Текст книги "Spider Bones"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

PHONE TO HIS EAR, Lô HURRIED OUTSIDE. FITCH TRACKED HIM like a puppy hoping for a treat.

We waited.

I sensed Ryan assessing my injuries.

Three middle school girls giggled and elbow-shoved their way to the bathroom, each carrying a shoulder-slung pack.

The woman beside us finished eating and rolled off with her baby.

Fitch watched in fidgety silence.

Finally, Ryan nodded to someone over my shoulder.

“He’s back.”

We rose and joined Lô in the parking lot.

“My partner’s going to contact California, see what they’ve got on Kealoha, have them run the street name Logo through their database on gangs.”

“Remember, no blowback on me.”

Lô ignored his CI.

“Later Hung and I will haul Atoa and Pukui to the bag.”

“Look, I gotta go.” Fitch was shifting his weight from foot to foot. There wasn’t much to shift.

Yanking his wallet from a back pocket, Lô counted out five twenties.

Fitch grabbed for the bills.

Lô pulled them back. “Keep in touch?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lô extended his hand.

Fitch snatched the money and skittered out of sight.

“Weird dude,” Ryan said.

“Guy’s a tweaker.”

“It’s all about the intel.”

“Yeah.” Lô bounced a glance off me. “SOS. Sons of Samoa.” The faintest smile played his mouth. “You’re right. The little lady’s not bad.”

“She has her moments,” Ryan said.

No way the little lady was getting sucked into that. I said nothing.

“A gang tat.” Lô slowly wagged his head. “I missed it.”

“Honolulu having problems?” Ryan asked.

“Until recently I’d have said no. We’ve got gangs, sure. The Samoans run together, sure. Everyone acts bad-ass, sure. But mostly the violence is Jets and Sharks type of crap.” Lô slid the John Lennons onto his nose. “Lately things have escalated.”

“How?” I asked.

“Not long ago a street tough named Lingo got capped in Chinatown. A week later, there’s a stabbing.”

“Retaliation?”

Lô nodded. “Both vics were Samoan. A witness to the stabbing claimed one of the doers shouted ‘KPT SOS.’ ”

“Kuhio Park Terrace. Sons of Samoa,” I translated for Ryan.

“Could be a turf war,” Ryan said.

“Two punks from Oakland are going down for the shooting,” Lô said. “We suspect West Coast traffickers are heading this way.”

“And the locals are opposed,” Ryan said.

“And not rolling over.”

“If that’s the case, Fitch’s intel skews pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Lô said. “It does.”

At six, Ryan and I were still threading through traffic. Slogging, really.

I’d used Ryan’s phone to call Katy, explained about the accident, and told her that we were on our way home.

She’d demanded details. Sidestepping most questions, I’d assured her that I was fine. She’d offered to throw something together for dinner.

I’d then given Ryan an overview of Lô’s conversation with Gloria Kealoha.

“But, until Fitch, you never made the Samoa connection,” he said.

“No.”

“What pulled the trigger?”

“Hamo. Tafuna. Waipahu,” I said.

“Klaatu. Barada. Nikto,” he said.

“What?”

“The Day the Earth Stood Still?”

I was lost.

“Buttercup.” Feigned disappointment. “Nineteen fifty-one? Michael Rennie and Patricia Neal? Neal said those three words to Gort and the Earth was saved. Never mind. You’re probably distracted by my good looks and charm. How’d you get Sons of Samoa out of Fitch’s account?”

“Three things. First, he used the term Hamo. That’s slang for Samoan.”

“I thought it was a lunch meat that paired well with cheese.”

I ignored that.

“Samoan is a member of the Polynesian language family. Some of the other dialects substitute the letter h for the Samoan s. So Samoa becomes Hamoa.”

“Thus Hamo. I didn’t know that.”

“Second, Tafuna is a city in American Samoa. Fitch said that’s where the Kealohas came from.”

“Except back home they weren’t the Kealohas.” Ryan was quiet a moment. “How was a woman with two minor dependents and no job or job skills allowed to immigrate to the U.S.?”

“Though not citizens, people born in American Samoa are American nationals, free to travel throughout the United States and its territories.”

“OK. Third?”

“Waipahu. There are a couple of fairly good-sized Samoan communities on Oahu, one near Kalihi Valley, another up at Waipahu.”

“Kealoha lived at Waipahu.”

“VoilÁ.”

“But how’d you make the leap to Sons of Samoa?”

“Remember that kid I ID’ed about a year and a half back? The one with the full-body tattoos?”

“The Latin King stabbed outside the bar in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue?”

“Yes. I spent hours researching gang tattoos for that case.”

“Gold star, Brennan.”

Before I could say thanks, Ryan executed one of his head-spinning topic swaps.

“Tell me about the crash.”

“I did that.”

“Do it again.”

“A car pulled to my bumper, tapped me once, tapped me a second time, went to pass, and swerved into my left rear. I cut the wheel—”

“What kind of car?”

“A black SUV.”

“Year? Make?”

“It happened too fast.”

“How many occupants?”

“Two. I think. The glass was tinted. I couldn’t really see.”

“Male or female?”

“Yes.”

Ryan gave me a look that said he wasn’t amused.

“The passenger was definitely male,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“He waved.”

Ryan let a few beats pass. Then, “Lô doesn’t think it was an accident.”

Nor did I. But I hadn’t wanted to consider the implications.

“What’s his thinking?” I asked.

“That it was done on purpose.” Sarcastic.

“Fine,” I said. “Devil’s advocate. Who would want to hurt me or at least frighten me?”

“Let’s start with the improbable and work our way in.”

Ryan drummed agitated fingers on the wheel.

“Here’s one. You angered a local mafioso by insisting he submit a sample of his DNA.”

“Nickie Lapasa? That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? How did Lapasa’s old man kick-start his career?”

“No one ever proved the hit-and-run—”

“OK. How about this one? A wacko anthropologist thinks you cost him his job.”

“Dimitriadus may be nuts but I doubt he’s violent.”

“He threw an elbow at you.”

Remembering the scene at JPAC, I had to admit, Dimitriadus was upset.

“And, call me crazy, but you’re about to ID two people murdered in a drug war.”

“Allegedly murdered.”

Again, Ryan’s look was withering.

“Besides, no one knows that,” I added.

“Right. Street gangs are notorious for their lousy communication networks.”

“Here’s one.” It came out more snappish than I’d intended. Or not. “I crossed paths with a couple of drunks.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan said.

I expected the usual snarkfest from our daughters. To my surprise, Katy and Lily were together in the kitchen. Tool was blasting from the sound system and both were singing “Vicarious” into wooden spoon mikes.

On seeing us, Katy rushed me.

“Oh my God!”

Lily stared, mouth open, spoon frozen before it.

“You should see the other guy,” I said, disengaging from my daughter’s embrace.

No one laughed.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, perky as Gidget.

“You said it was a glorified fender bender.” Katy’s tone was stern. “A fluke that the car got wrecked.”

“I’m fine,” I said. For the umpteenth time that day.

“If you were fine you wouldn’t be wearing that shirt.”

“I like birds.”

“Your hair is wet. Your face is a train wreck.”

“What’s that fabulous smell?”

“We made marinara sauce,” Lily said. “And shrimp.”

“Allow me to change, feed me pasta, and I’ll tell you anything.” I raised both hands like a spy ready to crack.

Katy watched with suspicion as I climbed the stairs.

Minutes later I was back in a clean shirt and shorts.

I provided the bare essentials. Sans mention of Lô’s theory. Swerve. Bump. Plunge. Rescue. In this version the water was two feet deep.

When I finished, Katy commenced one of her typical cross-examinations.

“I thought you were going to JPAC.”

“I did. Happily, everything’s wrapped up there. What did you do today?”

“What were you doing on the southern end of the island?”

“After JPAC I met with the medical examiner.”

“About the guys eaten by sharks?”

“Sharks?” Lily’s eyes went wide.

I glanced a question at Ryan.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Definitely tell her.”

“A few days back, body parts were recovered from a cove on the southern end of the island. The ME asked me for help. I think we’ve established who the two men were.”

“You can share a little more detail than that.” Ryan’s eyes were hard on his daughter.

“The victims were probably members of a gang called Sons of Samoa. They may have been murdered and thrown off a cliff.”

“For dealing drugs,” Ryan added.

“Who were they?” Katy asked, tone a bit gentler.

“Sorry, sweetie. I can’t tell you that.”

“How old were these men?” Now and then Lily’s island childhood sounds in the lilt of her speech. It did so in that question.

“Your age.” Again, Ryan spoke straight to his daughter.

“It happened at the southern end of the island?” Katy guessed.

“Makapu’u Point. I finished early with the ME, and decided to take the scenic route home.” Rueful smile. It hurt. “Bad choice.”

Katy’s eyes met Lily’s. I was clueless as to the message that passed between them.

“Hey, this sauce is great,” I said. “Whose recipe?”

“It came from a jar,” Lily said.

“Then, hats off to the shoppers.” I raised my glass.

Only Ryan tapped my drink with his.

“Listen,” I said. “Look at the upside. We’ll get a better set of wheels.”

Katy opined that the Cobalt was a piece of crap. Lily agreed.

Lily said I should soak in a hot bath. Katy seconded her suggestion.

Katy volunteered to do the dishes. Lily said she’d help.

Lily offered to drive Katy to her surfing lesson in the morning. Katy accepted.

Ryan and I exchanged glances. Huh?

I did take the bath.

While submerged in wisteria-scented bubbles up to my chin, I reviewed my efforts since arriving in Honolulu.

I’d wrecked a car. Fine. Point against me.

I’d determined that Spider Lowery hadn’t been killed in Vietnam. The news would shatter Plato Lowery’s world, but a wrong would be righted.

I’d identified the man buried in Lumberton, North Carolina. Forty years after dying in a chopper crash, Luis Alvarez would finally go home.

I’d located the remains of Xander Lapasa. Though not exactly gracious, the Lapasa family would also get closure.

I’d helped Hadley Perry close the Halona Cove cases. And open a beach. Perhaps Logo’s and Kealoha’s killers would be brought to justice.

And Lily and Katy were getting along.

Lily was right. The hydroaromatherapy relaxed my muscles and calmed my nerves. I emerged from the tub feeling pretty damn good.

I AWOKE TO THE FEELING I WAS BEING WATCHED.

Opened my eyes.

The room was shadowy gray. Through the balcony door I saw pewter clouds skimming the ocean.

The clock said 8:40.

“That’s going to be one sick scab.”

I rolled to my back.

Katy was standing beside my bed.

Scooching to my bum, I stuck a pillow behind my head and patted the mattress.

Katy dropped down beside me. I noticed she was holding a paper.

“You’re awake early,” I said.

“I may have screwed up.”

“Oh?”

“You know I started a blog last winter, right?”

“Right.”

“Somehow it got linked over to some biggies, like BuzzFeed and BlogBlast, even the Huffington Post. I can’t believe the number of hits I’m getting and the number of people posting comments.”

“That’s great.”

Katy sighed.

“Isn’t it?”

“Lately I’ve been blogging for Coop. I wanted to talk about the stupidity of war, of young people dying far from home, in foreign countries, you know.”

“OK.” I had no idea where she was going.

“It went totally viral. But people were all over the map, talking about kids getting killed by drunk drivers, shot in drive-bys, shot by cops.” Katy twisted a strand of hair as she spoke. “Then, two days ago, this whole new thread started. About gangs.”

Uh-oh.

“I mean, there must have been two hundred posts about kids dying as a result of gang violence.”

Katy ran the strand of hair across her upper lip. Drew it back. Repeated the gesture.

“Do you know how many gangs there are in Los Angeles alone?” Her tone reflected shock and dismay.

“Tell me you didn’t write about the case I discussed last night.”

Nothing.

“Did you?”

“You never said not to.” Defensive. “And I didn’t use any names. I couldn’t. I didn’t know any.”

“Oh, Katy.”

“They were young, someone killed them. It’s sad, Mom. Even if they were drug dealers.”

“Did you mention me?”

“No.” Quick. “But I did say the murder happened here.”

“Did you identify the gang?”

Katy nodded.

Shit!

“This morning I found this posted to my site.”

She handed me a printout of the entry.YOU TELL CRASY LADY DOC SHE FUCC MIGHTY GANG MIGHTY GANG FUCC HER. AND ALL ENEMIES. MIGHTY GANG SOS. SONS OF SAMOA CRIP. FUCC W SOS YOU DIE!!!

My heart threw in extra beats. I forced myself to keep smiling, willed myself to stay calm for Katy’s sake.

“Lady doc. Could that be you?” Katy asked.

I put an arm around her shoulders. “The Internet’s full of loons.”

Some of whom kill, I thought.

“Could it be a threat?”

“More of a rant.”

“How could they know? About you, I mean.”

“Relax.” I decided to low-key it for now. The posting was obscure and almost illiterate. What were the chances it was related to yesterday’s collision?

“I feel awful. I never thought—”

“Hey.”

We both looked up. Lily was in the doorway wearing a bikini top and cutoff jeans. Exceptionally short ones.

“So.” I patted Katy’s leg. “You have a surf lesson. Then what do you ladies have planned for today?”

“Miss Priss has agreed to a day at the beach. Going to risk burning her skinny black butt.”

“At least mine doesn’t go all freckly-ass red.”

Katy gave a thumbs-up. Lily returned it. Both were smiling.

Whoa.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked Lily.

“In the kitchen.”

“Serving breakfast?”

She nodded.

“Let’s eat,” I said.

We were finishing Ryan’s coconut-mango pancakes when the landline rang.

“I’ll get it.” Lily fired from her chair.

“Who’s taken possession of Lily?” I asked.

“What? She’s decided she likes it here,” Katy said.

I looked at Ryan. His eyes were fixed on his daughter. In them I saw love. And something else. Hope? Suspicion? Fear?

“It’s some guy named LaManche.” Lily held the handset pressed to her chest.

“I’ll take it,” I said, surprised.

Ryan raised questioning brows. Why would the chief be calling from Montreal? I raised mine in reply. No idea.

“Thanks for breakfast. Before you take off, there’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

“I’m not taking off,” Ryan said.

Lily handed me the phone.

“Bonjour.” I rose and moved outside to the lanai. “Comment ça va?”

“Sacrifice, she lives. Temperance, you no longer return my calls?”

“I lost my BlackBerry.”

I told LaManche about the wreck.

“You are unharmed?”

“I’m good.”

“Bon. Then you have learned a valuable lesson.”

“Don’t drive too close to shoulders hugging the sea?”

“An SUV trumps a Cobalt every time.”

“Noted. What’s up?”

“Bad news.”

“I hate it when people open a conversation with that.”

“I did not. I complained about you going incommunicado.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“I received results from the DNA section on the gentleman found floating in the Hemmingford pond.”

“John Lowery. Spider.”

“Apparently not.”

“What?”

“According to the report, it is not Monsieur Lowery.”

“What?” I was hearing LaManche’s words, but their meaning was not sinking in.

“The sequencing did not match.”

“The sample was too degraded?”

“The sample was degraded, but the technicians were able to amplify. The results were exclusionary.”

“How did the LSJML get a comparative sample? Plato Lowery refused to submit a swab.”

“Local law enforcement in North Carolina was very cooperative. A sheriff whose name eludes me was particularly accommodating.”

“Beasley?” Of course. I knew this. I was in denial.

“Oui. C’est ça. Sheriff Beasley recalled that John Lowery’s mother was hospitalized for a short period before her death. He found that the hospital had retained pathology slides. One specimen was sent to AFDIL. At our request, another was sent to the LSJML DNA section. Extraction was successful, and testing shows that the Hemmingford victim is not Harriet Lowery’s son.”

“But the sample was degraded.”

“Temperance, they have confidence in the results. The sequencing does not match.”

The naughty-nurse floater was not Spider Lowery? How was that possible? Then who was he?

Did the exclusion mean I was wrong about the man buried in the Gardens of Faith Cemetery in Lumberton in 1968? Was that man Spider Lowery and not Luis Alvarez, after all?

And what about Xander Lapasa? We still didn’t know why Lapasa was found wearing Spider Lowery’s dog tag.

“—sorry. I know this is not what you hoped to hear.”

“No, sir. It’s not. But thanks for letting me know.”

I was standing with the phone in my hand when Ryan came up behind me.

“Bad news?”

I shared LaManche’s news on the DNA exclusion.

“What about the FBI fingerprint match?”

“Yeah.”

“Tabarnac.”

“Yeah.”

I was about to tell Ryan about Katy’s blog when his cell phone sounded.

Katy and Lily chimed in from the kitchen.

Sunny day. Keeping the clouds away.

“Ryan here.” Waving down the giggles.

“Uh-huh.”

Ryan patted the front of his golf shirt. Found no pocket. Pantomimed writing.

I delivered pen and paper from the counter.

“OK. Shoot.”

He scribbled what looked like two names. A long pause followed.

“When?”

Pause.

“What’s the address?”

Ryan jotted something else.

“We’ll be there.”

“That was Lô.” Jamming the phone onto his belt. “For the past three years Francis Kealoha has been running with an SOS gang operating out of Oakland. Went by Francis Olopoto.”

“Probably his original Samoan name.”

“Logo’s a guy named George Faalogo.”

“Also a Samoan name.”

“Ted Pukui’s in the wind, but they’ve bagged Pinky Atoa. They’ll let him cool his heels awhile, then grill him. Hadley Perry is otherwise engaged. Since you’re her rep on the case, Lô invited us to observe.”

“Is that standard here?”

“How would I know?” Ryan lowered his voice. “Maybe the little fellow has designs on your awesome little ass.”

I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head in the direction of our daughters.

“Then why would he invite you?” I whispered.

“He knows I have first dibs.”

My eye roll was of Olympic quality.

“Is Atoa being charged?” I asked.

“No. The guy owns a pit bull that’s supposed to be mean as a snake. Gata.”

“I think gata means snake.”

“Apparently Gata killed some neighbor’s Chihuahua. Atoa thinks he’s being hauled in because of that. Lô and Hung will focus on the dog for a while, then spring Kealoha and Faalogo.”

“I’ll be ready in ten.”

We took Ryan’s rental car, a Pontiac G6. As he drove, I used his cell to phone Danny. First off, I told him about the crash.

“Why didn’t you call right away?”

“You were at your arrival ceremony.”

Next I told him about LaManche’s report. He was as shocked as I was.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I were. Have you heard from AFDIL concerning the remains I exhumed in Lumberton?”

“They said no way on nuclear DNA, doubted they’d even get mitochondrial. Besides, there’s no Alvarez maternal to provide a sample for comparison. Looks like we can kiss that avenue goodbye.”

“LaManche said Harriet Lowery’s specimens were pretty degraded. I think it’s worth trying to locate another source.”

“Will your lab foot the bill for a second round of tests?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Should I ask Plato one more time?”

“Got any other ideas?”

“I’ll make the call,” Danny said.

“What a mess,” I said.

“A real conundrum.”

Within the hour things would really hit the slag heap.

MIST COATED THE WINDSHIELD AS RYAN AND I DROVE INTO town. All the way, he flicked the wipers on, then off. On. Off.

The Honolulu PD is headquartered in a white stone building parked on Beretania Street like a big square ship. Though mere blocks from the Botox, designer labels, and brightly striped umbrellas of Waikiki Beach, its denizens hail from a different world.

Lô’s directions sent us to the third floor. We rode an elevator packed tight with the usual assortment of clerks, detectives, and uniformed cops checking in or out, carrying sealed evidence bags, or sneaking off to wherever it is they cloister to smoke.

The homicide squad was a large open room filled with desks shoved into clusters of twos, threes, and fours. Lô and his partner occupied a solo pair at the back.

Like Lô, Hung was a surprise. Tall and muscular, she had bone white skin and glossy black hair chopped off at the ears. Her chestnut eyes contained colored flecks that sparked like chips of glass from the sea. Only a subtly humped nose kept the woman from being a stunner. I liked that she hadn’t changed it.

Lô made introductions. Hung’s first name was Leila.

We all shook hands. Lô dragged over chairs and we sat.

Hung went straight to the point. I liked that, too.

“Back in the eighties the Sons of Samoa was mostly a social group. Later it became a full-fledged gang in Hawaii. SOS died down for a while, then revived around nineteen ninety-eight as a prison gang called USO Family or USO, United Samoan Organization. It’s complicated, but uso can mean brother in Samoan.”

“If you’re male, referring to a male sibling,” I said. “It can also mean sister, if you’re female referring to a female sibling.”

Hung looked at me. Behind us, a phone rang. Someone answered.

“She’s an anthropologist,” Ryan said.

“Sure she is.” Hung continued. “At one time USO was only Samoan, but intel says the group is now mixed race and has approximately two hundred members in Hawaii.”

“USO is pretty much restricted to our correctional facilities,” Lô added.

“Kealoha and Faalogo were SOS,” Ryan said.

“Right. SOS spread from Hawaii to California, Utah, and Washington State. On the mainland SOS are usually Crips.”

Though I didn’t interrupt, I must have looked confused.

“The Crips aren’t one gang, but an identity which other gangs adopt. Crip gangs in other cities can actually fashion themselves by regional cultural indicators that have nothing to do with Los Angeles.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier smarty-pants offering.

Hung consulted a notepad.

“According to L.A. County Probation Department statistics, in nineteen seventy-two there were about eight Crip gangs. By nineteen seventy-eight that number had risen to forty-five. By eighty-two there were 109, and by the late nineties, according to Streetgangs.com, there were 199 individual Crip gangs active in L.A. County.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Crip growth seems to have stabilized in Los Angeles, even declined in certain areas undergoing demographic change. But copycat Crip gangs are springing up in other parts of California, the U.S., and abroad.”

“Tabarnac.” Ryan shook his head.

Hung looked at me, this time in question.

“It means ‘Oh, my,’ ” I said.

“Stateside, SOS are known as bad actors,” Lô said. “Intimidation, extortion, drug rip-offs, even murder.”

I heard a door open, voices behind us.

Hung took in the room with a quick sweep. Then the sea-glass eyes returned to us.

“What we’re seeing is mainland Samoans making a move for Hawaiian distribution.”

“Of?” Ryan asked.

“Mostly coke and weed. Some meth.”

“Who’s the local majordomo?”

“A guy named Gilbert T’eo.”

“Street name L’il Bud,” Lô added.

Hung’s desk phone rang. She picked up, turned a shoulder to speak to the caller.

“Where’s T’eo’s home base?” Ryan asked Lô.

“Right now, Halawa. That’s a medium security prison here on Oahu.”

“Atoa and Pukui work for T’eo?” I asked.

Lô waggled a hand. “Close enough.”

Hung cradled the receiver. “The system’s up. Shall we see what Mr. Atoa has to say?”

The interview room was what I expected, a gloomy little box devoid of whimsy or warmth. The walls were noxious green, the tile scuffed and scratched by generations of nervous feet.

A gray metal desk occupied the center of the small space. One straight-back wooden chair faced two others across the battered desktop. A wall-mounted phone and camera were the room’s only other embellishments.

Ryan and I observed via a video screen and speaker down the hall. The image was grainy black-and-white, the sound tinny, the dialogue occasionally overridden by background noise.

Pinky Atoa looked like a tall, skinny twelve-year-old. He wore the usual gangsta costume of crotch-hanging jeans, enormous athletic tee, and oversize cap. His high-top red sneakers beat a steady tattoo on the floor.

Obviously, Hung and Lô had done casting before our arrival. Lô played bad cop, Hung played good.

Hung introduced herself, her partner. Atoa kept his gaze on his hands.

“This interview will be recorded for your protection as well as ours.”

Hung next spoke for the benefit of the record, stating the date, time, and place, and identifying herself, her partner, and the interviewee. Throughout, Atoa alternated between chewing a thumbnail and drumming the desktop.

“You nervous about something, Pinky?” Lô asked.

“I want my dog.”

“That pit’s one nasty piece of work.”

“It was self-defense.”

“The Chihuahua weighed three pounds.”

“The thing came at him.”

“Must have been terrifying.”

“Shit.” Exaggerated head wag. “Don’t you guys ever give up?”

“Your neighbor filed a complaint.”

“The whore needs to get laid.”

“We just want the facts, Mr. Atoa.” Hung, the voice of reason.

For several minutes Hung asked questions about the dog attack. Atoa seemed to relax slightly.

“So, what? I gotta pay a fine? No biggie. I got cash.”

“It’s not that easy. Things look bad for Gata.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

Both detectives gazed at him sadly.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

The bony fingers recommenced dancing.

“Honolulu has laws to protect citizens against dangerous pets,” Lô said.

“That little shit dog’s been dead a month. Why’s the bitch coming at me now?”

“Perhaps she’s been moving through the stages of grief.”

Another head wag. “That’s good. You’re funny, Mr. Policeman.”

“I try.”

“So, what? The cunt wants a new pup?”

Lô shrugged.

“What the fuck?” Atoa spread his hands. Smiled. “I’ll buy her a puppy.”

“Doesn’t really solve the problem with Gata, now, does it?” Lô.

“Meaning?”

“Start picking out an urn.”

Atoa exploded from the table. His chair hit the floor with a crack.

Lô shot to his feet.

“No way you’re killing my dog, you bastard.” Atoa’s hands were bunched into fists.

Hung spoke in a tone meant to be soothing. “Let’s all calm down. Mr. Atoa, would you like something to drink?”

Atoa’s eyes went shrewd. “What? So you can take my DNA? I’m not stupid.”

“Why would we want your DNA, Pinky?” Lô’s voice was deadly.

“Fuck you.”

“Please, Mr. Atoa.” Hung circled the table and righted the chair. “Sit.”

Atoa held a moment, then, “This is so fucked.”

Atoa dropped into the seat and thrust out both legs. The red sneakers started winging from side to side.

Lô and Hung exchanged a look above Atoa’s head.

“Here we go,” I said to Ryan.

Hung spoke as she returned to her seat.

“Perhaps something can be worked out concerning Gata.”

Lô shot his partner a look.

Hung gestured “hold on” with one hand.

Lô crossed his arms in annoyance.

“Quid pro quo. That means you help us, we help you.”

“I know what it means,” Atoa snapped.

“Good. You can help Gata. Who knows? Maybe yourself.”

“I’m listening.” Atoa was working the thumbnail, avoiding eye contact.

Another look passed between Lô and Hung.

“George Faalogo.” Lô paused. “Frankie Kealoha.”

No reaction.

“You know those guys, Pinky?”

Atoa shook his head.

“How about Ted Pukui?”

“Who?” Mumbled.

“Look at me.” Lô’s tone was sharp.

Atoa didn’t budge.

“Look at me!”

Atoa’s head snapped up. For the first time I saw fear in his eyes.

“How about Gilbert T’eo?”

“Everyone knows L’il Bud.”

“Word is you and Pukui assisted T’eo with a business problem.”

Atoa’s gaze flicked to Hung. Found no support.

“Faalogo and Kealoha.” Lô hammered on. “Makapu’u Point.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Wasn’t much left when the sharks finished, but we got enough.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Is it?”

Atoa licked his lips.

“How much you love that dog, Pinky?”

Atoa regarded Lô with a look of undiluted hatred.

“You claim to be smart. Know all about DNA. I’m sure you watch CSI and Law and Order. Maybe Bones, but that may be over your head. Surprising you and your pal got sloppy with things like prints and bullets. You know. Clues?”

A typical cop bluff. Lô wasn’t actually saying the police had fingerprints or ballistics evidence.

“We’re providing a chance here, Pinky. Work with us, we’ll try to help you out.”

“I ain’t messing with L’il Bud. You think I’m nuts?”

“How old are you, kid?”

Atoa didn’t reply.

“How old are you?” Lô barked.

“Eighteen.”

“I’m thinking your buddy is a wee bit older.”

“Pukui’s twenty-nine,” Hung said. “Been in the box four times.”

“I’m going to describe a hypothetical, then ask you something,” Lô said. “You know what a hypothetical is?”

“I ain’t stupid.”

“We’ll see.” Lô paused, as though framing his thoughts. “We got a kid who knows nothing and we got a guy who’s been through the system. We offer both the same opportunity. The catch is, only the first taker gets the deal.”

Another bluff, implying Pukui was also in custody.

“Here’s the question. A two-parter. Can you handle that?”

Atoa said nothing.

“Who rolls over? Who takes the fall?”

Atoa squeezed his lids shut and shook his head.

Lô waited.

Opening his eyes, Atoa leaned forward. “What you’re asking can get me killed.”

“Bad news for the dog,” Lô said.

Atoa ran a hand across his face and threw back his head. His windpipe bulged like a corrugated tube.

Lô and Hung looked at each other, expressions tense. The kid’s first utterance would indicate if they’d won or lost.

At last Atoa sat forward. He looked at Hung a long moment, then, “I talk to you, not him.”

“No problem. But he stays here.”

“All I did was drive.”

“If true, that will work in your favor.” Hung kept her voice neutral.

“You’ll look out for my dog?”

“I’m going to read you your rights now, Pinky.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Hung read from a small card. When she’d finished, “Do you understand what I just told you?”

“Yeah,” Atoa said. “I’m fucked.”

“Do you still want to talk to us?”

“Like I got a choice?”

“Yes, Pinky. You do. And you have the right to counsel.”

“What the fuck. Let’s go.”

“Tell me about Kealoha and Faalogo,” Hung said.

“Guys were sleeved.” Atoa used the prison term for tattoo-covered arms.

“Why the hit?”

“All I know is shit I overheard.”

Hung gestured “give it to me” with one hand.

“L’il Bud told Ted he wanted to lay it on hard.”

“Ted Pukui.”

Atoa nodded.

“You’re saying T’eo was sending a message?”

“You deaf or something? Yeah, that’s what I’m saying I heard.”

“What message?”

“It ain’t healthy dealing in another man’s mix.”