“Yeah, but the police—”
“The police are on it, Philo. And you and I will be, too.”
“You realize,” Philo said, measuring his words, wanting to deliver them without an ounce of insinuation, “who the number one suspect will be?”
“You think I give a shit? The hell with that husband-boyfriend shit. I’ll go it alone if I have to, damn it…”
“Not implying—”
“Fine. I’ve got something to offer you in return. You want access to Miakamii. It might be a stretch under the circumstances, but we made the request.” Then, with Evan fighting for composure, “Having you help with Miya should be easier to manage. The police chief is a friend, and you’re in the business, so…”
The crime scene business. Gruesome murders, messy suicides, meth labs, hoarding, chemical cleanups, other human and non-human detritus needing remediation… this was Blessid Trauma’s wheelhouse.
“… maybe you can make sense out of it, Philo. A slaughter…”
Philo reached across the desk, grabbed his friend’s fisted hands, and gripped them hard.
Evan stayed melancholic. “So warm and caring a person. I never thought I’d find someone to love like that again…” The commander choked back the hurt; in a moment he regained control. Fire rose behind his eyes, and he became the man Philo knew from shared military missions past. A man to be feared.
“The person who did this,” Evan said, seething, “when I find him… maybe he gets terminated with extreme prejudice.”
Evan pulled open a drawer, lifted out a holstered forty-five, placed it atop his desk. His Navy issue Colt. Out of his chair now, he strapped the sidearm around his waist, settled it on his hip.
“What circumstances?” Philo asked.
Evan unholstered the handgun, checked it, confirmed it was loaded. “What?”
Philo was now also on his feet. “You said getting access to the island was a stretch ‘under the circumstances.’”
A hard rap at the CO’s office door. “Hold that thought, Philo. Come in,” Evan called.
Lt. Bingham entered. “I have some answers for you, Commander, but I still think—”
“Look, Lieutenant—Mary—I know you’re worried about me. I can’t not do this investigation now. Tell me how you did.”
The lieutenant’s jaw tightened. A lot of good you did, her glance at Philo said. “But sir, a person needs time to grieve—”
“Lieutenant…” Evan’s voice was stern.
“Fine, then. You’re allowed on the scene, Commander, sir. The police and the NTSB said okay. So did the Logan family.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Have our detail assembled by fourteen hundred hours please. I’ll have our guests back by then.”
She did an about-face, spoke under her breath.
“No, you’re not going, Mary,” Evan said in response. The door closed behind her exit, the hard close a statement.
After trimming up his cap on his bald head, Evan announced their plans.
“I have a van with a driver outside. We’re going to Miya’s house. The cops wouldn’t let me in until last night. Are you aware of the copter incident that caused the air traffic issues yesterday?”
A huge local news story that had quickly gone viral. Something Philo learned after they landed. “Yes. It, ah, cost us over an hour in the air.”
“Also cost the copter pilot his life and turned one of the helos the Logan family owns into a crime scene.” He ushered Philo toward the door. “The Logans asked the Navy to look at it. I already added your names to the official detail. Your ticket to visiting Miakamii, Philo. But before that, my fiancée’s place. Introduce me to your associate, then let’s get the hell out of here.”
5
The driver of Wally’s gold Escalade limo pressed the talk button on the tarnished metal box on a black pole at window level. The outdoor speaker was thick and heavy-duty, a replica that looked tougher than the ones that hung from poles at 1950s drive-in movies. Two stories overhead, a rough-hewn, wooden yoke crossbar connected the left side of the fencing to the right, and boasted in etched concave letters that they were about to enter the Logan Ranch. Beyond the silvery aluminum pasture gate stretched a thousand or more acres of private Kauai ranch property. Plenty of head of steer, no buildings in sight.
The speaker emitted a disinterested squeal. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Lanakai to see Mr. Logan,” the limo driver said.
Ten seconds of silence, then the tinny female voice returned. “Please stay in your car until your escort arrives.”
An incredible day—low humidity, cloudless sky, slight breeze, mid-eighties, another of Hawaii’s endless summer of incredible days. The Escalade’s tinted window powered closed, Wally and the three occupants remaining stoic and pin-drop quiet. Wally Lanakai, his light business suit custom-tailored to accommodate his girth, some of it newly acquired from his crime family’s lucrative relocation to the U.S. mainland, was contemplative, his expression uncompromising. His focus was on the distant horizon, below the dome of an azure blue Hawaiian sky, where someone who wasn’t thrilled to see him awaited his arrival. The limo’s escort would arrive momentarily.
Dust kicked up. A few hundred yards from the gate two horses and their riders emerged, a cloud trailing them from disturbed prairie soil mixed with volcanic ash dust, the sunlight leaving mini rainbows in their wake. One galloping paniolo in a sombrero reached the split rail fencing and pulled up on the left. The second paniolo, also in a sombrero, took a position on the gate’s right. Pancho Villa throwbacks, with bandoliers across their chests, the bandoliers far from affectations, with semi-automatic gun magazines instead of individual bullets. The pasture gate opened electronically. The Hawaiian cowboy on the driver’s side barked orders at him.
“Ten miles per hour.” It wasn’t a request. The driver nodded. The automated gate rolled back to a full stop behind the split rails.
The cowboys giddy-upped their horses to trot alongside the limo while they followed the long entrance road to the Logan residence. A grazing twelve-hundred-pound steer glanced with disinterest at the passing limo. Wally eyed the cowboys and their crisscrossed bandoliers much like he’d done on a prior
