Pleasing the Dead Read online

  Pleasing the Dead

  Pleasing the Dead

  Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  www.debbyatkinson.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2008 by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  First Edition 2008

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2008931495

  ISBN-13 Print: 978-1-59058-597-9

  ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-61595-006-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to George C. Crout, principal of Wilson Elementary School, Middletown, Ohio, 1960.

  I was fortunate to be among the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Grade students Mr. Crout inspired with his innate kindness and his progressive views on education.

  Thank you, Mr. Crout.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Glossary of Hawaiian Words

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Epigraph

  O Rose, thou are sick.

  The invisible worm

  That flies in the night,

  In the howling storm,

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy,

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.

  —William Blake, The Sick Rose

  Acknowledgments

  Pounding out the twists and turns of a mystery at the keyboard may be a solitary aspect of writing, but the real stuff, the nitty-gritty, comes from the experts. Endless gratitude goes to my legal eagle friends: Claudia Turrell, Patty NaPier, Judy Pavey, Ron Johnson, and George Van Buren. Each of them has an impressive domain of expertise; I am awed. Any mistakes regarding legal and investigative procedure in this book are mine because I didn’t know enough to ask. Thanks, guys!

  Thank you to my advisors, readers, and fellow writers: Karen Huffman, Michelle Calabro-Hubbard, Michael Chapman, and Honey Pavel, who keep me on course. Many thanks to Barbara Peters, editor extraordinaire, without whom this book wouldn’t reach its readership.

  Hugs and salty kisses to all the Pink Hats, Maui’s intrepid Masters Swimmers, especially Doug Rice and Christine Andrews. These patient people allowed me to slow them down, and then showed me the rare Hawksbill turtle and Bruce the shark, who did NOT charge anyone. We also learned not to put orange peels in our bathing suits. So much for trying not to litter. Ouch.

  Mahalo to Celia at Hawaii Shark Encounters on Oahu’s North Shore, for information on their dives and the types of sharks encountered. These folks wouldn’t consider baiting the water.

  Mahalo nui loa, everyone.

  Map

  Chapter One

  The silver Lexus turned left at the light, then glided a few blocks down Waine‘e Street and slowed. It bumped into a pitted lot behind a small frame building. Though the bar looked closed and forlorn from the rear, a handful of dilapidated cars were parked on the worn gravel. A black Mercedes S600, isolated in the far corner, stood out like a tank at a peace demonstration.

  The young man at the wheel of the Lexus gulped, and his eyes flicked to his father. Ichiru Tagama kept his gaze straight ahead, but a muscle twitched along his jaw.

  Ryan Tagama parked the Lexus on the other side of the lot from the Mercedes. “I thought we were early.”

  The older Tagama grunted. Both men got out of the car, Ryan locked it with the remote, and adjusted the hang of his linen jacket. Tagama’s broad face glistened and the tic in his jaw muscle pulsed.

  Inside, father and son paused to let their eyes adapt to the dimly lit room, where a handful of male customers sat at small tables. Though Ryan watched to see if anyone noticed their entry, the customers’ reddened eyes followed only the attractive, heavily made-up hostesses. Ryan watched to see if anyone noticed their entry, but the men only had eyes for the women.

  There were more women than men, in assorted stages of dress. One wore a Chanel suit with a silk peony pinned to the lapel. Nearby, a very young woman wore a sheer pareau over a thong bikini in a vivid tropical print. She was less than five feet tall, with a couple of water balloons barely restrained by two tiny triangles, on her chest. Still another wore a short pleated plaid skirt, knee socks, and high heeled pumps. No one but the women smiled, and only when they faced a customer to set his drink on the table with a little curtsy or bow.

  Chanel’s perfect coiffure swiveled to the men coming through the door, and her mouth turned up in a smile that reached her smoky almond eyes a second or two after her red lips parted. “Tagama-san,” she said in a husky voice. “Welcome.”

  “Yasuko, flower of Asia,” Tagama said in his accented English.

  “It’s so good to see you again.” Her sultry, warm gaze turned to Ryan. “And this is your handsome son.”

  “Yasuko, this is Ryan.”

  She gave a little bow, which Ryan returned. He bent deeper than she had.

  “Come with me.” She turned to lead them through a curtain of plastic beads and a blast of cold air from an overhead vent.

  Ryan ducked his head and smoothed his hair. Tagama walked through the refrigerated air and the beads with the dignity of an old soldier. They entered a simple room that was unfurnished except for a table, two chairs, and a cluster of pachinko machines in the corner.

  A tanned, beefy man dwarfed the table where he sat alone. Sunglasses hid his eyes. Two younger, brawny men, also wearing dark glasses, stood behind their boss.

  The seated man wore an expensive Italian suit with a slight sheen, as if silk were mixed with the fine wool. He rolled his broad shoulders and nodded to his guests.

  “Welcome, Tagama.” The dark glasses flickered at the woman. “Thank you, Yasuko.”

  She backed from the room. Tagama bowed deeply. “Obake-san,” Tagama said. “This is my son, Ryan.”

  Ryan took his cue and bowed. The ma
n lowered his oversized head a fraction of an inch. His big hands spread flat on the table, three and a half fingers on each hand. The ends of both pinkies were missing.

  “Thank you for coming.” Obake pointed at the other chair. His dark lenses reflected a distortion of Tagama.

  Tagama sat. “How is your health, Obake-san?”

  “Good, thank you. The ocean keeps me fit. I swim a mile each morning, and again before the sun sets.”

  Ryan took a place behind his father in the manner of Obake’s bodyguards. The elder Tagama spoke to his son. “Obake-san is a skilled swimmer and diver.”

  Ryan bowed again. “We would be honored to take you on a tour.”

  Obake didn’t answer the young man, and with his eyes on the elder Tagama, waved his guards away. Tagama did not ask Ryan to leave and after a brief pause, Obake acted as if he and the older Tagama were the only people in the room.

  Ryan watched the muscles around his father’s eyes tighten, a reaction he doubted anyone else would notice. As a boy, it was a trait for which he’d learned to be on the lookout.

  During the drive over, his father had shared information about this meeting. The few moments of candor were unusual, and Ryan was both flattered and unsettled by it. First, Tagama had told him that Obake would use an interpreter. Second, he’d revealed that Obake, who was a Japanese national, came to the U.S. several times a year, but supervised his financial empire from his home in Tokyo, and used an intermediary to carry out his negotiations. Tagama had been his agent on a few occasions, but he hadn’t been a member of Obake’s stable for several years.

  Though Tagama never bragged, something in his voice told Ryan this hadn’t been Obake’s decision. Tagama did share that he was never certain about Obake’s long term word, and he always made it his business to know what the Yakuza chief was up to in the islands. Secrets were more precious than diamonds when one dealt with Obake.

  Ryan, chastened by Obake’s snub, studied the face of the swarthy foreigner.

  “We have a problem.” Obake addressed Tagama in heavily accented English.

  “I heard Tom Peters died in the explosion,” said Tagama.

  “I was the target.” Obake took a long pull on his Marlboro.

  Tagama squinted at the smoke. “No one knows you’re here.”

  “Someone knew.”

  “Peters has enemies. I can think of several people who would like him to disappear.”

  “No.” Obake slapped the surface of the table and the ashtray jumped. Tagama sat like a boulder, though Ryan twitched.

  “They want me.”

  Ryan saw his father blink at this news, though he didn’t speak.

  “I only survive because I leave meeting early.” Obake paused a moment, as if making a decision. “I get a warning.”

  “When?” Tagama asked.

  “This morning, in Japan. Noboru sent a text message.”

  Tagama raised an eyebrow. Noboru was Obake’s personal secretary, a man whose extensive tattoos proclaimed his loyalty to Obake and the businessman’s clan.

  Tagama took a deep breath and looked down at his folded hands. “May I ask what the message said?”

  “It said, ‘ikimasu.’”

  “‘I’m coming?’ One person?”

  Obake nodded. “Not a native speaker, but it is someone who knows my business. He knew to contact Noboru, after all.”

  Tagama sat quietly for several seconds. “I will need a list of your business contacts.”

  “This is not a time to be devious. You know them.” Obake removed his dark glasses and stared at Tagama, his murky brown eyes stones in the tanned mask of his face. “Find the leak, Tagama.” Fine da reek, Tagama.

  Neither the older Tagama nor Ryan found the butchered words amusing.

  Chapter Two

  Storm Kayama looked at the sticky linoleum floor of the car rental shack and remembered the legend of Māui, the Hawaiian god and mischief maker, and how he’d lassoed the sun to nourish the land. Right then, she thought he’d overdone it. It was way too hot for a Wednesday in April. It didn’t help that the Kahulului car rental office was packed and the air conditioning broken. In the stillness, no relief came through the propped-open doors.

  Ahead of Storm in line, two parents and three of their children sagged against the rental counter and complained to the very young and very pregnant clerk. The fourth, a droopy-diapered tyke of about two sauntered up and down the line, scrutinizing the overheated customers with black eyes that dared anyone to meet them. Most people stared ahead, but Storm grinned at the kid, and wondered if it was a boy or a girl.

  “Lexie,” barked the mother, who turned from the counter. The woman’s face glowed with heat and exasperation.

  Lexie ignored her mom and stopped next to Storm. Was Lexie a girl’s name or a boy’s? In one hand, a paper cone of melting shave ice dripped virulent pink liquid onto the kid’s toes. Ant battalions queued up across the grubby linoleum.

  Storm broke eye contact with the toddler and shoved back damp, wavy strands of dark hair that had sprung free of her French braid. Everyone in line drooped with heat, and Lexie’s feet made sucky sounds in the growing pink puddle. Ants, single-minded in their mission, outlined the nectar like someone had used a black pen.

  The pregnant clerk, whose belly pulled the flowers on her company mu‘umu‘u into amorphous blobs, had been explaining something to the family in a low voice, but now her whisper carried. “…are all blocked, anyway.” Everyone in line leaned forward.

  “Eh? The roads are blocked?” asked a man in front of Storm.

  “That’s what they’re saying,” said the clerk.

  “All of them?” asked someone behind Storm.

  “That’s what I hear.” The pregnant girl fanned herself with a rental contract.

  “What happened?” Storm asked. From a couple miles away, the whine of sirens carried on the still air.

  “I’m not sure—” the girl began, but the staccato snap of leather heels distracted her. Her eyes flitted to the door, and she ruffled through a stack of contracts resting on the countertop.

  A woman in a navy suit and matching navy mid-heeled pumps marched up to the clerk. Four men, dressed in the masculine version of her outfit, followed. All of them wore Ray Bans. Their heels tapped their significance to the peons in line.

  Lexie watched, mouth agape. Everyone in line bristled. The pregnant clerk fumbled a pile of keys and the waiting papers into the suited woman’s outstretched hands. The suit veered away, with the four men following behind like imprinted ducklings.

  The line of homogenous agents reminded Storm of the ants, except crisis was the agents’ puddle of nirvana. And that meant there was a mountain of misery out there for someone. Without realizing it, Storm touched the emerald-eyed pig that hung on a gold chain on her neck. He was her ‘aumakua, or family totem, and Aunt Maile had given it to her for luck a few years ago.

  One by one, the customers got their cars. The family obtained the van they needed. The mom scooped Lexie up and jammed a flowered pink elastic headband on her shining scalp. Lexie howled.

  The man in front of Storm asked about the blocked roads. Now that the Feds had come and gone, the pregnant clerk was happy to chat. “An explosion in Kahului. Madelyn—you know—the sales manager over at Avis, said someone died. Might be a terrorist attack.”

  “Who were the suits?” Storm asked when she got to the counter.

  “A federal task force.”

  “Makes sense if they’re worried about terrorism.”

  “It’s scary, isn’t it?” The young woman didn’t sound scared. “Row three, stall eleven. Good luck.”

  It only took two blocks for Storm to realize that she’d need that luck. No one was going anywhere fast. It was after five, rush hour, and cars were lined up as far as she could see.

  Up to now, she’d been looking forward to the trip. She had a handful of paying clients on Maui, which was a gor
geous place to visit. The most intriguing was a job incorporating and overseeing liability issues regarding a new dive shop. The owner, a minor celebrity, had called out of the blue because a friend of a friend had recommended Storm’s services. Word of mouth was a strong persuader in the islands.

  Lara Farrell’s name had sounded familiar to Storm, and the minute she’d hung up the phone with her new client, Storm Googled her. Sure enough, six or seven years ago, Lara made a name for herself in the windsurfing world. Maui’s north shore beaches were among the world’s most ideal sites, and Lara had been an internationally known competitor. She stopped suddenly five years ago, and though Storm spent almost two hours on the Internet (how did it gobble so much time?), she couldn’t figure out why Lara had quit. She did find a reference to Lara’s temper, however. Not enough to scare Storm off; temperamental people were more apt to annoy Storm than scare her.

  She flipped through radio stations, searching for a news report that would explain the traffic jam. An explosion had occurred in a restaurant that morning, and streets were still jammed. Probably not an international terrorist, Storm thought, but crazy people are everywhere.

  A tickling sensation bothered the back of her head, and Storm looked around at the other idling cars. Funny, she felt like she was being watched. But who could locate anyone in the parking lot that would normally be Dairy Road? There was a street cop, red-faced and sweating in his dark hat, uniform, and white gloves, a handful of pedestrians, and one brave or stupid bicyclist, who talked on his cell phone as he wove between cars.

  Ahead of her, a child stared from the back window of a van. It was Lexie, who raised both hands to the window. Storm waved. Lexie frowned, then sat down. The feeling of being watched abated.

  Storm sighed with exasperation, and crawled ahead. She hoped the car didn’t overheat. There was no way she was going to make her dinner date with her new client. Not even close.

  ***

  Sergeant Carl Moana, Maui PD, didn’t flinch at the blaring horns. His face a ruddy mask, he stood his ground in the middle of the intersection at Dairy Road and Hana Highway. Ignoring the sweat trickling across his burning scalp, he kept one gloved palm toward Hana Highway and waved the other like a metronome at the endless procession of heat-radiating, fuming vehicles that crept toward him.