Spider Bones

“Did you recognize them?”

“No.”

“The vehicle?”

“No.”

“Did you get a tag number?”

“No.”

“Were they drunk?”

“There wasn’t time for a Breathalyzer.”

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine.” For the fourth time. “But the Cobalt is toast.”

“Shit. Lily just went out for an SUP lesson.”

“SUP?”

“Stand-up paddling. You float on a surfboard-looking thing and propel yourself with a paddle. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, she’s out of contact for another twenty minutes.” Agitated breathing. “Look, I can run down there, take you to Lanikai, shoot back up here—”

“Where are you?”

“Wailea.”

“That’s at least an hour from here.”

“Maybe I could—”

“Ryan, it’s no biggie.”

Actually, it was a real pain in the ass. I was soaked, my knee hurt like hell, my face was hash from the lava rock, and, obviously, I had no wheels and no wallet.

“How will you get home?”

“The cop probably has reams of forms I have to fill out. Maybe he’ll take pity on me. Or order a taxi.” If Samaritan Susie has left with her phone.

“Would the rental agency send someone to pick you up?”

“Right. I’m going to be tres popular with Avis.” I was dreading that call.

“The accident wasn’t your fault.”

“They’ll be gratified to know.”

“Yo?”

I turned.

The cop was shouting at me from outside his squad car. Older guy, probably fifty. Palenik. I was tres popular with Officer Palenik, too. No ID. No license. Car resting in ten feet of water.

“Your story checks out,” Palenik bellowed, to the interest of the onlookers. “How about we move this along?”

“I’ll be right there,” I shouted back. To Ryan. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at the house.”

I was right. Tolstoy devoted less paper to War and Peace than the Honolulu PD does to a traffic accident.

I was finishing the last form when a white Ford Crown Victoria made a U-ey and slid to a stop on our side. The shoulder was empty now, save for the cruiser in which Palenik and I sat.

The Crown Vic’s driver got out and walked in our direction, hitching his pants. Which were white. His untucked shirt was aloha blue and red. His left hand gripped a gym bag.

Based on size, I wasn’t sure if the guy was full grown.

Palenik watched, never budging from behind the wheel.

No alarm. OK. I was cool, too.

Proximity resolved the question of age. Though standing five-three and weighing maybe 120 wet, up close our visitor’s face said he was in his forties. High cheekbones and hidden upper lids suggested Asian ancestry. Turquoise eyes and ginger hair suggested input from elsewhere.

The man placed a forearm above the driver’s-side window, leaned on it, and spoke to Palenik.

“Aloha, Ralph.”

“Aloha, Detective.”

Detective?

“How’s it hanging?”

“Can’t complain.”