Pleasing the Dead (2 page)

Chapter Two

Storm Kayama looked at the sticky linoleum floor of the car rental shack and remembered the legend of Māui, the Hawaiian god and mischief maker, and how he'd lassoed the sun to nourish the land. Right then, she thought he'd overdone it. It was way too hot for a Wednesday in April. It didn't help that the Kahulului car rental office was packed and the air conditioning broken. In the stillness, no relief came through the propped-open doors.

Ahead of Storm in line, two parents and three of their children sagged against the rental counter and complained to the very young and very pregnant clerk. The fourth, a droopy-diapered tyke of about two sauntered up and down the line, scrutinizing the overheated customers with black eyes that dared anyone to meet them. Most people stared ahead, but Storm grinned at the kid, and wondered if it was a boy or a girl.

“Lexie,” barked the mother, who turned from the counter. The woman's face glowed with heat and exasperation.

Lexie ignored her mom and stopped next to Storm. Was Lexie a girl's name or a boy's? In one hand, a paper cone of melting shave ice dripped virulent pink liquid onto the kid's toes. Ant battalions queued up across the grubby linoleum.

Storm broke eye contact with the toddler and shoved back damp, wavy strands of dark hair that had sprung free of her French braid. Everyone in line drooped with heat, and Lexie's feet made sucky sounds in the growing pink puddle. Ants, single-minded in their mission, outlined the nectar like someone had used a black pen.

The pregnant clerk, whose belly pulled the flowers on her company mu‘umu‘u into amorphous blobs, had been explaining something to the family in a low voice, but now her whisper carried. “…are all blocked, anyway.” Everyone in line leaned forward.

“Eh? The roads are blocked?” asked a man in front of Storm.

“That's what they're saying,” said the clerk.

“All of them?” asked someone behind Storm.

“That's what I hear.” The pregnant girl fanned herself with a rental contract.

“What happened?” Storm asked. From a couple miles away, the whine of sirens carried on the still air.

“I'm not sure—” the girl began, but the staccato snap of leather heels distracted her. Her eyes flitted to the door, and she ruffled through a stack of contracts resting on the countertop.

A woman in a navy suit and matching navy mid-heeled pumps marched up to the clerk. Four men, dressed in the masculine version of her outfit, followed. All of them wore Ray Bans. Their heels tapped their significance to the peons in line.

Lexie watched, mouth agape. Everyone in line bristled. The pregnant clerk fumbled a pile of keys and the waiting papers into the suited woman's outstretched hands. The suit veered away, with the four men following behind like imprinted ducklings.

The line of homogenous agents reminded Storm of the ants, except crisis was the agents' puddle of nirvana. And that meant there was a mountain of misery out there for someone. Without realizing it, Storm touched the emerald-eyed pig that hung on a gold chain on her neck. He was her
‘aumakua
, or family totem, and Aunt Maile had given it to her for luck a few years ago.

One by one, the customers got their cars. The family obtained the van they needed. The mom scooped Lexie up and jammed a flowered pink elastic headband on her shining scalp. Lexie howled.

The man in front of Storm asked about the blocked roads. Now that the Feds had come and gone, the pregnant clerk was happy to chat. “An explosion in Kahului. Madelyn—you know—the sales manager over at Avis, said someone died. Might be a terrorist attack.”

“Who were the suits?” Storm asked when she got to the counter.

“A federal task force.”

“Makes sense if they're worried about terrorism.”

“It's scary, isn't it?” The young woman didn't sound scared. “Row three, stall eleven. Good luck.”

It only took two blocks for Storm to realize that she'd need that luck. No one was going anywhere fast. It was after five, rush hour, and cars were lined up as far as she could see.

Up to now, she'd been looking forward to the trip. She had a handful of paying clients on Maui, which was a gorgeous place to visit. The most intriguing was a job incorporating and overseeing liability issues regarding a new dive shop. The owner, a minor celebrity, had called out of the blue because a friend of a friend had recommended Storm's services. Word of mouth was a strong persuader in the islands.

Lara Farrell's name had sounded familiar to Storm, and the minute she'd hung up the phone with her new client, Storm Googled her. Sure enough, six or seven years ago, Lara made a name for herself in the windsurfing world. Maui's north shore beaches were among the world's most ideal sites, and Lara had been an internationally known competitor. She stopped suddenly five years ago, and though Storm spent almost two hours on the Internet (how did it gobble so much time?), she couldn't figure out why Lara had quit. She did find a reference to Lara's temper, however. Not enough to scare Storm off; temperamental people were more apt to annoy Storm than scare her.

She flipped through radio stations, searching for a news report that would explain the traffic jam. An explosion had occurred in a restaurant that morning, and streets were still jammed. Probably not an international terrorist, Storm thought, but crazy people are everywhere.

A tickling sensation bothered the back of her head, and Storm looked around at the other idling cars. Funny, she felt like she was being watched. But who could locate anyone in the parking lot that would normally be Dairy Road? There was a street cop, red-faced and sweating in his dark hat, uniform, and white gloves, a handful of pedestrians, and one brave or stupid bicyclist, who talked on his cell phone as he wove between cars.

Ahead of her, a child stared from the back window of a van. It was Lexie, who raised both hands to the window. Storm waved. Lexie frowned, then sat down. The feeling of being watched abated.

Storm sighed with exasperation, and crawled ahead. She hoped the car didn't overheat. There was no way she was going to make her dinner date with her new client. Not even close.

***

Sergeant Carl Moana, Maui PD, didn't flinch at the blaring horns. His face a ruddy mask, he stood his ground in the middle of the intersection at Dairy Road and Hana Highway. Ignoring the sweat trickling across his burning scalp, he kept one gloved palm toward Hana Highway and waved the other like a metronome at the endless procession of heat-radiating, fuming vehicles that crept toward him.

His brain, however, raced like the engines that revved in frustration. Why were the police blocking
all
the streets leading into town? Every citizen in Wailuku and Kahului combined, all thirty thousand of them, seemed to be on the road. His nine-year-old could roller blade faster than these cars were moving. These people just wanted to get home for dinner. Plus, the top of his navy blue cap felt like a steam iron sat on it.

He was blocks from the explosion, which took out the side of the Blue Marine, a restaurant that was usually only open evenings for fine dining. Odd that they'd been serving breakfast, and certainly not to the general public. But he knew one thing: the worse the problem, the tighter the lid on the matter. There hadn't been a press release yet, and people were clamoring for news. As a result, the coconut wireless hummed. At least one person had died, maybe two. Word on the street had it that the dead guy was a contact for the Yakuza. He was also a member of the Maui Department of Liquor Control.

Moana knew better than to take gossip at face value. Someone else said that ATF, FBI, and representatives from the U.S. Attorney's office were on the way from Honolulu. His mouth twitched with that thought. Good luck if they were driving from the airport.

Sweat coursed down the side of Moana's face. But it wasn't just the navy blue uniform that cranked up the heat. Though Moana had trained for explosions, he'd never had to deal with one.

Just last week, his wife had sewn the third stripe on his sleeve, and they'd put their three kids to bed, drunk Korbel from jelly glasses, laughed, and made love. He'd studied hard for the sergeant's exam. And he wanted to work on this new crisis, but knew he had no connections. He had no relatives on the force or uncles in government. Kahului wasn't even his regular patrol district. Working overtime directing traffic was as close as he was going to get to this emergency. Especially since the federal heavies were on the way.

And what if the rumors of terrorism were accurate? It was a damn scary thought. Here on quiet, friendly Maui? What was going on?

Despite his apprehension, Carl wanted to make a difference in his community. And he wanted his kids to go to college someday. He needed to be noticed; he needed to be on the inside of a big case.

***

The boss had been right, as usual. A bicycle was the way to go in this situation. The man sailed between the stalling, steaming cars. People were going to be steamed, too. He had what he'd come for; it was time to move out of this mess.

His mobile phone rang, and he dug it out of his shorts pocket. “She's here. Avis rental, white Chrysler Sebring, license MBW 9453. She's stuck along with the rest of these slobs.”

“She's not a slob, she's a pit bull. Don't let the clothes or the free spirit act fool you.”

“Right, boss.” He hung up and avoided the rear bumper of a mini van. Some kid was leaving sticky hand prints all over the window. Slobs.

Chapter Three

“Lara? Mokulele Highway's jammed. I'm not going to make it to our dinner meeting.”

There was a longer pause than Storm expected, which gave her a moment of concern. Storm had looked into the rumor about Lara's temper. It had taken some work, but finally an old friend who ran a windsurfing shop in Kailua told her that Lara's last windsurfing competition had been on Maui six years ago. The sponsors were big corporations, and Lara came in second to win a $2,500 purse. However, when she discovered that the man who came in second collected $15,000, she threw a fit that was broadcast on ESPN.

Storm felt sympathy for the woman. The prize difference was discriminatory, it sucked, and it still occurred in not only windsurfing, but many sports. As far as Storm was concerned, Lara's new business was a good indication that she'd recovered and moved on.

When Lara spoke, there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Shoots, I wanted you to meet my fiancé. He's a big part of the picture.” She sighed. “But we'll do it later. Why don't we get together at the store tomorrow morning?”

“That would be perfect.”

“We'll talk over coffee about the kind of legal help I had in mind.” Lara gave Storm directions to the dive shop.

“Eight-thirty?” Storm asked.

“Better make it nine,” Lara said, and Storm could hear a grin in her voice. That fiancé must be hot.

It took Storm nearly two hours to get out of Kahului and another forty-five minutes to cross to the south side of the island. By the time she got to her hotel in Kihei, it was dark. The hotel was on the beach, close to an area known as Makena, a still-pristine coastline of white sand beaches and the stark ruggedness of ancient lava flows. It was peaceful, and Storm found a quiet restaurant for dinner where she had to wait only five minutes for a table. Amazing. She used the time to call her partner, Ian Hamlin.

He was in Los Angeles, where it wasn't quite eleven, and his mobile phone was turned off. She doubted he was asleep. So where was he? With a grimace, she turned off her own phone and dropped it into the bottom of her purse. This was not the moment to think about Hamlin and his “break.” She'd have plenty of time in the middle of the night, when a dream would wake her and she'd reach out to find she was alone. Then she'd remember the exact words he'd used when he told her he needed to get away and think about their relationship.

“Your table is ready,” the hostess said, and Storm struggled to return her smile.

She placed her order, then slipped some legal briefs out of her oversized handbag. When her dinner arrived, she put them away and turned her attention to the succulent filet of monchong with sake-ginger beurre blanc.

The next morning, she woke early enough to have a cup of coffee at a little concession off the hotel lobby before heading out for a morning jog along Makena Alanui Drive, a narrow, winding road that ran parallel to the sea. On the other side of the road, interspersed with pastures, a handful of luxury houses stood in various stages of construction. Chickens still pecked and foraged in soon-to-be-landscaped gardens.

An hour later, Storm relaxed in the shower and began to prepare for her meeting with Lara. She'd found pictures of her new client on the internet, and she looked gorgeous. Consequently, Storm spent at least fifteen minutes wrestling with the hotel's hair dryer, trying to get the frizz out of her dark shoulder-length hair. The underside was still wet when she gave up, dropped the dryer on the counter, and wove her hair into the usual French braid. If only she'd inherited her father's straight, Asian-type hair. But alas, the genes for Hawaiian hair had trumped the genes for silky Japanese tresses, and she had her mother's waves and curls.

Except for the occasional bout of insecurity—like this morning—she'd given up messing with her hair. In her teens, she'd fought it with soup-can rollers and salon chemicals. By sixteen, she was fed up, chopped it to an inch and a half, and died it purple. But in those days, she'd also worn a leather motorcycle jacket and used black laundry markers for eyeliner. One day, during her junior year in high school, she had a tattoo of her
‘aumakua
, the
pua‘a
, applied in a place where few people would see. Now, at thirty-one, she was still glad she had the little pig tattoo, but didn't bother with rebellious hair styles. She'd also moved on to subtle cosmetics, though a Sharpie would still do in a pinch if the lights were low.

Storm gathered some papers, a legal pad, and checked the charge on her mobile phone. Lara's directions were excellent and Storm arrived at the construction site a few minutes before nine.

The new dive shop was in Kihei at a strip mall one block back from the ocean. The space had previously been occupied by three small stores. Storm was surprised by how big it was. The lease rent would be substantial, maybe as much as $7,000 or $8,000 per month.

A workman was in the process of removing a somewhat faded sign for Aunty Piko's Puka Shells. His next task was probably to move his ladder ten feet to the right, remove the sign for Ice Scream, and proceed to demolish the one for Manny's Diner. The previous small business owners probably got priced out of the market. Too bad, Storm thought.

“Storm, come in.” Lara offered a strong hand and a friendly grin. She was as beautiful as her pictures, though she was thinner than Storm had expected.

Lara gestured to a man holding a large roll of blueprints. “This is my contractor, Damon Lloyd. Damon, this is my lawyer, Storm Kayama.”

“Storm?” Damon fumbled the blueprints, then grinned. “Last time I saw you, you were going out with Kimo Sutcliffe. When did you go to law school?”

“Not long after that. Last time I saw you, you were putting messages in fortune cookies.”

Lara looked back and forth like she was watching a ping-pong match. Storm looked at her and shrugged. “You can't get away with anything in the islands.”

Damon laughed. “I guess you didn't know I was working part time for B & W Construction back then. I've got my own license now.”

“Me, too,” Storm said.

“It's the old two degrees of separation,” Lara said. She looked at her contractor. “You're from O‘ahu?”

“No, I'm from Maui, but I was attending UH Mānoa back then.”

Lara looked back at Storm. “I thought you went to college on the mainland.”

“I did, but I had a couple years off between college and law school.”

Lara glanced toward a crew of workers, and the amusement vanished from her expression. “Storm, excuse me for just a moment. Damon, I need a few minutes to finalize today's schedule.”

She pointed to an area where workers were removing old sheet rock. “Check the plans. We need to move the wall over ten inches so we've got more storage space for hanging wet suits and storing equipment.”

“Got it,” Damon replied.

“And no change fee, right?”

“Just this time. I'm doing you a favor because the studs weren't installed yet.”

A short, voluptuous woman approached Lara from the back of the store. Her eyes were shadowed by false eyelashes heavy as butterfly wings. Full red lips parted in a grin.

“Hey girl, you were going to take a break.” She scolded Lara.

“Storm, this is Stella, my office manager.”

“I'm the office
tita
. You know, the watchdog.” She gave the deep husky laugh of a smoker.

“She's a poodle,” Damon said, and dodged her punch.

Stella gave a very good imitation of a growl—a big dog's growl—and offered her hand to Storm with a grin that showed gold.

Storm's first impression was that the woman was in her sixties, but her second glance told her Stella was younger. She just hadn't led an easy life. The gold in her smile was due to a bridge. At some point, she'd had her front teeth knocked out. Her arms, however, were strong and tanned and Storm liked the sassy shine in her eyes.

Stella spoke to Lara. “As long as you're here, I've got a question. You want those cabinets along the back wall, right?”

“Definitely. Those have to go over the desks.” She looked toward Damon. “They're being installed tomorrow, right?”

Damon nodded.

“Then we have a little glitch. The carpenter back there keeps measuring along the side,” Stella said. “I don't think he understands me.”

Damon frowned. “I'll take care of it.” He disappeared behind the sheet rock.

Out of the women's view, his voice barked a few words of Japanese. Stella shrugged at Storm, while Lara folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Is Keiko here?”

“She's back there setting up your file system,” Stella said, and a young woman appeared from back, carrying a file box piled with folders, topped with rolls of what looked like maps and building plans. “Speak of the devil,” she said, and grinned at the young woman.

Stella went to Keiko and scooped the teetering rolls of paper from the top of the box. “Let's get this out of the way.” She led the young woman to the table where Damon had his blueprints. “Set it here. We can't file any of it until the carpenters finish with the cabinets.”

Keiko was a bit over five feet tall, with the body of a ten-year old. Her long sleeved man's shirt flapped like laundry on a line, and her low slung jeans revealed hipbones that jutted like a clothes hanger. She looked Japanese, though her shoulder-length, wavy hair was dyed reddish brown and she wore contact lenses so blue they were iridescent.

Damon's rising tone in the back room distracted the women, whose heads turned in unison toward his voice. He shouted in English. “No whisky, no beer, no sake tonight—nothing. Hiroki, I give you one more chance.”

Damon walked through the door, followed by a pale, thin man who mumbled a few words in Japanese.

Damon looked over his shoulder. “I know you're sick—I can tell. And if you drink tonight, don't come back.”

The worker kept his face pointed toward the floor. A heavy tool belt drooped from his hips, and he shifted it with a trembling hand. “I understand,” he said in awkward, accented English. At the sight of Lara, he paled further and scurried away.

Damon waited a few moments for the sound of a drill and other electrical tools to cover his words. “Don't worry, Lara. He'll get it right. He's not a bad guy, and he's a skilled worker.”

Lara's eyes narrowed. “You said that before, but he looks like a drunk to me.”

“He's got problems.”

“Yeah, I can see.” She faced Damon. “Our grand opening is in a week. What am I paying him for if he can't do the job?”

“His work has been excellent.” Damon looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “He arrived from Japan about four months ago, and he's a single dad with two young daughters. I want to give him another chance.”

“On my project?” Her voice rose.

“You heard me, Lara. If he drinks a drop, he's done.”

“He better be.” Lara looked at her watch. “We have a deadline.”

Damon picked up plans from a workbench. “We'll have that wall moved and the rest of the sheet rock up today. The mud will dry overnight and we can begin installing overhead cabinets tomorrow. We're on track.”

Lara looked over at Stella, who had lit a cigarette and was leaning against a stud. Keiko hovered behind her. “Why don't you two go get a bite to eat? Check in with me in a couple of hours, okay?”

Stella winked and stubbed out the cigarette on the floor with a bunch of other butts. It looked like she wasn't the only smoker in the crowd. With an arm around Keiko's bony shoulders, she drew the young woman out the front door, where the women paused in the bright sunlight and shaded their eyes before heading down the street.

“You hungry?” Lara asked Storm. “We could get breakfast and talk about how we need your help.”

“Sounds great. I'm starved.”

“Good, I'll show you the plans.”

“There's a lot I want to talk to you about. Your lease agreement, the terms of ownership, what happens if your fiancé—”

Damon approached the two. “Lara, phone's for you. It's Ken, calling about a dive group.”

“Damn,” Lara said. “I've got to get this.”

Storm raised an eyebrow. She'd told Lara she'd handle her legal questions for a set fee, but as far as she was concerned, she was on the clock. “Since I was the one who cancelled last night's meeting, I'll agree. Remember, the fee we agreed on was for a four-day job. I'm going back to O‘ahu on Sunday. Maybe we could meet for lunch instead?”

Fleeting annoyance crossed Lara's face, but she erased it. “Sounds good.”

It was already ten. “I'll be back here at noon,” Storm said.

Storm walked out and, like Stella and Keiko, shaded her eyes from the sun's blaze. She was too hungry to wait two more hours for a meal. There were a number of shops in the area, and Storm hoped there was a little family-owned restaurant like the now-defunct Manny's Diner.

There was, and it was right down the street. Storm could see two empty wrought iron tables in the tree-shaded outside seating area. The aromas wafting from the place made her stomach growl aloud and she lengthened her stride. A chalk board listed specials for the day: miniature poi pancakes with coconut syrup, salmon Benedict Florentine, huevos rancheros with crab and fresh guacamole, assorted homemade pastries. She nearly drooled.

Ten feet away, she saw why two tables were empty in an otherwise crowded establishment. The tables flanked another where two women sat, and one of them sobbed into the other's arms. Keiko's face was hidden in Stella's shoulder, and Stella looked sad despite the cluster of brilliant hibiscus pinned in her hair.

Storm kept walking.