Restless Waters (10 page)

“So then, you
don’t
hand all the photos over to your boss?”

Sammy looked at me as though I were exceptionally slow. “What, are you kidding? Of course not. I already told you. I learned long ago that any pictures I gave them would never see the light of day. They’d either be dumped in the round file, or buried where no one would ever find them.”

My pulse picked up speed. If what Kalahiki said was true, then he definitely had proof.

“Instead, I’ve collected my own stash of highly sensitive material,” he continued. “It catalogues everything that’s been going on over the past few years. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to release it.”

“And what makes you think this is it?” I asked, barely able to hear over the pounding of blood in my ears.

Kalahiki paused, and coolly observed me. His almond-shaped eyes crinkled in merriment, nearly disappearing beneath their lids, as a smile once again pulled at his lips.

“Maybe I’m hoping that a Fish and Wildlife agent has finally been stationed here with enough balls to look into what’s really going on. ’Cause God knows, the special agents at NMFS are totally hog-tied. I guess I just didn’t expect a woman to have bigger ones than a man.”

I decided to take that as a compliment. After all, far worse things had been said about me. I also chose not to mention one little fact: that I was considered highly radioactive within my own agency. This case certainly wouldn’t enhance my reputation. Far from it. Instead, it could spell big trouble all around. There’s an unspoken rule within the federal government: You never go against a sister agency. Stepping into this would blow that maxim sky high. But it also wouldn’t stop me.

“There’s something else far more valuable on that roll of film than just a few dead animals, though,” Sammy interjected, breaking into my thoughts.

“What’s that?” I asked, eager for all the ammunition I could get.

“First, why don’t you tell me exactly what you plan to do with the information that I’ve given you so far?” Kalahiki questioned me with the cunning of an attorney.

I wished he hadn’t asked me that quite yet. Exciting as this was, I needed time to figure out what measures to take. Delving into another agency’s business was foreign territory for me. Not only was it highly irregular, but it would require extreme caution. If Sammy was correct, the shark-finning law existed in name only, while in reality it was still going on. That could mean just one thing: NMFS
officials were being paid to turn a blind eye, a practice that went directly against their mission.

I now realized something else as well, the implication of which hit me like a Mack truck. The Fish and Wildlife Service was involved with protecting both fish and marine mammals on the mainland, be it sturgeon, paddlefish, manatees, turtles, or walrus. However, that wasn’t the case in Hawaii. Rather, I’d specifically been instructed that our policy was “hands off” as far as NMFS was concerned. It made me wonder if perhaps there was an ulterior motive at work.

What better way to protect the fishing industry than for National Marine Fisheries to claim absolute authority over those critters that impact fishermen and can cause problems? In that sense, NMFS were like bouncers at the door. They adamantly kept Fish and Wildlife agents from entering their realm. Fishermen couldn’t be controlled if we didn’t know how many albatross, turtles, whales, or dolphins were being killed. It was one more lesson on the workings of politics and endangered species. In this case, big business was being given free rein to continue on as usual.

Then there was that other little tidbit that Sammy had mentioned, the “shark-fin wars.”

“I need a lot more information than you’ve provided so far, as well as evidence to back it up. But if what you’re telling me is true, then I fully intend to do whatever’s necessary to bring this matter to an end,” I swore, meaning every bit of it.

Sammy nodded, taking me at my word. “Trust me, you don’t know the half of it yet. What I’ll tell you for now is that it leads directly to a high government official in Oahu, and all the way over to Hong Kong. You’ll understand more once you’ve taken a look at my files.”

“Something else,” I said, not wanting to forget this last
request. “Who’s the other shark-fin dealer that you were talking about? The one who you believe got rid of Charlie Hong?”

Kalahiki kicked at the ground with his sneaker.

“I’m not totally sure yet. But I’ll try to get the information for you,” he promised.

“Good. I’ll need it if we’re going to make this case fly,” I replied, figuring that should add the necessary pressure.

Sammy bit his lower lip and seemed to think about it. “Okay. What say we meet at this same spot tomorrow around sunset? That way, you won’t have to worry about your
haole
skin getting burned.”

I looked at my arms. He was right. I was beginning to resemble a lobster.

“I’ll bring some information along to back up what I’ve told you so far,” Sammy added.

I wanted it all right now, but knew better than to push. Kalahiki would hand everything over soon enough.

“I can give you a ride back to Honolulu if you’d like,” I offered.

I don’t know why I assumed he lived there. Probably because that’s where I’d first seen him.

“Thanks, but I came in my own vehicle. Besides, I’m staying with my mom over in Makaha on the West Coast right now,” Sammy replied.

“In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow at sunset,” I said.

Kalahiki turned and walked in the opposite direction from which I’d come.

“Aloha till tomorrow then,” he responded over his shoulder, and raised his hand in farewell.

His star sapphire lassoed a beam of light. The ring glowed so brightly that it nearly blinded me. I looked away for a minute. When I glanced back again, Sammy Kalahiki was gone.

I
’d finished the last of my water before I’d made it halfway back to my Ford. Great. Now I’d not only be burned, but would also end up dehydrated. Visions of vultures flew through my mind when my cell phone rang.

Well, whadda ya know? Speaking of vermin, it was Rasta Boy on the line.

“Hey there, Special Agent Rachel Porter. Remember me?” he asked sarcastically. “It’s Dwayne. The next megastar beachboy about to hit Waikiki.
Yeeeouch
!” he yelped. “I’m so red-hot that women are probably already lining up to get a taste of me.”

Sometimes you had to wonder what God had in mind when he gave egos to men in the first place.

“What’s up?” I asked, cutting to the chase.

“I’m sitting here in Waialua all by my lonely. So, are you anywhere in the area?”

I had to give him points for coming through. Dwayne must have already set up a meeting for me with his boss.

“Actually, I’m not far away,” I replied.

That was true, as long as I made it back to my car alive.

He guzzled something and smacked his lips before responding.

“Goody. Then why don’t you head on over to the Sugar Bar and come see me,” Dwayne said, punctuating his suggestion with a burp.

Ooh, yeah. Females on Waikiki Beach were definitely in for a treat when it came to experiencing Dwayne’s unique charms.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I replied, and hung up.

I picked up the pace and arrived at my Ford without having become fodder for the local wildlife—although a few albatross did give me the eye. Opening the car door, I hit the portable cooler and quickly knocked back two cans of Coke. To hell with the calories. I figured I needed all the caffeine and sugar I could get. Then I planted my butt in the driver’s seat and pointed the Explorer toward Waialua.

I once again passed the abandoned cane fields and sugar mill. Truth be told, Waialua had received something of a raw deal over the years in comparison to its neighbor. Haleiwa has always held the allure of being the “in” place for artists and surfers. That wrapped it in a sheen of gloss, while Waialua schlepped along as a working-class sugar town.

Now that those days were gone, the place had fallen into a scruffy state of disrepair. It’s where sewage water was dumped, fields were sprayed, and birds were killed. Even the locals didn’t seem to care. The proof was in the mounds of trash that littered the ground everywhere.

The Sugar Bar was set just off the main road. I turned in only to slam on my brakes, finding the right-of-way had already been claimed by a couple of roosters. They took their sweet time moving two feathered rear ends slowly across the street. I had no choice but to wait, while impatiently tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. Then I swung into a parking space, fairly certain that my winged friends would soon wind up as fricassee.

I got out of my Ford and headed toward a neoclassical
building. The words
BANK OF HAWAII
were inscribed above the front door. It would have been hard to believe this place was the Sugar Bar, but for a nearby sign that read
NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY.
I knew it as a saloon that attracted mainly North Shore surfer trash. That and bikers, who tended to roll in every Sunday.

I walked inside and immediately spotted Rasta Boy. He sat fidgeting at the bar, maniacally spinning an empty beer bottle and cursing under his breath. He immediately perked up when he caught sight of me.

“Hey, Porter. It’s about time you showed. Where in the hell have you been? Never mind. Now that you’re here, you can buy me a beer,” he said, with rapid-fire speed.

Lucky me. Not only did I get the pleasure of his company, but I was also supposed to pay for it.

I glanced around to discover that Dwayne was alone. The only other patrons were a half-dressed couple making out in the back of the room. If a meeting had been set up, it clearly wasn’t taking place at the bar.

“So what’s going on?” I asked, getting straight to the point. “Did you arrange a sit-down for me with your boss yet, or not?”

Dwayne snorted, rolled a pair of red-rimmed eyes, and wiped a layer of sweat from his brow. This was the first I’d seen him in the light of day, and he wasn’t anything to write home about.

“Cool your jets,” he replied. “I need another brewski first. Then we’ll get down to business.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, he picked a piece of food from between them.

I was left with the distinct impression that that amounted to their brushing and flossing for the day. If so, it hadn’t helped. His teeth were ground down to little stubs, most of which were uneven. Equally unappealing
was that they were the sickly color of puke—all except for his one gold tooth.

But Dwayne’s lack of personal hygiene didn’t end there. His body odor was even more noxious than I’d remembered. Forget about knocking out a courtroom. His perspiration was bad enough to make the dead roll over in their graves. It was then I also noticed that his pupils were dilated. That might explain it. He’d probably scored a recent hit of ice.

“What’s the matter, Dwayne? Run out of your free stash of brew from the graveyard last night?” I asked, taking a step back for a breath of fresh air.

But Dwayne failed to appreciate my sense of humor.

“Very funny, bitch. Just buy me a damn beer already,” he barked, and frantically began to pick at a scab on his arm.

You learn a lot by working in the animal world, like not to take any shit if you expect to be alpha dog. My hand flew out and wrapped itself around Dwayne’s neck, firmly squeezing his windpipe.

“Uh, uh, uh. I thought we understood each other,” I said, applying more pressure. “Didn’t you agree to play nice?”

Dwayne thrashed about, looking wildly at me, his eyes beginning to bulge.

“What in hell are you talking about?” he croaked, starting to choke.

“You really don’t know? Gee, that’s too bad. Then let’s try it again. You don’t call me a bitch, and I don’t act like one. Remember now?” I reminded him.

I heard a chuckle and looked over to see the bartender smirking, as if enjoying the show. Meanwhile, the couple still hadn’t come up for air.

“What say we take this outside?” I suggested.

I didn’t wait for Dwayne’s answer, but led him through the front door, maintaining a tight grip on his neck.

“Are you playing games with me, Dwayne? Because I’m not in the mood and I don’t have time to waste,” I hissed in his ear.

“All right, already! I swear, no games,” he said, his fingers prying my hand from his throat.

I released my hold.

“For chrissake, what’s with you? I’m just a peace-loving surfer dude who grooves on the environment. You know, just like yourself, dudette,” he said.

The next moment, he tried to punch me in the stomach.

I dodged the blow and, catching hold of his arm, jerked it behind his back. Then I threw him against the wall.

“Hey, I’m really a good guy. Hell, I even love Bob Marley. What do you have to push me around for?” Dwayne asked, screwing his face up into a tight ball.

For a moment, I actually wondered if he was about to cry.

“I mean it. You’re hurting me,” he protested.

“No kidding, ‘dude.’ That’s the whole point,” I replied.

“Okay. I give up. Uncle, already,” he hoarsely surrendered, appearing to be truly upset.

“Are you absolutely sure? Because I have plenty more moves that I’d love to show you,” I advised.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m positive. All right? I’ll behave,” Rasta Boy promised.

I let him go again, and Dwayne slowly rolled his neck, as if to make certain that it still worked.

“Jeez, what’s your problem anyway, Porter? Have you ever considered Prozac? ’Cause you sure as hell could use some. You’re just lucky that I didn’t decide to hurt you back there,” he said, gently stroking his throat. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a real anger management issue?”

“Only those people that I’ve put in the hospital,” I responded, figuring that ought to help keep him in check. “But thanks for the word of advice. What I really want is the name of the guy that you work for.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I don’t know that,” Dwayne said, fending me off as I took a step closer. “It’s Stas Yakimov, okay. We’re cool now, right?”

Not quite. The name wasn’t exactly what I’d expected.

“Is he Russian?” I questioned.

“Russian, Chinese. It’s all the same chop suey to me,” Dwayne said with a shrug. “The only thing I know is that he was born here.”

“Fine. Now I want you to call him,” I ordered.

Dwayne looked at me, and flashed a dopey grin. “I can’t. Don’t have a cell phone. But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we use yours?”

The weasel was craftier than I’d imagined. Dwayne knew perfectly well that my number would turn up prominently displayed on Yakimov’s phone register. The other option was that a message would appear saying that the number had been blocked. Either way, it could prove to be a tip-off that something was possibly wrong.

Rather than answer, I slipped my hand into each of his back pockets. Nothing there. Oh well, it was time to go Dumpster diving again. I quickly slid my hand down his front pockets.

“Damn, but you’re determined to check out my package, aren’t you?” Dwayne asked, wiggling around.

“It’s what I live for,” I replied, and pulled out his cell phone.

“Oops. I musta forgot it was in there,” he said, grinning away like a baboon.

“I don’t know why. It’s the biggest thing that’s in your pants,” I parried. “Now make the call.”

But Rasta Boy suddenly became indignant.

“Whoa! Not so fast,” he objected. “What about our deal? You’re supposed to set me up as a beachboy first. You do that, and then I’ll come through.”

“Sorry Dwayne, but it works the other way around,” I
informed him. “Don’t worry. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. Only it will be after this meeting takes place and I’m satisfied with the results.”

“What are you talking about? You never said anything about ‘results’ before. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dwayne suspiciously countered.

“It means that you don’t reveal my identity to your boss, or dream of selling me out. You play along, and I’ll be happy to introduce you to Dolph once the case is over.”

“Just great. And how long is
that
going to take?” Dwayne asked, pouting as he tugged on his ear. “Ouch!” A finger caught in his gold hoop earring and nearly pulled the lobe off.

“No more than a few weeks. Don’t sweat it. You’ll be on Waikiki Beach escorting wealthy women to all the hot spots in no time,” I assured him.

I figured the first woman he approached would probably have him arrested and thrown in jail.

Dwayne remained silent while massaging his earlobe.

“Come on. You don’t want to pass up the chance of a lifetime, do you?” I cajoled. “Just think. Beautiful women will be paying you to satisfy their every whim. It’s either that, or I send your ass to prison for dealing in illegal reptiles,” I reminded him.

“Oh, all right. Just give me the damn cell phone.”

I handed it to him. “Okay. Now I want you to tell Yakimov that my name is Gloria Gaines and I own a pet store on Long Island. I’m just here on vacation for a few weeks,” I instructed. “Got that?”

“Yeah, yeah. How did we meet? Oh, I know. I picked you up at the Sugar Bar and you took me back to your room for a good time.” Dwayne chuckled. “Of course, you had to pay me for it, ’cause you’re not my type.”

I had a feeling that his “type” came in the form of meth heated in an ice pipe.

“If Yakimov asks, you’ll say that we met near the Banzai Pipeline watching a surfing tournament,” I corrected. “One more thing. You’re also to tell him that you want a cut of any potential business that comes from this.”

“You mean in addition to my being paid for catching the little squirts?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Sure. For all he knows, I could start placing orders for lizards on a regular basis. That translates into big bucks. It will sound more convincing if you want a percentage. After all, you’re the one that’s bringing me in as a prospective client.”

Dwayne regarded me with a hint of respect for the first time.

“Hey, that’s pretty smart,” he acknowledged.

“Can you remember all that?” I asked.

“Of course I can. Whadda ya think? I’m some sort of dummy?” he replied huffily.

I didn’t respond but watched closely as he dialed, making a mental note of the phone number. His demeanor instantly changed as Yakimov answered the line.

“Hey, Stas! My main man. How’s it hanging?” Dwayne asked, oozing his particular brand of charm.

He scratched his rear end and pulled at his crotch while listening to Yakimov’s response.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s cool here, dude. In fact, I may have something lined up for you. It’s this older chick that I met on the beach.”

What a schmuck,
I thought, determined to make Dwayne pay for that remark.

“Yeah. She owns a pet store on Long Island and seemed to be real interested when I told her about the lizards.”

The next moment, Rasta Boy’s jaw dropped, and he began to pull on one of his braids.

“No, no. Calm down, man. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t bring it up,” he quickly backpedaled. “She said she’d seen a few of them running around during this walking tour she took in the rain forest, and asked if I knew how to get some. All I said was that I might have a connection. I swear, Stas. That’s it.”

I learned, by listening to the conversation, that Yakimov was a lot smarter than Dwayne. My new informant began to nervously pick at his face.

“What? Does she have a business card?” Dwayne asked, obviously repeating Yakimov’s question.

He looked at me and I nodded.

“Yeah, yeah. She does. Don’t worry. Everything’s legit.”

I’d had a card made specifically for working under cover. Any incoming calls to the “shop” were picked up by an answering machine that reported that the store was closed while I was away on vacation.

“Anyway, I was thinking that I should probably get a piece of the action if she starts placing orders with you. Whadda ya say?” he queried tentatively.