H
e's in there, Caine.” The desk sergeant pointed over his shoulder toward the tiny cubicle of an office behind the counter. I could see a pair of size fourteen sandals on the desk behind the door, wiggling just enough to let me know their owner was in an animated telephone conversation.
The sergeant made no offer to open the gate so I waited outside, lingering next to the standing rack of long boards belonging to the Waikiki Surfing Association. It was the oldest surfing club in the world. Kimo told me once that his grandfather had been a charter member. Or was it his great-uncle? All I could recall was that they had the same last name. They used to call him Duke.
“Caine!”
Kimo stood at the glass door of the substation.
“You coming in or not?”
“Don't you think it would be better if we talked outside?” The tiny station had many pairs of ears, and Kimo had things to say that didn't need to be repeated. Especially among his colleagues.
“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Let's go for a walk.”
I trudged through the soft sugar sand to the water's edge, looked behind me to make sure he was there, shucked off my sandals and waded in until the warm Pacific covered my thighs. Kimo followed, and we waded along in the clear, shallow water, following the shore, heading toward the Royal Hawaiian. Wading
in the surfline, pushing the warm water past our legs, forced us to use our thigh muscles. For some strange reason it had a calming effect. I'd always found that this particular exercise, striding through the sea on a bright, beautiful morning, provided enough of a lift to get me out of any particular funk I might find myself in.
“You ever have kids?”
“Me? No. Never married. Never settled down.”
“You don't need a piece of paper to get children, Caine.”
“Then âI don't know' is the absolutely correct answer. Or âprobably not.' Or ânot that I'm aware of.' Take your pick.”
“Children. You bring them into the world, or into your home, and you devote your life to them. You love them, you feed them, you raise them, and then they break your heart.”
I didn't answer, having no experience in the matter.
“You heard what he said.” Kimo didn't look at me when he talked, and he waited until we were beyond earshot of the nearest tourist.
“I heard.”
“I lost it.”
“I remember.” My hand still felt numb from catching the blow.
“I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
This time Kimo looked at me, peering at me from under the shade of his huge hand covering his forehead, squinting in the bright morning sun reflecting off the water. “You really think so?”
I shrugged.
“You heard what he said. It's something I heard before. From someone close to me. I refused to believe it then.”
“You do now.”
He shook his head, like a horse trying to discourage a fly that kept buzzing around his ears.
“You know which son?”
He nodded. “It all fits.”
I waited, knowing there was more.
“He's really been pushing this Hawaiian thing. At home, during the dinner hour, he keeps beating on usâmeâto work for his
group. You know, I forgot which group he got involved in at the college, but it's one of those with more Chinese than Hawaiians, one of those with the âWe're all brothers of color, united against the white man' crap.”
“The evil white overseer.”
“That's you, Caine.”
“Have to practice twisting my moustache while I tie the maiden to the railroad track.”
“Don't joke about it. That's the way they see it. And I'm not sure they're that far wrong. The Portagee, when he came here, was the luna.”
“They were vicious bastards, carried a whip like Indiana Jones and they treated the plantation workers like shit. I know the story.”
Kimo snorted. “Yeah, but the workers weren't Hawaiian. We'd already been mostly killed off by then.”
“And above the Portagee was the white man.”
“Portagee's white. He's just not as white as the ones with the money.”
“It's my burden, I suppose.”
“I don't need your asshole routine right now, Caine. I need some sound thinking out of you.”
“As a friend? Or as Donna Wong's investigator?”
Kimo nodded. “Fair question.” He suddenly kicked the water ahead of him, sending silver showers high into the air. “Okay,” he said, kicking the water a second time. “As a friend. And a friend of my son.”
“You going to tell me which one?”
“No.”
“So what do you need?”
“You've got your extradition hearing tomorrow. You knew that, didn't you?”
“No.” That sent a flood of adrenaline down my spine. Chicken skin erupted on my forearms. My back felt a sudden chill.
“I thought Tala said she'd call you about it. Nine in the morning. Tomorrow.”
“You pulled me out of my hotel room before she had the chance. Unlike some people, she probably didn't want to wake me.” Kimo nodded, but said nothing. “So I've got one more day of freedom left? Is that what you're telling me? I just got out of jail, and now they're going to send me to California?”
“Probably.”
“Then why am I spending my last day with you?”
“You've got today and tonight to help me put the capper on the Hayes case so I can get the judge to drop the charges against Donna. She won't have you around after you're extradited, and frankly this case is just a little too close for me to be impartial. I don't want this to get around the department until I make the arrest, and I need you to keep me from killing the suspect. I can't afford to lose my job. My family needs the money.”
“You're really asking me to spend the day with you, knowing that I'm going to go to jail?”
“Keep you out of trouble,” he said.
“I am a felony suspect.”
“You're always a felony about to happen. But I need you today.”
“Okay,” I said, my thoughts not on the day ahead, but the day after. And the day after that. “What about Tutu Mae?”
“What about her?”
“She's the expert in Hawaiian culture.”
“I'm bringing her in as a consultant on the case. She knows everything about this kind of stuff, man. She will know how to deal with it.”
The way he said it I wasn't sure if Kimo meant “criminal” stuff, or “Hawaiian” stuff, or “family” stuff. I decided it didn't really matter. She had enough wisdom to go around for all three.
“Look, Caine,” he said, staring at the sand through the shallow, clear water in front of him. “It's accelerating. A Japanese honeymoon couple was carjacked on the north shore last night. The husband is the hero of the hour, engineering an escape before he or his wife was seriously hurt. But the kidnappers got away, even though one of our off-duty guys happened to be there and
chased them into the jungle. The only thing the witnesses can agree on, and that includes our officer, is that the suspects were young, Polynesian, and that they shouted political slogans as they tried to hijack the convertible.”
“You think it was Silversword?” I wanted to ask if the son was home, but I left it alone. If what Francis had told us was accurate, Kimo's son may have been involved in a murder. Or a series of murders. Carjacking was short time, compared to that.
“Maybe. If they're trying to make a name for themselves.”
“Carjacking? Kidnapping? They're branching out.”
“Keeping the crimes local, is what they're doing. They haven't attacked government buildings, although that's who they say they have their beef with. They don't want the FBI on their tail, I guess.”
“Who shot up Pearl Harbor?”
“You mean recently? There's more than one loony on this island.”
We reached the beach in front of the Royal. The attendants were raking the white sand patch in front of the old pink hotel, setting out pink lounge chairs for the guests in exactly the same way they had set them out for over fifty years. Over my shoulder Diamond Head rose above the Waikiki skyline like a familiar friend.
“I want to follow up what Francis told me,” said Kimo. “I want to prove that he was talking out of school. I want to prove that Donna didn't kill Hayes, that somebody else did.”
“Who did it?”
He shook his head. “That's why I need you today, Caine. I need a friend with me. I really don't think I'm gonna like what I'm gonna find out.”
W
e found Little Ricky Lee holding court at Duke's Gym, impressing the boys with his prowess on the speed bag. I vaguely knew of Little Ricky, as he was called when he was out of earshot, and had seen him at the gym for years. I knew him as a braggart and a bully, a guy to avoid.
I never knew what he did for a living, but the man gave the impression that whatever it was didn't take much of his time while it paid large rewards.
Kimo told me that from what he understood, Little Ricky drove a bright red Corvette, which he habitually parked in the rear of the topless bar across the street from the gym. When he wasn't ringside at the topless bar he was at the gym. He never seemed to be anywhere else. It limited his life experience, according to Kimo, but made him easier to find.
“Why this guy? He's Chinese,” I asked Kimo on the way to the gym. Kimo drove his Jeep Cherokee, not his Mustang with the blue police light on top. I found that odd.
“Oh yeah?” smirked Kimo. “I heard he's pure Hawaiian.”
“Is he?”
“Pure bullshit is what he is. He's been hanging with that porker we talked to at the wizard rocks, and sometimes he works for your friend as an enforcer.”
“My friend?”
“That Chinese criminal.”
“Chawlie?”
“Only sometimes. Just low-level stuff that I know about. He's not connected. I doubt that Chawlie ever heard of him.”
“Chawlie doesn't hire enforcers, does he?” I had trouble keeping my face straight.
Kimo raised one eyebrow and looked at me. “I don't know if you're putting me on with that wide-eyed innocence, but I hope you're not that stupid.”
“So how did this guy's name pop up in this investigation?”
“Ricky knows things, and he hangs with people, but he's strictly free-lance. That topless bar's his office. People come and go. Sometimes he sits with his clients, makes a deal, and goes out and does whatever it was he agreed to do. He's such a small-time crook that only the young cops are interested in him.”
“So why are you interested?”
“Ricky's been hanging with Francis, and with ⦠other people that know Francis, guys down from the university.”
“No names.”
“No names, thank you. Like I said, he's a free-lance kind of guy. I figure that if he works enforcement for one group, he'll work enforcement for another.”
“Silversword?”
“Yeah.”
“It's pretty thin.”
“Yeah.”
“But we're going to brace him, aren't we?”
“Uh-huh.”
And then I understood. Ricky was a hard case, or he thought he was a hard case. In either event, he would not speak willingly with the police. So that's why Kimo had brought me along. He was not going to talk to Ricky Lee under the cover of his badge. He was going to talk to Ricky Lee as the father of a boy who might be in deep trouble. A badge came with responsibilities and limitations of authority. And Kimo was not going to worry about the restraints that also came with the badge.
“Here we are, and Little Ricky is at home.” Kimo pointed to the red convertible snugged up against the back of the concrete block building on Kalakaua Avenue, the car surrounded by plastic trash cans to protect it from an accidental collision. The cans looked like boat bumpers.
“He takes good care of his car.”
Kimo parked next to the Corvette. He walked all the way around it, examining the tags and the safety stickers. From what I could see everything was legal. Kimo must have thought so, too, because he did nothing to the car. I was sure that he would have radioed for a tow if he'd found any excuse.
“A man has to take pride in something,” said Kimo. “This guy can't really point to anything else in his life.”
Kimo was wrong. When we found Ricky Lee we found a tiny warrior, stripped to the waist, with superb muscle definition and lightning reflexes. He was dancing with the speed bag, tapping the leather with such a brilliantly coordinated effort that it looked easy. Tapping was probably the wrong word, but that's the way it looked. Except that Ricky's tap sent the speed bag flying, rebounding off the board, only to be met with another fist. He never missed. His rhythm was flawless. He was fast as a snake. Ricky could be proud of his hand-eye coordination, as well as his Corvette.
We watched among a crowd, both of us at least a head taller than the other gym rats, until he stopped. Ricky didn't just taper off, or abandon the bag in full flight, letting it take its course. It just stopped. One touch and the bag came to an instant arrest. Ricky was fast. And he was proud of it. Turning around, pulling off his gloves as if he expected applause, Ricky smiled until he saw the two of us. Then his smile faded and became a scowl.
“What chew want?”
“He knows you?” I asked Kimo.
“I don't think so.”
“What chew want?” The little warrior was suddenly in front of us, hostility and sweat pouring off him in equal portions. The gym rats disappeared, leaving us alone in the boxing room.
“I want to talk to you, Ricky.” Kimo smiled, and I noticed that Ricky had managed to become cornered by the bigger man. Kimo had skillfully maneuvered him. He had nowhere to go if Kimo didn't want to him leave.
“Not to me. Talk to my lawyer.”
Kimo looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Nobody wants to talk to me today. Why is that?”
“You eat Thai food last night?”
Ricky made a move toward Kimo, his body moving so fast he was a blur.
“Nope,” said Kimo, and hit Ricky Lee in the jaw with his left, his forearm coming up to meet the smaller man's assault.
Lee fell to the mat and lay still.
“You kill him?”
Kimo rolled Ricky over until he was face up. “Probably not.” He patted his face. “Get me some water.”
I went to the cooler, filled a cup with ice-cold water, and brought it back.
“Thank you,” said Kimo, drinking half of it. He stood there, considering the still form at his feet, and then poured the remaining half on Ricky Lee's head.
“Hey!” Ricky instantly reacted, leaping up from the mat in one smooth motion. Kimo pushed him back to a sitting position.
“Guess I didn't kill him,” he said, his voice a mixture of innocence and disappointment.
The smaller man sputtered, shaking his head, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “I'll have your badge for this.” Even on the floor, even looking up at a man half the size of Godzilla, the little guy was on the offensive. I almost liked him, if for nothing else but his spirit.
“Sure you will, Ricky,” said Kimo. “Did I say I was a cop?”
“You focking broke my jaw.”
“No I didn't. I could have, but I didn't.”
“I'm going to sue you.”
“For what?”
“Assault!”
“Assault? Did I hit him?” Kimo turned to me.
“I didn't see anything.”
“You got any other witnesses?”
“Fock you, man. I know who you are, and I've seen
you
before,” he turned on me. “You work out here once in a while. I've seen you.”
“I didn't hit you either.”
Ricky snorted, almost a laugh. “What do you two turds want with me?”
“How long has it been since you were up to St. Louis Heights?”
“I wanna see some ID.”
“You said you knew who I was. You don't need ID.”
“Gotta get your badge number.”
“I heard you hang with a group from the University of Hawaii. Talk about revolution, reestablishment of the monarchy, that kind of stuff.”
“I never been to no university.”
“How about grammar school?” I asked.
Ricky snarled at me. “Hey, you ever say anything that's not smart ass?”
Kimo gave me the hard stare. “Pay attention to
me,”
he said to Ricky. “You know people who do?”
“Do what?”
Kimo sighed. I thought he was going to hit the man again. “Do you know who I am?” he asked instead, his voice gentle. “Come on, Ricky. You said you know me. What's my name?”
Ricky looked at him out of the side of his eyes, his head turned toward the floor, studying the giant in front of him as if what he saw was just too brightâor too uglyâto gaze at directly. A small smile came to him after a moment.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “You're the Jolly Green Giant.”
Kimo shook his head, tiring of the game.
“You got your beanstalk parked outside?”
“You don't knowâ”
“I know you got a badge, and I know you're in deep shit trouble.
I'm going to file a complaint against you this afternoon. And so is my friend. We'll both press charges.”
“What friend?”
“You know the one. You knocked him on his ass in Waikiki this morning, Lieutenant Kahanamoku.”
Kimo looked at me and winked. “You know, I think you might be right,” he said. I wasn't sure if he directed the remark to Ricky Lee or to me; he was looking at the ceiling when he spoke.
“You going to report me?” he said to Ricky.
“Assault. That's a felony.”
“You ought to know. How many times you been busted for felony assault?”
Lee shook his head. “You're not going to go there, you big moke. Just go away and leave me alone.”
“Ricky ⦠Ricky ⦠Ricky.”
“What?”
“I want to get this right. I don't want to misunderstand what you said. You said my name and my rank, and told me that you are going to go to the police station and report me for felony assault. Is that correct?”
Lee knew something was up but he was already too deep into the conflict and incapable of backing out the way he'd come. I watched his muscles flex along the tops of his shoulders. He was poised, those snakelike reflexes on full alert.
“Yeah, cop. What you going to do about it?”
“I hit you once. That's all.”
“See? You admit it!”
“I only hit you once and you're going to report me for assault.” Kimo looked at me, a theatrical frown on his face. “Does that seem right to you, Caine?”
Lee snaked a look at me when Kimo said my name.
“Does it?” demanded Kimo.
“No,” I said. “Once is not enough. Not if he's going to report you.”
Ricky's head swiveled back and forth between the Kimo and me, trying to follow the path, almost getting it but not quite quick
enough to follow where this was headed. The one concept I was certain he understood was that he was in trouble.
“You're right,” said Kimo, but only after his sandal had stomped down on the leading foot of the little warrior. Ricky tried to jerk away but found himself pinned to the mat. Kimo popped him in the jaw before Lee could get his hands up and he went down like one of those weighted punching dolls. I almost expected him to rise, but he was unconscious before he hit the mat.
“You have a real technique, Detective,” I said as Kimo checked Lee for vital signs for the second time.
“He's got a code. He wouldn't tell us anything anyway.” Satisfied that Ricky was not seriously hurt, he got up and wiped his hands on his pants. Lee's body was still covered in sweat.
“You knew that before you came here.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why, may I ask, did we go through this?”
“It felt good.”
“Punching Ricky Lee because it felt good is not good police procedure.”
“You're lecturing me about police procedure, Caine?”
“Just pointing out some possible holes in your technique, is all.”
“Come on. We'll talk about it in the car.”
“Aren't you worried about the report?”
He grinned and shook his head. “A Ricky Lee does not go to the authorities to settle his disputes; he won't go anywhere near the station unless he's in handcuffs. He will not try to get me fired. It's not his style.”
“I didn't think beating suspects was your style.”
Kimo put his hand on my chest. “You got an attack of morals all of a sudden, Caine?”
“Call it wisdom.”