The Poi Predicament

by Lyle Christie

  “Come on, Finn, pinch it off,” she said.

  “Goddammit, Sandra, don’t you know that it’s a harbinger of doom to interrupt one of my dumps?” I yelled back.

  “Sorry, somehow, I didn’t know that your digestive process was linked to the fate of the universe, so I’ll just keep patiently fucking off in your living room.”

  I wiped, flushed, and entered the shower and wondered if Sandra’s intrusion might bring some kind of misfortune in the coming hours. Perhaps the spirit of aloha would somehow shield me from the evils of my fate, though only time would tell. I lathered up my hair with a flowery shampoo, then started with the soap, and every moment under the rush of hot water brought me ever farther out of my hangover. By the time I turned off the taps, I was up to about seventy five percent of normal operating power, and I dried off, slid on some fresh shorts and a T-shirt, then exited to find Viola up and dressed in standard street clothes—namely some short knee length black exercise pants and a stretchy short sleeve shirt. She was also looking at her phone and appeared to be a little stressed.

  “Shit, I have to go,” she said.

  “So soon?”

  “Work beckons.”

  “A stripper gig this early in the day?”

  “My other work,” she said, moving through the double doors and out into the main part of the suite to where Sandra was waiting for me.

  I quickly introduced them, and they exchanged the usual pleasantries, before Viola moved towards the door. I followed and caught up to her before she could leave.

  “Wait, I don’t even know your number or your real name,” I said.

  “It’s probably better that way.”

  “Seriously? I really enjoyed hanging out with you last night.”

  “I enjoyed it too, but my life is a little complicated at the moment.”

  “Then sadly, I guess it’s goodbye.”

  “You never know. If it’s meant to be—then perhaps fate will bring us back together.”

  “In my experience, fate can be kind of an asshole at times.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out. Goodbye, Bartholomew,” she said, kissing me a final time on the lips before leaving my suite.

  “Well then—I guess that officially makes it a one night stand,” I said, to myself as I closed the door and turned to find Sandra frowning as she regarded me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “And you give John shit about being a dick swinging bachelor.”

  “I can’t help it if I’m a people person,” I said.

  “Nice try. Let’s go, man-whore,” she said.

  How in the hell did she know about that recent nickname? Fucking Secret Service. We left my room and walked down the hall and over to the other side of the hotel to where the presidential suite resided. Sandra knocked then ushered me in, and I found Jessica and John both looking grave as they sat together on one of the living room couches.

  “Isn’t it a little weird that you should have this room?” I asked.

  “How so?” John responded.

  “Don’t you you ever find it a little annoying that hotels don’t have vice presidential suites?”

  “I do—though I think I should point out that they don’t have dirtbag private investigator suites either.”

  “Yeah, so I guess we’re both out in the cold.”

  “Not really—I still get this room.”

  “True. Well, Sasquatch, what the hell is going on? Who died?”

  “No one died per say, but someone was murdered, so you might want to get some coffee and take a seat. If you woke up feeling as bad as I did, I’m sure you’ll need it.”

  I filled a cup and added cream, then took a seat, feeling ever curious to find out what all the fuss was about.

  “OK, enough theatrics—who in the hell was killed last night?”

  Jessica looked at John, then back to me before speaking.

  “Steven,” she said.

  “Steven?”

  “Steven Green. You know—my ex and—and your favorite former client.”

  Jessica and I had originally met when her former, or should I say dearly departed, husband hired me to follow her and collect evidence that she was having an affair. She had been, as had he, but he wanted the upper hand, as he was about to serve her with divorce papers. I decided I liked Jessica more than Steven and divulged all of this news to her then officially relieved myself from Steven’s employ.

  “Jesus,” I said, taking a seat on the opposite couch.

  Jessica wiped a tear from her eye, obviously upset at the death of her ex. He wasn’t a very nice guy, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “He was shot in his hotel room last night—right here in this very hotel.”

  “Steven was staying in this hotel?”

  “Yeah, and the preliminary pathology believes he was shot with a 9mm Pistol, though they don’t have a complete ballistics report yet,” John said.

  “What in the flying fuck was he doing here?”

  “That’s a little complicated—and part of the reason we’re talking to you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Police believe they already have a primary suspect.”

  “Who? Angry hooker or disgruntled client?”

  “Me,” Jessica said.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I know, but I just spent the better part of the morning getting questioned, fingerprinted, and everything else you can imagine,” Jessica said.

  “How in the hell could they have possibly come up with a suspect in so little time—let alone you?”

  “Well, first of all, I have no alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “Doesn’t a bachelorette party count?”

  “It happened later—after I got back to my room.”

  “And you didn’t stay here with John?”

  “No, I had my own suite, as the bride and groom are supposed to sleep separately the night before the ceremony.”

  “Speaking of—is it still on for today?”

  “No,” John said, somberly.

  “Well that sucks.”

  “It does.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Well, aside from opportunity, what motive could you possibly have? You’re happily moving on with your life, engaged to the future president of the United States, and you have no kids or alimony to fight over. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jessica looked to John yet again, then back to me.

  “He was blackmailing me,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Proof is in the Pudding

  IT WAS TOO bad that it was mid morning and I was still hung over, or I might have thought about making myself a cocktail to soothe my nerves. I never imagined waking up to the daunting news that two of my dearest friends had a massive monkey wrench thrown into the machinery of their upcoming nuptials.

  “Blackmail? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, and right now the Honolulu Police are compiling all manner of evidence in hopes of pinning this on her,” John said.

  I rubbed my temples and tried to clear my head and process all the information.

  “So, why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you be talking to an attorney?”

  “Definitely, but we also need our own investigator on this. Someone we can trust to try and figure out what the hell is going on here,” John said.

  “No doubt, and I assume you’ve already surmised that this may very well be related to your upcoming run for the presidency?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what he was blackmailing you about?” I asked Jessica.

  She stewed for a moment and gathered her thoughts before speaking.

  “Back in college, I got pregnant and had an abortion.”

  “And Steven knew about it obviously.”

  “Yeah, he was the one who got me pregnant, and needless to say, neither of us were ready for a child, so we decided it was
best to have it taken care of.”

  “Shitloads of people get abortions.”

  “Yeah, but not future first ladies.”

  “Did you know about this already?” I asked John.

  “Yeah, she told me on our second date. Knowing my job, she thought that I should know about any skeletons before things got serious.”

  “Well, I must admit that I admire a couple who can communicate.”

  “Yeah, and I had no problem with it. I firmly believe that it’s a woman’s right to choose.”

  “And what about your supporters? I imagine some might feel differently.”

  “Some do.”

  “So, when did the blackmail start?”

  “A month ago, after John announced that we were engaged and rumors started surfacing that he might run for president, I received an email from Steven that said he wanted ten million dollars to keep quiet.”

  “But you don’t have ten million.”

  “No, but I do,” John said.

  “Jesus, I knew Steven was an asshole, but this takes it to an all time high. He had more than enough money, so it almost makes me glad he’s dead.”

  Jessica was quiet as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

  “Any idea what Steven was doing on Oahu? He could have easily blackmailed you from home. Why come all the way here?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, I’m obviously going to help in whatever way I can.”

  “Good, as we need someone to investigate this who knows that Jessica is one hundred percent innocent.”

  Sandra, who was standing off in the corner of the room, said something into her radio mic then came over and joined us.

  “The file from the Honolulu Police is on its way up,” she said.

  A minute later, there was a knock at the door, and another Secret Service agent handed an envelope to Sandra, and she brought it over and set it down on the coffee table. Everyone looked at it, but no one actually wanted to pick it up, so I relented and grabbed it and set it on my lap. I took a calming breath then opened the file to find a standard police report detailing Steven Green’s murder. It turned out that a hotel maid found him lying dead on his bed at seven forty a.m. and called the police. They arrived soon thereafter, and determined that the cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the chest, which occurred some time between midnight and three a.m., and the murder weapon was a Beretta 92F pistol that was found in the reef about twenty yards off the shore of the hotel by a spear fisherman named Danny Keahi. Ballistics tests showed that it matched the bullet found in Steven’s chest, though the next line was so ridiculous I had to go back and read it again.

  “No fucking way,” I said.

  “What is it?” Jessica and John both asked at the same time.

  “The weapon in question is registered to you.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Well, I know from personal experience that you own a Beretta 92F pistol,” I said.

  I was familiar with the weapon, because I had actually fired it on several occasions when Jessica and I had gotten together to go shooting at our local range.

  “Yeah, but it’s back home in California. How the hell could it have ended up here?”

  “Good question, and there’s more. Your prints were all over the gun.”

  “Well, of course—it’s my gun, but what idiot would use their own gun to kill someone, let alone leave all of their fingerprints?”

  “Very good point. I think you would be a lot smarter if you really had wanted to kill Steven. Speaking of which—did you happen to have gotten a silencer made for it?”

  “No, nor would I have even known where to get that done.”

  I read on, and my heart started to pound, as each page relayed yet another air tight clue relating to Jessica’s supposed guilt.

  “So, they did a GSR test, I see.”

  “A what?”

  “Gunshot residue test.”

  “Oh, yeah, they did—can you fucking believe it?”

  “Yeah, and guess what?”

  “I tested positive?”

  “Yep.”

  “For Christ’s sake. I didn’t kill Steven.”

  “I know, but it get’s worse. A woman matching your general description and wearing a navy blue hooded sweatshirt was seen on security footage leaving your hallway around one fifty a.m. this morning.”

  “And let me guess—entering the hallway leading to Steven’s room a moment later,” Jessica said.

  “Correct, and the same footage also shows you returning via the same route forty minutes later”

  “Ridiculous. I was passed out asleep.”

  I read on and couldn’t help but sigh before I detailed the next bit of info.

  “Lovely—your prints were found in several locations in his room, which also happened to include his bathroom.”

  “Well, yeah, I met with him in his room earlier in the day to discuss his little blackmail scheme. I had to pee, so I used his bathroom.”

  I returned my attention to the report, and the next bit of evidence to be detailed was the sweatshirt.

  “The navy blue sweatshirt seen in the security footage was found in your room, and it was, of course, stained with the victims blood.”

  “I haven’t even worn that sweatshirt since I got to Hawaii, because it’s too fucking hot.”

  “Not hot enough if this report is accurate.”

  I thumbed through to the next page and found a picture of a shoe print as well as a picture of the sole of one of Jessica’s tennis shoes.

  “Fuck, they were somehow able to pull a print from the lobby, and they claim it’s a perfect match to the sole of a pair of running shoes found in your room.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Hundred’s of people walk through there every day. How could they have possibly singled out one of mine, let alone have any idea when it was made?”

  “Cops are sneaky fuckers.”

  “It just get’s better and better.”

  “Indeed, as it seems they also found a copy of Steven’s ransom letter on his laptop, where he had it cleverly hidden in his documents folder as well as in his email outbox. He wasn’t exactly the world’s smartest blackmailer, but his incompetence proves that he emailed it to you, which, in turn, provided the police with a very lovely motive.”

  I closed the file, took a sip of coffee, and looked at the unhappy bride and groom to be.

  “So, to recap—we have your gun as the murder weapon, footage of a person believed to be you walking to his room at the time of the murder, a shoe print from said walking trip, gun powder residue on your hands, his blood on your sweatshirt, and fingerprints proving you were in his room. Add all that to the fact that you have an excellent motive, and we suddenly have one of the most air tight murder cases of all time.”

  John shrugged and leaned back on the couch and groaned as he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

  “Why now?” he muttered.

  “No shit. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it will all be a bad dream,” Jessica said.

  “I know the feeling, but I have to tell you. The most puzzling aspect of this whole case is that it’s just too convincing. No murder case ever has this much evidence, nor do the police manage to put this much together in such a short time. Speaking of which—when did the Police arrive at your door?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “They found Steven at seven forty-five, and it’s now twelve thirty. That’s four hours and forty-five minutes, and only three of those hours were even spent with you. How in the hell did they perform and complete all these tests in that small amount of time?”

  “Finn has a point,” Sandra interjected.

  “Yeah, and, Sandra—where were the Secret Service last night?”

  “Guarding John. Until he and Jessica are married, she doesn’t fall under our purview.”

  “Shit monkeys. We’re not getting many breaks here so far.”

  “Apparently not,” Sandra said.


  I had another sip of coffee then asked my next question.

  “So, when were you going to announce that you’re running for President?”

  “End of the week.”

  “Well, that at least explains why everything happened last night. I’m guessing whoever engineered this whole thing is very intelligent, has a lot of resources, and, more importantly, is on a very specific timeline.”

  “Fuck—everything was going perfectly to plan. We would have gotten married today then had a week to honeymoon and relax before all the campaign hoopla started.”

  “Life—she is a motherfucker at times.”

  “No doubt, and you know what the shitty part about all this is?” John asked.

  “What?”

  “Whoever is doing this is obviously using Jessica to get to me.”

  “Yeah, so do you have any thoughts on who in the hell would be fucking with you like this?”

  “Not off hand.”

  “You must have plenty of enemies.”

  “Being in politics means it’s inevitable, but, without trying to sound vain, I’m pretty well liked—even across party lines.”

  “Well, I’m going to do my best to get your lovely bride-to-be cleared, but in the meanwhile I’d like you to think about all the people who you might have pissed off.”

  “Deal, and we’re going to have a damage control meeting this evening around six o’ clock with my father and Frank Williams as well as the rest of my team. I’d like it if you could be there, so you can get everyone up to speed.”

  “Will there be food and drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m there.”

  “Good, what’s your first move?”

  “I want to talk to Jessica. Are you feeling up to it right now?” I asked her.

  “I suppose.”

  “OK, good. Now, the murder apparently took place between midnight and three a.m., so what time did you leave your bachelorette party?”

  “A little before midnight.”

  “That seems a little early.”

  “I was super tired and a bit groggy, as it had been a long night.”

  “Well, I can say with confidence that the bachelor party was just getting started at that point.”