“ Or worse?”
“ It could've been my unit.”
Parry shook his head and held back a laugh. “It's just a machine, I know, but you do get attached to what's yours. Even if it does actually belong to the bureau, you know.”
“ We aren't talking horses here, Sheriff. At least the machine didn't feel any pain.”
“ So what, Tony? Does that mean I shouldn't? It pisses me off, all right?”
“ Let's just get out of this area before someone takes a shot at us. Feel like a sitting duck here.”
He put his foot to the floor, the engine roaring. Tony nervously glanced in the rearview where he saw a crowd of dark-skinned youths gathering like corporeal shadows behind them, thankful that Chief Jim Parry didn't look back or hear them.
“ Lot of anger building up out here, Jim.”
“ The damned police aren't cooperating, Tony. They had George Oniiwah two days before us, and yet they chose to say nothing about him.”
“ Wrote him off as a suspect, I'd say, so why bother you with him, Jim. You're overreacting.”
“ God dammit, Tony, do you know how long I've tried to get an island-wide task force put together on the Trade Winds Killer?”
“ I know… I know…”
“ I was told by the commissioner of police of Honolulu- guaranteed, mind you-that whatever they know, we know.”
Tony sat up at this. “And we'd extend the same courtesy?”
“ Which I've been damned careful to do.”
“ Oh, like you've told Scanlon every single result of the two autopsies on his cops?”
“ Fully informed Scanlon, yes.”
Tony nodded approvingly. “And the girl's arm?”
“ They've got it, as does the military, thanks to Marshal, and the county, and the state.” Parry's voice began to drag along with the list of need-to-knows. 'This case is turning into a political soccer game.”
“ So you've held nothing back?”
Parry thought of the bloodstains found on Kaniola's hands, the blood belonging to Linda Kahala. It was the one item of information he had withheld. “Nothing,” he lied.
“ Then I guess those bastards are shafting us, Chief.”
“ Wouldn't be surprised if they didn't have a hand with the sledgehammers.”
“ Only an off-duty cop on a drunk would be that reckless to risk his job, Chief.”
“ Yeah, maybe.”
They were at Parry's house, where they exchanged their good nights, Tony assuring him that he'd pick him up at eight sharp. Parry trundled off to his door, a small ranch home, well manicured and out of the mainstream of Honolulu life in an area between Fort Shafter Military Reservation and the Likelike Highway on a dead-end street named Kiloni. It was quiet and serene here, no bustle or distractions, attractions or madness. He had had opportunities to move into a condo fronting Honolulu Harbor, but he'd never taken the step.
Inside the house there was a friendly emptiness, a solitude and stillness that were both warm and needed for his frayed nerves. The walls were lined with photos and paintings, primarily of mountain scenes he'd collected over the years, which shared space with a few citations.
He tore away his shirt and wandered through the well-furnished living room to the refrigerator in the kitchen, searching for something to quench his thirst and to nibble on. He couldn't decide which was more pressing, his hunger, his fatigue or his need for a shower to wash off the filth of a day that seemed steeped in grime. He gave a thought to Claxton, to George Oniiwah, to the pair of eyes that belonged to the cowboy proprietor of the drug- fronting bar and grill, and then he recalled the slinking rats who'd destroyed his car.
He opted for the shower when he saw that his refrigerator needed re-stocking.
Prices in Oahu for such items as cereal, $6.99 for a twelve- ounce box, $4.00 for a gallon of milk, had become routine for him, acceptable, but keeping his place well stocked had always been a problem. Still, the beer was cold and chilled. He took one into the shower with him and drank as he lathered up.
Once he began to relax, the tension draining from his aching muscles and limbs, he thought of Jessica Coran, thought how wonderful it would be to step out of the shower and find her somehow magically transported here, waiting for him, her arms open, her lips inviting.
“ Crazy fantasizing bastard,” he admonished himself, stepped from the shower and halfheartedly toweled off, the muscles of his chest heaving with the effort. It was past midnight. Honolulu was wide awake and Honolulu cops were on the prowl for the Trade Winds Killer, on the lookout for young women who matched the description of those already brutalized by the killer. FBI agents, too, were posted at strategic locations along the strip. Every disturbance call was being taken seriously, at least everyone but those involving an FBI vehicle demolition.
Tomorrow, he'd shift to nights, to help out in the street surveillance operation. Tony would join him, spelling other agents he'd sent out.
The phone rang; he didn't want to pick it up; didn't want to hear any more bad news today; wasn't sure he could take any more. No one but Tony knew for certain that he was home. He let it ring. On the fourth ring, he gripped the receiver, started to pick it up, but cursed instead. When he did pick it up there was only a dial tone.
He had made a lot of mistakes tonight, he told himself, and not answering the call might have just added to them. Suppose there was another disappearance. Suppose a kidnapping had been foiled. Maybe a candidate for the Cane Cutter'd been apprehended. It could have been Kal Haley and Terri Reno calling with good news.
“ More likely bad news,” he muttered to himself, trying to shrug off the phone call when the damnable thing rang again. This time he picked it up on the second ring.
“ You son of a bitch, Parry!”
It was Dave Scanlon, police commissioner of Honolulu, angry as hell.
“ Something bothering you, Dave?”
“ You, you bastard! You fucking held out on me. One of my cops has the victim's blood on his hands and you don't see fit to tell me? And now it's going to be all over the goddamned morning papers, thanks to that goddamned kanaka!”
“ Kaniola?”
“ Who the hell you think called to corroborate the information?”
“ How the hell did he get it?”
“ You tell me, Mr. FBI. Frankly, Parry, I don't give a mongoose shit how in hell he got it. I want to know why I wasn't informed.”
“ No one had that information outside our lab this morning. I was going to alert you when-”
“ When! Yeah, when it suited you. And what about this hypothesis that the Trade Winds Killer is a white male between the ages of twenty-seven and forty who's wielding a cane cutter? How did the papers get that?”
“ Not from my office.”
“ No, I suppose not. I suppose your hands are spotless.”
“ Believe me, Scanlon, it didn't come from this direction.”
“ Sounds like you've got a leaky valve somewhere, pal. And I understand you're on foot these days.'“
The delight in his voice gave Jim Parry a visual image of the smirk on Scanlon's face. It dawned on Parry that every cop in the city knew about his vehicle.
“ Any information withheld from the public and your office, Scanlon, was done for the good of us all, for the sake, god damnit, of peace. Now you're telling me that the headlines in the Ala Ohana are going to read that a white man is stalking Hawaiian women with a cane cutter?”
“ And the goddamned English papers'll be running a counter- story, saying that Alan Kaniola was Linda Kahala's murderer!”
“ A little information in the wrong hands.” Parry's words tumbled out in a sigh. “Dangerous as a cornered mongoose in a cradle.”
“ I had a right to know beforehand, Parry. We had an agreement, I thought. You broke faith.”
“ Faith hell, Scanlon! You've been withholding information since day one on this and-”
Scanlon hung up.
