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,” Lo 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 Lo.
“Right now, Halawa. That’s a medium security prison here on Oahu.”
“Atoa and Pukui work for T’eo?” I asked.
Lo 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 Lo had done casting before our arrival. Lo 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?” Lo 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,” Lo 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?”
