At six, Ryan and I were still threading through traffic. Slogging, really.
I’d used Ryan’s phone to call Katy, explained about the accident, and told her that we were on our way home.
She’d demanded details. Sidestepping most questions, I’d assured her that I was fine. She’d offered to throw something together for dinner.
I’d then given Ryan an overview of Lo’s conversation with Gloria Kealoha.
“But, until Fitch, you never made the Samoa connection,” he said.
“No.”
“What pulled the trigger?”
“Hamo. Tafuna. Waipahu,” I said.
“Klaatu. Barada. Nikto,” he said.
“What?”
“
I was lost.
“Buttercup.” Feigned disappointment. “Nineteen fifty-one? Michael Rennie and Patricia Neal? Neal said those three words to Gort and the Earth was saved. Never mind. You’re probably distracted by my good looks and charm. How’d you get Sons of Samoa out of Fitch’s account?”
“Three things. First, he used the term
“I thought it was a lunch meat that paired well with cheese.”
I ignored that.
“Samoan is a member of the Polynesian language family. Some of the other dialects substitute the letter
“Thus Hamo. I didn’t know that.”
“Second, Tafuna is a city in American Samoa. Fitch said that’s where the Kealohas came from.”
“Except back home they weren’t the Kealohas.” Ryan was quiet a moment. “How was a woman with two minor dependents and no job or job skills allowed to immigrate to the U.S.?”
“Though not citizens, people born in American Samoa are American nationals, free to travel throughout the United States and its territories.”
“OK. Third?”
“Waipahu. There are a couple of fairly good-sized Samoan communities on Oahu, one near Kalihi Valley, another up at Waipahu.”
“Kealoha lived at Waipahu.”
“VoilA.”
“But how’d you make the leap to Sons of Samoa?”
“Remember that kid I ID’ed about a year and a half back? The one with the full-body tattoos?”
“The Latin King stabbed outside the bar in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue?”
“Yes. I spent hours researching gang tattoos for that case.”
“Gold star, Brennan.”
Before I could say thanks, Ryan executed one of his head-spinning topic swaps.
“Tell me about the crash.”
“I did that.”
“Do it again.”
“A car pulled to my bumper, tapped me once, tapped me a second time, went to pass, and swerved into my left rear. I cut the wheel—”
“What kind of car?”
“A black SUV.”
“Year? Make?”
“It happened too fast.”
“How many occupants?”
“Two. I think. The glass was tinted. I couldn’t really see.”
“Male or female?”
“Yes.”
Ryan gave me a look that said he wasn’t amused.
“The passenger was definitely male,” I said.
