“Yep.
My ‘administrative assistant’s’ been very patient with me, and I can’t think of
a better way to enjoy a little of this cash burning a hole in my pocket.”
We
went out to my car and I drove the short distance to Bev Gannon’s famous Maui
restaurant tucked alongside the two-lane road that cuts through the Hali’imaile
pineapple fields. The place actually used to be the company store when the
surrounding fields were sugar cane, not pineapple. The street view doesn’t do
justice to the delights that lie within. It’s a simple clapboard building, with
a tall false front, painted beige with white trim. Wide wooden steps lead to a
generous front porch. Once you step inside, you can feel the love. Vibrant
sunny yellow walls sport colorful fish sculptures, and dozens of local art
pieces are on display on tall shelves behind the bar. The palpable attention to
detail assures diners they aren’t there just to enjoy a great meal—they’re also
going to be treated to a few hours of pure
aloha
.
Two
and a half hours later we left, giddy from the luscious lunch and two glasses
of wine apiece.
“You
okay to drive?” Steve asked.
“Probably.
But why don’t we walk home, just in case? We can be there in less than fifteen
minutes.”
We
didn’t talk much on the walk home, and once we got inside, we headed to our
respective bedrooms. I don’t know what Steve did, but I needed a few winks
before heading back out to pick up my car. When I awoke, it was already getting
dusk outside—time to start dinner. The bank in Pa’ia had been closed for more than
an hour.
***
The
next morning the phone rang as I was getting out of the shower. I hoped Steve
would pick it up, but he didn’t. When I heard the message on our kitchen
answering machine kick in, I dashed out of the bathroom and snatched up the
extension. The caller was already leaving a message.
“…hope
you can come and get me. I’ll wait for—”
“Trish,
is that you?”
“Oh
hi, Pali. Sorry to bother you at home. I tried your work number and your cell
but you didn’t answer, so I looked up your home number. I’m over here on Maui
now. Can you come get me at the airport?”
“I
thought you had to attend a conference in Honolulu.”
“Oh
yeah, that. Well, that’s the story I gave my boss. If I sign in and show up for
a few sessions, he’ll never know why I really came over. The conference goes on
for three more days, so I’ve got lots of time to make an appearance.”
“What
type of work are you in?”
“I
see dead people.”
I
waited a beat.
“No,
really,” Trish went on with a chuckle in her voice, “I’m in the funeral
services business. I’m a licensed embalmer and mortuary cosmetologist.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,
sounds kinda weird, huh? But the pay’s great, and I’m really good at it. In
fact, I won first place in the accident victim restoration category back at
school. I enjoy putting people back together. It’s sort of a joke around town
that I’m the ‘go-to girl’ for the serious Humpty Dumpty cases.”
No
way was I going to comment on that.
“I
live only ten minutes from the airport,” I said, eager to change the subject. “Tell
me what you’re wearing, so I’ll be able to recognize you at baggage claim.”
“I’m
wearing black. I’m always in black. Pretty much goes with the territory.”
In
New York City that wouldn’t be much of a tip-off. But on Maui, a woman dressed
in head-to-toe black would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.
I
parked in the hourly lot on the airport loop road and skittered across the
street to the terminal. I stepped into the baggage claim area and scanned the
crowd, searching for Trish. I spied her standing next to the far baggage
carousel, wearing a forlorn look and sporting more black than the Wicked Witch
of the West. Black pleated pants, a plain black blouse and a three-button black
blazer. A black hobo-style purse was slung over her shoulder. She was standing
next to a small black roller bag.
I
waved at her and she reached down and grasped the handle of the roller bag.
While she was making her way across the open space, I spied a former federal
co-worker from my TSA days. It was Lenny Williams, a Drug Enforcement Agent. He
was holding the leash on a beagle sniffing its way through a row of unclaimed
luggage. I smiled at him and he nodded.
I
started walking toward Trish. So did Lenny and the beagle.
When
we got within speaking distance, Trish spoke first. “Wow, you’re way younger
than you sound on the phone,” she said.
What’d
she mean by that? Did my voice quaver? Was it too soft or too low? I wanted to
ask her how my voice sounded ‘old’ but by then Lenny and the beagle had stopped
in front of us. The dog stiffened, then barked a couple of times—loud—before
resolutely sitting down on its haunches.
“Is
this a cadaver dog?” Trish said in a stage whisper to Lenny. “I work with the
deceased. It’s impossible to get the smell out of my clothes.”
Lenny
ignored her.
“May
I see your bag, miss?” he said, pointing at my beach bag purse.
“Lenny,
it’s me—Pali Moon.”
“Miss,
I’m asking for permission to search your handbag.”
“For
crying out loud, Lenny. I’ve only been off the job a couple of years. It’s me,
Pali. You know, the air marshal who flew the Honolulu to Taipei route?”
Lenny’s
face told me he sure as heck remembered me, but he wasn’t going to let on.
“Sure,
officer, I have nothing to hide,” I said. Perhaps because Lenny knew I’d worked
for Homeland Security he’d selected me to assist in a training exercise for the
dog. I’d been involved in my fair share of phony scenarios while I was on the
job, so it made sense I’d be his logical choice.
I
handed Lenny my bag with a wink.
“I’m
really sorry about the delay,” I said turning to Trish. “My car’s parked right
across the street.”
“No
problem. I’m in no hurry,” she said.
“Do
me a favor, Lenny,” I whispered. “Don’t dump everything out where everyone can
see it. I’m going to the bank today to deposit—”
Lenny
held up a hand to halt my little speech. Then he lowered my purse to the dog’s
nose level so it could get a good sniff.
The
beagle went berserk.
CHAPTER 17
Lenny
rooted around in my bag and pulled out the Ritz Carlton envelope. When he
lifted the envelope flap and saw the large bundle of cash inside, he looked
over at me slack-jawed.
“Miss,
I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me,” he said in a tone that sounded like
a recording.
“Lenny,
wait,” I said. I turned and touched Trish’s arm. “There’s been a mistake. Would
you mind waiting here for a few minutes? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Can’t
I just go with you?”
“No,”
said Lenny. “I’m taking her into federal custody. No visitors allowed.”
Not
good. Not good at all.
“Just
have a seat over there,” I said to Trish. “I’m sure this won’t take long once I
answer their questions. I’ll call you on your cell when I can—”
“Excuse
me, Miss,” Lenny said, interrupting. “But the security detail has alerted to
contraband in your handbag. You need to come with me
now
.”
The security detail
? Sorry to break it to you, dude,
but it’s not a
detail
—it’s a dog. And a rather scrawny little dog, at
that. But, of course, I kept my opinion about the dog’s lack of stature to
myself. I’d seen enough training videos of federal agents dealing with
uncooperative suspects to know it’d be best for me to keep my mouth shut and my
feet moving.
We
got to the back of the baggage claim area and Lenny punched in a code on a
locked door. Then the three of us—Lenny, me, and the beagle—went inside. The
tiny room was furnished with a small rectangular table and two metal chairs. No
window, no art on the walls, no cooling breeze from a fan. It wasn’t the kind
of place you’d want to hang out in on a coffee break. By now, the beagle
appeared almost sleepy calm. The only sign of vigilance was in its eyes—it kept
them resolutely trained on its handler as if anticipating a yummy reward.
“We’ll
wait here for the proper authorities to arrive,” Lenny said, setting my bag
down in the middle of the table. “Have a seat.”
My
cell phone chimed. Lenny shook his head and I let it go to voicemail.
I
sat down and leaned over to pet the dog, but Lenny jerked the leash, pulling
Fido out of my reach.
“It’s
illegal to touch a federal officer,” he said. “Oh, and I’ll need to see some
ID.” He pointed to my purse. “Do you have a driver’s license or other
identification in there?”
I
nodded.
“May
I look?” he said.
Again,
I nodded. He dumped the contents of my purse out onto the table. The dog
twitched as if it was dying to launch into its
gotcha
routine all over
again, but it stayed quiet.
“Where’d
you get so much cash?”
“It’s
payment for services. I’m a wedding planner and this is the money I was paid to
put on a rather expensive wedding this weekend.”
“Do
you usually conduct your business in cash?”
“No,
my customers usually use a credit card.”
“Would
you remove your ID from the wallet for me, please?” His tone was softening.
Maybe his memory was slow on the uptake and he was finally recalling we’d once
been colleagues working side-by-side at this very same airport.
I
pulled my driver’s license out of the wallet and handed it to him. The cheery
rainbow on the license was the only spot of color in the stark white room.
“Pali
Moon. You still live on Makomako Street in Hali’imaile?”
“Yes.”
Just
then, a DEA supervisor arrived. Lenny left the dog to keep an eye on me while
he and the supervisor left the room. They huddled outside the half-open door. I
caught snatches of their conversation, but couldn’t hear enough for it to make
any sense.
I
glanced down at my cell phone on the table. The caller ID just showed a number,
and I wondered who’d called. I picked up the phone and was punching in my
voicemail code when the door swung open. I snapped the phone shut.
Lenny
led the other guy into the room, but the supervisor did all the talking. “We’re
going to be impounding the contents of your purse for further testing,” he
said.
“Why?”
“It
caused the security dog to alert for drugs.”
“Drugs?
What kind of drugs?” I looked at the stuff spread out on the table. Jumbled
along with my wallet and the envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills was a
tiny Kleenex pack, a plastic hairbrush with most of the bristles missing, and a
smattering of tattered business cards from Napili Limo, Steve’s photography
business and a few other vendors I use in my business. “If I have any drugs in
here, it’s most likely going to be Tylenol or Advil or something like that.”
“The
security dog’s trained to alert for opiates, marijuana, and methamphetamine,”
the supervisor said. “Not Tylenol.”
“Am
I under arrest?”
“You’re
in custody and will be taken down to the local police station. We really can’t
say much more than that right now.”
“What
about my personal property? As you can see, I’ve got a lot of cash here.”
The
two men exchanged a glance. “I don’t think you should count on getting the
money back, Ms. Moon. It’s the primary reason you’re going downtown.”
***
I
waited in a little interview room at the Wailuku Police Station for nearly half
an hour before anyone showed up to talk to me. Then a guy came in and handed me
a can of Diet Pepsi. “I’m Sergeant Bremmer, with the Hawaii Narcotics
Enforcement Division. How’re you doing?”
“As
good as can be expected, I guess. But I need to make a phone call.”
“Lawyer?”
“No,
a wedding client. I was picking her up at the airport when I got detained by
the feds. I need to call her and let her know what’s going on. Although I don’t
know exactly what
is
going on.”
“Tell
you what,” he said. “How about I get someone to call your so-called client to
let her know you won’t be meeting with her today? You can write her number down
here.” He pulled out a business card, flipped it over to the blank side and
slid a pen across the table.
I
wrote down Trish’s name and number and he picked up the card and left.
When
he got back he said, “Your client said she’ll call you back when she can. I
told her you’d be here a while longer and she said in that case she’s heading
back over to Honolulu. She sounded kinda nervous to me.” He eyed me as if
hoping I’d blurt out a confession that I’d been at the airport to score a big
drug deal and, what the heck, why don’t I give you the real name of my ‘so-called
client’ so you can bust her before she gets on that plane for O’ahu.