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.
Lo’s face told me something was very wrong.
“May I help you?” Schoon asked.
Lo 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.”
Lo 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.” Lo swallowed. “His tongue was cut out and nailed to one side.”
“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.”
Lo’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.”
Lo 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.”
Lo’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 Lo’s Crown Vic.
I looked at Ryan. His face told me he shared my apprehension.
We hurried toward Lo.
“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.” Lo snorted his disgust. “Grow his legend.”
Lo’s eyes shifted from Ryan to me and back.
