5 Murder at Volcano House (10 page)

Another siren. Soon through my clouded vision I see flashing lights in front Mrs. Fujiyama’s shop. Two medical techs rush in, see my bloody hand towel, and kneel down in front of me.

“We better get that looked at by a doc,” one says.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”

“We can’t take you against your will, sir,” says the other, “but you really should have it looked at.”

I nod.

They put me on a gurney, wheel me to the ambulance, with Mrs. Fujiyama and her
lei
girls looking on. I should feel like a hero.

Before long we’re at Queens Medical Center emergency room. The good thing about coming to the hospital in an ambulance is that you get to see someone immediately. I’m quickly processed and put on an examination table behind drawn curtains. A nurse has me remove my bloody shirt and then a doc looks me over. The nurse cleans the wound. Whatever she uses makes it sting again. Then the doc shines a floodlight on it and looks closely.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he says. “An adhesive strip should do the trick. No stitches today. Unless you want some?” He cracks a smile.

What’s with the humor of ER doctors?
I almost say

“Stay out of the ocean for a few days,” he says. “You’re a surfer, right?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Those teeth marks on your chest,” he says. “Dead giveaway.”

My shark bite
. I don’t like his choice of words. But I repeat: “Stay out of the ocean.”

After a cab ride I’m back at the office with more adhesive strips and ointment and a list of instructions. When I check myself out in the mirror in the closet-sized bathroom used by Mrs. Fujiyama’s five office tenants, I’m surprised that the strip the nurse put on my forehead camouflages the entire wound.

I get off easy. But I keep hearing Junior’s menacing voice inside my head: “Nex’ time I
kill
you!”

seventeen

By Friday Ashley still hasn’t returned my call. Neither has the guy named Ethan.
Does nobody in Denver return calls?
I’m wondering even harder now why Ashley’s Hawaiian bracelet was at the scene of the accident when she wasn’t riding in the doomed car, and why Ethan’s phone number was in the glove box. I could leave each another message, but in my experience too many messages can make witnesses less willing to talk. In-person interviews are always best, but difficult when the persons are in Denver and I’m in Honolulu.

So I face a stack of papers on my desk begging to be filed, and prepare a bill for Donnie Ransom. I have feelings about billing her so soon after her husband’s death—a death I was hired to prevent—but I get over them. The charge on my credit card for the three-day rental for the Boxster alone is over a grand.

Before Friday is a-over, the bill is in the mail to Kāua‘i and I’m glad to put the Volcano House case behind me.

On Saturday, against my own advice, I leave two more voicemails for Denver. I don’t expect to hear soon from Ashley and Ethan, given recent history. But I’ve got to make something
happen. Even if I have to resort to something unorthodox—like hiring an undercover operative.

A young guy I know named Nicholas, an apprentice carpenter, really likes his beer. Nicholas is a big guy and looks older than his years. He’s just shy of twenty-one, the legal drinking age in Hawai‘i. Since it’s Saturday, he’ll be knocking back a few. I give him a call and make him an offer he can’t refuse. Today Nicholas is working for me.

I pick up Nicholas at the house off Kapahulu Avenue in Kaimuki he shares with another guy and a girl. I beep and he ambles out with an open beer in his hand. He’s got a big smile on his face, like he’s the happiest twenty-year-old on earth. Twenty year olds have a lot to be happy about.

“Hey, Nick,” I say, as he steps into the car. “Leave the beer here.”

“Shoots, Kai.” He sets the open bottle in the street. “Geev’ me five
, braaahh!”
The way he’s talking makes me wonder if he’s up to the task. But there’s no use doubting or turning back now. He’s my best shot.

I give him a high-five and ask: “You ready?”

“Right on!”
he says. And then: “Thanks again, man, for fin-din’ my tools. I hope that guy that took ‘em gets twenty freakin’ years.”

Nicholas is referring to the favor I did him. Somebody took a bunch of tools from his pickup truck. I tracked down the thief, tipped off HPD on where to find him, and recovered most of the tools. I doubt he’ll get much more than probation, but at least I nabbed him.

Once Nicholas is buckled in, I aim my old Impala toward downtown Honolulu to a club called the Lollipop Lounge. En route I give Nick instructions.

“Now here’s what you do,” I say. “You walk into the Lollipop, take a seat, and order a beer. Give the server your credit card when she brings the beer, and make sure you don’t leave without your signed receipt. Get the server’s name, if you can. I’ll come in after you, take another table, order a beer myself, and watch what happens. If you get carded, the game is up. We’ll try another club.”

“Got it,” he says. “My kind of work!”

When we get to the Lollipop Lounge, on a seedy block of Kona Street not far from Ala Moana Shopping Center, Nicholas follows my instructions to a tee. We’re in luck. Business is slow, late on a Saturday afternoon, and he doesn’t get carded. Nor does the server, a woman twice Nick’s age, notice that he’s already had enough to drink.

We’re here for a reason. I’m tying to establish that this club serves minors and intoxicated patrons. The Lollipop is the last club that served Heather and Lindsay Lindquist the night they died. The Lollipop also served the driver of the car.

Luck stays with us. I observe Nick, who is underage, being served when he is already clearly buzzed. I observe him using his credit card and getting a receipt. The receipt will have the time and date stamped on it and, of course, Nick’s own signature. For good measure, I also buy a beer and pay with my credit card, getting the name of the server from a tag that says S
TORMY
, in the event Nick doesn’t.

If the case goes to trial, and the Lollipop is a defendant, I may be deposed to present this evidence against their claims of not serving either the Lindquist twins or Fireball when they were intoxicated. If we’re really lucky the same server who served Nicholas was working the night the twins died.

I let Nicholas stay for a second beer, while I nurse the one I ordered. At the bottom of his second, I gesture to him to meet me outside. He does and I drive him home. The beer he left in the street in front of his Kaimuki house is still standing there.

“Take this inside,” I say to Nick. “T’anks, brah.”

He picks up the bottle, nods, and wobbles into his house. I’d feel bad about contributing to the delinquency of a minor if it wasn’t in the interest of stopping the kind of illegal practices that get other minors killed.

On the way back to my apartment on Ala Wai Boulevard my cell phone rings. It’s against the law in the City and County of Honolulu to talk on a hand-held cell phone while operating a motor vehicle. But when I think a call may be crucial sometimes I bend that law. If this one is from Denver I really need to take it. I look in my rearview mirror. An HPD cruiser, a white Crown Victoria, is right behind me.
Damn!
I don’t even look at caller ID. I let the phone ring.

I can only hope if this call is from Ashley or Ethan that she or he leaves a message. One or both may have information that could help me wrap up the Pali case. But there’s nothing I can do now. That HPD cruiser is still riding my bumper.

About a minute later my cell phone beeps.
Phew
. I have a new voicemail. Once I pull into my parking spot at the Edgewater I dial my voicemail and hear a young woman’s voice.
Ashley at last?

“Hello, Kai,” she says. A promising start. “May I see you on Monday?”

Better than I expected. But the message doesn’t sound right. Why would Ashley ask to see me in my office? All I requested was a return phone call. Plus, the pleasant female
voice sounds sophisticated, with none of the rising pitch at sentence endings—
Like everything is a question, you know?
—of Heather and Lindsay Lindquist’s other friends I’ve interviewed.

Then comes the answer.

“My name is Caitlin Ransom. I’m Rex Ransom’s daughter.”

Rex Ransom’s daughter wants to see me?

“I understand you were with my father at Hawai‘ i Volcanoes National Park. I would like to talk with you about . . .” she pauses, “his death.” Then an even longer pause. “Sorry, this is hard for me.”

I try to remember if I have a box of tissues in my office. This could be a tearful meeting.

Caitlin Ransom leaves her number in that lovely voice and says she hopes to hear from me soon. I call her back immediately. The phone rings and then her voicemail kicks in.

“Aloha, Caitlin,” I say. “Kai Cooke. I’d be happy to see you on Monday. Around nine? If that’s okay, no need to call back. I’m very sorry about your father.”

I hang up.
And wonder
.

eighteen

On Sunday morning we still have vog and I still haven’t heard from Denver. But I’m still stoked about scoring big with Nicholas at the Lollipop Lounge.

I’m hanging out this morning at the Waikīkī Edgewater with the Sunday newspaper. When I was a
keiki
, Sunday was family day. My mom and dad and I would take a picnic to the beach, go for a hike or a drive, or visit my auntie’s
ohana
in Punalu‘u. It didn’t really matter what we did—as long as we did it together.

I scan the front page. I don’t have a problem with being alone on Sunday. I can always go surfing. Never mind the scratch over my eye. Never mind doctor’s orders.

I flip pages to the local news and see this:

Overcome by fumes?
You’d think that would quiet talk of Pele’s revenge. Or would it? Was I right to think Ransom’s worst threat was the noxious air near the craters?

Still no mention of the young woman in red who approached Ransom on the trail before he died. Or the warning note. Should I bring these up at my Monday meeting with Ransom’s daughter?

The Volcano House case just won’t go away. Sitting around on Sunday morning doesn’t help. I slip on my board shorts and grab my wax. Hard to believe I haven’t been in the water since going to the Big Island.
Sorry, Doc
.

Then I get a better idea. Why not take the golden boy?
If Maile will return my call
. I grab my cell, punch in her number, and take a breath. She won’t answer. But I’m used to that.

Her phone rings and then I hear her warm familiar voice: “Hi, you’ve reached Maile Barnes, tracer of missing pets. How can I help?”
If she only knew
.

“Hi, Maile. It’s me again. Okay if I take Kula surfing? Been a while since the boy’s been in the water. Would you please give me a call? It’s now”—I check my watch—“almost nine on Sunday morning. I can pick him up in thirty minutes.”

I could say a few other things about missing her and hoping she forgives me, but I don’t. She’s heard it all. I just say goodbye.

Now the waiting game. I’m stuck until I hear from Maile.

So I reflect on how I messed up. I finally reconnect with the woman of my dreams. And then the relationship goes up in smoke. I could blame it all on Madison Highcamp. She told Maile in a drunken phone call that she—Madison and I—were engaged. It was a lie, but the message stung. Maile had been burned before. She said
never again
. I tried explaining, but no
dice. My mistake was not breaking up with Madison sooner. No, my mistake was dating the rich, idle, tycoon’s wife in the first place.

My phone beeps. It’s a text message from Maile: “OK. Kula in yard.”

That’s it.

The ex-K9 cop is conveniently not around when I arrive at her Mānoa cottage.
No surprise
. Maile’s feelings run deep. She doesn’t get over things quickly. And I have to admit—I hurt her. Kula is like a child of divorce, and I have visitation rights.

I walk around to the back yard and there he is—mane and feathering luminous in the sun. He glides toward me with the grace of a stallion. His blond lashes set off dark brown eyes.
Golden boy
. I open the gate and he sidles up to me.

“Hey, Kula.” I stroke his sunny fur. “Let’s hit the waves.”

He barks. His tail sweeps like a golden plume.
He’s stoked already
.

From Maile’s carport I fetch the tandem board on perpetual loan from my cousin Alika and strap it on my roof racks. Then Kula and I head for the surf. The retriever sticks his head out the window—fleecy ears flapping in the breeze. He’s got a big goofy smile on his face.

Dogs aren’t allowed in Waikīkī. That’s why we pull into Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park, to the uncrowded break called Flies. When Kula hears the waves crashing beyond the dune and smells the salt spray he goes ballistic. A boy after my own heart.