Diamond Head (16 page)

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Authors: Charles Knief

BOOK: Diamond Head
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I
woke again when Kate got out of bed. Early morning light filtered through the blinds. She closed the bathroom door, but did not lock it.
I lay awake and calculated that I'd spent nearly thirty hours in this apartment. By now Thompson should be convinced I had drowned, died of a gunshot wound or been eaten by sharks. I'd have to give it another day to be certain the watchers were called off. Until I was ready to make my move I couldn't risk going outside. Even with a population of nearly a million souls, Oahu is a tiny island. You'll run into the people you know everywhere you go. It's like a small town in that respect. It's nice, running into friends. If you make an enemy, you'll keep running into that person too. I'm convinced that's one of the reasons why people are so friendly in Hawaii. The Aloha Spirit is the child of necessity. You can't go anywhere else. You can't hide within the crowd as you can in a city on the mainland. There's a crowd here, but the faces are all too familiar.
If I went out, the chances were good that one of Thompson's people might see me. Thompson might not run if he thought I was dead. But if he knew I was alive there was no
predicting what he might do. It would be more difficult and dangerous to approach him.
Which was just what I planned on doing when I felt a little better.
I needed some things off
Duchess
but there was no way I could get to them. My boat would be safe at the marina, even from Thompson's people. I could get along without anything as long as I remained here but once I started moving around again my needs would be more complicated.
I decided to keep it simple and stay where I'd been told to stay.
Kate came out of the bathroom, a towel in front of her, another turbaned in her hair. “I'm going for my run. How do you feel?” She came to the bed and kissed me and the towel fell away.
“I feel wonderful,” I said, and it was true.
“You'll be all right?”
I assured her I was fine and sat back to watch her dress. It had been a long time since a woman had been so comfortable with me she felt she could dress in my presence. It had a familiar intimacy I liked and had missed.
She tied her shoes. “Don't go out for any reason. I'll bring a morning paper back with me.” She kissed me again. “Coffee's ready when you want some.”
She unlocked the door and was gone.
I got out of bed and tried my exercises. Putting my feet on the chair for my push-ups made the top of my head feel like someone was hitting me behind the ear with a hammer. I tried sit-ups and found they strained my leg and sent stabs of white pain that went right off the dolorometer. I decided to let my body rest for a couple of days.
I showered, mindful of Kate's warning that the bathroom was her sole territory when she returned. She had been explicit and I respected her honesty.
I was drying off, patting my skin rather than rubbing, when
she came back carrying a newspaper and humming something from
South Pacific.
She smiled at me, dark eyes flashing, communicating her feelings across the room. She stripped off her sweaty clothes and hung them on a wicker frame near the open window, then went to the kitchen. It gave me pleasure to watch her walk across the room, her lithe figure sparkling with sweat. She seemed so healthy her skin glowed.
“You take anything in your coffee?” Kate's voice floated from the kitchen. I was still rooted in the same place I'd been standing when she'd come bounding into the room, so full of energy even inanimate objects such as the furniture soaked up her vitality.
“No.”
She returned to the bedroom bearing two steaming mugs. I couldn't take my eyes from her body while she set the mugs on the dresser.
“It's all yours,” I said, meaning the bathroom.
She smiled and turned to me.
“It's all yours,” she replied, spreading her arms toward me. I knew what she meant. I stood closer to her, inhaling her fragrance. Her perspiration had a sweet tang to it. It made me want to taste it.
“You're going to make me late for work,” she murmured.
I knelt in front of her, my hands against the backs of her thighs, feeling smooth muscles tighten beneath my palms. “How many times have you been late for work?”
There was a silence, as if she were actually considering the question.
“Not once,” she said. “Not yet.” And she pressed her body to my hungry mouth.
 
“If I jump into the shower right now and hurry I might even make it,” said Kate, glancing toward her clock radio.
I rolled away as she bounded across the bedroom into the bathroom, leaving the door open.
I heard the shower door open and close and the spray start. She squealed from the shock of the cold water. She'd be out of the shower before the water warmed. Feeling silly padding naked around her place, I put on the white robe and took the coffee mugs to the kitchen, poured the cold coffee down the sink and refilled both mugs.
When I came back to the bedroom she was already out of the shower. I handed her a cup.
“Thanks,” she said, and took a quick sip and set it down. “Ouch! Hot!” She began dressing. I watched every snap, every roll of the nylon.
“I'm not sure you're good for me,” she said. “Yes! I am sure. You might hurt my career but you're good for me!” She ran back to the bathroom.
She came out five minutes later, completely dressed, her hair and makeup in place. There was no hint she'd been engaged in physical pleasures less than fifteen minutes before. I was impressed and a little disappointed.
“Don't leave the apartment for any reason!” she said, grabbing her purse and briefcase.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I mean it.”
“Don't forget your coffee,” I said, feeling like a housewife.
She took the mug, kissed me and closed the door. All the energy left the apartment. I took off the robe and took another shower. I shampooed my hair and face. This was the second day I hadn't shaved and there was the beginning of heavy beard growth. I found a pink plastic razor and scraped my face as well as I could, using shampoo as shaving cream. I was careful but I cut myself twice. More of my already depleted blood supply leaked down the drain.
That was going to have to stop or I'd be nearly white from loss of blood.
I decided to call Max. It was time to let him know what had been going on and to ask for his help. Just a little help, nothing serious to get him in trouble. There were some things I wanted off
Duchess,
some things I'd feel better about having with me once I left the confines of my mink-lined prison. If Max didn't know someone who could get on and off my boat without being seen, the navy had become seriously deficient since my tenure.
A young voice with a heavy Southern drawl answered the telephone, giving me the unit identification and warning me that it was not a secure line.
“This is John Caine. Is Senior Chief White available?”
“Yes, sir. He said to connect you as soon as you called. Can you hold, sir?”
“Of course.”
I didn't have to wait long.
“John. I heard you had some trouble.”
“Not much. I know what I need to know. The first part of the operation is over.” I sketched out the basics of what I'd learned, partly for him, partly for me. “I'm in hiding now, getting my strength back.”
“I heard you got shot again.”
“You've got a source at HPD?”
“Same leg, I heard,” he replied, not answering my question.
“It's got a lead magnet, Max. Nothing serious.”
“What do you need?”
“A face-to-face would be nice.”
“Can't do that right now. Two days.”
“A couple pints of blood wouldn't hurt, then.”
“What can I really do for you?”
I decided not to reveal the information Thompson had given me until I had my face-to-face with Max. “Can you get someone aboard
Duchess
today? Without being seen?”
He laughed. “I'll run it as an exercise. The boys'll love it.”
“Thompson may have somebody watching the marina.”
“Whatever. They'll never know. What do you need?”
I told him, giving him the whole list.
“I'll have one of the local boys from Ford Island deliver it. Where are you?”
I told him. “It's a high-security building. You can't get in without keys and electronic security cards.”
“You have been out of harness for a long time. Would it stop you?”
“No.”
“My boys are young, John, but they're not babies. Even the ones who look like babies can bite. They'll be there with what you need in two hours.”
“There's no rush.”
“The men have to have a schedule. No stress, no fun. Two hours.”
 
 
M
y briefcase arrived one hour and fifty-three minutes later. I knew the exact time because the young man who delivered it handed me a buck slip along with my briefcase. He was seven minutes early.
“Senior Chief White wanted you to sign for it,” he told me, proud of his achievement and wanting to show off a little. “He wanted you to know that things haven't gone entirely downhill since you left.”
I was beginning to like the kid.
“Everything there?”
“Cellular telephone, knife, your forty-five, ammunition and your watch and wallet. Everything on my list, sir. Anything else you wanted?”
“You have trouble finding anything?”
“No, sir. I like your
Atlas of Asia.”
“You got an extra Phrobis handy?”
He reached under his blue Aloha shirt and pulled out the black SEAL knife, a twin of the one Thompson had taken from me. “Here,” he said. “You might need it.”
I took the little knife and felt the edge of the blade. It could draw blood.
“Thanks,” I said. “You have any trouble? Was anyone watching my boat?”
“She's being watched, sir. Two men, maybe three, alternating locations. They're now being watched. We'll see where they go.”
“Did Chief White ask you to do that?”
The young man seemed surprised by my question. “No, sir. He didn't. I'm running this as part of the exercise.”
I smiled at that. Max would have denied them permission to interfere with the investigation. This young fellow was acting on his own initiative. I understood that. It's always easier to do something and later be told you shouldn't have than to ask permission and be told you can't. This man had a future if he didn't shoot down his own career first.
“Mr. Caine?”
I knew what was coming. He wanted in. I didn't blame him. In his place, at his age and with his training I'd do the same thing.
“I'd like to say, uh, if you need anything, anything at all, uh, here's my pager number.” He handed me a slip of paper with a local telephone number scrawled across it.
“This authorized?”
“No, sir. I'd be on my own time.”
I looked at him carefully. He was eager and competent, and dangerous. A backup.
“What's your name?”
“Jeff, sir.”
“Thank you, Jeff,” I said. “I'll hang on to this.”
“Twenty-four hours, sir. Me and Doug, that's my partner. We discussed it. Call us anytime. We'll come.”
What do you say to that? The offer was genuine, and unlike most offers of assistance this one had weight behind it. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that. You never know.”
He nodded. “I know.”
I understood that to mean exactly what he said. He
knew.
“Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks again. I hope I won't need it.” I closed the door. He would find his own way out. That wasn't a problem, considering the fire codes. These buildings were designed to keep people from coming in. Getting out was easy. Unauthorized entry of a high-security building was a formidable task, but one that didn't seem to have bothered young Jeff at all.
I took the briefcase to the kitchen table and opened it. My pocket cellular telephone and its charger rested on one side of the case, my Colt .45 was nestled in its pancake holster on the other. Eight magazines surrounded the pistol.
I picked up one of the Devel clips and checked it. It was loaded. Bright brass showed through the view ports at the sides of the magazine. Two additional boxes of cartridges were stored on the bottom of the briefcase where they would not tend to move during transit. My Buckmaster was there with the leather shoulder rig I'd had made for it in Hong Kong. My Rolex and my wallet were also in the case.
I found Kate's gun cleaning kit, spread the morning newspaper over the top of her kitchen table, disassembled the Colt and cleaned and oiled it, piece by piece. I unloaded and disassembled each magazine and cleaned its component parts, too, making sure that each spring was in proper position and had the proper tension. I oiled and greased the slide of the Colt and assembled the big pistol again. Then I carefully loaded each of the magazines. When I was finished I loaded one of the eight-round magazines into the butt of the automatic.
Now I felt whole.
I don't like guns. They are noisy and dangerous and they kill people. They bestow a deadly power on people who, upon reflection, might not have hurt anyone seriously if the means weren't so handy, or on people who are too emotionally unstable to handle any kind of power in the first place. They are far too easy to use and require no training to be lethal.
Emotionally I tend to agree with the antigun lobby that people
should not be allowed to possess them. I also don't like the idea of governments having nuclear weapons. Any government. But both the guns and the bomb are realities, have been since before my birth. Once those genies were out of the bottle there is no way to put them back inside. Technology is a wonderful thing but it is also risky. Once a weapon is loosed upon society it stays out there until it is replaced by something even more fearsome. Reality, like truth, can't be outlawed, can't be called back, and can never be stamped out simply because it presents an unpleasantness. If the opposition was armed—and I had a throbbing reminder high up on the back of my leg that the opposition was not only armed, but armed with automatic weapons—I'd be crazy to consider going up against them with anything less than my own firepower. I trusted the Colt. Like me, it had history.
I had my personal arsenal spread out in front of me and was honing my Buckmaster when Kate came home. She looked from the Colt to the big knife, surprise showing on her face in spite of her attempt to hide it.
“You went out.” It was a statement that bordered on accusation. She'd been planning on kissing me, or hugging me, but there was no intimacy now. The fact of the weapons had created an invisible wall.
“It was delivered,” I said, continuing to sharpen the blade.
“Somebody I know?”
“Probably not.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked at me as she digested that piece of news.
“Thompson's boat is being repaired,” she said. “One of his thugs went down to the boat yard this morning and paid to have
Pele
hauled and repaired. Apparently there is some sort of a rush on the order. I've been told a premium was paid to get the work done quickly. You should be proud of yourself. From what I heard you cost him a small fortune.”
“Any sign of him?”
“He hasn't been seen at his office and if he is in the house in Haleiwa he didn't show himself all day. We've got close surveillance on both the boat and the house.” She shook her hair out of her eyes, wiping her forehead with one slender hand. She seemed unhappy and preoccupied.
“We got a positive ID on one of the men you fought with downtown at Honolulu Hale the other day. His name's William Stone, aka Stony. Originally from New York where he collected seven misdemeanors, drifted out to California where he did the weight club circuit and worked as a bouncer and sometime enforcer. He got into trouble three years ago in San Francisco. Aggravated assault. Served six months of an eighteen-month sentence, then dropped out of sight. He was wanted for parole violation and for questioning about some felony strong-arm robberies in Los Angeles.
“You put him in the hospital with a broken spleen and damaged kidneys. He had an emergency operation at Queens the day after your fight.”
“He's low budget and not very smart. And he's in a tight spot,” I said. “He'll talk to you.”
She pursed her lips, concentrating.
“He was willing to,” she said.
“Was? What changed his mind?”
“He knew about some of the things Thompson was into. We offered to ease up on him a little after sentencing. You know, put in a good word with the judge to give him a little less stiff sentence?”
“Not a plea bargain?”
“We don't do that when we've got them by the balls. He was a parole violator, not a defendant. The feds filed on him for interstate flight. He was going back inside. Anyway, he'd agreed to give us a short statement. Somebody got to him first.”
“Dead?”
“In the hospital. The night nurse found him last night, throat cut ear to ear.”
“You didn't have a guard on him?”
She shook her head. “Guy got a phone call. Went down the hall for two minutes. The nurse found Stone before the guard got back. A quick in and out. Very professional.”
“Wow,” I said. From what I had seen of Thompson's people, none of them were of that caliber. They were thugs, getting along by being bullies. They might shoot you in the back but they would not cut your throat. That took a special kind of toughness I hadn't seen in them.
“I know. The captain's hot. And you have an alibi. If I were not absolutely certain of your whereabouts last night I'd be suspicious.”
I laughed, but then realized she was serious. She was looking at the Phrobis knife on the table and the big one in my hand.
“Thompson plays rough, doesn't he?”
“Yeah.”
“But you can't prove it's connected to him.”
Her beeper went off. She looked at the display and frowned. “The boss,” she said. She went to the kitchen phone and made the call. The conversation was short and I got the impression it was not friendly. But something had happened. I could almost see the hair on the back of her neck rise. She hung up and looked at me.
“Pele'
s going back in the water this evening. The yard got the call from Thompson and they called us. We can make it if we hurry.”
“Thompson's going to be there?”
“We don't know, but we don't think so. His crew is picking up the boat and taking it out. The captain thinks that Thompson is going to meet the boat somewhere.”
I started packing my weapons into the briefcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my gear.”
“You're not going anywhere with that stuff. You're staying out of this.”
“Then why am I going?”
She shook her head. “Because I don't trust you alone. Pack up your stuff and stow it here. Get dressed. You're going with me. I don't want to have to arrest you tonight.”

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