The Green Room (11 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Storm leaned toward the young woman, who looked somewhat satisfied about spilling the beans. Susan apparently didn't know yet what had happened to Nahoa. “When did you last see them?”

“It's been a while. I'd say three or four months ago.”

Storm slowly stood up, her mind whirling. “Thanks.”

Storm made her way to the parking lot in a daze, but the jolt of her car's hot upholstery on the back of her legs brought her back to the present. Okay, so what if they'd had an affair three or four months ago? If you counted the fact that Stephanie had been long separated from Marty Barstow, neither was cheating on another person. And age differences had been ignored by lovers long before Stephanie and Nahoa. But she bet there was a handful of people who would find the duo offensive, and Ben, if he knew, would probably top the list.

Was Stephanie the woman who'd started phoning Nahoa again? If Susan had been correct about the last time the two of them had checked into the hotel, the timing was right. Then again, with his reputation, it could be someone else.

Storm stopped at a traffic light and squinted into the sunlight. If Susan's timetable was accurate, then at least it sounded as if Nahoa had been faithful to Sunny. With all the unhappiness suffered by the people who loved him, she felt good about this fact.

Several vehicles sat in front of Sunny's house, and Storm was glad to see Sunny's van among them. When Storm tapped on the door to the house, it was Dede who opened it.

“How's she doing?” Storm asked.

Dede shrugged. “One moment, she's okay. The next, she's a basket case.” Dede's eyes filled with tears. “What a goddammed, fucking waste.”

“Yeah.” It was all Storm could manage.

“You okay?” Dede's voice was kind.

Storm shrugged. “I can't stop thinking about it. I wonder if I could have done something.”

“What?” Dede reached out and touched Storm's arm. “You couldn't have done anything—who could?”

“I knew the
lei o manō
was a threat.”

“Now you're sounding like Sunny. You two need to talk some sense into each other.”

Dede led Storm into the kitchen, where Sunny sat, slumped, at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of something that steamed. Her face was only about six inches from the surface of what looked like tea, and Goober sat across from her, with his hands gently encircling her forearms.

Sunny looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey back. Hi, Goober.”

Goober stood up and put an arm around Storm's shoulders. “I'm so sorry. He was family to you, and you were close.” He offered his chair to her.

“Thanks.” Storm sat. Goober's comment about her being close to Nahoa made her miserable. They hadn't been, and now she felt the loss of years. When his father died, Rochelle moved Nahoa and his sister, Storm's best friend, to Kaua‛i. It was the island farthest from the Big Island, and Storm lost track of them. Nahoa had been the one to get in touch by sending a client her way.

“You talked to your family yet?” Goober asked.

Storm's stomach plummeted. “No. I'll make some calls later today.” She'd call Aunt Maile. At least the burden of phoning Rochelle Pi‛ilani would fall on someone else. She couldn't stand the idea of bringing that family more grief.

“Have you seen Ben?” Sunny asked Goober.

“Not much. He's been hanging with his dad lately.” Goober shuffled his bare feet. “I'd better get going. I've got a class at five.”

Dede had been leaning against a countertop with Jenna, who put a fresh tea bag in Sunny's mug and poured hot water from the tea kettle.

“Thanks for coming by,” Jenna said. She walked Goober out of the kitchen and to the front door, then came back a few minutes later.

“It
was
nice of him to come by,” she said, and raised one eyebrow at Dede, as if looking for support.

“Right.” Dede faced Sunny and poured a bottle of beer into a glass. “It's because of you. You know he wouldn't have helped Nahoa if he'd seen him floating by, face down.”

“Shut up, you two.” Sunny's tone lacked conviction, though.

Storm looked between Sunny, Jenna, and Dede. “He doesn't seem like your type,” she said to Sunny. Jenna and Dede laughed out loud, and even Sunny smiled.

“That's not it,” Sunny said.

“Hah,” Dede snorted. “You're blind, woman.”

“Not. It's because we—okay, I—tried to help him out. I let him crash here. He doesn't really have anyplace to stay.” She looked reproachfully at her friends.

The other two women snickered. “The last time, we had to have the couch—”

“Fumigated,” Sunny finished, smiling again.

Dede threw back her head and guffawed. “It got crabs.”

“
Ule ukus
,” Jenna shouted, and could barely squeal her next words. “We all got 'em. Everyone who sat there—Nahoa, Ben, even our neighbor.”

“Not on our heads, either.” This revelation set Dede into gales of laugher, and she gasped between words. “Mrs. Stern is eighty-two. Poor thing didn't know what they were.”

At this point, Sunny joined in the laughter. “Jenna had to tell her.”

This sent all three women into spasms. It was infectious, maybe comic relief from the sadness of the day, but it felt wonderful. Storm threw back her head, and Sunny's eyes streamed.

“Look, the guy's homeless. I feel sorry for him,” she said.

Jenna, howling, slid down the front of the cabinet to sit, splay-legged, on the floor. She could barely get her breath. Dede pounded on the countertop and spilled her beer on Jenna's head, which set them all off again.

“He didn't look too bad today,” Jenna conceded, while she licked beer from the back of her hand. “Okay, I'll admit. Sometimes he's not a bad guy. When he takes a shower, that is.”

“He was actually wearing clothes this time.” Dede handed a cold one down to Jenna. “Here, it tastes better in a bottle.”

Sunny grinned and wiped away tears. “You guys are wonderful. No, you're awful. I can't decide.”

They all laughed again.

Chapter Nineteen

O'Reilly wore an expensive pair of leather flip-flops, which Barstow told him made him look like a surfer-wannabe. Like a middle-class yuppie-slash-dot-commer from California.

Fuck Barstow. So what if he was a middle-class surfer-wannabe. He had a job to do. Fucking Barstow was his employee, for Christsake. And this sand was burning the shit out of the tops of his feet. Christ, it was high time to get this show on the road.

Gabe Watson stood right next to the lifeguard stand, a big, high wood edifice. A serious structure on a beach legendary for some of the best surf in the world. Three PWCs sat on the sand next to it, big honking jet skis that could rescue or tow a surfer, racing the monster waves.

Waimea Bay. A big swell was predicted and this is where it would happen. Tomorrow, if they could get the out-of-town surfers certified for operating the personal watercraft. O'Reilly eyed the machines and stifled a smirk of delight. Fucking Kawasakis, Yamahas, and one of their big sponsors, WhiteOut. Engines like the biggest motorcycles on the road. Impressive.

He needed to get Gordon out here to take some shots before the meet started. They'd look about the size of a water bug once they were in the ocean, sliding up a wall of water the size of the state capitol.

Watson watched them approach, his tattooed arms folded across his chest. He wore the infamous blue lifeguard shorts, which settled low on a set of abs that probably made babes cream themselves. O'Reilly wondered briefly if he'd be able to develop a set of those, then shoved the fantasy aside. Money was a better magnet.

Fucking Watson. He wished he didn't have to depend on him at this juncture of the game. The sonofabitch had an agenda, but at least he was where he said he'd be. And everyone had an agenda, didn't they?

Barstow beat O'Reilly to the first words. “What can you do for us?”

O'Reilly felt a twinge of irritation at Barstow's confrontational manner. Watson didn't have to do anything for them, except that he wanted a place in the Intrepid's lineup. But O'Reilly knew he and Barstow didn't have much wiggle room. There wouldn't
be
an Intrepid unless they could get the fourteen foreign contestants licensed. They were big names, and they needed to get certified today, or early tomorrow morning at the absolute latest.

Watson raised one eyebrow. “The law went into effect a couple months ago. All tow surfers operating a personal watercraft in the waters of Hawai‛i need to have a state license.” He sounded like he was reading the manual.

O'Reilly spoke up. “We've got seven pairs. How long will that take?”

“You want to start the first round tomorrow, right?” Watson asked with a smug smile.

Sadistic bastard, O'Reilly thought.

“Tomorrow, late afternoon,” Barstow growled, and caught O'Reilly's eye.

O'Reilly knew a stink eye when he saw one. Barstow wanted him to shut the fuck up.

But O'Reilly couldn't contain himself. “How long does it take to get a license?”

“About six hours.” Watson smiled again. “Per person.”

This time, Barstow didn't bother to glare at O'Reilly. He moved so that Watson's eyes followed him. They turned in their own circle, away from where O'Reilly had his burning feet buried in the sand.

“How many people are certified to do this licensing?” Barstow's voice was low. O'Reilly could barely hear him, but he didn't budge.

“Five of us. Two on O‛ahu, two from Maui, and one from the Big Island.” Watson's voice was equally low. It was a dance, a minuet of offer and counter-offer.

“There's a place in the lineup.”

“Who would I be partnered with?”

“My son.”

Watson's eyes narrowed. “Could be worse.”

“Or Kimo Hitashi.”

O'Reilly's eyebrows shot up. Barstow was gutsy, he had to hand him that. Goober had told them about the fist fight after Hitashi edged out Watson to win the Sunset Triple Pro last week. Hitashi had had eight stitches above his eye and he'd vowed to kill Watson if he ever got within ten feet of him. Tow-in partners had to trust each other with their lives.

“How are we going to get sixty-four hours of training into,” Watson shrugged, “the next ten hours of available time?”

O'Reilly could only watch, his blood pressure rising and falling with Watson's thrusts and Barstow's parries.

“What do the other instructors want?”

A smile flickered at one corner of Watson's mouth. “Ten grand. Each.”

O'Reilly couldn't watch any longer. He was starting to feel dizzy. It was a hyperventilation problem, from anxiety. He'd had it before. Jesus, this whole show could come down around his ears. He'd be bankrupt, disgraced. He walked away, sank into the sand out of earshot, and forced himself to take even, shallow breaths.

It seemed like hours before Barstow wandered toward him. O'Reilly watched his casual, meandering steps across the deep, soft sand and stifled the urge to lock his hands around the man's neck and scream at him for getting off on the wrong foot. Goading the stupid bastard from the start, when he knew what was at stake. What the fuck was he thinking of?

O'Reilly clenched his fists and shuddered with the effort of another calming breath. “So what happened?” he said between clenched teeth.

“Twenty-five hundred.”

“Huh?”

“We pay each instructor twenty-five hundred.”

“Including Watson?”

“Yeah, and he gets into the lineup. With Ben.”

O'Reilly exhaled. He'd been thinking fifty grand. Twelve thousand five sounded like a gift. Hell, they could make that up with a minor sponsor.

“Way to go.”

“You didn't trust me.”

“Yeah, I did. Really. I just got nervous.” O'Reilly clapped him on the back. “You saw me walk away, leave you alone with him. I knew you could do it, buddy.”

“Right.” Barstow stood up. “I've got to hand it to you for one idea. Giving Goober the guest room in exchange for information was worth the trouble.”

“It's no trouble for you.” O'Reilly pushed himself up from the sand and brushed his hands against his shorts. “I'm the one who has to live with him. He's got breath that smells like a Saint Bernard's. Plus, he whistles in the morning. Gets up all cheerful and makes espresso in his boxers.”

Barstow laughed. “Maybe he'll have a good influence on you.”

They started walking for the car, which they'd parked on the shoulder of the road that overlooked the bay.

“What's your ex going to say about Ben being in this contest?” O'Reilly couldn't resist getting a dig in.

“She's going to shit.”

“That doesn't bother you?”

Barstow's mirrored sunglasses reflected light from a passing car. “Nope. She'll shit quietly.”

O'Reilly unlocked the car. He didn't want to know anything more.

Chapter Twenty

By the time Storm left Sunny's house, she had eaten leftovers with the three lively women and Charlie, who had been at a neighbor's house with another toddler. She was grateful for the meal, as she probably would have eaten cold, leftover chicken and musubi, but even more for the sympathetic and rowdy company. Jenna and Dede had done a superb job of cheering her and Sunny, and cried along with them when their moods slumped. It was what friends did.

When she got to the beach cottage, it was dark and lonely and the telephone was shrilling.

“Where have you been?” Hamlin asked. “Brian called and told us about Nahoa.”

“That's why I left you two messages. Is it on the news?”

“Yes, but the police won't release his name until they contact his relatives.”

“Does his mother know?”

“I don't know. How are you?”

“Up and down. I ate dinner with Sunny and her roommates.”

“If I didn't have a deposition in the morning, I'd head out there right now.”

“I'll be glad when you get here.”

“Call Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone tonight. They sent a birthday present to the office for you. I'll bring it out and we'll celebrate.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “I can't wait.”

She used her cell phone to call her aunt and uncle on the Big Island, only to find that her phone held five voice messages she'd missed during the day. Uncle Keone picked up the phone.

His voice was gentle. “Wish we could be with you. It's your birthday weekend and the poor Pi‛ilani boy—that family sure has had bad luck.”

“Yeah, they have.” Storm's voice was glum. “Any chance of you coming to O‛ahu?”

“Wish we could. Maile's got a sick patient and I've got a roundup. We've got some late-born calves to castrate.”

Storm had grown up around Parker Ranch, where Keone was a foreman. For a quick moment, she wished she could participate in the roundup and the inevitable cookout. Though Rocky Mountain oysters weren't her favorite food, there would be a great party.

“Uncle Keone, you ever heard of the Hawaiian practice of
lua
?”

“Sure, but it's pretty hush-hush. People around here talk of a guy named Henry Okazaki, who was the father of American jujitsu. They say he learned
lua
from a
kumu
in Puna, but no one knows for sure because it's
kapu
to teach
lua
to anyone who doesn't have Hawaiian blood. It's said he even taught
lua‛ai
, or the bone-breaking techniques, by hiding them within his own martial art.”

“Does anyone admit to practicing it?”

“No way. Funny, though, you hear whispers of it in certain dojos, around the time of Makahiki. Lono did
lua
—he was a wrestler, and he instituted the Makahiki games to honor the wife he beat to death.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yeah, well, most of the Hawaiian gods—and warriors—were fierce. Hell, some of those bastards used to eat the guys they killed.”

“When was that happening?”

“It stopped around the time the white men showed up. But they kept collecting the teeth.”

That got Storm's attention. “Teeth?”

“Sure. Used to put them around the rims of calabashes. Bishop Museum had a lot of those old bowls, but they took them out of public displays because they're human remains.”

The hair on Storm's arms stood on end. “What teeth did they use?”

“In the old calabashes? Molars, usually. I can understand the museum putting those things in storage, you know. If you took your grandchildren to an exhibit and saw some bowl that belonged to Kamehameha I, and you knew your great-great granddad fought for Kiwalao, you prob'ly wouldn't want to explain it to the kids. Know what I mean? Uh, Storm? Are you there?”

“I'm here. You just got me thinking about something.”

Uncle Keone's voice lost its jocular tone. “Storm, you better steer clear of the Pi‛ilani family and their problems. Call the police.”

“That's exactly what I'm doing.”

“You want me to have Aunt Maile call you when she gets home?”

“I'll call her tomorrow, when Hamlin gets here.”

“I mean it about calling the police.”

“I'll do it right now.” Her voice brightened. “Hey, my birthday present got here. Hamlin's bringing it to me.”

“We figured someone would be in your office to sign for it.” Storm could hear the smile in his voice. Uncle Keone loved surprises in the form of gifts. “We'll give you a call on Sunday, to celebrate.”

Storm hung up the phone. Teeth. She had a very bad feeling about this. It was quarter to ten, but she dialed Brian Chang's cell phone. When he picked up, she could hear Leila's voice in the background, chasing Robbie off to bed.

“Brian, when your officers were here, they mentioned getting hold of Nahoa's dental records.”

“Yes, unfortunately we'll need them.”

“Has the ME had a chance to look at his teeth yet?”

There was a pause on the line. “Why do I feel like I shouldn't answer that question?”

“You just did.” Storm took a deep breath and related what Uncle Keone had told her about
lua
, Hawaiian warriors, and the collection of teeth. “Your detectives asked me to call if I thought of anything, and I figured this qualified.”

“You're right, Storm. Thanks.” He took a deep breath. “The ME isn't finished, but it wasn't hard to see that Nahoa had lost some teeth.”

“How many teeth are gone?” Storm asked.

“Six.” Brian's voice was grudging.

“How many teeth was Ken Matsumoto missing?”

“Two.”

“Molars?”

“Yes.”

“Is Matsumoto's death still classified as accidental?”

“Yes, but we haven't stopped asking questions. And don't tell anyone about the missing teeth. We aren't releasing that information.” Brian's tone had gone into official mode, and Storm knew better than to press him. She was lucky he'd told her as much as he did.