totaling a whopping two hundred and sixty-two grand.”
Koa couldn’t believe that number. It pointed to some kind of organized crime ring. “You figure out where Jenkins got that kind of cash?”
“Not yet, but we may be closing in on it. First, we’ve got the time frame.”
“What’s that?”
“Last two and a half months, and there are multiple deposits on some days, like he was trying to avoid the Treasury cash-reporting rules.”
“But no indication where he got the money?”
“Not from his financial records or from the bank.”
Brown was jerking his chain a little. “Don’t make me pry it out of you.”
“We got his phone records. He didn’t make many calls, except there are a couple dozen calls, all to the same number, starting about twelve weeks ago.”
“Now that’s interesting. Whose number?”
“It’s a bar in Hilo, a place called the Monarch.”
“The Monarch?” An image of the bar popped into Koa’s mind. “That joint hasn’t seen a coat of paint in the past half century. Maybe Jenkins is into the drug trade. It’s that kind of establishment.”
“I’ve got no idea, but I thought you might want to check it out. Oh, and one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We traced the serial number on that GPR machine. Manufactured in Texas. Cost forty grand. They’re checking their records to see who bought it.”
“Great, let me know when they ID the buyer.”
“I will. Call me if you learn anything at the Monarch.”
“You got it.”
The Monarch had a good crowd when Koa walked in a little after ten. The odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. A classic Wurlitzer jukebox pulsed neon colors as it filled the room with Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Koa hadn’t heard that one in a long time.
Judging from the frayed clothing and work boots on the thirty or so patrons, Koa figured them to be stevedores, forklift operators, and cargo handlers from the nearby port. Most were beer drinkers, but a few guarded shot glasses. They were mostly spread out in ones and twos at separate tables, but five rough-looking men with weather-beaten faces and sunburned arms, and a rougher-looking woman with heavy wrinkles and what appeared to Koa to be skin cancer, had a poker game going at one of the large round tables. They announced their bets loudly and swore like sailors when the cards disappointed them.
Koa scanned the room as he moved slowly toward the bar. He recognized Drake, the bartender, but the patrons were strangers. He saw no pay phone and no phone visible on the bar or the wall behind the bar.
A large, ratty black cat slept on the bar, oblivious to the noise. It looked to be infested with fleas. Koa eased up to the other end of the bar, watching while Drake filled a half-dozen beer mugs that looked none too clean and carried them to the poker players. A cockroach scampered across the bar, not far from the sleeping cat. Koa wondered how many years had passed since the last health inspection.
“What’ll ya have, my man?” Drake turned toward the detective. He was in his late sixties. Yellowish white hair hung almost shoulder length in tangles. His gray eyes had a dull, glazed quality that made Koa think of untreated cataracts. His black T-shirt displayed beer stains that even the color couldn’t hide.
“A draft and some information.” Koa laid his police identification on the bar.
“Ah, shit.”
“You don’t like the police?”
“Cops ain’t good foah business, my man.”
“You give me what I need and I’ll be gone.”
Drake moved to the tap, picked up an unwashed mug, drew a beer until the head overflowed, and slid it down the bar to Koa. “You gonna run a tab?”
Koa ignored the stupid question. “You got a phone under the bar?”
“Huh?”
“You got a phone, a telephone, under the bar?”
“Huh, you need a phone. County forgit to pay its fuckin’ phone bill?” Drake laughed nervously. “Yeah. I got a phone.” He reached under the bar and lifted an old black telephone, the kind with a rotary dial, onto the bar. Koa examined the circle in the middle of the dial, but couldn’t read the telephone number through the encrusted grime.
“This telephone have a number, Drake?”
The barkeep seemed surprised that Koa had used his name. “You bin in here ’fore?”
“What’s the telephone number?”
“327-6867.” The number matched the one that Jenkins had called over a dozen times.
“Who uses this phone?”
“Me, I use it foah supplies and stuff.”
“Anyone else?”
The crow’s-feet at the corners of Drake’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “Customers might use it sometimes.”
“You get calls from Garvie Jenkins?”
“
Nevah heard of no Garvie Jenkins.”
That’s what Koa expected him to say. He pulled out a faxed photograph of Garvie Jenkins. “Recognize this man?”
“Nah.”
Koa always found it useful to have something to hold over a witness, and the Monarch was a gold mine of leverage. “Let me see if maybe I can jog your memory, Drake. Suppose I get the health department in here. What do you think they’d say about the cockroaches and that ratty black beast on the bar? And what do you suppose the licensing bureau would do about the gambling over at that poker table?” Koa nodded at the poker players. “And you know what? Maybe you’d like to lock up and come down to the station to help you concentrate on my questions.”
“Aww, shit. I knew ya was gonna hassle me.”
“Maybe if you’d answer my questions, I might overlook the roaches and the unwashed dishes you got behind the bar.” Koa tipped his head toward the stacks of unwashed mugs and shot glasses.
Drake picked up the picture of Garvie Jenkins. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I ain’t seen this here dude, least I ain’t got no memory of it.”
“But one of your customers got a bunch of calls on this phone, starting back in October.” Koa saw a dim light dawn in Drake’s dull eyes. The man knew something.
“Might’ve been a customer.” The same evasive drawl.
“This customer have a name?”
“Sure he must got hisself a name, ’cept I ain’t got no memory of it.”
Koa started to drum the top of the bar, one slow, loud tap at a time. “What’s he look like, this mister no name?”
“Little guy, greasy hair. Wears dem tourist shirts from Hattie’s.”
Koa broke off the tapping. “Look, Drake, we can do this two ways. Either you give me what I need, or you deal with the boys downtown tonight and the health department and the licensing bureau guys tomorrow. It’s your choice.”
The bartender was looking a lot older and a lot paler. “Okay, okay. There’s a dude. I swear on my mother’s grave I ain’t got no memory of ’is name, but he’s in here a few times. Okay, more than a few times. He’s in here. He gets calls.”
“And you answer the phone when it rings?”
“Yeah, most times I do. I answer it.”
“And so how do you know the call is for this dude … this dude in the Hilo Hattie shirts?”
Again, Koa detected the slightest brightening in Drake’s glassy eyes.
“Oh. The caller, he asks for the fuckin’ private eye. He always asks for the fuckin’ private eye.”
“Then what happens?”
Drake was getting upset, realizing that he’d been used by one of his customers. “Shit, man. He’s bin sitting at the bar, so I jus’ shove the fuckin’ phone in his ugly face.”
“What’s he say?”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Well, you’re standing right there, you shove the phone in his face. You got ears. What does he say?”
“Hey man, I got a bar to keep. I ain’t got time to listen to some toadie in an aloha shirt talkin’ story on the fuckin’ phone.”
Koa wasn’t buying that line for a second. “How many health and safety violations you think the inspectors could find in here, Drake? A hundred, maybe? Two hundred? At five hundred bucks a pop, that’s somewhere between fifty and a hundred grand. You got that kind of bread, Drake?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” The bartender wrestled with his conscience, but Koa had made his way crystal clear.
“‘Gar’—nah, that’s not right. ‘Garv’ … ‘Hi, Garv.’ Something sorta like that, best as I kin recall.”
“That’s good, Drake. Maybe I won’t need to call the health department.” Koa held out a carrot. “Tell me about the conversation?”
“What fuckin’ conversation?”
“The conversation that’s going to keep your bar open.”
“Shit, I ain’t got no memory … the box … PI kept saying he got the box. Yeah, the box … like he owed Garv something, some kinda thing in a box. I don’t know, man, somethin’ like that.”
“What else did they talk about, Drake? Think on it, man … think hard.”
“I ain’t … the pod. I heard private eye ask ’bout the pod. ‘Does she … does the fuckin’ pod tell you anything,’ like the pod was talking.”
Suddenly, a patron at the poker table yelled, “Drake, you sorry son of a bitch, git me another motherfuckin’ beer.”
“I got customers. I got a bar to keep …”
“Go on, Drake. I’ll wait while you take care of the customers,” Koa reassured him. “I just have a few more questions.”
Koa waited while Drake served more beer in unwashed mugs. He hadn’t touched the draft still waiting at his elbow. With any luck he might catch a new strain of hepatitis in this joint.
When Drake returned, Koa asked, “So Garv and the private eye talked about some kind of pod?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, when the PI came in here, was anyone else with him?” Again, Koa thought he saw a flicker in the old man’s eyes. “Who? Who’d he talk to, Drake?”
The old man looked defeated. “Jus’ that chopper fellow, Skeeter.” He winced as he gave out the name. “He flies them rich tourists over the national park.”
“What’s this Skeeter’s last name?”
“Ain’t nevah asked ’is last name.”
Koa could believe that. “What did they talk about, Skeeter and the PI?”
“Dunno. They sat by theirselves in the far corner. Nevah did hear them talking, but …”
“But what, Drake?”
The bartender instantly pulled back. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit, Drake. You heard something or saw something. What was it?”
“Okay, okay. I saw the chopper dude giving something, some kinda box, a black box ’bout the size of one of dem movie tapes. Givin’ it to the fuckin’ private-eye dude.”
“Okay. Just a couple more questions. What did the PI fellow and Skeeter drink?”
Drake brightened, obviously happy to be on a familiar subject. “Scotch, Cutty Sark. The two of them can kill a whole bottle of Cutty Sark.”
“Who buys?”
“Skeeter runs a tab, but sometimes … sometimes the fuckin’ private eye buys, though he bitches ’bout it. Hell, Cutty Sark ain’t cheap.”
“And how does private eye pay for it?”
“Mostly cash.”
“Mostly, meaning sometimes he used a credit card?”
“Maybe, maybe a time or two.”
“You got the credit card slips?”
The old man sighed. “Shit, man, I got a whole pile of that crap in the back.”
“Okay, Drake. I’m done for now, but in the morning, you’re going to meet Sergeant Basa and help him find those credit card slips. You understand?”
“And you ain’t gonna call the health department?”
“Not if you and Sergeant Basa find those credit card slips.”
When Basa finally returned to the police station the next morning, he found Koa just getting up from the floor of his office. “You suffer from insomnia last night, boss?”
Embarrassed, Koa decided to fess up. “No, my friend, I’ve got a pinched nerve in my neck. Lying on the floor helps control the pain.”
Basa’s face showed genuine concern. “Ah, so that’s the problem. I thought something might be wrong from the way you’ve been moving. You seeing a doctor?”
“Yeah. Looks like I’m going to have to go under the knife. But keep that to yourself for now.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Koa. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks.” Koa forced a smile. “The doc says I’ll be stronger, faster, and better looking after the surgery.”
“He better be some kind of doctor.”
Koa turned to business. “Tell me about your new friend at the Monarch.”
“My God, that place is filthy. It’s infested with roaches. We ought to get the hea
lth department in there before he starts an epidemic.”
“I promised we wouldn’t bring the law down on him if he cooperated.”
“Cooperated!” Basa snorted. “That son of a bitch is too dumb to cooperate. He’s lost his driveshaft, and his carburetor is sucking air.”
“But you got the private-eye dude’s name?”
Basa made a mournful face. “Yeah, after two hours going through a crate full of credit card slips and mouse droppings. You owe me big time for this one, Koa.”
Koa grinned. “Okay, Basa, I owe you. I owe you big time. Who’s the dude?”
“You remember Ricky Kling?” Basa asked.
An image of Kling wearing a cheap tourist shirt flashed into Koa’s mind. Years ago, Koa had caught Kling extorting a married man who’d visited a prostitute. The sleazy private eye had escaped jail only by giving up his private investigator’s license. “Jesus, that creep? We pulled his ticket years ago. Was he the private-eye dude on the phone with Jenkins?”
“He fits Drake’s description, if you can call ‘a little guy with greasy hair and tourist shirts’ a description, and he used his credit card in the Monarch on two of the days when Jenkins called.”
“And he’s just the sort of lowlife who’d hang with a convicted felon like Jenkins,” Koa added, happy with the way this was falling together. “How about Skeeter? Does the FAA have a line on a helicopter pilot by that name?”
“Skeeter Slade owns Fantastic Air Tours. One of those Kohala tourist sightseeing outfits.”
“I wonder what Garvie Jenkins and Skeeter Slade have in common,” Koa mused.
“You think it’s something more than an acquaintance with Ricky Kling?” Basa asked.
“I’ll bet you a malasada there’s more. Have we got an address for Kling?”
“Yeah, a rental apartment on Hoku, around the corner from the Monarch. You want me to bring him in?” Koa thought about their odds. “We don’t have enough for a warrant and Kling isn’t the cooperative type. No, I’d like to talk to Mr. Skeeter Slade. You have an address for him?”