“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” Phillips assured him. “I’m just a little confused. We’ve got a cop murdered, a good man, a family man, a great asset to the community, who lies dead, and I damn sure want to know why. If she can help me, if she can convince Martina to help me, I want the son-of-a-bitch who did this, this jack fucker who deprived a wife of her husband, two kids of their dad, and me a close and cherished partner and friend. I’ll do anything, anything at all, anything within my power , to see that that happens, that I get the son-of-a-bitch. So naturally I want to know who she is, how she fits, how she knows Martina, why they’re so close, and how and why she can decide for Martina whether or not she will help.” Pausing for a well deserved breath, he continued, “And that’s all. I mean no disrespect, and I make no demands. I’m merely asking for help.”
This time Charlie answered before Ham could speak on her behalf. And she did it with a stare at Ham that warned him to not do that again. “My name is Charlie Hollister. I’m a friend of the family, a close friend. I’m an equally close friend of Martina’s. All you need to know is that I protect them. To get to them, you’ve got to get through me.”
“And this family would be…?”
Ham waited. He’d got the warning, but of less import than that was his amusement at Charlie’s ability to put her foot in it. What family, indeed. He’d let her handle that.
“Martina is close to Blake Garrett,” Charlie blurted, “and that’s what I meant. I’m close to the Garrett family.”
Phillips’ smile was both wry and telling as he nodded, “Well, well, well. So now we have a dead cop, three shells picked up from a crime scene, an ex-cop who should have and obviously did know better, and now a friend of the great Blake Garrett himself. How interesting. This may be the case that makes my career.”
Pure steel cooled Charlie’s voice as she corrected him. “It may be the case that ruins your career.”
A chastened Phillips turned to Ham and explained himself. “The reason I got a little carried away…okay, a lot pissed…is that in addition to Kane being murdered, there were two other shots fired before that, shots that we only learned about afterwards. One went into the Kai’ha Towers, one into the Lilo Building. Both were upper floor shots, neither hit anybody, but left the obvious signs of entry. If we’d known about those shells, we might have been able to jump on this a bit sooner.” Picking them up from the table and turning them over in his hands, he announced, “At least now we know they’re 50 caliber and that we’re dealing with a high power rifle, meaning a sniper of some sort. But,” he sighed, “a sniper that’s either a lousy shot—which I don’t believe, given the way he took out Kane—or somebody who’s screwing around with us for his own reasons.”
“I had no idea about the other shots,” Ham assured him. “I was only concerned with the one into Blake’s apartment. That’s why I thought it bizarre that there were three shells.”
Phillips’ frosty smiled belied his soft reply. “Well now, that’s something. I was not aware that Garrett’s place had been shot at since nobody saw fit to inform me of that important fact.” When Ham merely shrugged in reply, he added, “Why don’t you tell me about that.”
Ham told him as much as he felt he could without completely exposing Blake’s position. He informed him of the shot, how it had occurred and the repercussions, and his follow-up with Carson. He told him about Drew, about her being hired by Russ, and that this was a repercussion of him being hired by Blake, that Drew was to look out for Blake’s interests, not his own. That this all came about because of Martina’s prediction of Blake’s precarious position, that he had but a short time to live, and that there would be at least one failed attempt before the actual fact. That Blake and Russ were both highly concerned about publicity, most especially because of the planned reunion tour, and that any leak on the part of the Honolulu Police Department would be viewed as an unforgivable sin by a highly agitated Martina.
“And you know what that means,” Charlie added.
“Yes, Ms. Hollister, you’ve made that threat before and I got the point the first time. I mean no disrespect by this, but repetition does not add to emphasis, it is mere redundancy.”
“Wow,” Charlie laughed, “no offense taken. I mean, really, an insult so eloquently shaped, how could I?”
“How does this fit in with the other shots, to Kane?” Phillips asked of Ham. “Any theories? And if you’re going to claim there’s no connection, you needn’t bother. I don’t believe these are coincidental.”
“Nor do I,” Ham assured him, “and I wouldn’t insult your intelligence by pretending to suggest they are. Right now, though, I have no working theory, though you better by damn believe I’m going to get one before this day is through. I’ll upturn every stone in this town if I have to. All I ask is that you stay out of my way and let me do my job.”
“A cop’s been murdered. What would you do? Let some out of town P.I. run loose while you twiddle your time away at your desk? Were you that slothful towards your job when you were legit?”
“I take issue with ‘legit’, but no, I wasn’t, nor is that what I meant. I just meant that I’d like to be able to run free, without a tail, without reporting to you every step of the way, and without you camping on my doorstep. In return for that freedom, anything, anything at all that I think has a bearing on Kane, I will personally and immediately pass on to you. You have my word on that.” When Phillips failed to respond, Ham continued, “Give me a little credit here, will you? I wouldn’t do anything, no matter the consequence to myself or to my client, that would help a cop killer escape the rope. It just wouldn’t happen.”
Phillips nodded as he stood to signify the interview was over. “And you,” he asked Charlie, more pleading than not, “will not suggest to Martina that she not cooperate with me?”
“On the contrary,” Charlie replied, “I think that that’s our best shot of protecting my…Blake.”
Phillips’ raised eyebrows asked the question that he failed to voice. “As for these shells,” he told Ham, “I will keep these for ballistics.”
“And my gun?”
“You can retrieve on the way out. Oh,” he interjected, “one more thing. Don’t leave the island without checking with me.”
Ham’s irritation clearly showed as he snapped, “I’ll do no such thing.”
The slow and deliberate wink Phillips offered emphasized his position. “I must insist that you do not leave the island without checking with me first.”
Cover your ass time. Got it.
“Not a problem,” Ham grinned. “And thanks.”
Phillips escorted them to the desk, where Ham signed for the return of his firearm before they proceeded into the ubiquitous blinding sun. He slipped on the needed shades, waved over a passing cab, and requested a trip to Blake’s address. It was time, he decided, to round up Drew and plan their next step. He had told Phillips that he’d by damn find out enough to form a theory before this day was ended and that was exactly what he would do, come hell or high proverbial waters. He just needed time to think. Time to think without being blindsided by illusion and misdirection. Time to prepare to be surprised.
Speaking of surprises, Charlie’s performance had been one more in a long line of recent stunners. He had been guilty of severely underestimating her, he saw that now. She put on an act of childish insouciance, an act that was so well and convincingly done that he’d bought the concept without reserve. She’d led him down that path when they first met, seemingly lost in her legal morass, uncomprehending, almost unaware, like a kid wondering what the fuss was all about. Nothing she’d done since his arrival had alerted him to a deeper side, in fact quite the contrary. Life seemed so much a game to Charlie, or at least that had been his perception. Then, this time, this one time, she let her guard down, revealed the steel that formed her spine, a quickness of mind hidden behind that façade of eccentricity. For a façade it surely was.
Ham turned to study her profile as
the cab weaved its way through mid town traffic and toward the greater serenity of Waikiki Beach. With the sun a halo to her long tresses, she radiated beauty, calm excitement, joy and sun, fun and laughter. And something else, he sensed. A hint of danger maybe?
“Remind me not to mess with you.”
Charlie had been staring out the window, turned toward the street away from his searching eyes. Slowly, indifferently, she turned toward him, her smile more enigmatic than ever. “Oh, Hamster, you silly man. I’m a pushover.” She patted him tenderly on the knee as she added, “Unless I’m pushed.”
Ham hid his sudden alarm. There was more than a hint here, there was a gathering storm. Beneath that sweet tone of banter, her voice rang with an intensity of purpose that confused him. She clearly meant to imply something, or maybe to impart something, a statement of purpose he found elusive. A warning no doubt, but to whom?
This was a side of Charlie he had not suspected, and one which, in his shock of discovery, he had yet come to grips with. His cop radar pinged with nervous intensity, yet deep in his heart he knew this was wrong. Charlie should not even be on his radar, let alone setting it off. Her love of Blake was so evident that to think otherwise, to suspect ulterior motive, was ludicrous on the face of it.
And yet, maybe that was the point, he thought. On the face of it. Doting daughter she may be, but it did not guarantee that she was also not the greedy and impatient daughter of a very wealthy man. And she had insisted on going everywhere with him, being in on all conversations, knowing everything he knew, everything he did, his next step, his plans. Everything.
Well, why wouldn’t she, he remonstrated with himself. She’s the daughter who loves her “Popster.” She damn well wanted to know how he intended to protect Blake from the evil forecast by Martina, a psychic she believed in and admired—hell, maybe even loved for all it appeared. There was certainly something more than affection there, something closer to worship.
Unless it was part of a well planned act, an act that she and Martina had put in place over time, waiting, waiting, ever waiting for the propitious moment. A suggestion of danger, a definite plan of the how and the when, replete with failed attempts, ghosts and acolytes, appearing and disappearing shells, a former sniper front and center for attention, yet so deliberately vague that certainty was the only outcome that was certain not to occur. Ingenious, that’s the word to describe it if that’s what it is. Ingenious and damn near foolproof, too. While he and the cops searched for the elusive ghost trainee who volunteered to take suspicion away from them and put it front and center on himself, Charlie and Martina would collect the millions and funnel Carson’s share to wherever in the world they had him set up to wait.
With a sigh of disgust, he shoved those thoughts aside, and for several reasons. First and foremost, he refused to believe that he could have been so deceived, that his sixth cop sense would atrophy to the point where anybody, no matter the circumstance or manner, could dupe him so completely that naiveté became his wont. Secondly, just because Martina and Carson were running a scam didn’t mean that Charlie was involved, though the reverse would have to be true because any such plan would require their active involvement. Charlie could not pull it off alone, though they could easily pull it off without her participation, merely needing to use her innocence as a front. A front and a blind.
More to the point, though, and as he had surmised before, Charlie had no need to remove Blake to gain access to his money—or to anything else she wanted. It was clear that Blake would happily cede every dollar, every possession, everything he had accumulated over the course of his hugely successful career, to his beloved daughter simply at the asking. Blake was both that loving and that innocent of purpose, he’d bet the check in his wallet on that. There was such a complete lack of guile there that, short of his being one of the world’s preeminent actors, he could not sustain it were it not a true character trait. And the man was a musician, not an actor. The two movies Truckee River had made proved that.
So let it go, he demanded of himself. You’re not that easily fooled, neither Charlie nor Blake have reason, and you, you damn idiot, are trying too hard and without foundation to evince that theory you rashly promised Phillips and yourself would magically form today. Not tomorrow when he had more facts and more time, but today before and when he had less than adequate knowledge to make a reasonable guess, let alone a certain proof. So knock it off, be patient, search, wait, let it come, be open, be prepared, but not rashly anticipatory.
If he had been right in the first place, and he was convinced he had been, Charlie’s reaction was not only natural, it was to be expected. To Ham, Blake was a hero deserving of his best efforts, but to her Blake was a dad, a loving, strong and protective presence in her life. Of course she worried, naturally she quickly angered, and logically she lashed back with threats. To do and be anything less would be an abrogation of her position as Daddy’s baby.
Grabbing Charlie’s hand and cradling it between his own, Ham let his anxiety slip away and reassurance coat his voice. “We’ll find him, Charlie, whoever’s behind this, I promise you. Nothing’s going to happen to your dad. I’ll stake my own life on that.”
She smiled tenderly and with trust. “I know you will, Hamster.” She planted a soft, friendly kiss on his cheek. “You’re my knight in shining armor, is what you are.” Batting coy eyes, she teased, “Which must make me your damsel in distress, hmm?”
They rode in companionable silence until the cab pulled up in front of Blake’s condo tower. Ham paid the fare, adding a fair tip and remembering to take a receipt, then escorted Charlie inside the darkened underground and into Blake’s private elevator.
“Popster’s had a visitor,” Charlie announced. “I wonder who?”
“How can you tell that?” Ham wondered.
“The elevator’s at the top. Someone’s used it since we left or it would still be down here at the bottom floor.”
“He could have gone out for awhile,” Ham corrected. “Or Russ, maybe, or maybe Lindsey. It doesn’t necessarily mean somebody stopped by.”
“You told him to stay put, remember?”
“Right,” Ham grinned, “and he obeys me about as well as you do. A family trait, no doubt.”
Charlie shrugged, not drawn into Ham’s attempt at humor, clearly more worried than Ham thought the situation warranted. “Look, if somebody dropped by, and it was somebody we wouldn’t want to let in, Drew’s here, she’s armed, she’s nobody’s fool, and she can be down right mean if she feels the mood. And an unannounced visitor would create that mood, you have my word on that. Really, there’s nothing to be concerned about here. Just take it easy, okay?”
His words might have calmed Charlie’s unwarranted worry had not Ham finished his statement by yanking his pistol from its spot nestled behind his back, had he not quickly flipped off the safety and chambered a bullet. The audible click of the slide coincided with Charlie’s barely stifled gasp.
“Charlie, this is just insurance. I trust my intuition, which is that there’s no particular cause for alarm, but I also trust yours, especially after Phillips, so this,” he said as he held up the gun, “is just precaution.” The elevator announced itself with a ping. “And as precaution, you stay behind me. Here we go.”
They were both proved right. As the doors opened, Ham jumped back at the astonishing and unpredicted site of a gun pointed directly between his eyes. Even as he startled, he raised his own weapon, finger on the trigger, itchy with indecision. Lightening reflexes and instant recognition prevented disaster.
Drew stared back at him in equal shock. Crouched in classic shooting position, arms outstretched, both hands on the gun, ready to let loose at the first sign of provocation, her eyes alive with anticipation, she exhaled a burst of anger, relief and disgust as she slowly lowered her weapon from the ready.
“Fucking about time,” she snapped. “There’s been a development.”
“What?” Ham demanded. “What’s going on
?”
“We’ve had a visitor.” Ham glanced at Charlie, who exhibited no visible reaction to this news, presenting a stone visage, a calmness betrayed only by dangerously flashing eyes. “And he left us a calling card.”
12
HOMEWARD BOUND
They ascended to the penthouse, Charlie tucked protectively behind them, Ham and Drew still with weapons at the ready. With a ping, motion stopped, the elevator doors parted and the armed private eyes swept into the foyer. At the all clear, Ham allowed Charlie to follow as they advanced to the veranda.
Blake and Russ sat facing the windows, both whiter than the bright sunshine warranted, while Carson stood with a weapon of his own at the ready. He lowered the barrel as Ham and Drew did the same.
“Anything?” Drew asked.
Carson shook his head, otherwise said nothing. He appeared to Ham to be alert, tense even, but not nervous. Which was a plus.
“Right, then,” Ham demanded, “what’s this all about?”
“Look on the bar,” Drew instructed. “There’s a nice little compact bomb there, albeit a fake one. And a note.”
Ham’s jaw dropped, though he quickly recovered. He strode over to examine the offending package before taking up the note. Clearly, it was intended to represent a bomb, but to be so obviously crude as to render it little more than a scary intention. The “wires” were made of string, the timing mechanism was devoid of inner works and openly so, and the explosive material—whether intended as plastic explosive or TNT was left vague, maybe deliberately so—was topped off by the miniature orange flag attached to a timer that announced “boom, you’re dead.”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 16