Pleasing the Dead (6 page)

Chapter Eight

The police insisted on talking to Damon about his employee, and Storm sat in the truck, miserable and unable to forget the image of the little girl being loaded, bleeding and alone, into the ambulance. Did she know her father and sister were dead? Where was the mother? What demons possessed a man to make him kill his children?

Damon came back looking as if he'd been gutted. The cop friend was with him and opened the truck door. Storm was about ready to offer to drive, but Damon glared ahead through the windshield. He turned the key and peered, red-eyed, at Sergeant Moana. “I can't believe it.”

“I know.” Moana kicked at a clump of dry grass. “But it's the way it looks. And we've seen it before, guys who get depressed, drink too much, get hopeless.”

“She's Maile's age.” Damon's voice broke.

“You don't have to tell your daughters yet,” Moana said.

“What about Carmen?” Damon rubbed his face. “She gonna be okay?”

“Don't know yet.” Moana looked almost as sad as Damon.

Storm watched the devastation on the faces of both men. They knew these girls. Damon had mentioned a summer soccer league; the girls probably all played together.

Moana looked around for his colleagues, and then said softly, “I'll call you tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep. We're all going to need it.”

Damon backed out of the yard, drove down the street to the stop sign.

“You want me to drive?” Storm asked. “I'll buy you a drink and take you home.”

Damon sat for a moment. They were alone at the stop sign, though people had gathered in the street in front of the small, neglected house. Blue police lights pulsed through the dark.

“I'm okay to drive—it's not far, but I'd like to sit down for a while. We've got to pick up your car anyway.”

There was little conversation the rest of the drive. When they got to the restaurant, Damon pulled in next to Storm's car. “People in there are going to ask me stuff, and I don't want to talk about it.”

“You want to go somewhere else?”

“Yeah, there's a quiet place a couple blocks from here.”

“I'll follow you.” Storm got into her own car. Damon waited until she turned around, and then headed down Front Street to a narrow side road and a municipal parking lot. They parked and Damon led the way to a small bar called The Surf Line.

The place was busy. Damon and Storm drew only brief glances from the patrons and sat at the last empty table under a big screen showing non-stop surfing movies. Damon's face flickered in the blue light, and when the waitress came to take their order, her short white apron fluoresced above long brown legs.

“Gordon Biersch pale ale,” Damon said.

“I'll have one, too,” Storm said.

Damon slumped back in his chair and heaved a sigh. The waitress came back right away with their order.

“I'm sorry—”they both said, as soon as she was out of earshot.

“I shouldn't have gone with you,” Storm said. She had felt like a voyeur, an unwelcome crasher witnessing a stranger's dire misfortune.

“I asked you to go, and now I'm sorry you had to see it.” Damon rubbed at the condensation on his glass. “But I'm glad you were there. I might have yelled at Carl or something. Just the idea that Hiroki could actually—” Damon drank half his beer.

Murder his daughters? Storm understood Damon's disbelief, but she knew that Hiroki, if he'd done it, hadn't been the first. For Damon, the idea was unthinkable, but Sergeant Moana, who looked as miserable as Damon, had to consider it.

“Did he talk to you this afternoon?” Storm asked.

“He didn't talk much. Language barrier.” His lips twisted as if his drink was bitter. “Crystal did a lot of interpreting for him.”

He drained the rest of his beer, caught the eye of their waitress, and gestured for a refill. Storm had only taken a few swallows of her ale. The waitress anticipated it, and only brought one.

“Where's the mother?”

“Dead. I think she had cancer.” He took a long swallow. “But, like I said, it was hard to get Hiroki to talk.”

Damon ran a finger along initials carved in the wood table top. For several minutes, he was lost in thought. His face was pale and blue semicircles underscored his eyes.

Storm wasn't sure how to alleviate his distress. “You knew the girls pretty well.”

“Yeah, they're good friends with my daughters. I don't know how I can tell Maile that Crystal…that she's dead.” His voice broke on the little girl's name, Crystal.

“You think it will be in the paper?”

“Oh, shit.” Damon set his glass down with a crack. “I have to tell her tomorrow, don't I?”

“Probably. Will their mother tell them?” Storm finished her beer and the waitress brought another before she looked up.

“She will or someone else. People know my girls are from Maui.” He rubbed his eyes. “This really sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Long minutes passed before Storm broke into his thoughts again. He'd almost finished his third—fourth?—beer. She'd lost track of her own, let alone his, but she knew her eyes were starting to droop.

“Damon, remember what Moana told you. You need to get a good rest tonight if you can. Can I drive you home?”

“I'm not ready to go yet.”

“It's after midnight. I need to go and I don't want to leave you here.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Let me drive you.”

“Not yet. I'm okay.”

“I'm tired. You must be, too.”

“Don't worry about me.”

The waitress had appeared at their table. “We start closing up in about an hour. Someone will drive him home. We've done it before.” The smile she gave Damon was kind.

***

Raging thirst, a thumping headache, and a stomach that rocked and rolled awoke Storm at seven-thirty. She decided not to go for a morning jog. Three cups of strong coffee, a dry bagel, and a dip in the ocean improved her outlook, but she still regretted that second beer. Or was it the third?

She got to the dive shop around nine-thirty, and found she'd arrived before Lara. Stella and Keiko were busy moving files and boxes into the back room. The fresh plumeria in Stella's bright blonde hair smelled wonderful. One of her gold teeth glinted in a smile. “I'm glad you're helping Lara. She needs it, and we heard good things about you.”

“Thanks.” Storm blinked. “What kind of help do you think she needs most?”

“Picking men,” Keiko said, then flushed.

“Ryan's good for her.” Stella flashed a look at Keiko, who shrugged. “Keiko and I knew her last boyfriend, and he wasn't so nice.”

“His name is Greg Wilson,” Keiko said as if Storm might have met him.

“Never heard of him,” Storm said.

“You can mention his name,” Stella said. “She'll only be mad at me for about a tenth of a second and she needs the reminder.”

“You sure? I don't like to reveal a source.”

“I'm sure. It'll do her some good.” Stella looked like she meant it.

“Stella introduced Ryan to Lara,” Keiko said.

Stella gave her a playful slap on the arm. “Oh, hush.”

“Do you know where she is?” Storm asked.

“Talking to the florist,” Stella said, and headed for the back room. The aromas of sweet flowers and old cigarettes wafted along with her.

“For the wedding?” Storm asked.

“Either that or the opening,” said Keiko. “It's hard to keep track right now.”

This conversation was the first time Storm had heard the young woman speak. She had a low, soft voice with a hint of an accent. One of Storm's friends had moved from Asia to Hawai‘i at the age of twelve, and Keiko sounded like her. Storm guessed Keiko to be around twenty.

Storm picked up a box from the stack waiting to be taken to the back office. “How do you know about Lara's old boyfriend?” She trailed behind Keiko. The box was heavy, probably filled with papers and files.

She set it on a table next to Stella's last load. The older woman gave her a half-smile. “I've known Lara since she was a kid.” She left to carry more boxes from the front room.

Damon was at the other end of the office space, carefully measuring for the installation of a cabinet that sat on the floor.

“You okay this morning?”

“Getting by.” He sounded bad and looked worse. “My daughters called this morning. They heard it on the car radio going to school.”

“That sucks.”

“You're telling me. So then my ex gets the idea it might be too dangerous for the girls to come stay with me this summer.”

“Not going to happen. She can't do that.”

Damon's face brightened. That is, it went from burgundy to a capillary-webbed cherry. “She can't?”

“Hiroki's and his daughters' situation isn't relevant to your child custody agreement. You didn't cause it; your girls aren't in danger.”

“Will you represent me if she makes trouble?”

“You'd be better off using your divorce lawyer. He or she knows the original agreement. If that person can't help, I'll take a look.”

Storm felt a wave of relief when Damon nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I'll call him this afternoon.”

Storm watched a painter, a face she hadn't seen yesterday, trim around a window casing. “New guy?”

Damon shook his head. “No, he was scheduled today. I'm doing Hiroki's work.”

“You heard anything about his daughter?”

“I called Carl this morning and left a message. He hasn't called back.”

“He's busy.”

“Yeah, I don't envy him.”

“Storm?” Lara's voice rang out and Storm went out front to see her. Lara looked nearly as tired as Damon.

Storm greeted her. “I came by to talk business. We've got to get insurance papers filed if you're already running dive tours.”

“Yeah, I know.” Lara slumped into a desk chair. “So much going on at once.”

“This is important. If something happens on one of your boats, you don't want to be liable.”

“Ken's a great captain. He's real careful.”

“What if someone falls down the steps? Claims you should have had a sign up that warned they could be slippery?”

Lara looked aghast. “Could that happen?”

“Sure, and that's not as serious as someone panicking underwater and claiming your dive equipment was faulty. Lara, we have to talk about how your corporation is set up, what the terms of your land-lease agreement are, and a whole list of other things.”

“Ryan should be here for that.”

“When can we do it?”

Lara picked at her thumb nail, which was painted shell pink. “He's tied up all day with appointments.”

“Your insurance company is going to want this information, too.”

“We've got some insurance.”

“What kind?”

Lara chipped away more nail polish. “Ryan and his dad own the property. They've got insurance.”

“It probably doesn't cover diving or boating accidents.”

“Ryan told me it would until we got started.”

“You've started.” Storm folded her arms across her chest. “Lara, Stella wanted me to remind you about Greg Wilson.”

Lara jumped out of the chair, hands on her hips. “That bitch.”

“She cares a great deal about you.”

She dropped back into the chair, legs stuck out straight. “She cares about her point of view, not mine. She thinks I'm still a kid.”

“So who's Greg Wilson?”

“Some pig I dated a couple of years ago. When I broke up with him, he claimed he trained me and wanted half of my winnings. When the asshole moved out, he took all my autographed sports stuff. I had a soccer ball signed by David Beckham.”

“Did he train you?”

“Of course not.” Her eyes flashed. “I met him a few months before I quit.”

“But I gather you were with him for a while.”

“Longer than I should have been.” She shuddered.

“I've had a relationship or two I've regretted, too.”

“As in total brain lapse?”

“Utter stupidity. Can't imagine what I saw in him.”

Lara's face lit up. “Thank God I'm not the only one.”

“We're not alone.”

Lara looked at her through wings of sleek hair. “You don't know the half of it.”

“I'm sure I don't. But the stakes are higher for you now. I want to make sure you don't have any regrets. Lawyers, contrary to popular belief, want to prevent train wrecks.”

“But we're getting married. Ryan wouldn't endanger my business because it will affect his own.”

“I hope he won't for other reasons, too.” As in he adores you and wants the best for you. “Lara, it's a business. You need to protect yourself.”

Lara looked away, as if there might be an answer painted on the wall behind Storm. All of the workers had evaporated into the back room.

“He'd never do anything to hurt me.”

Storm had heard that before. In fact, she'd said it about her own ex, who ran the bar where Storm worked after college. He was so handsome all of her girlfriends had been envious—until he'd shown himself to be creepier than a Moray eel. Gorgeous to look at, but manipulative, slimy, and scheming.

Chapter Nine

Ryan and Tagama stood inside an empty warehouse in Kahului, not far from the airport. It was only eight o'clock, and they'd left Wailea at seven. Ryan held an extra large Starbucks cup. Whatever that size was called. Vente? He wished it came with an intravenous drip.

He and Lara had shared a bottle of wine last night, which was more than he usually drank. After that they began to argue, softly in the restaurant and much louder on the way home. That lasted until two, when he went to sleep on the couch.

Friends had told him about the stresses of a wedding, but he hadn't thought they would apply to them. The friends' stories revolved around overbearing future mothers-in-law, but Lara's mother couldn't even get her name right half the time, let alone force a china pattern down their throats.

Nor did Lara nag about crystal like his friends' wives had. No, she wanted real estate. She wanted the deed to the whole goddamned strip mall. Ryan kept telling her it would be in the family once they got married. It was part of Mālua LLC, Tagama and son's business. Lara wasn't the only one with a new corporation.

Lara's Aquatic Adventures took up two-thirds of the prime real estate space in the mall, which was worth over a million. The amount of her lease rent was for property half the value—and she knew it. There was even room for future expansion; the only stores left were an art gallery, an upscale wine shop, and an organic coffee/sandwich shop whose bread tasted like sawdust and the coffee like road tar.

“…this afternoon.” Tagama narrowed his eyes. “You listening?”

“Sorry. Didn't get enough sleep last night. What did you say?”

“Can you show the wrought iron people the other half of the warehouse this afternoon?”

“The sculptor's willing to share it?”

“They use some of the same equipment.”

“It's a great location.” Ryan looked around the high, wide space. “And clean. Must have been expensive. How'd you find it?”

“Heard about a Chapter 11. Bank was going to repossess it, so I made an offer.”

“Where we going now?” Ryan wondered if he might get another cup of coffee on the way.

“A shopping center about a mile from here. We bought it about the same time as the warehouse.”

That “we” sounded very good.

“Has a good family restaurant in it. Home-cooked food, popular with the locals.”

“Nice. Have we closed on the properties?”

“A few days ago.”

“Great,” Ryan said.

He was amazed. They were worth millions, as in multiple millions. He wondered where his father got that much money.

Until five months ago, Tagama would invite Ryan to dinner and take him to his golf club once a month, but they didn't interact much. They didn't talk about business, and often his father's colleagues, foreigners with vague but important titles, were around.

When Tagama invited his son to join Mālua LLC as a principal partner, the timing couldn't have been better. Ryan and a friend had just decided their gelato business wouldn't support the two of them. He thought he might have to persuade Lara to move to Honolulu, where jobs were more plentiful, and he'd been in turmoil at the prospect. But Tagama said he wanted to work with his son, get to know him as a man, and leave him a legacy for the future.

“Did you turn over some other properties to buy these?” Ryan asked.

Tagama gave Ryan a sideways glance, but answered. “I had two houses in Kahala and two on Waialae Iki Ridge. Nice, desirable neighborhoods on O‘ahu. Made some good money.”

Ryan didn't ask how his father had bought those. He knew the areas. One of his friends, a lawyer, had bought a ridge home a year ago for two million.

Ryan knew his father had made astute investments over the years, and was delighted to be his partner in commercial real estate. His income had skyrocketed to the point that he hardly knew what to do with it. Brokerage houses loved him; someone from Merrill Lynch called at least once a week.

He played it down around his old friends. Marini, in particular, was still barely scraping by with gelato. Riley Murakami's tattoo parlor was marginal, too. These were good guys, and Ryan hoped they got out of the hole. Maybe he could help them out some day.