Pleasing the Dead (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

As Hamlin drove toward Kihei, he tried to remember what Storm had told him about the dive shop. It was near some docks, as the owner, Lara, had a dive boat or two. The woman must be well-funded, Hamlin thought. He had a friend on O‘ahu who had scrimped to get a dive boat, which he captained himself. They were expensive, especially if they had the warm showers, racks for scuba tanks, and whatever specialty fittings they came with. Some trawled for fish while they were underway.

Once Hamlin got to Kihei, he stopped at a shave-ice parlor to ask directions to Lara's shop. The owner knew exactly where Lara's Aquatic Adventures was located, and gave Hamlin directions.

Hamlin was starving, so he ordered a large shave-ice to go. While the owner chatted about Lara's dive shop and how hard it was to keep a business going, Hamlin hid his impatience. Once he had his order, he dashed back to the car. He ate it while he drove, and considered the stop a good omen. The owner was informative and the shave ice, with its hidden ice cream and azuki bean, was delicious. Who knew when he'd get the chance to eat again?

Hamlin found the dive shop easily. It was locked, and no one answered his knocks. The front door was made of thick glass, plus the plate glass windows on either side of the door, where scuba gear and idyllic pictures of boats and underwater scenes were displayed, let in enough light that he could see inside. No one was in the front of the store.

He remembered Storm's descriptions of the work going on, and decided to walk around to the back and see if he could find workers whose power tools kept them from hearing him. Not that they'd come running. They weren't there to answer questions, only to finish the renovation.

Back in the parking lot, Hamlin discovered a side entrance, but it, too was locked. He pounded on the solid wood door, but no one answered. There was a folded note addressed to Damon, though, and Hamlin considered it fair game. He probably wouldn't have torn open an envelope, but this was folded and duct-taped to the door. He didn't even have to pull it off; he just peeked inside.

“Noon. Call the Lady Lawyer,” it said. It was signed Fred, with a scrawled phone number.

Hamlin called the number, and a man answered. “Fred, I'm looking for the lady lawyer. You know where she is?”

“Who's this?”

“Ian Hamlin. I'm a friend of Storm's from O‘ahu. I saw your note on the door of the dive shop. Hope you don't mind.”

“S'okay,” Fred said. “I don't know where she went after I saw her. That was a while ago.”

“Yeah, I figured. You think she went to Damon's?”

“Could be. She had his car.”

“You mind giving me his address? I was supposed to meet Storm a couple of hours ago, and I'm getting worried.”

“Lemme call Damon and get back to you.”

Fred disconnected before Hamlin could respond, and Hamlin sagged against the side of his car. Fred sounded like a laid-back, trusting guy, but if he didn't call back, Hamlin didn't know where to go. He didn't know Damon's last name, though he figured he could canvas the streets and ask who was doing construction on the shop. Kihei was a small town; he'd find out, but it would take more time and effort than he wanted to spend. He was getting more anxious by the minute.

Five minutes later, Fred called back. Hamlin had already started to pace and glance at his watch. He was beginning to sweat, too. He needed to get out of his work clothes.

“He doesn't answer. Probably at the beach. But you're Storm's friend.” Fred rattled off a street in Lahaina, and Hamlin wrote it down.

“You have Damon's phone number?”

Fred gave it to him.

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.” Hamlin had the car heading onto the main road by the time he disconnected. No one answered at the number Fred had given him for Damon, and Hamlin didn't have any other leads.

Budget Rental Cars had given him a map with their contract, but it wasn't very detailed. Hamlin had it open on the passenger's seat to the page with details of Maui's south coast. He was probably going to have to stop and ask, as the map was geared for popular tourist destinations, and he doubted that residential areas would be on it.

Hamlin's rental car hugged the lane of Honoapi‘ilani Highway closest to the chiseled cliff. A steel net like hurricane fence kept boulders from falling into passing traffic. Ten feet from the other side of the road, the Pacific Ocean caressed the shore. Shallow coral reefs under the gentle surface imbued the sea with undulating green and turquoise hues. Farther out, where the depth of the sea plummeted between the volcanic mountain tips that comprise the Hawaiian Islands, the ocean glittered sapphire.

The smaller isle of Lanai hulked along this coast; it looked close enough to swim, Hamlin thought, and the calm ocean lured people to try. There was a popular race from Lanai to Maui. But Hamlin knew individuals had died in the attempt. Though the island looked barely a mile away, it was nearly nine, and the channel was patrolled by sharks.

Ordinarily, big sharks are merely glimpsed by people enjoying the crystalline waters, but a couple times each year, a Tiger or Great White attacks someone. One theory is that the predator has confused the human with its usual prey: turtles, seals, birds, fish, dead animals.

Hamlin also knew that this stretch of the highway was notorious for car accidents. Its twists, turns, and tunnel required a focus that was easily drawn astray by the azure sea. So he kept his eyes on the highway, and found his curiosity aroused when he rounded a tree-shaded curve where the road curved inland and saw a line of police cars on the berm of the road.

Hamlin wasn't the only driver to slow in order to see what was happening. A long column of cars threaded through the area at about twenty miles per hour, and all heads were turned toward the woods to see what was going on. Had to be something big; there was a fire truck, an ambulance, at least six blue-and-whites, plus three or four unmarked cars. People came and went from paths among the trees, which were plentiful enough to block any view of the scene. Not even the ocean was visible.

Hamlin, like everyone else, peered at the officials milling around the vehicles. But when he saw Terry Wu standing by his dark red Monte Carlo, Hamlin's heart lurched. The anxiety that was simmering below the surface of his thinning facade bubbled to the surface. Worse yet, his eye caught Wu's, and Wu, who looked miserable, looked away from him.

There was too much traffic to pull over. Hamlin drove a quarter mile up the road, where he found a narrow turnout on the ocean side of the road. It was approximately where the gawking drivers were speeding up again, and no one took any notice of his quick exit from the stream of traffic.

He dug into his overnight bag, found a T-shirt, chinos, and his running shoes, and changed clothes in his car. Then he threw his bag in the trunk, locked up, and jogged back to where he'd seen Wu.

A burly policeman stopped him where the line of official vehicles began, but he asked the cop to find Wu, and the man did it. Wu appeared after five or ten minutes, and didn't look any happier than he had when Hamlin had driven by.

There was sand clinging to a damp spot on one knee of Wu's dark trousers and the tail on his tucked-in aloha shirt poked out on his left side. Since tucking in one's aloha shirt in the first place was considered fastidious, Hamlin surmised that whatever Wu was up to was rattling him.

Wu spoke first. “Have you found Storm?”

“No,” Hamlin said, and raised a hand in the direction of the woods. “Does this have anything to do with her?”

“She's not here. Have you heard anything about this?” Wu waved his hand in the direction of the woods.

“No, but it doesn't look like the annual police picnic, either.”

Wu ran his hand through his hair. “We're trying to keep the press away as long as we can. Looks like a couple of local thugs had it out with,” Wu faltered, “someone.”

Someone? Hamlin's heart squeezed with urgency, and he analyzed Wu's words and the way he'd delivered them. Storm wasn't in the woods, and Wu was being truthful. In a way. He hadn't answered Hamlin's question, either.

“I understand the need for keeping whatever this is under wraps,” and Hamlin tilted his head toward the protected area, “but I'm worried about Storm. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

Wu shook his head. “I was hoping you'd found her.” He sounded sincere.

Hamlin showed Wu the information he'd gotten from Fred. “Do you know where this is? She may have gone to this address.”

“It's a few miles up the road, a little subdivision with townhouses and small homes. Take the first left after Front Street.”

Hamlin gave Wu a hard look. “Will you call me if you hear anything?”

“Yes, I will,” Wu said.

Hamlin jogged back to where he'd left the car. He forced his way into the slow-moving traffic going toward Lahaina, and found himself at Damon's address within fifteen minutes. As Wu had said, it wasn't far.

Wu was also correct in his description of the neighborhood, which was modest and middle class. No sidewalks, and mostly carports instead of closed garages. Damon's house had a new coat of paint, but the yard was dry and needed mowing. The only car in his driveway was a sun-faded Subaru station wagon.

In Hamlin's experience, most contractors drove pickup trucks, but no truck was parked near the house. He banged on the front door. As he'd expected—it was typical of how the day was going—no one was home. On the other hand, it was four-thirty on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Not quite late enough for people to be coming home for dinner, but way too late for Storm, who was supposed to have met him an hour and a half earlier.

Hamlin tamped down his rising panic, balled up his fist and banged again. Someone next door came to see what the racket was, but no one answered at Damon's house. Hamlin walked across the lawn to the neighbor's. A skinny teenager with an incipient moustache and acne was at the door.

“You know where Damon might be?”

“Haven't seen him,” the teenager said. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Does he have a lot of visitors?”

The kid shrugged. “I guess. His wife left.”

“Any women come by lately?” Hamlin described Storm.

The kid shrugged again, rubbed his upper lip as if it might encourage the spotty moustache. “Maybe. Long hair or short?”

“Shoulder length, wavy. Usually in a French braid.”

“She looks like a model? Drives a white Corvette?”

“Maybe.” Hamlin thought he'd play out this line of questioning. “When did she come by?”

If he shrugged as much as this kid, he'd get a kink in his neck. But at least the boy was friendly. “Like, yesterday?” the kid said.

“Is that Damon's car?” Hamlin pointed to a late-model white Chrysler Sebring sedan parked between Damon's house and the kid's.

“That's one of his lady friend's. That's what my dad said, anyway.”

“Your dad around?”

“Nope, he's out fishing.”

“Your mom?”

“No.”

Hamlin thanked the young man, and went to check the Sebring. No visible stickers or tags, because the rental companies didn't want to draw attention to visitors' cars. Their offices were full of signs warning tourists about burglaries.

Hamlin peered into the passenger window, and held his breath. On the front seat was a little hairbrush, one that he knew Storm kept in her purse.

The last communication he'd had from her was when she'd called from the beach. By that time, she'd checked out of the hotel. Perhaps she'd put other things in the trunk, but the doors were locked, so he had no way of finding out. The hairbrush was enough, though. She'd been here.

Storm had told him about Lara, and Hamlin knew Lara was the driver of the Corvette. He also knew Lara was engaged to a guy named Ryan Tagama, so Hamlin surmised that Lara's visits to Damon's house were probably either social or business contacts.

Maybe some of the other neighbors had seen Storm. A yapping dog drew him across the street, and he knocked on the door. An older gentleman answered, with a reprimand that silenced the dog. Hamlin explained that he was supposed to meet Storm, and began to describe her.

“I know who you mean,” the man interrupted. “Buster and I saw her. A real pretty
wahine
. Right, Buster?” The dog sat by his owner's feet and wagged his tail.

“When?”

“Well, we'd had lunch. It was later than usual because Mrs. Dressle came by with tickets to a fundraiser. Let's see…”

Hamlin wanted to jerk open the door and squeeze the answer out of him. Instead, he made himself take deep, even breaths.

“It was around two, I'd say. Maybe two-fifteen.”

“What was she doing?”

“Knocking on his door.” The man pointed to Damon's house. “He didn't answer, so she talked on the phone. Someone died. She was kind of upset.”

“Did she say a name?” Hamlin had difficulty keeping calm. Could Damon have died? His worker, Fred, would have known, wouldn't he?

The man's eyes rolled as if he were examining one bushy eyebrow, then the other. “Yeah. Buster, did she say Mary?”

The dog wagged his tail again.

“Do you know who Mary is?” Hamlin asked.

“No idea.”

“Thanks,” Hamlin said, already halfway down the front steps.

Two o'clock. Storm stopped here on the way to meet his plane, but her car was sitting stranded, and so was a Subaru station wagon. Hamlin had a strong hunch she didn't leave this place. At least not under her own will. He looked at the closed house. The front curtains were drawn, and it sat still and unforthcoming.

He dashed back to his car and got his phone. “Wu, are you still at that crime scene?”

“I'm leaving, why?”

“I need help.”