Текст книги "Spider Bones"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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“HI, SWEETIE.” I WAS FOLLOWING DANNY TOWARD A LIGHT BOX located against the left wall of the lab.

“Don’t you dare sweetie me. I can’t believe you made me do this.”

Katy’s tone was pure outrage.

“This vacation was supposed to be fun. Surfing? Diving? Aloha? Remember? Alo-Ha! I’m a friggin’ taxi service!”

I could hear traffic in the background. Something bluesy blasting from a radio.

“Where are you?”

“Heading home, that’s where I am. After cooling my heels for so long I thought I’d qualify for old-age benefits.”

I checked my watch. Four forty. Obviously the rendezvous had not gone well.

“Where is Lily?”

“No idea. Couldn’t care less.”

“You never connected?”

Behind me I sensed Ryan having essentially the same conversation.

“Oh, I found her. After sweltering in the car for almost an hour.”

How does one simultaneously swelter and cool one’s heels? I didn’t ask.

“The AC went out?”

“That’s not the point,” Katy said.

I caught a snippet of Ryan’s exchange.

“Katy, turn down the music.”

The noise level dropped a microdecibel.

“Did you leave Lily at the mall?”

“Do you have any idea how long I waited? I got there on time, early even. No Lily. I circled, thinking I might have misunderstood her instructions. No Lily. I waited some more. An hour after she told me to be there, the little bitch comes strolling out. Laughing, not a care in the world. And get this. She’s with some loser mall crawler thinks he’s 50 Cent.”

“You took off and left her?”

My gaze met Ryan’s. I could hear shrill indignation buzzing through his handset.

“As far as I’m concerned, Miss Island Diva can spend the rest of her life shopping her little black ass off.”

“Katy!”

“Ex-cuuus-ay-moi! Lily’s a prima donna junkie and everyone coddles her. Ask me, she’s heading for a smackdown.”

“Are you finished?”

Silence.

“Here’s what you will do.”

More silence.

“Are you listening?”

“Like I have a choice.”

I do not react well to histrionics. To me, drama queen displays are a waste of time and energy. My tone reinforced what my daughter already knew.

“Turn around. Go back to Ala Moana. Now.”

“Traffic is sick. It will take me forever.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“You’re down there, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You could pick her up.”

“Yes, I could.” Weighty pause. “Go back. Get Lily. Drive her to Lanikai.”

Ryan was laying parallel directives on his daughter.

“She won’t—”

“She’ll be there.” Sharp. “Ryan and I will be home at five thirty. At which time we will all have a nice little chat.”

I clicked off and looked at Ryan. He merely wagged his head.

Danny had 1968-979’s X-rays arranged beside the X-rays we’d just taken from Xander Lapasa’s file.

One glance told the story.

In both, a small white glob glowed in the first upper left molar. Though truncated on the postmortem film, the glob that remained in the molar was nearly identical to the top half of the glob on the antemortem film.

“Looks like Illinois,” I said.

“With everything south of Springfield broken off.” Danny pointed his pen at one of the bitewings. “And lookee here.”

I did.

An opaque line crossed the right mandibular ramus, near the junction of the vertical and horizontal parts of the jaw.

Danny shot out a hip. I bumped it with mine.

Dorky, I know. But we like doing it.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“When we examined 1968-979 we saw what we thought were old fractures. One in the shoulder and one in the jaw.” I tapped the jagged line. “That’s a healed break.”

“Nice,” Ryan said. “What about the dental work?”

“It’s a match,” I said. “One of the dentists will have to verify, of course, but 1968-979 is undoubtedly Alexander Lapasa.”

Hot damn. One down.

But other questions remained.

Was Lapasa on the Huey that crashed near Long Binh? If so, why?

Was Spider Lowery also aboard that chopper?

Why was Lapasa wearing Lowery’s dog tag?

Why was the tag boxed with 1968-979’s bones and not processed through proper channels?

If Lowery was on the Huey, how did he end up dead in Quebec?

If Lowery died in Quebec, as suggested by fingerprint evidence, who was 2010-37, the man I’d disinterred in North Carolina? Luis Alvarez? If so, who had screwed up?

*   *   *

Ryan and I have differing views on, well, most everything not work-related. Nevertheless, we’re like atoms interacting in space, our mutual positive and negative fields attracting, drawing us together. Until Lutetia, of course.

Was the old current still humming below the surface? Was that the reason for my snappishness at the ME’s office?

Maybe. But no way I’d test those waters with our daughters around.

That evening Ryan and I were in total agreement. Katy and Lily were being a double-barrel pain in the ass.

On the way to Lanikai, Ryan and I bought sushi, a foodstuff curiously approved by both sides of the warring home front. After much discussion, we opted for a policy shift. Since sanctioned separation had proved a disaster, we would now implement compulsory companionship.

That decision was wildly unpopular.

Dinner was eaten in glacial silence. Afterward, Hawaii was viewed from opposite sides of the living room. Kind of like a wedding. Groom’s on the left, bride’s on the right.

Katy liked Julie Andrews. Lily said Julie was lame but loved Max von Sydow. Katy thought Max was a pansy.

Ryan swore he spotted Bette Midler doing a walk-on as a ship’s passenger.

I was skeptical. Nineteen sixty-six? It would have been a very young Bette.

By eleven we were all in our rooms.

Maybe it was too much panko-crusted ahi. Or mango crab salad roll. That night I had one of the strangest dreams of my life.

When Katy was ten she attended equestrian camp. Her horse was a small chestnut with a white blaze and stockings, named Cherry Star.

In the dream I was riding Cherry Star bareback down a long white beach. I could sense the mare’s muscles rippling beneath me, could feel the sun hot on my back.

Beside us, water stretched clear and still as far as I could see. Midnight green kelp floated and curled just below the surface.

Cherry Star’s hooves kicked up spray as we galloped. Fat flecks burned my face like snowflakes in winter.

A tiny black speck appeared on the horizon. Grew. Took shape.

Katy, on horseback. On Cherry Star.

I waved. Katy did not wave back.

But I was on Cherry Star.

Confused, I looked down.

I was walking.

I looked up.

Cherry Star was thundering toward me. I watched her blaze grow bigger and bigger. Turn yellow. Gold. Sunlight shot from the shiny metal surface.

Blinded, I threw up a hand.

Surrounded by a halo of fragmented light, Cherry Star’s shimmering blaze changed shape. A diamond. A half-moon. An inverted mushroom with a bifurcated stem.

Suddenly Cherry Star was on top of me. Her back held no rider. Her reins were dragging in the sand.

She’ll step on them and break a tooth!

I lunged but couldn’t grab the trailing leather straps.

I could smell the horse’s sweat, hear the air rasping in and out of her nostrils.

Cherry Star threw back her head. Opened her mouth in a silent scream.

I saw amber teeth. Curled lips. Saliva foaming in glistening streams.

Heart hammering, I tried to run.

Every step sank me deeper into the sand.

The dream shifted.

I was treading water.

Using both arms, I rotated shoreward.

The land was very far off.

Kelp surrounded me.

I watched the green-black clumps slowly coalesce. The dark circle closed in.

Something brushed my foot.

I looked down.

Saw a snout. Membrane-hooded eyes. Cold. Primordial.

The shark stretched its jaws, revealing razor-sharp teeth.

I awoke, damp with perspiration, nails digging little crescents into my palms.

The sky was gray. A moisture-laden breeze wafted in from the window.

I checked the clock. Six forty-five.

The house was quiet.

I rolled onto my side. Pulled the quilt to my chin.

Much as I willed it, sleep would not return.

I tried every relaxation trick I knew, but my mind focused only on the dream.

My nighttime fantasies are typically not Freudian puzzlers.

Bareback on the horse? OK. Most of us know that one.

Katy? Fine. I was worried about her.

The gold blaze? The kelp? The shark?

At eight I gave up and went down to the kitchen.

Ryan had already cranked up the espresso machine. Good. The thing scared the crap out of me.

“Perry closed that beach.” Ryan pointed to the local section of the Honolulu Advertiser. “Got to hand it to the lady. She’s really something. And looking pretty good.”

Only if you’re sighting down a penis. This time I didn’t say it.

I skimmed the article. It reported that Halona Cove was closed to swimmers until further notice, but offered no explanation.

Sipping coffee and crunching toast, Ryan and I formulated a plan.

First, we’d visit the Punchbowl. The girls might not be thrilled. Tough. It was Ryan’s pick. And a good one. I’d been there.

The Punchbowl is an extinct volcanic tuff cone located smack in the city of Honolulu. The crater was formed when hot lava blasted through cracks in coral reefs extending to the foot of the Koolau Range.

Hot lava?

Relax. That eruption was 100,000 years ago.

There are various interpretations of the Punchbowl’s Hawaiian name, Puowaina. Most translate it as something like Hill of Sacrifice. Supposedly, native Hawaiians used the place for human sacrifice to the gods. Legend has it taboo violators were also executed there. Later, Kamehameha the Great had cannons mounted at the crater’s rim to salute distinguished arrivals and to kick off important celebrations.

In the 1930s, the Hawaii National Guard used the Punchbowl as a rifle range. Toward the end of World War II, tunnels were dug through the crater’s rim to construct batteries to guard the island’s harbors, Honolulu and Pearl.

In the late forties, needing a final resting place for World War II troops lying in temporary graves on the island of Guam, the U.S. Congress voted funds to establish the national cemetery. Eight hundred unknowns from the Korean War followed. In the mideighties, Vietnam casualties joined the mix.

Ernie Pyle is buried at the Punchbowl. So is Hawaii’s first astronaut, Ellison Onizuka, killed on the Challenger.

After the Punchbowl, we’d drive up to the north shore, hit the beach, and try some of Hawaii’s famous shave ice.

Finally, hours of camaraderie under their belts, Lily and Katy would stay home, together, and the grown-ups would enjoy a night on the town. We needed it.

Though our little band would not have been mistaken for the Brady Bunch, the day went reasonably well.

The adult night out proved pivotal.

RYAN CHOSE THE RESTAURANT. HIS CRITERIA? PROXIMITY TO Waikiki was the only thing I could come up with.

We ate at the Ha’aha’a Seafood and Steakhouse, the Hawaiian Walmart of dining establishments. My first misgivings came with the table.

We were seated in a dark corner, inches from a band whose repertoire was probably fixed right out of Moanalua High. I placed the graduation year at circa 1965.

My second clue came with the menu. Six of nine pages were devoted to drinks, most with names formed from incredibly bad puns. Son of a Beach Daiquiris. I Lava Party Bacardis. O’Lei Margaritas.

Ryan ordered a Kona beer and jerk mahimahi. I went with a virgin colada and cilantro shrimp.

The drink wasn’t bad. Hard to mess up pineapple juice and coconut cream.

Ryan and I chatted while awaiting the food. Shouted, actually. Over such memorables as “My Waikiki Mermaid” and “Pearly Shells.”

Ryan apologized for Lily. I apologized for Katy. He offered to relocate from the Lanikai house to a hotel. I told him that was unnecessary.

Overhead, a mirrored disco ball sent fragmented light spinning the room. Groovy.

“Not exactly the way to a girl’s heart.” Ryan’s face went sapphire as a colored spot aimed at the stage lighted our table.

“Depends on the girl. Why did you pick this particular place?”

“Proud Seafood and Steakhouse. What could disappoint?”

“I’m pretty sure ha’ahea means proud.” I’d seen the word in English and Hawaiian on a headstone at the Punchbowl. “I think ha’aha’a translates as humble.”

“Oh.”

The band picked up tempo. The lead singer crooned, “Oh, how she could yacki hacki wicki wacki woo.”

Ryan’s neon brows climbed his neon forehead.

Forty minutes after ordering, we were served by a waiter different from the one who had handled our drinks. This man had a leaping tiger tattooed the length of one biceps and a central incisor inlaid with what looked like a gold martini glass. His name badge said Rico.

“Careful.” Rico lowered towel-held plates to our table. “These suckers are hot.”

Doubtful. My shrimp were trapped in a pool of congealed grease.

“That it?” Rico asked.

Ryan ordered another beer.

“Enjoy the show.”

Ryan and I nodded politely.

“It’s hapa haole music.”

“Didn’t think it was the gospel hour.”

Rico and I both frowned at Ryan.

“Really?” I flashed Rico my most disarming smile. “What is hapa haole music?”

Rico hitched one feline-enhanced shoulder.

“Sometimes the song’s done traditional, you know, four-four time, but the words are in English, so that makes it half English, half Hawaiian. Sometimes the words are in Hawaiian but the beat is hyped, so that makes it hapa haole.” He thought a moment. “Not all Hawaiian songs with haole words are hapa haole. Sometimes the words are Hawaiian and the music isn’t.”

All righty, then.

The cuisine lived up to my expectations.

As I chewed shrimp the texture of all-weather radials, the band played the inevitable “Tiny Bubbles.”

“Did you know that Don Ho served in the air force?” Ryan asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you know that he had ten kids?” Ryan spoke between bites of incinerated fish.

“Impressive,” I said.

“As am I.”

“Indeed.”

Ryan reached over and brushed my jawline. My pulse jumped as fire burned a path below his fingers.

“Have you thought about giving it another try?”

“It?” I swallowed.

“Us.”

And Lutetia? Hadley Perry? I restrained myself by a thin, thin strand.

“Mm. Tell me more about Don Ho,” I said, wanting safer ground.

Ryan settled back in his chair. “Ho started singing at a bar called Honey’s out at Kaneohe. The joint belonged to his mother.”

“Honey,” I guessed.

“Yes, sugar lump?”

The quip hit like a hot poker to the heart. Buttercup. Sweet pea. Though I’d always chided Ryan for his goofy endearments, secretly I’d loved them. I wondered who else was being so honored.

“Honey’s was a hangout for marines from the base out there,” Ryan continued, oblivious to the emotions he’d triggered. “Ho moved the business to Waikiki back in the sixties.”

“I thought he performed at a place called Duke’s.” My steady voice belied nothing.

“That was later. Then he hit the big time.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Hi Ho.”

I gave up on the crustaceans and laid down my fork.

“Is Ho still alive?”

Ryan shook his head. “He died a couple years back.”

At that moment, a sequence of unrelated events coincided on the great space-time continuum that forms reality as we perceive it.

As Rico placed a coaster on our table, a swirling light particle danced off his tooth. Glancing down, I noticed the coaster’s sole design element, a cheesy male totem from another time.

Bang!

The previous night’s dream flashed in my brain. A horse’s white blaze gone gold. Equine teeth.

More images popped.

A maxillary fragment.

Crumbling adipocere circling a drain.

A lopsided gold sliver with two tapering points.

An open-beaked duck.

A pointy-stemmed mushroom.

Rico.

My hand flew to Ryan’s wrist. “Ohmygod! I know what it is!”

“My arm?”

I released my grip.

“The gold thing Danny and I found. I found.” I was totally psyched. “The fragment we thought was part of a dental restoration. Well, I did. Danny wasn’t sure. But the dentist didn’t think so. Craig Brooks. He was right. Well, he was wrong and right. It was dental but not a restor—”

Setting his fork on his plate, Ryan raised two calming hands. “Take a breath.”

I did.

“Now. Slowly. In English. Or French. But comprehensible.”

The band segued into a way-too-twangy rendition of “Hawaii Calls.”

I reeled in my thoughts.

“I’ll bet the bandstand the thing we found with 2010-37 is a broken dental inlay.”

“Whose bandstand?”

“Look.” I spun the coaster and pointed to the logo. “What’s that?”

“A Playboy bunny.”

“The whole Playboy shtick is passé now, but it was huge in the sixties. Did you notice Rico’s tooth?”

“Shaken, not stirred.”

I rolled my eyes, a gesture wasted in the dark.

“I had a North Carolina case in which the victim had a dental crown with a gold symbol shaped like a Playboy bunny. It’s how we finally got him ID’ed.”

“Did he also have Eat at Joe’s tattooed on his—”

“The crown was strictly decorative. I did research. I learned you can get them as full gold crowns with cutouts shaped like crosses, martini glasses, stars, half-moons—”

“The ever popular bunny.”

“Yes. Or you can get what’s called a sparkle. That’s an acrylic crown that looks like a natural tooth with a gold shape affixed to the front.”

“Are these little gems permanent?”

“You can do it either way. Rough-backed sparkles are permanently bonded to the tooth. Smooth-backed sparkles can be slipped on or off at will.”

“For that special night-on-the-town look.” Said with disdain.

“Different people, different tastes.”

“J. Edgar loved marabou trim. Doesn’t mean fluffy pumps will be filling my shoe rack.”

I ignored that.

“The North Carolina guy was a migrant worker missing since nineteen sixty-nine. He was Latino. My research suggested that the wearing of ornamental gold caps is popular among Hispanics. Some articles talked about the pre-Columbian roots of the custom.”

“The Mayans also cut out people’s hearts. Doesn’t mean we should give that a whirl.”

“That was the Aztecs.”

Ryan started to comment. I cut him off.

“Spider Lowery’s Huey went down with four crew members aboard. Three were recovered and ID’ed straight off. The fourth, the maintenance specialist, was never found.”

“I’m guessing he was Latino.”

“Luis Alvarez. He was Mexican-American.”

“Wouldn’t gold hardware be mentioned in Alvarez’s dental antemorts?”

“His file contains no dental or medical records. Besides, if Alvarez added the sparkle after his last checkup, that wouldn’t be in his record.”

“Or he might have removed the thing when reporting for duty.”

“Exactly.”

Rico appeared at our table.

Ryan requested the check.

Rico pulled out his pad. As he summed, I tried observing his tooth. No go. His lips were compressed with the effort of the complex math.

Finally a slip hit the table.

Ryan and I reached for it. Argued. Our usual ritual.

I won. Handed Rico my Visa.

Smirking at Ryan, Rico headed off.

“What about Spider Lowery?” Ryan asked.

“What about him?”

“Might he have slipped into something a little more gold? He could have picked the thing up in Nam.”

“He could have.”

“Or he might have gotten the little doodad before shipping out, but removed it when he was around Mommy and Daddy.”

“Another possibility.”

“Is there anyone he might have told?” Ryan asked. “A buddy? A sibling?”

I remembered the photo session in my car.

“The brother’s dead, but Plato said Spider was close to a cousin. They played on the same high school baseball team.”

“The cousin still live in Lumberton?”

“I don’t know.”

“Might be worth a phone call. You know, cover all bases.”

True.

The band launched into “If I Had a Hammer,” the singer trying hard for Trini Lopez but missing badly.

“But Spider Lowery died in Quebec,” I said.

“Or the FBI screwed up the prints. I’d say the first step is to establish that your gold duck-mushroom thingy is, in fact, a broken gold sparkle. Then go from there.”

True again.

Rico returned with my card. I signed and added a tip. A big one, hoping for a smile.

Nope. With a mumbled “Mahalo,” Rico was gone.

“Does Alvarez’s file contain photos?” Ryan asked.

“Several.”

“Any smiling shots?”

In my mind’s eye I pictured the three black-and-whites.

A head-and-shoulders portrait of a uniformed young man.

A grainy reproduction of a high school graduate.

Nine sweaty soldiers, one glancing away from the camera.

I looked at Ryan.

Suddenly I was in a frenzy to reexamine that snapshot.

SUNDAY DAWNED COOL AND RAINY. I AWOKE, NOTED CONDITIONS, and went back to sleep. Apparently, my cohorts reacted in a similar fashion. Or no one even raised a lid.

At nine thirty, muffled rattling sounds roused me again. Throwing on shorts and a tee, I descended to the kitchen.

Ryan was preparing French toast and bacon. The smell was orgasmic.

I rousted the ladies and the four of us shared another prickly meal. As we ate, the rain tapered off and the sun began gnawing holes through the clouds.

After breakfast, we went our separate ways, Ryan and Lily to view fish from a glass-bottom boat, Katy and I to snorkel and read on the beach.

I took my BlackBerry, figuring I could make calls from the sand. Knowing Danny was not an early riser, I put that one off. But I was anxious to talk to Plato Lowery.

As before, Plato did not answer his phone. Neither did Silas Sugarman.

Frustrated, I stared at my current screen saver, a shot of Birdie sitting on Charlie’s cage. The photo usually triggered a smile. Not this time.

The tiny digits told me it was six thirty p.m. East Coast time. I searched my brain for inspiration. Who might be available on a Sunday evening in Lumberton, North Carolina?

Idea. Why not? He’d proven useful before.

I got a number through Google. Punched it in.

“Robeson County Sheriff’s Department.” The voice was crisp, more New York than Dixie.

“Sheriff Beasley, please.”

“Not in.”

“Could you patch me through to him?”

“Not possible.”

“This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. Could you give the sheriff my number and ask him to call me back? It’s rather urgent.”

“What is the nature of your complaint?”

“It’s not a complaint. On May eleventh I conducted an exhumation in Lumberton. The sheriff was present. I need information concerning the disinterred remains.”

“The sheriff is extraordinarily busy.”

“As am I.” The woman was starting to piss me off.

“Your number?”

I provided it.

During the pause that followed, a gull cried out. I hoped the sound didn’t carry across the line.

“I’ll transmit your request.”

Click.

“Do that,” I snapped to dead air.

Katy’s head came up. I flapped a hand. She resumed reading her book.

Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Sheriff Beasley.” High and a bit rubbery, like Barney Fife.

“Thanks for returning my call. I apologize for intruding on your Sunday evening.”

“Just watching the Braves get their sorry butts whupped.”

“I’m calling concerning the individual buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery under the name John Charles Lowery.”

“First that detective, now you. Spider’s sure stirring up a hornet’s nest of interest.”

“Yes, sir. Did you know him?” I asked. “Personally?”

“We run up against each other from time to time.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Spider was three grades behind me in school. After graduation, I went into law enforcement.” Yep. Deputy Fife. “My rookie years I had to deal with a couple of his antics.”

“Antics?”

“Actually, Spider wasn’t so bad. It was that cousin of his. That was one rambunctious juvenile.” A very long i in juvenile.

“And he was?”

“Reggie Cumbo. Boy had a sheet longer than my arm.”

“Why was that, sir?”

“Kid was a dick.”

I said nothing. Like many, Beasley felt compelled to fill the silence.

“Drunk and disorderly, mostly.”

“What happened to him?”

“Took off the day of his high school commencement. Course, Reggie wasn’t going to march with no tassel and cap.”

“He failed to graduate?”

“I recall talk to that effect.”

“Where is Reggie now?”

“Could be the mayor of Milwaukee for all I know. More likely he’s dead. Never heard another word of him.”

So much for querying Reggie about Spider’s sense of haute dentition.

“Did you ever notice gold decoration on Spider Lowery’s teeth?”

“You mean like crowns or something?”

I explained dental sparkles. “Maybe later, after Spider joined the army? Perhaps in snapshots he mailed home from Nam? Maybe Plato or Harriet showed some to you? Or sent one to the paper? Or posted some online?” I knew I was reaching.

“Nah. What’s so important about Spider’s teeth? I thought you were all set with Harriet’s DNA.”

“The sparkle may prove helpful in identifying the body I disinterred. Assuming it’s not Spider. Besides, Harriet’s hospital slides are five years old. I’m exploring backup options, in case the samples are too degraded for sequencing.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, miss. Spider was”—Beasley hesitated—“different. But I doubt he’d a done something foolish like ornamenting his teeth with gold.”

“What do you remember about Spider?”

Beasley blew air through his lips. “I recall back in high school he offered to give his mama a kidney. Harriet was born with bad ones, guess it’s what finally killed her. Have to admit, I thought that was mighty generous. Spider wasn’t a proper match, wrong blood type or something. His brother, Tom, offered too. Course that was many years later. That didn’t work out either. Not sure I’d have done that.”

“Spider?”

Beasley didn’t answer right away. Then, “I remember he did a science project on spiders. Filled fifteen or twenty of those big white boards with pictures and diagrams and little note cards. Had all kinds of jars lined up with labels and spiders inside. The thing won first prize. Got displayed at the library. They still pull the posters out now and again. Spiders are long gone, of course.”

“Anything else?”

“I recall him going off to war. I recall him coming home dead. Sorry.”

I could think of nothing further to ask. Thanking Beasley, I disconnected.

Danny’s call came while Katy and I were underwater eyeballing butterflies, tangs, and one particularly doleful-looking trumpet fish.

While digging a towel from my bag, I noticed my BlackBerry’s message light blinking.

Danny’s message was short. Call me.

I did.

“What’s up?”

“Thought you’d want to know. I researched Xander Lapasa’s family. His parents, Alexander senior and Theresa-Sophia, are both dead.”

I heard paper rustle.

“Alexander Emanuel, Xander, was the firstborn of six kids, four boys, two girls. One sister, Mamie Waite, lives in Maui, is divorced, and has one daughter. The other sister, Hesta Grogan, lives in Nevada, is widowed, and has two sons.

“One of the brothers Marvin, was mentally handicapped and died young, in the seventies. The other two, Nicholas and Kenneth still live in the Honolulu area. Each is married, Kenneth to his first wife, Nicholas to his fourth. Between them, they have eleven kids and eighteen grandkids.”

I did some quick math. If Xander Lapasa was twenty-nine when he disappeared in 1968, that meant he was born in 1939.

Danny must have read my thoughts.

“The surviving siblings are all in their sixties.”

“Tell me about Daddy.” I wasn’t sure why all this family history was relevant, but Danny seemed eager to share what he’d learned.

“Alex Lapasa made his way to Oahu in nineteen fifty-six and got a job at an East Honolulu gas station. Two years later, the station owner died. A hit-and-run. A handwritten will transferred ownership of the station to Lapasa.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“The cops found nothing linking Lapasa to the accident. The victim had no family screaming for justice, so who knows how thorough the investigation was.”

I made no comment.

“A hurricane blew the station off the map nine months after Lapasa took possession. Having no source of income and, apparently, no enduring love of petrol, Lapasa turned to selling real estate. And saw potential. Recognizing that a lot of baby-boomer parents would be needing a lot of cheap housing, Lapasa shifted into low-end home construction. He’d put up a bungalow, sell it, put up two more.

“When Hawaii gained statehood in nineteen fifty-nine, the building industry exploded. Lapasa leveraged everything, expanded, made millions. From the sixties to the nineties he diversified. Today the Lapasa empire has more tentacles than an anemone.”

“Sounds like old Alex was one smart cookie.”

“Yes.”

I noted a hitch in Danny’s breathing.

“What?” I asked.

“Lapasa was always, shall we say, controversial. Some said he had the Midas touch. Others said he was just lucky. All agreed he was ruthless as hell.”

“When did he die?”

“Two thousand two.”

“Who runs the business today?”

“Number two son, Nicholas.”

A big clapper went gong! in my head. I’d seen the name in the Honolulu Advertiser many times, occasionally preceded by a descriptor such as Slick or Tricky. Yeah, like Nixon.

“That Nickie Lapasa?”

“That Nickie Lapasa.”

I vaguely remembered Alex Lapasa’s passing from news coverage during one of my visits to the CIL. The funeral was a five-ring circus.

“Wasn’t Lapasa under investigation for RICO violations at the time of his death?” I referred to the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act passed by Congress in 1970.

“Yeah. And it wasn’t the first time. Rumor had it Alex had ties to the Mafia. Nothing ever stuck.”

I thought a moment.

“Isn’t Kenny Lapasa a member of the Honolulu City Council?”

“He is.”

Xander had vanished. Marvin had died. Nickie and Kenny were alive and thriving. I wondered about the sisters.

“Are Mamie and Hesta involved in the family business?”

Danny snorted. “Definitely not the Lapasa style.”

“Meaning?”

“No girls allowed.”

“Yet it was Theresa-Sophia who corresponded with the army concerning Xander’s disappearance.”

“The old man probably viewed letter writing as beneath him.”

“Why do you suppose Xander went to Nam?”

“There were rumors about Lapasa’s involvement in drug trafficking. Maybe he sent his kid to Southeast Asia to scout postwar possibilities. You know, drug sources, transport options.”

“Who did you talk to?” I asked.

“Tricky Nickie. It was like getting through to Obama.”

“How did he react?”

“At first he was skeptical. I told him that the dental ID, though unofficial, was solid, and asked if Xander had ever broken any bones. He said Xander busted his jaw and collarbone in a car wreck the summer after his junior year in high school. I described the healed fractures we’d spotted on the bones and X-rays.”

“Did that convince him?”

“Not totally. I said that, to reassure the family, a DNA comparison could be done if he or one of his siblings would provide a sample. The guy went ballistic, said no way was any government toady sticking a probe into any member of his family. I explained that the process was painless, just a cheek swab. He grew even more agitated, I’ll spare you the verbiage, finally hung up on me.”