Текст книги "Spider Bones"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

SCHOON JOINED US SECONDS LATER.

“How do I proceed?” he asked Lô.

“I’ve got no objection to you dealing on Xander Lapasa. He’s talking forty years ago. A murder in Vietnam. Jurisdiction would be a nightmare. Besides, the guy may have zilch. Maybe he’s trying to cash in on some rumor he heard.”

I’d thought of that, too.

“But stay away from Kealoha and Faalogo,” Lô said. “If the scumbag’s moving drugs into my city he’s going down. Cancer or no cancer.”

“This may take a while,” Schoon said.

It didn’t. Ten minutes later he was back.

“The DA agrees. We give Lapasa rope, hope he hangs himself on something else. A prosecutor will join us shortly, but the DA said to proceed since we’re recording and Lapasa has counsel present. Besides, he doesn’t think we have jurisdiction since the alleged crime took place in Vietnam and the perp was active-duty military.”

Schoon left. A minute later he reappeared on the screen and took his seat.

“All right,” he said. “You have immunity on anything you say regarding Xander Lapasa.”

Face Mask looked at his lawyer.

“We’d like that in writing,” Epstein said.

“You shall have it,” Schoon replied.

Epstein nodded.

Schoon picked up his pen. “Tell me about the death of Alexander Lapasa.”

The pharmacy mask shrank inward, puffed out. Then, “Lapasa and I are waiting for a chopper to take us up-country.”

“Where was this?” Schoon asked.

“Long Binh.”

My heart began beating so loud I thought the others might hear it.

“To pass the time we start chewing the fat. I ask why he’s out of uni. He says he’s civvy, in-country looking for business ops once the war wraps up.

“We finally lift off. The chopper’s barely in the air when we take a hit, go down hard. The pilot, copilot, and crew chief buy it. Same for a kid riding in back. I walk away. So does Lapasa.” Face Mask shrugged. “Seemed like a perfect business op for me.”

Sweet Mother Mary!

I shot a hand out to Ryan. “Give me your cell.”

“What?”

“Just give me your cell.” Sharp.

Ryan did.

I punched buttons, my eyes jumping between the phone and the man on the screen. Schoon was now asking about dates.

“January, nineteen sixty-eight.”

“The day?”

“I don’t know.”

Danny answered on the first ring.

“The maintenance worker who witnessed the Huey crash at Long Binh. Did you ever track him down?”

“Harlan Kramer?”

“Whatever.”

“I talked to him. He’s retired and living in Killeen, Texas. Didn’t learn anything new—”

“Did you ask how many men boarded the Huey?”

“The manifest listed five. Four crew members and Spider Lowery.”

“But did you ask him how many boarded?”

“No.”

“Call him back. Ask him.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on—”

“Just do it. Let me know what he says.”

I got up. Paced. Gnawed flesh from my thumb.

Ryan and Lô looked at me like I’d gone over the edge.

On the monitor, Schoon was asking Face Mask to describe Xander Lapasa. The weapon.

Finally the phone rang.

“Kramer saw six men board—four crew, a recently released prisoner, and a civilian.” Danny sounded embarrassed. “He said no one ever asked him that question. All they wanted to know was how the chopper went down.”

“And he never mentioned it because he figured they had a manifest.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Danny. I’ll explain later.”

I refocused on the man on the screen.

“How far did you and Mr. Lapasa travel from the scene of the crash?”

Face Mask shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe a quarter mile.”

“On foot.”

“No. We called a fucking cab.”

“And you shot him.”

“How many times I gotta keep saying it?”

The dark pupils. The Al Pacino brows.

Of course.

That was the message my id was pinging.

“Then what?”

“I put one of my tags on his body and split.”

“What was your reason for being in Long Binh at that time?”

“I was getting out of jail.”

“It’s Spider,” I whispered.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“Who?” Lô asked.

“John Lowery. People called him Spider.”

“Tabarnac.”

“Who?” Lô repeated.

“Ssshh.” I hushed them both, wanting to hear the rest of Spider’s account.

“—you go after shooting Mr. Lapasa?”

“Saigon for a few years. Then Thailand. Bangkok. Chiang Mai. Chumphon. Back to Bangkok. Stayed there until eighty-six.”

“Then?”

“Got homesick.”

“You returned to the United States?”

Spider nodded.

“Using an eighteen-year-old passport.” Schoon sounded dubious.

“I got a new one.”

“How was that possible?”

“This dipshit crawl out from under some rock?” Spider asked Epstein, voice oozing scorn.

“Continue,” Schoon said.

“That’s it.” Spider shrugged. “I been here ever since.”

“Living as Al Lapasa.”

“Keeping clean. Paying taxes. Even got a pooch.”

“Your real identity, sir?”

Face Mask looked at Epstein.

Epstein nodded.

“John Charles Lowery. Born March twenty-first, nineteen fifty, in Lumberton, North Carolina. Father Plato. Mother Harriet.”

I knew. Still, hearing it sent an electric charge through me.

“Look, I gotta eat,” Spider said. “How about you scare up some sandwiches, maybe a couple sodas.”

Schoon looked momentarily undecided. Then, “Perhaps we do need another break.”

Nickie’s lawyer rose and walked off-camera. I suspected he’d decided it was time to phone his client.

I turned to face Ryan and Lô.

For a full thirty seconds no one ventured an opinion. Lô went first.

“My gut says this asshole’s full of shit.”

“It has to be Spider,” I said. “Who else would know about Long Binh? The Huey crash? Xander’s reason for traveling to Vietnam?”

“How could Xander have been on a military chopper?” Lô asked.

“Civilians hitched rides all the time,” I said.

“He look right for it?”

I pulled two pictures from my purse. The snapshot I’d found in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer. The team photo Plato had taken from his album.

The three of us studied the face of young Spider. That of the man on the screen.

Both had the same dark eyes and heavy curved brows.

“Hard to tell with the mask,” Lô said. “Plus this guy’s circling the drain.”

“The eyes seem right,” Ryan said.

“If the man’s lying, what’s his motive?” I asked.

No one had a theory on that.

“One thing bothers me,” Lô said. “How’d this Spider, not being Samoan, hook up with SOS?”

Or a theory on that.

“If he is legit, that would explain Spider’s dog tag turning up with Xander Lapasa’s body,” I said.

“It wouldn’t explain us rolling Spider’s prints off the Hemmingford vic,” Ryan countered.

“No,” I agreed. “But it would explain why DNA showed that that man could not be Harriet’s son.”

“Anyone thirsty?” Lô rose.

“Diet Coke,” I said.

“Coffee.”

“Don’t start without me.” Lô disappeared through the door.

To pass the time, I looked again at the photos. There was Spider leaning on the Chevy. There he was, a scrolly number 12 on his chest.

I wondered what position Spider had played. If he’d enjoyed baseball. How often the coach had sent him into a game.

Plato said a cousin got Spider to join the team, that his son mostly rode the bench.

What was the cousin’s name?

Reggie. Reggie Cumbo.

I looked at Reggie, down on one knee, unsmiling. The resemblance to Spider really was uncanny.

Plato said the boys were related through Harriet.

I pictured the old man as he spoke of his wife. Again felt his grief.

What had Plato said? Harriet had pretty eyes, one brown, one green as a loblolly pine.

A minute particle popped into being in my brain.

Fingerprints said the man who died in Hemmingford was Spider Lowery.

DNA said he wasn’t.

Army records said Spider Lowery died in Vietnam.

The man talking to Schoon said he didn’t.

I remembered the snapshot of Harriet Lowery standing on a pier. Her sun-fried chest. Her mismatched eyes.

The lone particle was joined by others.

I remembered my conversation with Harriet’s transplant physician. Macken admitted that irregularities had surfaced during testing for tissue compatibility. DNA showed that Harriet could not be Tom’s mother.

Plato and Harriet rejected that.

Tom was Spider’s twin.

I recalled a court case. An article.

The particles coalesced into a full-blown theory.

I stared at the monitor, hardly breathing, willing the man in the mask to look into the camera.

The door opened.

Come on!

Footsteps crossed the room.

Come on!

Lô set a Coke in front of me.

Come on!

On the screen, Schoon entered and placed a white paper bag on the table. The duo from California withdrew sodas, sandwiches, paper napkins. Popped cans. Opened and squeezed packets of mayo and mustard.

Do it, you bastard! Look at me!

Finally, he did.

And I knew who he was.

And what had happened.

I SHOT TO MY FEET.

“I need to get online.”

Ryan and Lô looked at me like I’d said I was joining Al Qaeda.

“Tell Schoon to stall.”

“Why?”

“Just keep this guy talking.”

I hurried to reception and made my request.

Unruffled, Tina led me to an empty office, typed a few keystrokes, and withdrew without query.

Moneypenny was all right.

Logging on, I went to the New England Journal of Medicine, called up an article, and speed-read. Scribbled notes. Moved through link after link until satisfied my understanding was adequate.

Next I entered a name and followed those loops.

A second name.

More loops.

I practically danced my way back to the conference room.

A woman had joined Ryan and Lô. She was tall, with short brown hair and acne-scarred cheeks. I placed her age at midthirties.

Lô made introductions. He didn’t look happy.

The newcomer was Maya Cotton, an ADA with the Honolulu prosecutor’s office.

Cotton and I shook hands.

“Anyway, sorry to spoil your day,” Cotton said.

“Sonofabitch.” Lô whacked a table leg with one foot.

“What?” I asked, not really interested, anxious to share my breakthrough.

“They kicked Pinky Atoa this morning.”

That surprised me. “He admitted to being involved in the Kealoha-Faalogo murder.”

Snorting in disgust, Lô gestured to Cotton.

“It turned out Atoa was actually only sixteen. The confession’s out. Since there’s really nothing else, he couldn’t be held.”

Down the hall, Schoon was still questioning Face Mask.

“Did I miss much?” I asked, gesturing at the screen.

“Spider’s reborn,” Ryan said. “Plans to join the Jesuits.”

“I know what happened.” I was so jazzed I showed no empathy for Lô’s frustration. “Spider. Xander. Lapasa. I just needed some medical info.”

“Lecture alert,” Ryan whispered to Lô and Cotton.

“I’ll keep it brief.” I was too pumped to take offense.

“And intelligible.”

“Yeah, yeah. No jargon.”

Deep breath.

“In two thousand two a pregnant woman named Lydia Fairchild applied for welfare in the UK. In addition to her unborn infant, she had two children by a man named Jamie Townsend. As part of the application process, Fairchild had to provide DNA evidence that Townsend was the father. Results showed that he was, but indicated that she wasn’t the mother.”

“Bummer,” Ryan said.

“No kidding. Fairchild was accused of fraud and her kids were taken into care. A judge ordered that a witness be present when she delivered, and that blood samples be taken from Fairchild and the baby. DNA indicated she was not the mother of that child either, even though it was a witnessed birth. A breakthrough came when lawyers discovered a similar case in Boston.”

“Thank the Lord for defense attorneys.” Lô, the king of sarcasm.

“In fact, it was the prosecutor.” I smiled at Cotton. “In nineteen ninety-eight a woman named Karen Keegan needed a kidney transplant. Her adult sons were tested for suitability as donors. Two of the three failed to match her DNA to the extent a biological child should. More sophisticated testing showed that Keegan was a chimera, a combination of two separate sets of cell lines with two separate sets of chromosomes.”

“How’d they figure that?” Ryan asked.

“Different DNA sequencing was found in tissues other than the ones originally taken from Keegan. Fairchild’s prosecutors suggested this possibility to her lawyers, and DNA samples were collected from members of the extended family. The DNA for Fairchild’s children matched that of her mother to the extent expected for a grandmother.”

“Showing she was the mother.” Cotton looked confused.

“Further tests showed that while DNA obtained from Fairchild’s skin and hair didn’t match her children’s, DNA obtained from a cervical smear was different and did match them.”

“Fairchild was carrying two different sets of genes.” Ryan simplified, but basically got it right.

“Yep.”

“That’s what this chimera thing is?” Lô.

“Yep.” I glanced at my notes.

“This is where she tells us all about it,” Ryan warned the other two.

“Two types of chimerism occur in humans. With microchimerism only a small portion of the body has a distinct cell line. Typically that arises because foreign cells have managed to stabilize inside a host.”

“Foreign?” Cotton asked.

“Could be cells originating from maternal-fetal exchange during pregnancy. For example, the fetus may pass on its stem and progenitor cells to the mother via the placenta. Because they’re undifferentiated, these cells may be able to survive and proliferate in the mother’s system. Maternal stem cells may be transferred to the fetus in the same way.”

No one said anything, so I continued.

“Microchimerism can also occur between twins. Actually, the most common form of human chimera is called a blood chimera. That results when fraternal twins share some portion of the same placenta. Blood is exchanged and takes up residence in the bone marrow. Each twin is genetically distinct except for their blood, which has two distinct sets of genes, maybe even two distinct blood types.”

“How common is it?” Ryan.

“It’s estimated that up to eight percent of fraternal twins are blood chimeras.” I thought a moment. “Things like blood transfusions or organ transplants can also produce microchimerism in a recipient.”

“That what happened to these ladies you’re talking about?” Lô asked.

“No. What Fairchild and Keegan had is a much rarer type, tetragametic chimerism. This occurs when two separate ova are fertilized by two separate sperm and produce two zygotes.”

Ryan raised a cautioning finger. “Embryos.”

“Yes, sorry. It occurs with fraternal or nonidentical twins. The embryos fuse very early in development, creating a single baby with two distinct cell lines. One set of DNA may appear in the kidney and another set may appear in the pancreas.”

Cotton summarized. “So these women, Fairchild and Keegan, each merged with her twin to form one baby with a hodgepodge of genes from both twins.”

“Yes.”

“Holy crap,” Lô said. “These people must look weird.”

“Many chimeras exhibit no overt signs of their condition. Or there may be minor peculiarities, differences in eye color, differential hair growth, that sort of thing. Others aren’t so lucky. Doctors at the University of Edinburgh treated a man who complained of an undescended testicle. When they examined him, they found he had an ovary and a fallopian tube.”

On-screen, Schoon was asking why Face Mask had been sent to Long Binh Jail.

Ryan cocked his chin toward the monitor. “What’s this got to do with Lowery?”

“He’s not Lowery.”

“Where’s Lowery?”

“Dead in Quebec.”

“The DNA says no.”

“Harriet Lowery was a chimera. She had one brown eye and one green eye. And Blaschko lines.”

No one asked, so I surged on.

“Blaschko lines appear as V’s or S’s or loops on the skin in specific parts of the body. They’re invisible under normal conditions, but certain diseases of the skin and mucosa manifest themselves according to these patterns.”

“Making them visible,” Ryan guessed.

“Yes.”

“They’re like, what? Stripes?” Lô asked.

“Blaschko lines are thought to represent pathways of epidermal cell migration during fetal development. The point is, chimeras often have them, and in one picture in Plato’s album, I could see them on Harriet Lowery’s chest.”

“Was she sick?”

“That I don’t know. But she had Blaschko lines. And according to Plato, Harriet also had mismatched eyes.”

“If she was a chimera, that would explain why her DNA didn’t match that of her sons.” Ryan was clicking.

“Exactly.”

“Meaning the guy in the pond was Spider after all.” Again, he indicated the screen. “Meaning this turkey isn’t.”

“Bingo.”

“So who is he?” Lô asked.

I rotated the team photo.

All three bunched close.

I tapped a boy standing in the back row. “This is Spider Lowery.”

“Agreed,” Ryan said.

I tapped a boy kneeling in the front row. “This is his cousin.”

“Sonofabitch,” Lô said.

“They could be twins,” Cotton said.

“Who is he?” Ryan asked.

“Reggie Cumbo,” I said. “Look at the man talking to Schoon.”

Three heads swiveled up.

“What color are his eyes?”

“Brown.”

“According to Plato, Spider’s eyes were green.”

Ryan worked it over in his mind. Then, “You’re thinking the cousins traded places back in sixty-eight. Spider went to Canada. Reggie went to Nam.”

I nodded. “The physical resemblance was good enough to fool anyone who didn’t really know them. They either swapped dental records, or somehow Reggie removed them from his file.”

“I’m lost,” Cotton said.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Lô said.

“Why?” Ryan asked me.

“I don’t know. Probably Spider got drafted and didn’t want to go. Reggie was always the more aggressive and assertive of the two, according to Plato. He may have wanted to join but couldn’t get in. He’d been arrested several times, hadn’t graduated high school. Unless Reggie tells us, we may never learn precisely why they did it.”

Ryan straightened. “How do you want to play this?” he asked Lô.

“Let me question him,” I said.

“No way.”

“I’m an anthropologist,” I pressed. “You’re a cop.”

“You weren’t kidding,” Lô said to Ryan. “The chick is good.”

“I told you.”

“What I mean is, Reggie may view me as less threatening than you.”

“I do have a badge,” Lô said.

“And a gun,” Ryan added.

“And I’m wearing this shirt.” Lô flipped the hem of yet another aloha delight.

“You two are hilarious,” I said. “But Cumbo has been granted limited immunity. Right now, he can walk anytime he wants. I can come at him from the JPAC angle. He claims he wants to die with a clear conscience. I can work that, talk about Plato, talk about getting Spider properly buried.”

“How sure are you on this chimera thing?” Lô asked.

“To be absolutely certain, I’ll need more of Harriet’s DNA. But right now, it’s the only theory that makes sense.”

Lô looked at Cotton.

“I lost Atoa. I’d like to hang something on this guy.”

“I don’t see a downside,” she said. “He’s been Mirandized. He’s got counsel. The army has a legitimate interest. Dr. Brennan’s their rep on this Spider thing.”

Lô hesitated.

Sighed.

“What the hell.”

I started toward the door.

“And, hey,” Lô said.

I turned, hand on the knob.

“Hit him with everything.”

CUMBO DIDN’T GLANCE UP WHEN I ENTERED THE ROOM.

Schoon and Epstein did. The lawyers watched in silence as I walked toward the table.

Up close I could see that Cumbo was sweating big-time. The collar of his hoodie was soaked with perspiration pumping from his face and neck. His eyes were underhung with flabby half-moon plums. His skin was the color of dun.

“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Taking a seat.

“Doctor?” Epstein looked from me to Schoon.

“ADA Cotton suggested that I participate in this interrogation.”

“Doctor?” Epstein repeated.

“I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“I work for JPAC.” I spoke directly to Cumbo. “The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Cumbo didn’t raise his head or acknowledge my question.

“JPAC’s mission is to locate American war dead and bring them home. And they do a fine job of it.”

Epstein started to object. I continued to ignore him.

“I’m involved in the case of a soldier who was killed in Vietnam, eventually buried in his home state of North Carolina.”

Nothing.

“That soldier’s friends and family called him Spider.”

The half-moon plums pinched up ever so slightly.

“Recently an odd thing happened. A man died in Canada. Fingerprints identified that man as Spider. But Spider was buried in Lumberton, North Carolina.”

Cumbo began working his thumbnails. I noticed they were yellow and ridged.

“As you can imagine, this situation created considerable confusion. The army doesn’t like confusion. They opened an investigation to determine how the same man could be dead in two places.”

I paused for effect.

“But I think you know.”

“This is ridiculous,” Epstein said.

Still I ignored him.

“Spider’s real name was John Charles Lowery.”

Epstein and Schoon both looked surprised. Epstein regretted it. Forced his face blank.

“But you claim you are John Charles Lowery. You say you killed Xander Lapasa in Long Binh forty years ago and assumed his identity.”

Placing my forearms on the table, I leaned in.

“But John Charles Lowery never went to Vietnam. Did he, Reggie?”

Still Cumbo avoided my eyes.

“You remember Spider. You were cousins. You went to school together. Played baseball together. Wasn’t it you who encouraged Spider to join the team?”

Cumbo’s thumbnails were clicking double-time.

“Want to know how Spider died? He tied a rock to his ankle and drowned himself. His body’s lying in a morgue in Montreal. The tag on his toe says John Doe.”

A bit loose with the facts, but close enough.

Epstein flapped a hand, dismissive. “We’re finished here. This woman is clearly misinformed.” He gripped the arms of his chair and began to push back.

“You’re right and you’re wrong.” Cumbo’s eyes bore into mine.

“Mr. Lapasa, I strongly advise—”

Without turning, Cumbo raised a finger, a teacher demanding silence.

Epstein frowned disapproval.

Unhooking the elastic loops from his ears, Cumbo removed the mask.

I forced myself still.

Cumbo hadn’t worn protection out of fear of infection. The lower half of his face was grotesquely disfigured. His chin skewed right at an unnatural angle, and his lower jaw appeared way too small. I guessed most of his mandible had been surgically removed. His neck had a cavernous indentation, and a scar jagged diagonally across his throat.

“That make us even? Your face is shit too.”

I kept my eyes steady on Cumbo’s.

“You nailed it,” he said. “I’m not Al Lapasa. And I’m not Spider.”

“You’re Reggie Cumbo.”

“Haven’t been Reggie Cumbo for over forty years.”

“You reported for military service in Spider’s place.”

“He didn’t want to go. I did.”

“Spider went to Canada.”

Cumbo shrugged. “He liked snow.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“For a while. I forwarded his mama’s letters. Quit when I headed to Nam.” Cumbo’s mouth executed a slippery sideways maneuver. “Still got some of her crap in a box.”

“The army wasn’t what you expected.”

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed.

“Combat. Hot, stinking jungle. You wanted out.”

“That war was stupid.” Defensive.

“So you murdered Xander Lapasa.”

“What? Am I watching a rerun?” Cumbo tossed the mask. It did a lopsided roll across the table, then dropped to the floor.

I switched topics.

“You own a bar in Oakland called the Savaii.”

“That a crime?”

“Savaii is a town in Samoa.”

“Now we all get an A in geography.”

“The Savaii is a hangout for members of a street gang called Sons of Samoa.”

Cumbo raised then dropped his hands back on the table. So?

“How does someone from Lumberton, North Carolina, end up SOS?”

“I got dark good looks so I fit the part. Indian, you know.” Cumbo’s mouth and chin tucked sideways in an attempt at an ironic grin. It was repellent. “Crips heard the name Lapasa, figured I was Samoan. Being a cuz worked for me, so I rolled with it.”

Schoon cleared his throat.

Epstein listened, quiet but vigilant.

“Tell me about Francis Kealoha.”

“Who the fuck’s Francis Kealoha?”

“Perhaps you know him as Frankie Olopoto.”

Below the scar Cumbo’s Adam’s apple rose then fell.

“How about George Faalogo? That name ring a bell?”

Cumbo said nothing.

“Let’s talk about Nickie Lapasa.”

No response.

“Xander’s brother. Xander Lapasa. The poor chump you murdered. I’m sure you’re aware that Nickie Lapasa is a powerful man. A rich man. I’m sure you know the Lapasa family has financial interests that extend far beyond the state of Hawaii. Maybe even to California. You told us you looked Nickie up online. Was that a little fib, Reggie? Are you and Nickie acquainted through, shall we say, professional ties?”

Schoon came to life.

“We will not discuss Nicholas Lapasa’s personal or professional affairs at any time during this interview.”

“Is that why you sent Frankie and Logo out here?” I pressed on.

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed even further, but he said nothing.

I pulled another topic switch.

“I understand you’re under investigation for selling illegal drugs. You deal out of your bar, Reggie?”

Now it was Epstein’s turn to object. “You’re crossing a line, miss.”

“You looking to expand distribution?” I continued drilling Cumbo. “Is that why you sent Kealoha and Faalogo to Hawaii? They your front men for new projects?”

“Enough!” Epstein was on his feet.

“You screwed up, Reggie. You sent Frankie and Logo onto another man’s turf. Ever hear of L’il Bud T’eo? You sent them into T’eo’s house.”

“This is outrageous.” A flush was spreading upward from Epstein’s collar.

“You got them killed, Reggie.”

“What the fuck?” Cumbo’s lips parted, revealing a tongue that looked like a shriveled eel.

“The sharks didn’t leave much to ID.”

Cumbo’s mouth closed, made another oily loop.

“Your line of questioning is completely out of order.”

For the first time I looked at Epstein. I had to credit the guy. He was tenacious as crabgrass.

“For this interview to continue you must focus exclusively on circumstances surrounding Xander Lapasa’s death.”

“Fine. Let’s focus on Xander. Your client says he wants to come clean about the murder. Still he lies about his real identity.” I turned to Cumbo. “Why is that, Reggie?”

“I told you. I have regrets.”

“You’re seeking peace? Forgiveness? Or are you just looking to save your ass?”

Cumbo snorted in derision.

“You know what I think, Reggie? Maybe the cops are closing in on your little operation. Maybe you’re taking heat from SOS for getting Frankie and Logo killed. Maybe you found out T’eo’s put a price on your head. Whatever. I doubt you give a rat’s ass about clearing your conscience. I think you’re looking to boogie again.”

I was on a roll, making it up as I went along.

“I think you see the clock ticking on Al Lapasa. I think you’re hoping John Lowery is your new get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s your MO, right? Steal someone else’s name and disappear? Reggie Cumbo becomes Spider Lowery. Spider Lowery becomes Al Lapasa. Now it’s time to go back to being Lowery. To disappear.”

Cumbo thrust his head forward so his nose was inches from mine. I smelled his sweat, felt his rancid breath on my face.

Locking his eyes on mine, Cumbo curled, then exploded his fingers.

“Poof!”

Droplets of saliva sprayed my face.

Revolted, I drew back and reached for my purse. I was searching for a tissue when the door opened.

I swiveled.

Lô’s face told me something was very wrong.

“May I help you?” Schoon asked.

Lô pointed at me, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

I rose and hurried into the hall.

Ryan was standing outside the conference room from which we’d observed the interview. His body looked tense. The ADA wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Cotton?” I asked.

“Gone.”

Lô said nothing further until we joined Ryan. Then, “Pinky Atoa is dead.”

“Dear God.” I was stunned.

Ryan’s expression told me he already knew.

“A bum found him ninety minutes ago behind a 7-Eleven on Nuuanu. He’d taken one slug to the head, three to the chest.”

I felt sick. Atoa was sixteen years old. Yesterday he’d been worried about his dog.

“His body was lying beside a Dumpster.” Lô swallowed. “His tongue was cut out and nailed to one side.”

Sweet Jesus.

“When was he killed?”

“Perry’s putting time of death at somewhere between nine and eleven this morning.”

“The kid had hardly hit the street.” I wasn’t believing this.

“Yeah. Someone was waiting for him.”

Lô’s eyes showed both pain and resolve. He knew what had happened, what lay ahead.

Ryan and I had lived through a gang war. Seen the bloodshed, the senseless death. We knew too.

“I don’t know if this prick Cumbo is involved, but deal or no deal, his ass stays put until I find out.”

“He acted genuinely surprised when I said Kealoha and Faalogo are dead.”

“Yeah, he’s innocent as Bambi.”

Lô glanced at his watch.

“Hung’s on her way here. She’ll deal with Cumbo. I’ve asked Fitch to see what he can scratch up on the Atoa hit. In the meantime, I’m heading to the scene.”

Lô’s heels squeaked softly as he strode across the marble.

Ryan and I rode the elevator and left the building in silence.

Walking toward his car we shared the sidewalk with tourists checking maps, mothers pushing strollers, shoppers carrying brightly colored bags.

Early-evening sun bathed the city in warm saffron tones. The air smelled of sea and warm stone, with hints of hibiscus and grilling meat.

The day is too beautiful for death, I thought. Death at sixteen.

Ryan was unlocking the car when tires squealed behind us.

We both whipped around.

Blue lights flashed from the front grille and back window of Lô’s Crown Vic.

I looked at Ryan. His face told me he shared my apprehension.

We hurried toward Lô.

“I’m glad I caught you.” He spoke through his open window. “Fitch called. Word is Atoa was T’eo’s hit.”

“He ordered one of his own killed?” I was shocked and appalled.

“Someone must have seen Atoa entering or leaving the station, dimed T’eo. T’eo decided to make an example.”

“Christ,” Ryan said.

“Word is Ted Pukui got twenty thousand to take the kid out.”

We waited.

“Fitch heard Atoa’s only the warm-up. T’eo plans to send a message, not just here but to all the cuz on the mainland.” Lô snorted his disgust. “Grow his legend.”

Lô’s eyes shifted from Ryan to me and back.

“Where are your daughters?”

“At home.” A cold fist grabbed my heart. “Why?”

“Call them.”

Ryan dialed the house. Got no answer. Lily’s mobile. Voice mail. He handed me the phone. I dialed Katy. Voice mail.

“Why are you asking about Katy and Lily?” I demanded.

“Word is T’eo’s offered another twenty thousand for you or one of your kids.”

The cold fist expanded to fill my chest.

“He was behind the incident at Waimanalo Bay. Cost him a case of rum to have those punks force you off the road.”

“Why?”

“To discourage you from helping Perry. Didn’t work, and now you’re causing serious inconvenience. This time he’s offering big money.”

I saw fury enter Ryan’s eyes. Felt it in mine.