Final Answers (18 page)

“Another thing I can’t figure is, why a guy who’s AWOL would go to Vientiane. Why not Bangkok or Hong Kong?”

“Beats me,” the colonel sighs. “You’re sure you’ve eliminated all other scenarios, Top?”

“Positive. When you get right down to it, sir, it’s all just a formality anyway.” The sergeant lays the file on the colonel’s desk and opens it, revealing a photograph of Pettibone.

The colonel’s jaw drops.

So does mine.

The resemblance is striking. Bartlett was right. This guy was damn near my double. As I stare transfixed at the photograph, it dawns on me that I finally have a name. It’s totally meaningless now.

“Good going, Top,” Webster enthuses. “Next, find out if Sean Surigao was ever in the military.”

The sparkle in the sergeant’s eyes intensifies. “Did his tour in ’68. Crewed a dustoff chopper. Guess who he flew with?”

“Pettibone,” the colonel and I say in unison.

“Pettibone,” the sergeant confirms smartly.

The big pieces to the puzzle just locked into place. We have the connection to the past: Pettibone and Surigao were ferrying drugs, heroin undoubtedly, in their chopper from an unknown supplier to Ajacier at the Ton Son Nhut mortuary. He shipped it to the family funeral home in San Francisco where distribution was handled. And we have the connection to the present: Surigao, the only one who made it back, subsequently went into business with Ajacier’s family.

We have a lot of answers, but not all of them. We still don’t know how they were doing it then, or how they’re using the CIL to do it now. Considering I’ve barely been here five hours, I should be elated. In a way I am, but down deep, I don’t really give a damn about any of it, because I don’t have the man who killed Nancy—which is the only thing I really want.

I
’m in the Army van, heading to my hotel.

The colonel was shaken by what we’d discovered and wanted to sleep on it before deciding how he was going to proceed. We agreed to reconvene in his office in the morning. I’m a little shell-shocked myself, and it’s been an usually long day with the change of time zones. I was looking forward to relaxing at the hotel. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get the chance.

My driver didn’t notice the car that came from the pier opposite the CIL as we departed, but I did. It’s been somewhere behind us all the way into Waikiki. I’m keeping an eye on it in the side-view mirror, while she tells me about making corporal and training as a casualty data analyst. Her nose is pugged and her eyes are set a little too far apart, but in her jungle fatigues with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows, there’s a dynamic “Be All You Can Be” air about her.

The car that’s tailing us keeps moving in and out of the mirror. A woman is behind the wheel, an Asian woman who looks familiar. We’re a few blocks from the hotel on Kalakaua Avenue—Waikiki’s equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue, or Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills—when traffic slows and the car comes close enough for me to get a good look at her: attractive, pronounced cheekbones, dark hair worn back. It’s the woman in the colonel’s snapshot. It’s Carla.

I’m not surprised Surigao has her following me. There’s a far greater chance I’d spot him. But he’s made a mistake. My plan to
use her to get to him had died in the starting blocks. He’s just breathed new life into it.

I notice the traffic light up ahead changing from green to yellow. “Do me a favor,” I say casually to my driver. “There’s a shop I’d like to check out. Would you mind dropping me at the corner and taking my bags to the hotel?”

“Sure, Mr. Morgan. No problem.”

“Great,” I say as she maneuvers toward the curb at the intersection of Lewers. “Just have the concierge set them aside until I get there.”

The light changes to red.

As traffic behind us slows, I slip out of the van and get lost in the crowd of pedestrians waiting at the crosswalk. My hand goes into my pocket for the pistol. My eyes track Carla’s car. It comes to a stop in the middle lane. I step into the street and weave swiftly between a few vehicles, using a panel truck for cover so I can approach from behind without being seen. I cock the Beretta and flick the safety off as I dart forward. A quick glance to the backseat confirms Surigao isn’t lurking there, confirms they haven’t lured me into a trap. I yank open the passenger door, and get in next to Carla.

She whirls in surprise. “Hey?!”

“Just act like we’re old friends.” I ease the pistol from my pocket so she can see it, then, using our bodies to shield it from view, press it into her side. “I’ll use it if I have to, you understand?”

She nods, her dark, canted eyes widening in fear, widening as I imagine Nancy’s did when Carla’s husband forced her off the road into Malibu Canyon. “Please don’t hurt me.”

I shrug, unmoved. “Why not? Your husband killed my wife.”

“My husband?” she asks, her lips trembling.

“This is no time for games. Just take me to him.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“I meant what I said.”

“So . . . so . . . so did I,” she stammers. “I’ll show you. In my bag. My driver’s license.” She reaches for the purse on the seat between us.

I move fast and toss the purse over my shoulder into the backseat before she gets hold of it, before she gets her hands on the gun that might be inside it. Besides, her husband had a phony license, she’s probably got one too. Mrs. Captain Sullivan.

“Please, what do you want?” she whimpers.

“Your husband, dammit. I told you. Now, where the hell is he?”

“At work.”

“Where?!”

“The Black Orchid. He’s a waiter. He—”

“Sure.”

“That’s the truth. He—”

“Okay. Let’s go there,” I say, calling her bluff. “Come on. The light’s changing. Move it.”

She steels herself and drives off, continuing east on Kalakaua. I’ve no idea where she’s going. We’ve traveled only a few blocks when something dawns on me, something so fundamental that I know beyond any doubt our destination no longer matters.

“You’re right,” I say, feeling foolish and embarrassed. “I’ve made a mistake. Please, pull over and I’ll get out.”

She glances at me in disbelief.

I nod reassuringly.

She sighs with relief, and wastes no time maneuvering through traffic to the curb.

“I’m sorry I frightened you. I hope you believe me, I really am sorry.”

She nods, trembling, her eyes wide with questions.

I stare at her, hoping she’ll see the sincerity in mine. “I’m not a criminal. I’m a victim, an angry one. I know this is going to sound strange, but if you possibly can, I’d appreciate it if you’d just forget this ever happened. I mean, you could make things very difficult for me if you went to the police, do you understand?”

She nods again.

“I’m very sorry. I wish there was a way I could make it up to you.” I get out and close the door.

She tromps on the gas and screeches away.

I stand there shaken, trying to get hold of myself. Finally, I start walking in the direction of the hotel. She may have resembled the woman in the colonel’s snapshot, but I’d let my paranoia get the best of me and overreacted. Then, having done so, I’d almost completely overlooked the obvious—the poor woman had no Filipino accent.

I bear right from Kalakaua into the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center, a multilevel complex of department stores, tourist shops, and pricey boutiques. I emerge on the opposite side into a twisting
knot of narrow streets, finally making my way to Kalia Road where the hotel is located.

The Halekulani is an oasis of tranquil luxury smack in the middle of Waikiki’s frenzy of gridlocked traffic and swarming tourists. There are no doors or entrances, just a waterfall flanked by porticoed approaches that are completely open, as is the circular lobby. Once the lone hotel on Oahu’s south shore, it’s now one of a dozen in tight formation along the beach—about a fifteen-minute walk from where Carla and Sean Surigao were living.

While I register, the check-in clerk arranges to have my bags brought to my room, then he hands me a magnetic card key and a telephone message.

It’s from Kate Ackerman.

I’m tired and unnerved and not sure if I’m up to talking to anyone. I take the elevator to the ninth floor. It’s a corner room with a southeast exposure: bright white-on-white decor, tasteful prints, wide louvers, views of the Pacific and Diamond Head. It has little effect on my mood. I’m checking the place out when the bellman arrives. I unpack glumly, then decide Kate’s chatty ebullience might do me some good and pick up the phone.

“Kate? Cal Morgan.”

“Well hi, how’re you doing?’

“Not bad. My office tell you I was here?”

“No, the Colonel’s secretary. She called to set up a meeting for tomorrow and said he thought I’d want to know you were in town.”

“Nice of him,” I say, recalling Webster said the same to me about her. Now, more than ever, I suspect he has an ulterior motive. Kate’s an attractive woman, but the colonel knows about Nancy. I can’t imagine he’s playing matchmaker. He’s up to something. I don’t know what. “It sounds like things’re working out for you.”

“Yes. I can’t believe it. It becomes official tomorrow. I’m so excited.”

“That’s great.”

“My God!” Kate suddenly exclaims as if she’d just realized dinner was burning. “I almost forgot. The last time we talked you were meeting with someone from the CIL. A Captain—”

“Sullivan.”

“Right. Well what happened? You were supposed to let me know.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a long story.”

“I love long stories. You know the hau tree?”

“Sure.”

“I’m right next door at the Sheraton. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. What do you say?”

“It’s been a hell of a day. I’m kind of pooped. I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

“Come on. We can have a cocktail, watch the sunset, and you can tell me all about it.”

“Look. I’m going to be here for a while. Why don’t we—”

“Hey, this is a special day for me. You really going to let me celebrate alone?”

“I think I just went into escrow.”

She laughs. “Ten minutes.”

“Make it a half hour, okay? I just checked in.”

I head into the shower. The high-tech fixtures deliver the therapeutic massage they promised. I stand limply, watching the water swirling down the polished drain in a perfect spiral. My mind wanders, but I know where it’s headed: Laos. Champasak Province. 18 April 1968. That nurse was right. No Rockette audition for me. Not with these legs. The scars have softened and blurred over the years along with the memories, but lately, painful moments keep surfacing with the sting of hot shrapnel.

Ten minutes later, I’m toweling off and feeling refreshed when I notice the message light on the phone is flashing. Someone called while I was in the shower. I slip into one of the terry cloth robes with the decorative
H
embroidered on the pocket, then call the desk for the message: Sergeant Daniels of the Los Angeles Police returned my call. I get him back and ask what they’ve found out in San Francisco.

“Let’s talk about Vegas, first,” Daniels counters. “We followed up with Sergeant Figueroa. Remember him?”

“Like a bad meal.”

“He busted a brothel last week. One of the hookers copped a plea. Traded some information for a reduced charge. She said about a month ago some guy hired her and a girlfriend to drug a businessman at the Stardust and get him up to a room. The guy was waiting there and injected the businessman with something.”

“It was Sullivan, wasn’t it,” I say.

“The hooker didn’t know the guy’s name. So we pulled a copy
of Sullivan’s driver’s license from the DMV and faxed it to Vegas. They put it in a photo lineup with a bunch of mug shots. She picked him out right away.”

“Just like on television.”

“Very funny. Your turn. Anything?”

“Sullivan’s an alias.”

“That mean you found him?”

“Where he was living.” I give Daniels the name Surigao and spell it out. That’s all I give him, honoring my pledge to the colonel to keep the CIL out of it until after we meet in the morning. “What’d you find out in San Francisco?”

“Weird. The address on the driver’s license turned out to be a mortuary.”

“Military one?”

“No. A funeral parlor. A place over in North Beach. Golden Gate Mortuary Services.”

I stifle a gasp. At least he can’t see my reaction. “Who’s the owner?”

“Man’s name’s Messina. James Messina. We went up there and talked to him. He was as baffled as we were. Claimed he didn’t know anything about it. Said he never heard of Sullivan.”

I resist the temptation to say this guy Messina’s lying through his teeth and, instead, prompt, “Wouldn’t the license have been mailed to that address?”

“I didn’t say we believed him.”

“My mistake.”

“Let’s go back to Sullivan.”

“Surigao.”

“I know. I got it. You saying he’s there?”

“He was. Probably still is.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Last time I was in Hawaii was on my honeymoon—with my first wife.”

I hang up, my mind racing: Daniels and Molina are accident investigators. They’re not familiar with the intricacies of corporate structures. But I am, and I have a feeling I know what’s going on. One phone call to my office and I’ll know whether or not I’m right, but it’s almost 8:30
P.M.
in Los Angeles. Besides, I need some information from Colonel Webster before I can make it. I get into
some casual clothes, slip the pistol into my pocket, and hurry from the room.

The hau tree, where I’m meeting Kate Ackerman, isn’t a bar or cocktail lounge, it’s a tree, a famous one on the grounds of the Halekulani. I come out of the elevator and am cutting through the porticoed shopping arcade when I spot her sitting in a lounger beneath the canopy of delicate foliage.

According to legend, this botanical rarity is more than two hundred years old. It was here when Captain Cook dropped anchor in 1778, when the Hawaiian monarchy was deposed over a hundred years later, when Pearl Harbor was attacked, and when the first casualties from Vietnam arrived. Its gnarled silver-gray trunk and branches twist skyward in an appropriately anguished gesture.

“Hi there,” Kate calls out with an enthusiastic wave as I approach. She looks different. Faded jeans and T-shirt have replaced the tailored suit. Her carefully groomed hair now tumbles in soft curls to her shoulders. Designer sunglasses serve as a headband, keeping it away from her face.

“Hi,” I reply, forcing a smile, as I straddle the lounger opposite her. “Good to see you.”

“I’m relieved,” she says with a disarming smile. “I thought maybe it was something I said.”

“Sorry. A shower does wonders for my disposition.”

“So? Did you get the soldier’s name?”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“That’s great.”

“Sure is.”

“Sure is? That’s it? You don’t sound very excited.”

“Well, you were right. The guy was AWOL. Turns out he was a drug smuggler who was being hunted by the DEA. He stole my ID to escape.”

She cocks her head to one side with uncertainty. “Come on, you’re putting me on?”

“I wish I was.”

“Oh, that’s just awful. I’m really sorry.”

“It gets better,” I say, looking around nervously. Directly beyond the hau tree is a public walkway that runs along the top of the seawall, connecting the hotels. A steady stream of pedestrians in attire ranging from wet suits and string bikinis to blazers with ascots parade in both directions. I have visions of Surigao walking
right past us and calmly blowing my brains out without breaking stride. A pistol with a silencer rolled up in a large beach towel would do the job nicely. “I’m not even sure we should be sitting out here like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how it is when you start turning over rocks. You keep it up long enough you eventually hit one with a snake under it.”