“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.
Lo’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. Lo and his partner occupied a solo pair at the back.
Like Lo, 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.
Lo made introductions. Hung’s first name was Leila.
We all shook hands. Lo 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
“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,” Lo 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.”
“
Hung looked at me, this time in question.
“It means ‘Oh, my,’ ” I said.
“Stateside, SOS are known as bad actors,” Lo said. “Intimidation, extortion, drug rip-offs, even murder.”
