The Poi Predicament

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The Poi Predicament Page 21

by Lyle Christie


  “We eloped to Vegas once his divorce was final.”

  “Out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  “Yeah, it seemed kind of impulsive, but it was his idea, not mine.”

  “Well, from what I saw, I think he really did love you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, as her voice started to break up.

  “Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Finn.”

  She hung up, and I set down my phone and looked at the others in the room.

  “Nerds, put down your dice. I’m going to need some credit card statements and phone records for Steven Green.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pulled Pork and Other Sordid Tales

  DOUG REGRETFULLY PUT his dice on the coffee table and pulled out his laptop, which had been sitting beside him on the couch. He tapped a few keys then looked up at me with a slightly bored expression.

  “OK, give me the name again.”

  “Steven Green.”

  He pressed several keys then paused before typing in what I assume was Steven Green’s name. A moment later he looked up.

  “OK, I have Visa, Mastercard, and Amex.”

  “Holy shit! That’s all it took? There must be hundreds of Steven Greens out there,” Violet said.

  “There are—but only one who’s recently deceased.”

  “Jesus, that was fast.”

  “You can thank all the new Homeland Security measures. We have access to everything these days. Which account do you want first?”

  “Amex.”

  Doug pressed a few more keys then called me over and turned his laptop in my direction. I looked at the last entries and worked backwards and found a charge for dinner, gas, and, before that, one from a restaurant that went through a little after one p.m. on the afternoon in question.

  “Bingo!”

  Steven apparently had lunch at a place called Kimo’s, and, according to the receipt, it was located just a short walk from the resort.

  “Why do you think he only spent ten dollars?” Doug asked, as he gazed at the amount.

  “He went there to meet someone and obviously ordered a drink while he waited.”

  “Oh yeah. That makes sense.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s all in my book.”

  “Yeah, Private Investigation for Dummies,” he responded.

  Beeber laughed and high-fived Doug.

  “If you two are done, I’d love a peek at Steven’s cell phone records.”

  Doug tapped some more keys, and, about forty-two seconds later, he had Steven’s phone records, and he scrolled down to the week of the murder, and there were at least fifty calls that included several to Jessica. I looked down to the time of his lunch date and found a number with a Hawaii area code.

  “That’s very likely our killer. Can you trace it?”

  “Of course.”

  Doug hit a few more keys then looked up.

  “Just as I figured. It was a burner.”

  “Yeah, no one who knows what they’re doing would use their own phone. Alrighty then. Who’s up for some lunch at Kimo’s? My treat.”

  “Obviously, I’m in,” Violet said.

  “Nerds?” I asked.

  “We’re going to keep playing,” Beeber said.

  “Doug, are you in agreement with that statement?”

  He looked at me then down at all of his D&D stuff on the table.

  “Staying.”

  “Well, have fun with your recreational castration technique, and if you ever do manage to have the desire to use your penises again, you could just cast a level fifteen Viagra healing spell and get them back in working order.”

  “Dude, that’s just stupid, because everyone knows a healing spell would be more than capable of getting our penises working properly again,” Beeber said.

  “Technically, he’s correct,” Doug added.

  “The fact that you answered seriously and un-ironically means I need to get out of here before my balls stage a coup and jettison from my body.”

  The nerds ignored my final comment and happily returned to their game as Violet and I left the hotel and walked to the restaurant. It took a little over five minutes, and we found the place sat directly on the beach, which was usually a bad omen. Generally you were paying for the view, so the price of the food had an inverse correlation to quality. We bypassed the hostess stand and found a place at the bar, where we were sandwiched in between two groups of tourists. Both appeared to be doughy midwesterners, and their formerly white skin was now red from too much sun as well as the consumption of too many tropical cocktails. The bartender checked in on them then stopped in front of us and placed two cocktail napkins down on the bar.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Sparkling water and a little information,” I said, slapping a twenty on the bar.

  “What kind of information?” she asked, looking curious.

  “Do you know who was working the lunch shift this last Saturday?”

  “Me. Do I get to keep the twenty?”

  “Maybe. Do you remember a good looking guy around fifty with a medium build and dark hair greying around the temples.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Yeah, he left me a five dollar tip on a five dollar vodka tonic.”

  That was definitely Steven, as the total amount of the bill and tip were ten dollars. Plus, I knew for a fact that he had a penchant for vodka tonics.

  “Did he meet anyone?”

  “Yeah, a guy joined him, but they left to go to a table.”

  “Do you remember any details on what either of them looked like?”

  “Not really.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, I would guess he was late thirties to middle forties and…”

  She paused for a moment to think.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “This might sound weird, but he kind of reminded me a little of you.”

  “Height or hair color—or are we talking straight up sex appeal?”

  The bartender smiled.

  “He definitely wasn’t as sexy, but there was something about his posture and demeanor. Maybe it was the way he held himself—I don’t know how to put it into words.”

  “Interesting—well, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” I said, handing her a card.

  “Will do,” she said, with a wink and a smile.

  As we stood up to leave, she abruptly came back.

  “Oh, wait. You might want to talk to their server. He’s right over there,” she said, pointing at a tall, thin, and dark haired waiter.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  We walked over and found the waiter at a cash register, where he was obviously preparing the check for one of his tables.

  “Excuse me, do you have a minute?” I asked

  “Sure, he said without taking his eyes off the screen.”

  “Do you remember a couple of male customers last Saturday afternoon. There were two of them, and they would have been here around one. One guy was good looking, around fifty, and had a medium build and dark hair greying around the temples. The other guy was—well—he apparently looked like me.”

  “Yeah, they left a good tip and paid with cash.”

  “So, you don’t have a name or credit card for them?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Do you remember what they looked like?”

  “Um, one had dark brown hair and the other had light brown hair.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah, sorry I’m a guy. Had they been women, I could have told you height, weight, breast size, and whether one or both had a distinguishing birthmark.”

  “Indeed. Well, thanks anyway.”

  “Why did you want to know?”

  “Just following up possible leads on a murder investigation.”

  “Oh, well I wish I could tell you more.”

  He finished up by printing a receipt and
placing it in the little folder before walking back to the table in question.

  “So, no lunch?” Violet asked.

  “Too touristy for me. What say we head up to the North Shore and see if we can find our gunsmith and perhaps grab something on the way.”

  “Sounds good. I know a really good sandwich shop up there.”

  We climbed into the Suburban and headed west on H3 until it hit the H2 and eventually reached the North Shore. From there we angled east and followed the ocean until Violet told me to pull over and park in a spot that just happened to be directly across the street from Shark’s Cove—my second favorite snorkeling spot on Ohau. Less than a block away, there was a Starbucks, and that was proof that one could find get a damn good cup of coffee—even in the middle of the fucking Pacific Ocean. We entered a small deli called Keiko’s and stood in line with a large crowd of locals until eventually reaching the front of the line, where Violet ordered two pulled pork sandwiches. Five minutes later, we were sitting out front, and, true to Violet’s word, were eating an exceptionally good sandwich.

  “I’m really sorry about this morning. I had no idea that Dave was such a stalker.”

  “Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still embarrassing.”

  “So, how long were you guys together?”

  “Two years. We were even talking marriage, kids—the whole enchilada.”

  “Honestly, I think he blew it.”

  “We both blew it. Neither of us were willing to give up our career.”

  “Well, it’s also possible you both might have had some deeper underlying doubts about your relationship if neither of you were willing to give up your careers.”

  “Interesting—any more deep insights, Doctor Freud?”

  “No, that’s about it for the moment. Ready to roll?”

  “Yeah, and roll is the right word. I’m feeling about as big as a house right now, and I’m thinking we probably should have just shared one sandwich. Sweet Lord, I forgot how big they were.”

  “Agreed. I might even have a second deuce in me when we get back to the resort.”

  We saddled up in the Suburban, did a U-turn, then drove back one block and turned left onto Pupukea Rd, which wound up through lush green countryside and past numerous beautiful homes. The number of dwellings diminished, and, after two long sweeping turns, we spotted Camp Pupukea, and just before it on the other side was the entrance to Walther Zeibt’s ranch. It had a sign that said No Tresspassing-Violators will be shot on sight, which I took to be a bad omen.

  The first couple hundred feet were gravel, but the remaining mile was all dirt, and I was thankful that we had a big all wheel drive vehicle to navigate the ruts and slippery spots. About a half mile in, the road dipped down into a little gully, and we crossed over a rickety old bridge that forded the stream that crisscrossed back and forth across the entire length of the valley. At last, we came over a final rise, and there stood an older looking ranch house with several outlying buildings—one of which was an old barn. There were three vehicles parked in front of the main house—an old tractor, a pickup truck, and an older dark green Toyota Land Cruiser. I suspect the Toyota was Walther’s main ride because it was both functional and reliable. Anyone who’s been to Africa or seen documentaries on television would recognize that it was one of the kind they used on Safaris—with the other being the British Land Rover. We pulled in and parked beside the Land Cruiser and left the relative safety of the Suburban, and, upon reaching the front door, I knocked, and, a second later, we heard a voice through an intercom.

  “Please state your business,” a gruff voice said.

  “Hello, Mr. Zeibt, I’m Tag Finn, and I’m here with Special Agent Kalili of the FBI. Simon Wilson sent us.”

  “Just a second.”

  About four minutes later, the front door opened, and there stood Walther Zeibt. He was somewhere in his sixties and looked every bit the eccentric hermit with his matching khaki outfit and tussled mop of grey and blond hair that made him look like an African game guide. He also had a neatly trimmed goatee and piercing grey blue eyes, and he regarded me rather intently for a brief moment before turning his gaze to Violet, where, judging by the smile on his face, appeared to like what he saw.

  “I don’t get many visits from the FBI, least of all as lovely as you,” he said.

  Violet smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Zeibt.”

  “Call me Walther. How can I help you?”

  “We’re investigating a murder, and we have an unusual weapon that we hope you might be able to help us with.”

  I pulled out the Beretta, handed it to him, and he held it up and looked at it through the plastic evidence bag.

  “Well, do come in,” he said.

  We walked inside to what was obviously his living room to find it was sparsely furnished and looking a bit Germanic with its hard wood floors, white throw rug, and simple leather couch and chair. His last name was Zeibt, so he apparently he took his German heritage fairly seriously. The only things that even resembled clutter were the bookshelves that resided along three of the four walls, and every inch of shelf space was occupied by books that covered subjects from popular and classic fiction to mechanical engineering and metallurgy.

  “Here, follow me,” he said, as he led us across his house and into a hallway that connected to another building.

  We were now obviously in his shop, which had workbenches on all four sides and was littered with all manner of tools including drills, lathes, and milling machines. Off in the corner he had a test-fire chamber as well as a pair of goggles and ear protectors. All in all, it looked a bit like Simon’s gunsmith shop back in Honolulu, though it was a bit more rustic. Walther adjusted his glasses on his nose then took the Beretta out of the bag and held it under his desk mounted lamp and eyed its silencer appreciatively.

  “This is very fine work,” he said, with the subtlest hint of pride in his voice.

  “Is it anything you might recognize?” I asked.

  He turned and looked at us innocently.

  “Definitely not, as you obviously already know that silencers are illegal.”

  Violet and I shared a brief glance before turning back to Walther, who quickly turned his attention back to the pistol.

  “And you say this piece has been involved in a murder?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

  Walther’s expression subtly changed, and a hint of sadness overtook his features.

  “I think you should know that we’re not really interested in who made it, but rather in the identity of the person it was made for.”

  Walther thought for a moment, and we could see a subtle conflict brewing behind his eyes.

  “Yes, I understand, but people who do this kind of work generally deal with a very unusual clientele—one that prefers, or should I say demands, a great deal of discretion. It’s therefore highly doubtful you’ll ever find anyone willing to take the credit let alone divulge the identity of his client.”

  “I used to work with that particular clientele as well, so I understand your concern, but, in this case, I’m not exaggerating when I say the fate of the free world actually hangs in the balance.”

  That might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but with John potentially running for president, it did kind of concern the free world. Walther took a moment to think, and there was turmoil raging behind his eyes. Being a gunsmith was an unusual job, as the objects you created were designed to take life, human or otherwise, and that came with some ethical and moral turmoil. Of course, car makers also designed and built things that killed a whole lot more people, but their devices weren’t supposed to, so they probably had no problem sleeping at night. We all sat quietly for a moment, as we all knew that we were at a stalemate of sorts until Walter got a distinctly nostalgic look in his eyes and started talking.

  “I got into this business when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I’d help my dad on all kinds of proj
ects, and it was only a matter of time before I was hooked. I loved the machinery, precision, and craftsmanship that went into every facet. Of course, it’s easy to forget that these things kill, and, in most of my professional life, I believed that what I created was actually doing some good—helping us win wars and defeat our enemies. But, things are a bit different today, and it’s a lot harder to know the good guys from the bad guys.”

  “It sure is.”

  Walther closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

  “I’m really sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  I shrugged and nodded, as I understood his dilemma. He was just a toolmaker, a man living his life doing what he loved, and his job and even his life really did depend on his utter discretion. I therefore decided to absolve Walther’s conscience for the moment by leaving out the fact that two more murders had been committed in relation to this crime.

  “So, are you much of a shooter?” he asked.

  “I’m OK. Why?”

  “I have a brand new rifle I’ve been working on. It’s sort of a next generation of the M24.”

  The M24 was the Armed Force’s main sniper rifle, and it was technically a military version of the Remington .30-06 changed to a Nato 7.62 x 51mm round due to the greater abundance of that kind of ammo. It employed a bolt action and could be fitted with all manner of scopes, so it was entirely customizable to the specific shooter.

  Walther led us through a doorway and out into another room and pressed a button, and a garage door of sorts slid open to expose a long green field with a number of targets extending down the range. He grabbed a lone rifle off a rack on the wall and smiled like a proud parent as he brought it over.

  “Here she is,” he said, handing me his veritable mechanical baby.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  Walther had apparently taken the basic parts of the Remington, modified them, then married the assembly to a new custom stock, then painted it a green camo pattern. Along with the various custom parts, it looked very futuristic, and, instead of the traditional bolt action, it had a lower magazine and was obviously semi-automatic—something a purest might not prefer. But, when your life was on the line and you had multiple targets closing in, having more rounds and being able to reload quickly could come in especially handy.

 

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