“The person wasn’t involved and didn’t want to be blamed.”
“Exactly. Plus something else. Did you search the house for the hair dye kit the victim used to color her hair? Looks like she was interrupted while she was coloring it.”
“We did. Unopened dye kits are under the bathroom sink, but no used kits anywhere else, trash cans included.”
“No stray splotches on the counter, or in the sink, no drips on the floor. Dye on her head, face, and neck, and on the tub porcelain, but nowhere else. And the hair dye kit is gone. Add to that, no gun. My take is the caller—maybe also the cleaner—gathered up evidence of his or her arrival and left with everything.”
Soon as he finished his summary, a pang of awareness hit. “Whoa. The clear plastic gloves.”
“From the hair dye kit?” Chief Koo said.
“Yes. My guess is the cleaner used the disposable gloves for the cleanup, didn’t want to leave them behind.”
Behind them a restless Patrick moved from foot to foot, his hand raised. It took Philo a minute to realize Patrick had been raising and lowering his hand the whole time Philo was in the zone, talking cleaning forensics. “Sorry, Patrick. What is it, you gotta use the john?”
“No, sir. I have a real good guess who it was, sir.”
“The 9-1-1 caller? Go for it, bud.”
“Could be that lady who disappeared from Philly, sir. The Hawaiian mob cleaner lady we met at your fight in the grain silo. Remember her, sir? She was really good…”
Philo’s jaw unhinged and stayed that way as he remained speechless, piecing it together, the Philly angle meaning nothing to the chief but meaning everything to Philo.
Her name was Kaipo, her last name escaping him. Wally’s woman friend. Hawaiian. Very competent. Someone, maybe her, knew how to clean up after herself but had little on hand to do it with, MacGyvered her way into what was needed. Wanted no trace of her visit discovered. Didn’t want to be found out. By anyone. Least of all by—
“Tell me what you know about Wally Lanakai and the mob here in Hawaii, Chief, and we’ll tell you what we know about them in Philly.”
17
Wally pointed at the empty curb, barked at his driver, today not Magpie. The spaces in the adjacent parking garage were too tight and not long enough. He wanted the Caddy limo parked on the street.
“These two spaces here. You know the drill.”
The driver parallel parked across adjacent spaces, cut the engine. The other passenger objected. “Wally, this is police headquarters. Don’t do anything to antagonize—”
“Shut it, Amos. You’re my attorney, not my babysitter.”
Defensive parking 101, to make sure the Escalade didn’t mingle with the beater cars and the Maryjane-farming pickups and the Harleys that Kauai’s police department headquarters seemed to attract nowadays. Which meant two parking meters to contend with, which meant two fares. Which meant Wally was behaving as he should, would cover his ass and operate within all aspects of the law this time around, needing no reminders from his attorney.
Back in the day, he’d say fuck the Kauai parking authority, fuck the police, and fuck the local government, because he’d paid them all off. Then the Department of Justice swooped in, indicted the city government, indicted the police department hierarchy, and put Wally in prison on racketeering charges. Years after his release from the judicial system, he’d turned over a new leaf. He was still into questionably victimless services, was still in the rackets on the East Coast, in Philly. He’d embarked on a business play that at best pissed all over the medical industry’s ethics. At worst it could do major harm, some patients lost during surgery and needing to be dealt with. On the radar in Philly, but nothing had ever been proven. Still, he’d remained below the radar in Hawaii this time around, yet the police asked him to stop in for a chat to talk about some of the most horrifying and sensational crimes in recent memory on Kauai.
“We will cooperate fully,” he’d told a Detective Ujikawa on the phone, but where had this detective gotten his number, he asked.
“You don’t need to know that, Mr. Lanakai.”
Wally’s best guess: Douglas Logan, who had a big reach across the islands. Would Wally be pissed at Logan for having given out his contact info, or gratified Logan had retained it? Either way, he’d need to be wary.
The driver loaded the meters with coins. Wally and his lawyer waited in the car, sipping guava juice, until the driver finished.
Inside headquarters they were led to a police interrogation room and made comfortable: coffee, bottled water, snacks. Two law enforcement types entered, both Hawaiian, one in rumpled plainclothes, one in a decorated uniform. A slight relief on Wally’s part: his visit had at least merited the island’s top cop. Smart on the police chief’s part, too, to show some respect; props to their approach. The cops took seats across a table from them.
“I’m Kauai Police Chief Koo, this is Detective Ujikawa. I thank you and your attorney for coming in. Let’s get started. Detective, you’re up.”
“Thanks, Chief. So why are you back in Hawaii, Mr. Lanakai?”
His felonies were well documented, but the men at the table shared no personal history. Clean slate for Wally, with time served. This was more than a getting-to-know-you question, it was a fishing expedition.
“Back in my
