wondered if one of the blackmail victims was behind the killings. A stronger guy than Brian Izumigawa might have decided to take matters into his own hands. He might have traced Lucas to the acupuncture clinic, and was trying to eliminate anyone who might have knowledge of his actions or clients.
After lunch, Jimmy and I drove down to Kaka’ako, an industrial neighborhood across from the port of Honolulu, out past the Kewalo basin, with its assemblage of small boats. Jimmy pointed out a high-rise tower where he thought Lucas had lived.
“I wish I could remember the apartment number,” Jimmy said. “There was something funny about it. Lucas like to make jokes, you know. Like about the website name.” He thought for a minute. “I think the apartment number was 69. I remember something about him doing sixty-nine there.”
I dropped him back at the campus and drove to the station. There was a message from Brian Izumigawa, with his cell phone number. When I reached him, he didn’t have any news, just wanted to see if I’d made any progress.
I hated to admit that we weren’t much farther ahead than we had been the last time he and I talked. So I said encouraging things, that it was all going to work out, and after I’d listened to his fears for a while I managed to get him off the line.
While I talked to Brian, Ray checked the address Jimmy had shown me. By the time I was done, he’d finished his call. “It’s a condo, not a rental. There’s no apartment 69, but there’s a 609. And the deed is in the name of the Wah Shing corporation.”
I shook my head. “Man, these guys got around, didn’t they? Anybody living there now?”
“Building manager didn’t know. The corporation’s been paying the maintenance, though. Want to go over there and take a look?”
Kaka’ako is in the middle of a transformation. The high-rise tower Jimmy had pointed out dominated the neighborhood; on one side was Restaurant Row, a collection of twenty-some restaurants and a multiplex cinema, but on the other side was a derelict empty lot. There were low warehouses and parking lots all around. We parked at a meter on a side street and walked up to the building.
Ray whistled as we entered the marble lobby. “Some people know how to live.” Fresh flowers in Venetian glass vases decorated the reception desk, and a koa wood bowl my mother would have loved sat on a low table by the door. A couple of overstuffed couches clustered in a corner, and the walls that weren’t mirrored were paneled in dark wood.
I wasn’t that impressed, but Ray was loving every detail. I could see him promising Julie that one day they’d live in a place like that.
The concierge was a beautiful Filipina in her late twenties, wearing a tailored navy suit. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help you?”
We showed her our badges. “We’re interested in apartment 609,” I said. “You guys have a key to that unit?”
“Let me see.” She went into a back room, and came out a few minutes later with a tall, muscular guy with black hair tending toward salt-and-pepper, wearing a similar suit-though I liked it better on him than on her. “I’m Sean Hackbarth,” he said. “The manager. You’re the detective I spoke to about unit 609?”
“That was me,” Ray said. “The corporation that owns the unit has come up in one of our investigations, and we’re just curious to see if anyone’s living there.”
“So you don’t have a warrant?”
Ray shook his head. “Nope. And to be honest with you, we don’t have grounds for a warrant. This is just curiosity.”
“Four employees of this corporation have turned up dead in the last week,” I said. “Three of them shot execution style while they slept. One of the employees is missing.” I showed them both the picture of Treasure Chen. “A Chinese woman in her late twenties, very beautiful.”
Hackbarth looked at the concierge and she shrugged. “If you have a parking card, you can enter the building directly from the garage,” she said. “Some of the residents we never see unless they have a package delivered.”
“Can you show us the apartment?” Ray asked Hackbarth. “We want to see if Ms. Chen’s body is there. If it’s not, we’re good to go.”
“I’ll take you up,” he said.
We followed him to an elevator bank. “Residents have key cards they use for the elevator,” he said. “You slide it in, and then choose your floor.”
“Cards coded to a particular floor?” Ray asked as we stepped inside.
Hackbarth slipped his card into the reader and pressed six. “No. Once you’ve swiped your card, you can go to any floor. If you’re a guest, the concierge calls your party. Once you’ve been approved, she punches a code in the system that calls the elevator for you, with your floor preprogrammed.”
Ray nodded. “Good security.”
“There are flaws,” Hackbarth admitted, as the elevator door opened on six. “A visitor who enters the elevator with a resident can punch any floor once the resident has swiped a card.”
He held the door as we stepped out, then pointed up at a security camera. “We do monitor the cameras, but we don’t chase someone who gets out on the wrong floor. We don’t have the manpower.”
“Still, it’s a place Treasure could feel pretty safe,” I said to Ray.
“A lot safer than Norma Ching’s place, or that apartment in Makiki,” he said.
Hackbarth led us to apartment 609 and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he unlocked both locks.
There was a security chain but it wasn’t engaged. We walked into the apartment, a one-bedroom with a view toward the airport and a small, half-round balcony off the living room.
“Somebody’s been living here,” Ray said. There were dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and a pint of milk in the fridge that hadn’t expired yet. In the bedroom, we found some women’s clothes, the kind of slinky dresses and expensive underwear that we’d found at Treasure’s apartment in Hawai’i Kai.
“So if Treasure’s been staying here, where is she now?” I asked.
“Great question,” Ray said. “Get back to me when you figure it out.”
TREASURE AND THE TAPES
We thanked Sean Hackbarth and walked out in the hallway, where I saw a security camera. “You keep the tapes?” I asked, pointing toward it.
“It’s all digital. Every day, the system overwrites the data from a week before.”
“So you’ve got a week’s worth of data from this camera?”
“Come on down to the office. I’ll show you.”
We started working backward, and didn’t have far to go. At ten o’clock that morning, a tall, attractive Chinese woman left apartment 609 and walked to the elevator. She got in and disappeared from the frame.
“That her?” Ray asked.
I compared the photo we had of Treasure to the digital image, and the match was close enough for me. “How about cameras in the garage?” I asked.
Hackbarth punched in some buttons on the keyboard, but the cameras in the garage were no help. We saw Treasure exit the elevator, then walk out of the frame.
By then it was the end of our shift. “You want to call Sampson, get him to authorize the overtime for a stakeout?” Ray asked.
“Suppose we have to.” I was to meet Sergei Baranov that night at eleven at the Rod and Reel Club, but if we were running late I could always call him. He was a big boy; he could occupy himself at the club on his own.
I walked outside and called Sampson, reaching him on his cell phone. “You aren’t sure that this is the girl?” he asked.
“We’re looking for a beautiful Chinese girl who works for the company that owns the apartment and ran the acupuncture clinic that employed Norma Ching and the two dead girls. Logic says the girl we saw is Treasure
