Pleasing the Dead (18 page)

One thing Storm knew was that Obake was a bad customer. He was the author of death and misery among people that had no chance against his organization, money, and amoral brutality. Obake, Lara, and the Tagamas were all linked by history, family, money, or a combination of all three. Throw in Stella, Keiko, Lara's mother and sister, the murdered Yasuko, and the Yoshinaka family as victims of the Yakuza boss, and she had a festering brew of desperate greed.

Chapter Thirty-three

Back at the car, Storm extracted a beach towel and a change of clothing. She headed for the beach, dived into the ocean, and swam along the shore for several minutes. Long enough to refresh her flushed skin as only a swim in the ocean can do. A fresh water shower revived her even further. She then ducked into the public restroom to strip out of her wet clothes, and put on a fluttery, cool silk skirt in a blue tropical print and a cap-sleeved white T-shirt.

She wanted to look good when she met Hamlin in a couple of hours. Speaking of Hamlin, she might be able to catch him before he left Honolulu. If she remembered correctly, he had about an hour before catching the short flight to Maui.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was hoping you'd call.”

“I was hoping you'd answer.”

“Where are you?”

“A beach near Makena.”

“The nude beach?” The words carried a grin and a promise.

“Not without you.” A memory brought a flush over her, and Storm was glad no one could see her.

“Good, I don't want you getting sunburned.”

“I don't sunburn.”

“We'll see,” he said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“I'll be at the airport.”

“I can't wait,” he said, and Storm could hear the loudspeaker announcement for his boarding.

“Me either,” she said.

She beamed all the way through Wailea, Kihei, and halfway to Lahaina. It wasn't until she got close to Damon's house that the sparkle faded, and that was only because the thought of picking up her own car reminded her of the guys in the black Range Rover.

Screw 'em, she thought. I'll exchange it at the airport before I pick up Hamlin. After that, there will be two of us to intimidate.

Damon's truck was in his carport, and the engine ticked and pinged. He hadn't been home long. She didn't see any suspicious cars in the area. A black Range Rover would have been conspicuous. The streets of the middle-class neighborhood were lined with nice, safe American and Japanese cars.

Storm knocked on the front door. She wanted to hand over the keys and thank him again for loaning it to her. She stood there for a few long moments and listened for footsteps. Only a muffled thump, which would make sense if he was in the shower or bath, but Storm wasn't certain if it came from Damon's house. Children's voices carried from the house on the right, along with the clatter of play.

Still, it reminded her of the thump she'd heard at Pauline's house, and the memory erased the warmth of the sun that stroked her shoulders. She looked around the yard. An air conditioner hummed in one of his windows. From what she remembered from the night she'd picked up the car, it was the living room.

She knocked again. “Damon?”

A neighbor went by, walking the dog. He gave her a friendly nod. The dog stopped to pee on Damon's grass.

Storm looked at her surroundings again. The kids had apparently turned on a television set, because their voices were absent, but explosions and shouts, the same noises in any adventure show, emanated from next door.

The house had a for sale sign, which reminded Storm of the property near Makena. Mary Robbins, 367-5409. Storm decided to give Damon a few minutes while she called.

“Paradise Properties,” said a woman's voice. Realtors could usually be counted on to work Sundays.

“Mary Robbins?” asked Storm.

“No, it's not. Why are you calling?” The woman's voice had a confrontational note. What was with that? Didn't she want another client?

“I wanted to ask about a property Mary has listed in the Makena area.”

“Oh.” The woman drew a deep breath. “That place.”

“I thought it looked nice.”

“It is. I've got to get in touch with the seller. The closing may be delayed now.”

“Is this one of Mary's colleagues?” Storm asked.

“Yes, this is Rose.”

“Rose, could I speak to Mary?”

“Mary died.” A quiver appeared in Rose's voice.

“Mary died?” Storm nearly shouted; she couldn't believe it. The dog walker did a double take.

Rose swallowed audibly. “Car accident, just this morning, out near Kapalua.”

“Shit,” Storm breathed, and disconnected. She flopped down on the front step, and her handbag bumped against the door. “Shit,” she repeated.

Damon's voice came from somewhere toward the back of house. “Come in.”

The dog-walker had moved on, and Storm tried the doorknob. It opened, and she stepped into the cool entry hall. Conscious of the air-conditioner's efforts to ward off the afternoon heat, she closed it behind herself.

“Damon? I can leave the keys on the coffee table. I filled up the tank—”

Someone, a very large someone, simultaneously jerked Storm's legs out from under her and slammed her to the floor. It was an expert move, by a person who'd done it before. It was swift and silent, except for the truncated bleat of shock Storm uttered as she hit the hard floor.

Her staccato yelp ended when the wind was punched out of her. While she fought panic and her convulsing diaphragm, the assailant tied her hands behind her back and dropped a dark cloth over her head and shoulders. The whole procedure took a second or less. Storm gasped, terrified by the claustrophobic darkness.

Breathe, she told herself. That's the first thing you have to get control over. This is really bad, her inner voice blathered. Shut up, she told it, and struggled to draw a complete breath. It was an ineffectual series of gasps. Again. Do it again, her survival voice told her. The scared one emitted a sob. She got more air with fewer spasms the second try, and she did it again.

Whatever he'd put over her head smelled of diesel fuel, and she battled a wave of nausea. It was hot, and it was black. She couldn't see anything, not even a glimmer of light between the threads of fabric. It stank, and she gagged. Not good. She could not—absolutely not—vomit in this bag.

She drew another deep breath, and to distract herself from the odor, she forced herself to think. The person who hit her was big, undoubtedly male. He hadn't made a sound, which meant he'd been standing behind the door when she opened it. He'd also done it easily, as if he'd practiced the move many times.

When Damon had called out, it sounded like he was in back of the house. She'd assumed he was in the shower, which would explain why he hadn't heard her knock at first. How could he have made it so quickly to the front of the house? She didn't think he did, but he had to have known someone was waiting to ambush her.

“Damon?” she said. “Why?” She hated that she sounded like a whimpering child.

No one answered her, but there was a sudden noise. It sounded like a scuffle, then a striking of something solid and meaty. As if someone got slugged. Then there was no other sound, as if the person had been lifted out of place. Zapped, or immobilized.

Storm strained to listen through the heavy material that insulated her from sensation. She lay on the floor with the roughness of the door mat chafing her thighs and knees, which had suffered rug burns in the take-down. Her skirt was rolled to her waist and she couldn't even pull it down. Strange how that indignity crossed her mind and infuriated her, not that she could do a damned thing about it.

But the anger sharpened her senses, and she had the clear impression she was being observed by more than one person. She tried to get a feeling for how many people stood around her, but it was impossible.

Dread numbed her. She'd been warned, hadn't she? Two wise and experienced people (at least) had told her to distance herself from anything Obake might be involved in. In fact, anything he might notice. Suzuki had told her to ditch her phone to protect his new number. Which she hadn't done, and a pang of regret ran through her so fiercely that one of her legs jerked.

Damon had betrayed her. She'd assumed they were friends, or at least amicable. They were definitely drinking buddies, and had witnessed a tragedy together. But Stella implied that Obake could pressure anyone. His threats had forced Hiroki Yoshinaga to shoot his own daughters, for God's sake. A weak-assed wimp like Damon would cave at first contact.

And here she was, trussed like a terrorist's hostage. Or terrorist, depending on where you stood. It didn't matter, though, did it? Fucking Damon had given her up. They'd threatened him with something: his daughters' welfare, his custody arrangement, maybe his drinking or gambling habits, his employment prospects. Did it matter?

She turned on her side, hoping to expand an air pocket in the bag over her head. Maybe work her skirt down over the pretty lace underwear she'd put on after her swim. How dumb was that idea? She'd done it for Hamlin, who would be stuck at the airport, high and dry.

Someone sat on her feet, immobilizing her legs and grinding her chafed knees into the rough carpet. “I'll lie still,” she shouted, but in a too-short second, she knew that immobility wasn't her captor's primary motive.

The sharp sting of a needle pierced a vein at her ankle and jerked her wits back to her dilemma as handily as a leash on a mutt. She yelped with surprise and shock. The jab was followed immediately by the burn of a dissipating drug. It felt like someone had dribbled hot water all the way up her leg, along her thigh, and let it ooze into her body and brain.

This time, panic did seize her, and sweat rolled off her scalp and face. It stung her tearing eyes, ran into her open and gasping mouth. “Damon,” she roared inside the dark, cloying sack.

Then she shut up. She knew her fear facilitated the effect of the drug, but she couldn't control fear. She could manage her mouth, but her heart felt like it would burst from her chest with each pounding contraction. Stay calm, she told herself, but the rough fabric of the bag over her head stuck to the perspiration on her forehead and cheeks. It puffed in and out with her shallow, frightened breaths.

“I'm sorry, Hamlin,” she moaned. And before the drug stupefied her besieged brain cells, she pictured him, and thought of how they'd almost made it. Their reconciliation was a sure thing; they loved each other. She was going to share, to open up, and to ask for understanding, too. He had to meet her halfway, but he was giving every indication he would do more than that.

Until she'd blown it again, that is. He hated how she waltzed into trouble. This time, he'd never know how careful she'd been. Switching hotel rooms, borrowing a car. Who would have thought retrieving the car would be her downfall?

Chapter Thirty-four

Hamlin took a seat at the Aloha Airline gate, and caught the glance of a neatly dressed man in his thirties. Another lawyer, he thought. Where have I met that guy?

The plane was crowded with a tour group and what appeared to be a local high school swim team. Teenagers in matching green warm-ups were having a great time. The only seats left were in row sixteen, at the emergency exit hatches. That was okay with Hamlin. He took the aisle; the man from the lounge smiled at him from the window seat.

“I think we've met,” the man said. “It was during the mayor's campaign. I'm Terry Wu.”

Hamlin put out his hand and gave his name. “You're with the U.S. Attorney's office, aren't you?”

Wu nodded and smiled. “Getting away for the rest of the weekend?”

“Yes, I'm meeting my girlfriend.”

“The beautiful woman who was with you at the mayor's dinner?”

“Yes,” said Hamlin. Wu had a good memory, a trait Hamlin worked to cultivate. He recalled meeting Wu, but couldn't remember if he had been with a date, or even with a colleague.

“What's her name again?” Wu asked. “I know she's a member of the profession.”

“Storm Kayama. She's got a few clients on Maui,” Hamlin said, and wondered if he'd imagined the shadow that had fluttered through Wu's eyes.

Wu's smile didn't falter, though, and a second later Hamlin assumed that some idea unrelated to their conversation had distracted Wu for a brief moment. Maybe he forgot to make a call before the announcement to turn off their mobile phones.

“She takes on some women's causes, doesn't she?” Wu asked.

“Yes, that's Storm,” Hamlin said.

“She's got a good reputation.”

“I agree.”

It was a short half-hour flight from Honolulu to Kahului, and Wu dug into his briefcase for some reading material. Hamlin broke out the local paper, to catch up on whether ‘Iolani or Punahou School was leading in the track season. Hamlin had run track in high school and college, and he still liked to follow the meets. Event times were much faster now; the fact simultaneously thrilled him and made him feel old.

When the plane landed, both Hamlin and Wu gathered their carry-on luggage from the overhead bins, exchanged good-byes, and went their own ways. Hamlin went out front, where drivers waited for disembarking passengers. He'd forgotten to ask Storm what kind of car she had, and he scrutinized every rental sedan that passed. None stopped for him.

After fifteen minutes, he figured she'd been held up in a meeting or traffic, and he called her mobile, but got no answer. He sat down to finish the paper. Fifteen minutes after that, he began to pace. She still didn't answer her phone. He was one-quarter angry, and three-quarters anxious. He squelched the anger. No, she said she would be here. Something was wrong.

A dark red Chevy Monte Carlo pulled to the curb and Hamlin dashed across the walkway and grabbed the passenger door handle, only to see Terry Wu through the window.

“You need a ride?” Wu asked.

“That would be great. My ride hasn't come.” Hamlin got into the passenger seat. “Would you mind giving me a ride to the rental car desks?”

“No problem, they're five minutes away.”

Hamlin was pondering why Wu had driven around the airport loop when Wu's cell phone, which was attached to his belt, rang.

In the quiet of the air-conditioned car, Hamlin caught a few of the caller's words. “Trying…voice mail.”

“My phone was off during the flight,” Wu explained. The caller must have spoken his next statement more quietly, because Hamlin couldn't hear his voice, though Wu's solemn expression drew his attention.

“Where?” Wu said. “When?” A pause. “I'm leaving the airport now. Should take me about twenty minutes.”

“Problems?” Hamlin asked. “You can let me out here.”

“It's okay, we're nearly at the rental lot.”

“There's a quicker exit from the lot than driving by the passenger pickup,” Hamlin said, and pointed to a sign that gave directions to the highway.

“I know,” Wu said. “I wanted to talk to you.” He pulled between the Budget and Avis huts, then slowly put the car in park before he handed Hamlin his card. “Your friend Storm called me about a case I'm involved in. They're bad people. Do me a favor and call me when you find her.”

Hamlin stared at him. “Does this have anything to do with the phone call you just got?” His throat was so dry he could barely utter the words.

“No. That was about something else.” Hamlin believed him, but Wu's concern and the grim set of his mouth chilled him.

“I will.”

Hamlin leaped from Wu's car. He jogged into the Budget hut, which looked less crowded than the others. In less than ten minutes, he had a car and sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light on the road to Kahului. He didn't know where to begin looking for Storm.

***

Ryan unlocked the door to his apartment and walked in. “Dad?” He called out, though all senses told him that the place was empty. He walked through the apartment and called again, though the bathroom door was open, Tagama's bed was made and his overnight bag, neatly packed, sat on the taut covers. His dad had reverted to old, disciplined ways. His breakfast plate was washed and in the dish drainer, though when Ryan peered into the rubbish bin, he found the English muffin he'd toasted that morning.

Naturally, Tagama didn't answer his cell phone. But the minute Ryan disconnected, his own rang.

“Where are you?” a man's deep voice asked.

“Who's this?” Ryan didn't bother to conceal his impatience.

“I'm a friend of your father's. Please go outside to the street and I'll call you back.”

Ryan snapped his mobile phone closed, and as he did, he caught sight of a white business-sized envelop on the kitchen counter. His name was written in his father's hand. A chill of dread came over Ryan, and he jammed the envelope in his pocket. He didn't want to look. He'd talk to his father's friend first. Maybe the friend could help stop whatever his father had gone to do.

As soon as Ryan was outside, the man called back. “I'm Major Lekziew with MPD. Your father and I have known each other for years. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Where's Dad? Is he all right?”

“We'll talk when we meet. I'm driving a green Ford Taurus.”

Despite the doorman's offer of a seat in the lobby, Ryan went outside and paced the curb of the busy street. Lekziew drove up within minutes, and Ryan climbed into his car.

“He's dead, isn't he?” Ryan sagged against the passenger door.

Though he'd used denial to get himself out the door that morning, he'd known when Tagama had sent him to meet their clients alone. Yet he couldn't deny his father, nor could he have shared his fears with him.

When he'd found the apartment empty, his last shreds of hope began to disperse like a battered flag in the wind. Now even his strength left him, and he was alone.

Lekziew couldn't help him. Nor did he want Lara, oddly enough. Somehow, he had to survive the next few hours, then tomorrow and the day after. He had to face that Tagama had known his path since he received the phone call last night, and they'd gone to the beach to find Yasuko. He'd joined Guan-Gong.

“I'm so sorry, Ryan,” Lekziew said.