Pleasing the Dead (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

A half hour after sitting on her bed and looking through Mark Suzuki's information, Storm knew she had to get to another computer terminal. This brought another surge of annoyance at the
kukae
-eating low life who'd stolen her lap top, but it was tempered by a wave of excitement.

Though she expected calls among family members and friends such as Stella, Lara, Ryan, and Ichiru Tagama, there were a couple of surprises on Mark's fax. Ichiru Tagama appeared to have a girlfriend. There were calls at least twice a day to a mobile phone owned by Yasuko Matsui. There were two calls between Stella and Pauline Harding, but that wasn't as interesting as the two made from The Red Light to Stella's phone. Even more intriguing was Mark's note, handwritten next to a call from Pauline to a number that was no longer in service. Mark had printed
Akira Kudo changes phones more often than I do
.

He'd also starred two calls from the same discontinued number to Ichiru Tagama's phone. The calls were barely a minute long, and they went one way. Kudo called Tagama, not vice versa.

Shortly after sending the fax, Mark ditched his old phone. Storm would lay odds that he'd burned the film in his fax machine, too. Hell, maybe he'd changed fax machines. Which was why Storm had to get access to the Internet. Who was Akira Kudo, anyway?

It was already after four, and Storm had planned to meet Damon in Lahaina at six. She changed into a dress and sandals, applied a bit of mascara and some lip gloss, checked that she had what she needed, and headed for her car.

At the first traffic light, she dialed Stella's mobile number. The shaky anxiety in Stella's voice gave Storm the answer before she asked the question, but she asked anyway.

“Any news from Keiko?”

“I called Pauline again. I also called the hospital and some other friends, but no one's seen her.”

“Is Lara around?”

“Uh, let me see.” Stella must have put her hand over the phone, because her shouts were muffled. After a few attempts, she came back. “I guess she left. She's upset about Keiko, too.”

Storm hung up and focused on driving the spectacular, winding road to Lahaina. About halfway through town, she found an internet café. Soon she was logged on to her email account. The first message she sent was to Mark Suzuki. “I'll bring the beer. How many people are you expecting?”

He got right back to her. “I'm checking. Can you get to your previous phone number?”

“No.” She wasn't about make the long drive back to Kihei and the pharmacy pay phone.

After a minute of staring at her inbox, she gave up on waiting for a response. She opened another window and went to Google, where she plugged in the name Akira Kudo. A link to Wikipedia opened, which listed Kudo as a member of the Yakuza, but after that tidbit, Wikipedia asked for facts, records, and a bio, if available. The guy was a ghost. That thought hit Storm with a jolt. Like his moniker,
obake
.

There was another link to a newspaper article dated four years ago, and Storm clicked on it. The site came up with, “The page you requested is no longer available. Please check the URL and try again.”

She did, and it still didn't work, but it gave her an idea and she tried the websites of several Hawai‘i newspapers. Nothing came up on Akira Kudo. She went back to Google, and typed
prostitution in Hawai‘i
. That brought up several pages of links, most of them about AIDS or controversial prostitution laws.
Prostitution rings in Hawai‘i
elicited several articles, and one in particular caught Storm's attention. It was dated a year ago, and revealed that a large prostitution ring involving Hawai‘i and a list of big mainland cities was being investigated for trafficking in underage girls. The article mentioned specific federal judges and investigators, but not one of the twelve persons charged with kidnapping, offering children for sexual purposes, child pornography, and money laundering was identified. Some of the girls were as young as eleven years old. All twelve suspects remained at large.

Storm was appalled. She still didn't have any information about Akira Kudo, though. A quick glance at her watch and she marveled, not for the first time, at what a sinkhole of time the Internet could be. She'd been at the computer for over an hour, and she had only a few more minutes before she had to leave.

One more idea came to her. In the article about the interstate child prostitution ring, an investigator named Stephen McPherson was mentioned twice. She Googled him, and found an interview in a Detroit newspaper. McPherson mentioned how he had worked with Terry Wu of the U.S. Attorney's office, Hawai‘i Division.

Five more minutes Storm told herself, and plugged in the U.S. Attorney's Office, District of Hawai‘i. Terry Wu wasn't mentioned, but there was a Honolulu phone number. Storm paid her Internet fee and left the café. Outside, she dialed the number and asked for Terry Wu, who actually answered when the operator transferred the call.

Storm explained that she was a local lawyer with a client on Maui, and that she'd read a newspaper article about the child prostitution ring he'd once worked on.

“I can't talk about it,” Wu said. Storm thought she caught a note of frustration in his voice. If the case was still pending, he couldn't discuss it. Storm agreed; whether or not his spineless slugs were the same as hers, she wanted them nailed.

“I understand. But perhaps you can answer a question or two for me. If you can't say, just tell me.”

“Okay.” Wu drew the word out. Both of them knew that she would get a good deal of information from whether or not he answered the questions.

“Did the child prostitution trafficking include the island of Maui?”

Wu paused. “That's public knowledge. Yes, it was on Maui and a couple other islands. Mainland cities, too.” Anger clipped his words.

“Do you recognize the name Akira Kudo?”

Wu made an odd choking noise. “I can't answer that question.”

“Okay,” Storm said. “Have you ever heard the name Obake in connection with this ring?”

“Can't answer that, either.” After a long pause, Wu cleared his throat. “I have some advice.”

“Yes?”

“Whatever you're doing, stop.” She could hear papers rattle before he spoke again. “And come back to O‘ahu. I don't want to read about you in the papers.”

The hard edges of his words chilled her.

“Right, thanks.”

Storm slowly lowered her phone, only to have it ring. She half-expected it to be Terry Wu reiterating his warning, but it was Mark, calling from area code 415, which she knew was in San Francisco. She'd have to ask him how he did that.

“We need beer and wine. Call me back and we'll talk quantities.”

The restaurant should have a public phone. “Fifteen minutes,” Storm said.

She was at The Fiddler Crab five minutes early, but Damon was already sitting at the bar with a beer. He waved her over. “What can I order you?”

“Whatever you're having,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

The pay phone was next to the men's room. It was a busy place.

A guy with one hand on his fly sidled up to her. “Hey babe, you're wasting your time. I'm right here.” Odors of beer and urine trailed after him.

Storm turned her face to the wall. “Mark, this is a really big hassle. You have no idea.”

“Neither do you, sweetheart. I'm putting myself out on a limb. I want this number off your cell phone. It's there from the last call. At least get a new memory card.”

The drunk came back. “Whoever you're talking to, I'm better.” His hand was still on his fly.

“Who's that?” Mark asked.

“Just a minute.” Storm looked at the drunk, glad that she'd worn sandals with heels. She was taller. “Hey, you. My parole officer wants to talk.”

The greaseball's Adam's apple bobbed. “No shit?”

She handed the phone over and watched the drunk's face change. In a few seconds, he dropped the phone like it had turned into a piranha. He slunk off, and Storm caught the swinging receiver.

“What did you tell him?”

“Never mind. You need to come home.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Change phones. Hell, change your name.”

“Take it easy. Are Akira Kudo and Obake the same person?”

“Yes. Now get home.” He hung up.

On the way back to the bar, Storm passed the drunk, who whispered something to a friend. Both men watched her, and if their eyes hadn't been bloodshot, the whites would have been showing.

***

Ichiru Tagama scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen counter. He double-checked the lock on the front door and took the elevator to the parking garage, where he collected his car. He liked it better when Ryan drove, but his son had a lot to think about, and Tagama was old and wise enough to know that he needed to leave Ryan alone to sort through what he'd been told.

Before leaving the apartment, Tagama had visited the shrine once more, and he'd muttered a prayer for both Yasuko's and Ryan's safety. He also prayed that his son would understand Tagama's regrets and forgive. Of all the ups and downs in Tagama's life, Ryan was his biggest source of pride. Nevertheless, it was neither safe nor prudent for Tagama to reveal all of his secrets.

He drove across the island to Wailuku. The sun was already setting, and he was confident the man from the U.S. Attorney's office would be on time. But his mind strayed from the meeting with Dave O'Dell. Where was Yasuko? Even if she missed a call, she always got back to him within a half hour, but an hour and a half had passed since his first call.

Throughout his life, Tagama had faced fear, but it had usually been for himself. Though he'd monitored Ryan's young days and let his ex know he was watching, he'd never revealed how glad he was that his son lived in California, far enough away to escape the attention of his unscrupulous associates.

Now he was frightened. His hands, cold as fish, slid on the plastic of the steering wheel. Though he tried calming breaths, a meditative technique that had served him for years, it wasn't working now. Why hadn't Yasuko answered?

She believed in him. She'd done so much for his
ki
, his spirit, every aspect of his life. And despite the fact that she worked for his worst enemy, he trusted her. She'd proven herself.

In Wailuku, there was one spot left in the restaurant parking lot and Tagama required three tries to get into it. He banged the door of the car next to him, and nearly forgot to lock his own car.

Once inside the crowded sushi bar, he forced himself to slow down. Snatches of laughter and conversation grabbed at him as he wove through the tables of businessmen, families, and over-laden waitresses. A wave of relief passed through him when he saw Dave O'Dell in the corner, his cell phone at one ear, a forefinger plugging the other. O'Dell was shouting, but he put the phone down when Tagama got to the table.

“That was Terry Wu. He thinks the top's going to blow off this whole scene. Some lawyer called him today with questions about Akira Kudo.”

Tagama's eyes narrowed. “Storm Kayama?”

“Yeah, you know her?”

“I know she has a reputation for being a tough cookie.”

“Wu's on his way over. He's afraid she'll look under a rock and scare someone out prematurely. He doesn't want her getting in the sights of whoever set that bomb.”

Tagama forced himself to sit down and take a deep breath. “Does he know who set the bomb?”

“He's got some ideas.” O'Dell looked around for a waitress. “Hope you don't mind, but I ordered the same sake we had last time.”

“Who's he suspect?” The waitress arrived and set down their drinks. Tagama removed the overflowing sake glass from its graceful box and took a generous swallow. The warmth barely reached the tightening knot in his stomach. He dumped the remaining sake from the lacquered
masu
into his glass.

“He isn't saying much.”

Tagama's phone vibrated on his belt, and he just about shot out of his chair, but when he checked the call number, the light in his eyes faded. “Lara, it's nice of you to call.”

Like O'Dell had done, he stuck a finger in his ear to block out the buzz of conversation in the crowded room. “You're where?”

“Your apartment.” Lara raised her voice, too. She could undoubtedly hear the background noise. “Where are you?”

“At a meeting in Wailuku.”

“Ryan asked me to call you. You'd better get here.”

“Why are you at my apartment?”

“Ryan wants to see you.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Tagama-san, he's talking to the police. You need to come home.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Despite the hapless drunks' efforts, Storm walked away lost in thought. Since picking up Stella six hours ago, she'd come across so much information she wanted to make an outline just to sort through it. To think that a day ago, she'd told herself to let the police handle Hiroki Yoshinaka's suicide and his connection to Paradise Consortium. Now she was up to her ears in the mess, mostly because of Carmen and Keiko.

Despite her non-committal response when Stella asked her to be Keiko's lawyer, Storm couldn't turn her back on Keiko after what she'd been through, let alone Carmen, who was not only too young to understand what danger she was in, she was too injured to resist.

In addition to what she'd just learned, the hotel break-in had Storm worried. The guy not only had connections, he was a master of stealth. The fact that he'd been right next to her was downright creepy.

She was certain the thieves wanted information stored on her computer. Thing was, she wasn't certain whether they wanted to know what she'd discovered, or whether they wanted to deprive her of the records. Or both. Whatever it was, it was tied into the twisted knot that began with a bomb-related death and included Keiko, Carmen and her family, Stella, Lara, the Tagamas, and the dive shop. It was all connected.

Add the theft to the warnings she'd received from a savvy techno-geek and an Assistant U.S. Attorney, who were both reacting to questions she'd asked
after
the break-in. No, she was swimming in it. She just hoped she wasn't over her head.

Storm dropped onto the barstool next to Damon. He shoved a beer and a shot at her. “This is what I'm having,” he said.

Getting hammered on boilermakers wasn't on tonight's agenda. It might make her forget her troubles, but she couldn't afford that. She gave him a sidelong glance. “What round is this?”

“Only the second. Hey, it's Saturday night,” he said, and downed his shot, probably Jameson's or Wild Turkey.

“Why don't you slow down? It's still early.” She wanted him to be coherent for a while longer.

“Early, that's what I was thinking. The night is young.” He faced her with a big grin.

Storm was glad the hostess appeared to show them to their seats for dinner.

“Does this have to be all business?” Damon asked. He'd shaved; there was a dab of foam inside his ear.

“Business over a nice dinner,” Storm said. “Say, speaking of dinners, Lara told me she's thinking of buying a restaurant.”

“She did?”

“Why do you say that?”

“She said not to tell anyone until she'd signed the papers.” Relief lightened Damon's face. “Oh, she wants you to handle the legal aspects.”

Storm shrugged as if she couldn't betray Lara's confidence. “What do you think of the plan?”

“I dunno, seems like she's pretty busy with the dive shop.”

“Have you done some other work for her?”

“I'm helping her with a remodel…” He stopped. “But you probably know all that.”

“She mentioned it,” Storm lied. “How's it going?”

He appraised her, not so drunk after all. “I'll let her tell you.”

Storm changed the conversation topic to his daughters and when he would be seeing them. It was a good tactic; he could talk about them for hours. She shared how much fun she found her best friend's twelve-year-old son. “I can understand how you miss your girls. I miss Robbie, and he's not even my child.”

“You like kids, don't you?” Damon asked.

“Yeah, I do. Though I was never one of those people who went gaga over babies. I guess I didn't know what to do with them.”

“Once you have them, you know.”

“I can believe that,” Storm said.

“You should do it.”

Storm couldn't help but laugh. “Have a baby?” Like baking a cake.

“Well,” and Damon had the grace to blush, “you know, settle down. Like that.”

Easy for you to say, Storm thought. “Maybe some day. Meanwhile, I have friends with kids.” She leaned toward him and dropped her voice. “Have you heard anything about Carmen?”

“Uh,” he picked up his beer, avoiding her eyes. “I heard she's doing okay.”

“Who told you?”

“Lara did. I think she talked to Stella.”

Storm doubted that. “Poor kid. I heard Hiroki Yoshinaka had a gambling problem.”

“Yeah,” Damon rearranged the sodden coaster under his beer bottle.

“Did you hear about that? Were some guys after him?”

“Look, I couldn't do anything.”

Storm sat back. “What do you mean?”

“I'm tapped out. I don't have that much cash lying around.”

“He asked you for money?”

“Yeah.” Damon's hand trembled. “I wish I had, you know? But I didn't know how bad it was.”

“How much did he ask for?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty thousand?”

“Yeah.” He peeled the label from his beer bottle, anything to avoid looking at her.

Storm thought about the numbers she'd seen, the ones Sergeant Moana had mentioned. Yoshinaka had asked Damon for a little more than his debt. He rounded up, probably for other expenses, like food and clothes for the girls.

Damon's eyes glowed with moisture. “I didn't know.”

“No, how could you?” Storm said. “No one would expect such an extreme reaction. Not for twenty thousand.”

“I didn't have it in cash, but I did have some saved for my daughters' education. Twenty thou wasn't worth his life or Crystal's.”

“Of course not.” She reached a gentle hand to his arm.

“I feel awful about this.” The emotion in his voice carried to nearby diners, and some turned to see what was happening.

“I believe you.”

“I made a bad decision, and I'd take it back in a minute if I could.”

“What did he tell you when he asked you for the money?”

“His English wasn't so good, and my Japanese is worse.” Damon took a shaky breath. “He said something about ‘for the girls.' I just didn't get it.”

“No one would have.”

His Adam's apple bobbed, trying to force down a gobbet of remorse. “Yeah, it's like politics.” His lips attempted a smile. “You can't tell what's going on behind the scenes.”

“Yeah, what do you think people who voted for W feel like?”

He stared at her. “I voted for him.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't know.” He downed the rest of his beer.

“Let's get something to eat,” Storm said, and waved the waitress over. They placed their orders, and when the waitress left, Damon's mood had ascended from black to merely blue.

“I feel like shit.”

“It's the fault of the guys who threatened him, not yours.” She lowered her voice. “You need to believe that.”

“I could have helped.”

“Do you know where he gambled?”

“No.” The answer came too fast.

“Damon, you can't protect him any longer. Anyway, I've heard some things.”

“Stay out of it, Storm.” A bit of steel that hadn't been there before showed in his voice.

She eyed him. “Let me ask you a question, then.”

He didn't respond. Still scraping for shreds of self-esteem.

“How did he gamble? Pachinko?”

“I think so. At least, partly.”

“Sports betting?”

“Maybe a little.” He breathed out heavily through his nose. “Heck, we all do that.”

“Cards?”

Damon frowned. “I doubt if his English was good enough.”

“I thought poker was international.”

“Maybe. I don't know.” That sounded honest.

“Where do these games take place?”

“Lots of places. We take bets at work, in bars—anyplace there's a TV with a game on.”

“What bars?”

He turned in his chair and pointed at the bar TV set, which was tuned to a baseball game.

“What bars have Pachinko machines?”

“Why do you want to know about Pachinko?”

Uncle Miles used to tell her not to trust a person who answers a question with a question. “Come on, where did Yoshinaka gamble?”

Damon looked around for the waitress, took time to catch her eye and gesture for another beer. “Why do you want to know?”

Another question. How much should she tell him? Maybe another little shock was what he needed. “Yoshinaka might have been threatened with his daughters' welfare. Prostitution goes on in a lot of those places.”

“Fuck.” The waitress put the fresh beer in front of him, but he didn't look up. He just wagged his head from side to side as if he wanted to deny the thoughts that dwelled in his mind.

Their meals arrived right after the drink, and Storm was glad for the interruption. Damon wasn't responding to her questions; discussing the Yoshinaka family seemed to drive him further away.

She'd missed lunch and was starved. Her lamb chops were delicious, but Damon poked at his steak.

“That can't be. They're too young,” he said finally. “They're my daughters' ages.”

Storm tried to imagine how Hamlin would react to a menace of this magnitude toward children he knew. It seemed to her he'd show a lot more revulsion than Damon. Hamlin might erupt with something on the order of, “Fucking maggots, how could they?”

Not Damon. He acted like he'd already heard a rumor and was in denial.

“How old's Keiko?” she asked.

Damon's head came up. “A lot older than the Yoshinaka girls.”

Storm glared at him. “You knew she worked in one of the bars.”

He moved garlic mashed potatoes around on his plate. “She's twenty-something, and Lara's trying to help her out. Stella, too.”

“Stella's helping Keiko or Lara's helping Stella?”

“All of them, I don't know. You know how women are.” He stabbed at his food as if he wanted to use the fork on someone. Her, probably.

Storm concentrated on her meal, which was delicious. “How are those mashed potatoes?”

He took a bite. “Good. And garlicky—I like that.” He put a big chunk of steak in his mouth and chewed.

Storm stayed on safe conversational subjects all the way through dessert. She ordered a warm apple galette with ice cream, he got the hot fudge brownie sundae, and they shared.

“How many jobs have you done for Lara?” she asked.

“This is my third.”

“The remodel was the first?” Storm reached her fork across the table for a bite of his brownie and pushed her plate toward him. “That was an apartment, right?”

“Yeah, I think she was testing me for the house, which was her big project. Has she shown you that? She's got two rich investors bidding on it, and she's going to make a bundle.”

Storm remembered the day the shark had chased Lara, and how well Lara had known the Makena locale. She'd also recognized the construction guys coming from work on projects in the area.

“Is that the one on the bluff down by Makena?”

“It's on the ocean side of the street, and better hidden than that place. Private, yet right on the beach.” Damon took a bite of the apple tart.

“She's a smart woman.”

“Yes, she is.” His voice was thoughtful.

“I'm a bit worried about how much she's taking on at one time.”

“That's crossed my mind, too,” he said.

“Is her mother's health worrying her?”

Damon finished off the last of his brownie and pushed back from the table. “She won't be leaving that rest home. That would worry anyone.”

“Yes, it would.”

They left the parking lot together and said good-bye standing on the gravel next to their cars. “Thanks for dinner,” Damon said.

“I'm leaving tomorrow, so I might not see you for a while. Call me if you visit O‘ahu,” Storm said.

“I thought you were meeting Lara tomorrow morning.”

“You'll be at the shop? On Sunday?”

“We're in a rush, remember? The final push for the grand opening.”

Damon left the parking lot first, and Storm followed. She faced a half-hour drive on a winding road, so she was glad she'd merely sipped at the second glass of wine.

Five minutes down the dark highway, Damon's brake lights gleamed. Ahead, the flashing blue beacons of several police cars pierced the night. Storm followed Damon into the small, crowded parking lot bordering one of the many little beach parks that dotted the coastline. The headlights of the police cruisers streamed from the cars toward the vastness of the ocean, only to dissipate feebly into a pillow of inky night. There were no people in the cars, but down by the lapping waves, flashlight beams converged in one area, where they flitted like agitated fairies, united against the dense night.