Coco's Nuts E-Book

Tyler Colins

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Rookie private eyes JJ, Rey and Linda stumbled and bumbled through their previous assignments with stellar results.

Now the trio, proud owners of the Triple Threat Investigation Agency, have yet another multi-murder mystery to solve. Who set up their client, socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer, to take the rap? And where is nutty Coco Person, who has been MIA since the murders went down?

In their detecting travels, they meet up with former acquaintances, some of who may not be all that they seem. Add bombs and debt collectors to the list of ingredients, and you have one explosive recipe.

Leseprobe

Coco's Nuts

A Triple Threat Mystery Book 3

Tyler Colins

Copyright (C) 2016 Tyler Colins

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This novel is dedicated to fellow mystery lovers and aspiring writers.

Again, a heartfelt thank-you to fantastic formatter and cover designer Katrina Joyner; she's (always) a pleasure to work with!!!

Prologue

As beautiful as a Bamboo Orchid and as cool as an English cucumber, Buddy Feuer seemed neither fazed nor anxious, given the grave predicament. Tall and willowy, the thirty-four-year-old former society woman turned truck driver was easy on the eyes no matter what your predilection. A “looker” or “dish” she might have been called back in the days of gin rickeys, trilbys, and gumshoes. Some females truly lucked out in the comeliness lottery, as unconventional, chinchilla-faced Aunt Rowena Jaye was often heard to utter about a relation or friend (with a wistful, wishful sigh).

Buddy had contacted the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency after researching our involvement – and success – with the handling of the “Gruesome Twosome Case” (as we'd jokingly dubbed our first P.I. job) and the ensuing arrest of our client, William Pierponce Howell. The now-deceased WP Howell had been as wealthy as he'd been eccentric (a tactful way of saying f'g zany) and the murder of his young, pretty wife was not the only crime he'd been guilty of. HPD's Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives had been gracious enough during a media interview to credit the agency with providing “some valid crime-stopping information”, which had led to the apprehension of the millionaire and his equally culpable (f'g zany) partner. The truth was we'd done considerably more, but we were cool with letting HPD take credit.

Our latest assignment was fairly clear-cut: prove Buddy hadn't murdered renowned entrepreneur Jimmy Silone Picolo III.

Jimmy Man-I'm-Fabulously-Rich Picolo was second-generation owner of a hapu'upu'u pickling factory called Braddah Jimmy's Pickled Aquatic Delights (who'd have guessed preserved fish cheeks and eyes could be such popular delicacies). In addition, the shrewd man owned JSP Capital-Credit Corporation and Balz to the Walz Incorporated, a demolition-construction company that knocked down buildings as rapidly as it put them up. There were also pet projects here and there, little businesses he absorbed or annihilated.

Slim and trim and relatively short, Jimmy was a cross between Dean Martin and Sal Mineo in their heydays. Over the years, the attractive man had rubbed a few people the wrong way. You see, equally successful had been his loansharking and racketeering – excuse me, alleged loansharking and racketeering.

Unlike Jimmy Silone Picolo II, who'd been indicted on racketeering and murder in the 70s, “III” had never been convicted of anything. Equally charmed and charming, he'd navigated the tranquil waters of life and business with a multi-thousand-dollar smile and a playful monarch-like wave … of the middle finger. The odd time the folks in blue had become involved, paperwork transformed into ashes and lawsuits dropped like smoldering charcoal briquettes. Witnesses developed curious cases of amnesia or hopped continent-bound jets faster than Hollywood celebrities changed partners.

Picolo had been found in an alley in the business district, not far from his opulent Bishop Street office. The capital-credit company took up half the fourth floor while the main office occupied the entire top floor. Lavishly decorated with marble, crystal, and 14-K gold, it even held an interior waterfall rumored to stream champagne instead of water. How decadent was that? No longer a concern, however: expanding that firm fiscal foothold and/or working long hours while sitting in a gold-trimmed leather barrister chair before said waterfall. The quinquagenarian's face had greeted a brick wall several times before three bullets created cranial air vents. Had he survived, attractive would certainly no longer have described Jimmy Silone Picolo III.

Buddy and I had met at 7:00 a.m.in tranquil Sans Souci State Recreational Park, not far from the Waikiki Aquarium and Diamond Head, the famous volcanic tuff cone, known to Hawaiians as Lēʻahi. I'd brought two extra-large creamy steaming coffees, she a box of freshly-baked, sugary-sweet malasadas. Sitting on a recently painted bench under a cloudless late October sky, we'd initially chatted over trivial events and how we'd both ended up on the Hawaiian Islands. She'd moved here not long after “the pater's incarceration”. I'd landed courtesy of a fervent if not fanatical desire to open a detective agency on the part of my melodramatic (excitable) cousin Reynalda Fonne-Werde and her ever-supportive (anything-to-keep-the-peace) best friend, Linda Royale.

Once the agency's new client and I had finished swapping getting-to-know-you facts and scarfing a second round of scrumptious confections, we got down to business. In addition to proving her innocence, Buddy wanted us to periodically apprise Howie Pastille, an ambitious but wet-behind-the-ears defense lawyer. In the event she was formally charged, she wanted to be prepared, and because she couldn't afford the best or most experienced legal representative, money was an option. The agency's task seemed straightforward enough, as did Buddy's nonchalantly related story (even if rookie P.I. intuition advised there'd been some abridged segments).

Sitting in the lanai of my ten-floor Ala Moana condo, an icy herbal tea in one hand and Button, the snoozing Wunder Hund at my feet, I replayed the Thursday morning exchange in my mind…

Chapter One

“Wealthy and wise-ass, snooty and arrogant – that was me once upon a time. A typical rich bitch. Flying between mansions in Boston Massachusetts and Kaanapoli Maui was part of the norm.”

Buddy's laughter was reminiscent of Salvation Army Christmas bells: pretty, delicate, and spirited. “These days I'm much more human and a lot more humble. Still, if Father hadn't screwed up, I'd probably be dining on pâté de foie gras and les cuisses de grenouille in a three-star Michelin Paris restaurant instead of eating donuts in an Oahu park.” She eyed the four remaining malasadas, arched a toned shoulder, and placed one on a napkin on her lap, covering the name of an Asian bakery.

A twinge, a teeny stomach stitch, ensued as I recalled the last time I'd seen that bakery name. It was a morning not so many weeks ago when a deceitful lover had slammed my condo door upon departure – with deafening finality. Quickly, I quashed the feeling and image as if they were a couple of niggling bugs.

Even in unadorned jeans and a teal-blue T-shirt, Buddy Feuer emanated an air of elegance. Tiny sapphire studs and long golden platinum blonde hair sporting rhinestone hairpins added to the impression. A diminutive beauty mark gracing her lower left cheek drew eyes to sensual lips that curled up in a natural, permanent smile. Mascara, the sole make-up, accentuated long, feathery lashes and stunning cornflower-blue eyes. That face belonged to a magazine model, not a truck driver. Yup, some females were very lucky.

I requested she tell me about her father's “screw up”.

“It's a bit of a long story, as the saying goes.” The words were spoken as softly as the buzz of a bumblebee. She sipped at length and then leaned back, an expression of rue veiling that visage like a delicate morning mist. “Thirteen years ago, not long after being indicted on corporate fraud, Father was arrested for first-degree murder. The corporate fraud was essentially the motive for the murder, although the police had their own take. The truth was that Father had discovered his accountant, Avery Tavol Nuss, was cooking both his books and those of the company. Actually, Avery wasn't just cooking, he was charbroiling. Millions from business and personal coffers had gone missing … disintegrated like Styrofoam hitting a blast furnace.

“Theodore Maher Morther III took justice into his own hands by shooting a metal projectile into the sleazy accountant's jellied belly. When he gaped in stunned surprise, Father pumped one more into the glorified bookkeeper's fleshy, fish-shaped mouth and another into his freckled forehead. …You know, JJ, if the weapon of choice had been a ledger, calculator, or something 'office', or if the shots hadn't appeared so deliberate, Father's expensive Manhattan attorney might have gotten him off on diminished capacity or voluntary manslaughter. But the evidence was damning and the prosecuting team merciless.”

She nibbled her donut as she peered into the past. “I was in my final year of Classics at Vassar when the trial took place. He'd requested I complete school and then visit Europe, as originally planned. He didn't want me, my sister and brother, sitting in the courtroom, disrupting our lives. I'd intended to honor his request, but not Susan-Loni and Samuel.” A soft sigh, like the feather of a Caroline Chickadee, floated past. “With the lean, cute, fresh-faced looks, my siblings may have come across like those cartoon chipmunks, Chip and Dale, but in reality they were more like Macbeth and his Lady.

“I stressed the fact that Father didn't want us to be present, but Samuel just burbled on about how Father needed our support as he preened before a foyer mirror. I'd have bet my trust fund, the now non-existent one, that Samuel's house was filled with wall-to-wall mirrors.” A smile leaned toward the sour. “Pretty, perfect Susan-Loni babbled more than burbled, but she was of the same mind. Both were adamant about attending the trial so Father would know how much they cared. They cared all right – about his money. Right. As if there'd have been any to be had after legal fees were paid, restitution made, and missing funds found and assets unfrozen … and the civil suit settled.”

With a whisper of a breath, she continued. “When the entire nasty business had finally been put to bed, there wasn't enough money to purchase a patch of Mississippi swampland.” She stared across the freshly mown grass to a quintet of laughing teens racing in the direction of Kuhio Beach and I prodded her to continue.

“Sorry. For a moment, I felt as if I were back in Boston – uh, what the hell is that?”

A glossy blue-black plumaged bird stood before our feet, his brown button eyes fixed on us. “It's a pheasant of some sort, possibly Kalij,” I told her. I'd learned about birds in my younger years from a bird-loving relative, and had renewed an interest in them in Connecticut, thanks to several days spent with a wing-ding bird-loving killer.

“Shouldn't he be on a farm or in someone's backyard?” she asked quietly. “Why is he staring?”

“He probably wants the malasadas,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

“You think?”

As if in confirmation, a gray bill pecked my uncovered toe. “I think,” I winced.

Buddy pitched a piece of pastry and our feathered friend sucked it back like a frog did a fly. Five seconds later, he was back.

“Hungry fellow, isn't he?”

“Apparently,” she concurred quietly. “The thing can't weigh more than eight pounds. Why are we whispering as if he's a bully or hooligan and we don't want to agitate him?”

“So his pals don't hear,” I joked.

She pitched another piece and our new friend uttered a loud whistling chuckle, either a “thank you” or “chow down!”. Suddenly, a half dozen “pals” scooted over and two eyed my toes as potential sweet treats. Onto the grass the last of the malasadas flew, as did we – to a picnic table several yards away.

Laughing, we sat and Buddy resumed her tale. “Financial and legal documents, obviously falsified, had pointed to Father as the perpetrator while Avery Tavol Nuss appeared a tiny cog in a huge embezzlement wheel. The man had orchestrated it brilliantly well. Theodore Morther would bear the brunt and Avery, if found guilty of some culpability, would get minimal time. When all was settled and safe, he'd enjoy the squirreled-away money. It was too bad for Avery that Father and the family were the only ones to appreciate his genius – and, of course, that Father took the law into his own hands.”

I smiled as I envisioned the unctuous accountant's dumbfounded surprise. “How does a woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth end up with the name Buddy?”

“She was actually born with the conventional and boring moniker of Barbara-Anderson Morther,” she explained with a quaint laugh and curious smirk, and didn't continue.

“You're going to leave me hanging?”

Another quaint laugh. “Unlike my siblings, who received nicknames based on shortened versions of their Christian names, Sue and Sammy, I was called Buddy. Yes, I was arrogant and spoiled, but I was also straightforward and never beat around the bush. Father liked the frankness, brutal as it could sometimes be, and compared it to that of business 'buddies'.”

“What happened to your brother and sister?”

“I'd lost touch over a decade ago. Samuel had high-tailed it out of town two months after Father went to prison. He took Manilow, Barry, and Lola – the dog, cat, and parrot – and left behind a promiscuous wife and four needy – or was that nerdy? – children. …Rumor had it he'd moved to northern California, possibly on some of the company funds that had gone astray. Although I never doubted Avery's cleverness or cunning, I'd always suspected someone else had been involved.”

“Your brother?”

She tilted her head one way and then the other. “Never having been a fan of Samuel's, I've never been remotely interested in tracking him down. Besides, he'd not want that, because he liked me even less than I liked him.”

“That's so sad.”

We watched a fat and feisty leash-less English Bulldog shadowed by his owner, a double for Winston Churchill.

“Did he just call his dog Flatulence?” I asked, bewildered.

“Florence,” Buddy grinned. “But Flatulence suits her better, considering.”

We chuckled and watched the two waddle Ewa (the Oahu designation for west) as if they'd just feasted at a vast breakfast buffet. Who knew dogs got gassy?

“What about your sister?”

She eyed me for several seconds, then shrugged. “Pretty and perky pea-brained Susan-Loni married high-school sweetheart, Nedwick Goodyear.” She smirked. “Neddy got a job in Daddy Goodyear's software company and sissy stayed home to raise brats and play club-active hausfrau. There was Leonard, named after Ned's father, Sarah after our mother, Lady after the singer, and Sushi after Susan-Loni's favorite food. And while we're on the topic of names, in case it hadn't been evident, Father had had a thing for Loni Anderson in the 70s; hence, Susan-Loni and Barbara-Anderson.”

I grinned. “Thank you for the elucidation.”

She also laughed. “As for Mother, Sarah Annabelle Morther had been born a Dottle – yes, the Charles Dottle was her father. Two years before Mother's untimely death, Grandfather Dottle had lost his successful electronics company. The supercilious gent literally had money to burn, which he did when throwing tantrums or demonstrating what a mukety-muck he could be. What goes around comes around, as they say, and one day he lost everything based on one exceptionally bad – and illegal – business decision.”

The Dottle name hadn't appeared in the media in several years, but there'd been scores of stories about the unconventional man's vast fortune and many estates, and an arrest that had set Wall Street tongues wagging for months.

She peered into the past again. “Mother had always been into the sherry, discreetly of course. Father's arrest and conviction, however, resulted in her becoming un-discreet. The woman developed a taste for apple liqueur, not my first choice of anesthetizing beverage, and eventually drank herself into a coma.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Enough family memories.” She punched my thigh playfully. “But now you may understand why I didn't want to go back to being a Morther. The family was as dysfunctional, as absurd, and as frivolous as the Bennets in Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and maybe as mad as Brontë's Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre.”

This smart lady possessed fire and vim, and I suspected there was much more to Buddy than met the eye. “Where does Feuer come from?”

“I'd decided to keep the last name of my ex-husband, Jason-Patrice. He died when his Honda Accord was flattened by an auto hauler speeding along the Hāna Highway during a downpour. I was married at thirty and widowed at thirty-one.”

I offered another heartfelt “I'm sorry”.

“Jason-Patrice landed a managerial job at a trucking dispatch firm on Maui just before we'd married, but had been tending bar at a scuzzy haunt, The Hunted Heart, when we'd first met while I was at Vassar. My friends and I had gone there fairly regularly. They'd flirt and I'd dance or eye a dreamy bartender with creamy taut skin, ice-blue eyes and chiseled features. He looked like an underwear model. H-o-t.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“Jason-Patrice and I dated five times, but he'd always had this thing for a biker chick, Chiquita, who frequented the bar. One night, the cute brunette finally noticed him, maybe because the two guys she'd been hanging with had stopped noticing her. That was the end of Jason-Patrice until we bumped into each other at a rep screening of The Wild Bunch a few years later when I'd returned to New England for a lengthy visit. We decided to go for drinks and the rest, as yet another saying goes, is history.” She elbowed my arm.

I elbowed in return. “You've certainly led quite a life.”

“There's enough history in my life to write a book, JJ. Memoirs of Buddy Feuer: Vassar Grad Turned Hand. At least, now, I finally see the humor in it. Two years ago, I'd still have cried.”

Chapter Two

“Riches to rags. The poor kid,” Rey murmured over a Hawaiian Hilton Mai-Tai. “What a story.”

I'd invited my cousin, Reynalda Fonne-Werde and her best friend, Linda Royale, for drinks on this sensational Friday so that we could catch the weekly Hilton fireworks and I could advise them of our new key case.

We'd had a few easy, quickly solved ones in the last few weeks since the Howell assignment had wrapped up. There was a restauranteur who'd believed staff was eating through sales and profits; it turned out that a rambunctious, wily mongoose family, courtesy of a stylishly excavated tunnel, was to blame. We'd located a lost sister in New York; she'd run off to fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a Rockette. A woman had repeatedly sighted a luminescent sprite in plum-colored tulle flitting in and around the house; it turned out that hubby had a night-time gig (and alternative lifestyle) at the Rainbow Bar.

After partaking of a three-day spa junket on Maui, Rey and Linda had returned early afternoon. I'd been invited, but had opted for “me” time, which translated into lots of dog walking, jogging and shopping, and Thursday evening dinner with Petey May, a Big Island private investigator. A crusty gent of fifty-some years, Petey had assisted with our Big Island pursuits while working the Howell case.

“Shit happens,” Linda sighed, popping a crispy French fry between glossy button-shaped lips as she watched a stream of excited tourists amble along the boardwalk.

My cousin did the same, but enrobed hers with a triple layer of catsup.

The two had met while working in film and television in California and had been best friends for years. Although their personalities were pretty much polar opposites, they complemented each other like Perry and Mason, and Nancy and Drew.

Rey was tall and lanky while Linda was average and athletic. The former had shoulder-length wheat-colored hair with sunshine-yellow streaks, the latter raspberry-red layered waves that curled around a long, slender neck. One liked trendy, designer fashions (faux and genuine); the other leaned toward classic, good-quality clothes.

In addition to being private investigators, Linda had recently started writing food and wine articles for a couple food websites, in addition to completing part-time law and journalism courses. My cousin, an on-again-off-again actress (or as mood dictated), was about to play a plump impassioned tuna in a poke (raw fish salad) commercial. I myself served as a meteorologist at a local television station. Last week, I'd switched from the early morning Monday-Friday broadcast to the Saturday-Sunday morning shift to accommodate station nepotism and a couple of young, eager interns. Come January, we'd revisit the schedule.

It never hurt to have alternative careers in the event the agency didn't take off. We were, after all, still novices to the profession, though we had acquired some insight and skills over the last few months in operation. And next month, there'd be an actual office to work from instead of condos. How exciting was that?

“Where do we start?” Rey asked eagerly.

“We learn everything possible about the Picolos, starting with the big guy himself,” Linda advised, nodding at the waitperson as he set down a heaping plate of veggie-and-cheese cloaked nachos and another round of Mai-Tais.

Rey agreed. “Then we look at Picolo's business partners and friends. That bad ass had a few enemies, most probably dating back to those racketeering cases that got swept under the judicial rug. Let's see who hated him enough to see him dead.”

I bit into a nacho and gazed past the shadowed beach onto the silvery, sparkling ocean. The night was picture-perfect, idyllic for those romantically inclined. Spectators had dispersed thirty minutes ago, but several people were still strolling along the strand under a new moon and starry sky. When I'd been three or four, I'd believed stars were fairies – Tinker Bells – waving magical, protecting wands as they hovered nigh.

“Earth to JJ.”

I turned back to my cousin.

“You all right?” She scanned the beach.

“Why wouldn't I be?” I asked more abruptly than intended. I grabbed my drink and tapped it against hers and then Linda's. “Here's to a new exciting case and lots of adventure.”

“Let's hope we're not dealing with another mass killer,” Linda grinned, chomping the last fry.

“You mean wacky serial killer,” Rey snorted, sounding like a water buffalo expelling H2O.

She was referring to our first unofficial case back in Connecticut, when we'd gathered at Aunt Mat's multi-winged neo-Gothic mansion for a seven-day collect-your-inheritance-if-you-stay-the-course extravaganza. Two wacky serial killers had felled five folks in less than a week and nearly taken out the three of us during the investigative process. Aunt Mat had never actually died, as an FYI. She'd merely organized the get-together to trap the person who had been stealing from her coffers. The events [shenanigans] had whetted Rey's appetite to move from [very] amateur sleuthing to professional private investigating.

Similarly, our first professional case had involved five bodies. While tracing clues and pinpointing suspects, we'd also tracked a teen druggie and frequent runaway, Xavier, or Xav for short. The seventeen-year-old son of Honey Konani was a fairly decent kid with a semblance of intelligence – when he was clean. Our endeavors had resulted in Xav being located, brought home, and shipped to rehab on Maui. Sadly, he'd escaped and returned to the seedier streets of Honolulu, where several days later, he'd been found in an alley, nearly dead from an overdose. The frightening ordeal had impelled the teen to retry rehab, this time with successful results. In addition to receiving tutoring for missed classes, he'd embraced a lost love: surfing. Honey and the three of us were keeping the faith that he'd continue on the straight and narrow.

“When can we meet her?” Linda asked, interrupting my reverie.

“Invite her over to your condo tomorrow – say, she's out on bail, right?” Rey asked before cramming a nacho between Clara Bow lips.

“She's not been officially arrested,” I replied. “Merely questioned at length.”

“Interrogated, you mean,” she said with a wry smile. “Invite her for lunch at one. We can get to know her and collect names and background.”

I nodded and drew on the rum-infused cocktail as I fixed my gaze on a crowded boardwalk. Under a lamppost several yards away, stood a familiar man sporting a designer Aloha shirt of hibiscus yellow and bourgenvilla pink. He was talking to an equally attractive fellow I'd met briefly once. A third gent in his late forties, built like a linebacker, was nodding emphatically as he listened. Could it be that Cash Layton Jones, his colleague Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane, and Mr. Football were having a guys' night out?

Cash, a former FBI and Interpol agent, was currently working for a local elite drug force. He was the deceitful lover who'd used me to learn what he could about the Howells and their relation to an investigation he'd been involved with. His colleague, Colt, as he was more commonly known, had entertained Rey one night at this very venue. She'd walked away with stars in those pretty grass-green eyes and hope in her heart. Colt had never called her; he'd merely been part of the ploy.

“What's the matter?” my cousin demanded. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Two of them,” I responded flatly. I turned back, but the men were gone.

“Anyone we know?”

I smiled dryly and changed the subject. “Who's doing the cooking?”

Rey frowned. Eating and fine dining, and watching cooking shows was as close to culinary endeavors as she got. Linda, on the other hand, had discovered the world of wines when we'd moved to Oahu courtesy of her beau, Makaio Johnson Mele, or Makjo for short, and was also currently exploring Polynesian cuisine.

Makjo, an attractive and personable young man of Hawaiian origin, had been in Linda's life almost to the day we'd moved to the Islands. The former scriptwriting assistant had been fortunate to find both a sweetheart and a soulmate. After three fleeting marriages and a sundry casual dates, Rey had yet to find someone, and I could probably do with having my head examined for my last choice of “lover”.

Linda volunteered to prepare shoyu chicken, pineapple rice, and steamed veggies. I offered to bake a three-layer coconut cake (I enjoyed challenges) and Rey said she'd be happy to pick up soda and iced tea, and a floral arrangement to decorate the table.

“Seeing as Linda and I are serving as chefs tomorrow, why don't you be researcher and start checking out Jimmy Picolo?” I suggested.

“Here's to solving another case.” Rey raised her glass and grinned. “With no psychos.”

* * *

It was 1:45 a.m. and sleep wasn't coming. I shifted. Button rolled onto her side. I groaned. She snorted. On the walk back from the Hilton, Cash had invaded my thoughts like termites an old wooden cottage.

I'd not known the man long, but he'd obviously gotten under my skin as easily as he had my bed. I didn't normally leap under the covers on a whim; Mom had instilled principles back when. But he'd been brash, arrogant, and hunky (as my gal pals liked describing him), as well as intriguing and dangerous (he'd claimed he'd been a drug dealer). Strapping muscles and a handsome face, a cross between Timothy Olyphant and Jeffrey Donovan, had apparently quashed all logic. Or maybe I'd developed a late-life thing for “bad boys”.

I returned to counting sheep: fat ones, small ones, pink ones, kebabed ones. My stomach growled. Leaping out of bed, Button padded immediately behind. I fought the urge to suck back leftover pork saimin as I scanned the contents of the fridge. Instead, I got a small bottle of Evian and a homemade pumpkin ball for Button from a ceramic porker sporting a polka-dot tie.

A foolish thought popped in my head like a cherry bomb. “No-o. I won't do it.”

Button and I looked at each other and trundled back to the bedroom, but instead of attempting sleep, we watched TV. There was less than an hour before I had to get ready for work.

With a sigh, we settled in and watched the merits of sardine-scale rejuvenating facial cream. It was tempting to invest in some because come weather forecasting time, I'd surely resemble a masked bandit with sleepy, dark eyes.

* * *

It was one hour to Buddy-lunch time and I was frosting a three-layer cake that sagged like an old, well-used mattress when the phone rang. It was Faith, a waitress I'd met at a Kalihi diner when I'd been tracking Xav.

“What's up?” I asked my new friend, spooning on extra frosting (homemade, I was proud to say) to give the top a level plane.

“I'm calling to invite you to a movie Sunday evening. I have two free passes for the 9:15 showing.”

“Count me in,” I said merrily, watching Button flop at my feet. The young tan-mocha-cream dog was a mix of Havanese, Schnoodle and Chacy Ranoir, and made for a very funny looking – albeit very cute – canine. Nearly ten months old, the rescue dog and I had bonded the second our eyes met at the shelter. I didn't know what had possessed me to go there that rainy day, but I was very grateful I had.

“Benny's mom was in Kmart the other day. She looks and sounds okay now.”

Benny was a young mole and drug dealer who'd played both sides of the fence. Oddly enough, it wasn't the duplicity that got him murdered, but a cocky attitude. He'd annoyed the wrong moke (local tough guy), a harsh-looking fellow with the street name of Jabar. Vengeance had undoubtedly proven sweet, and would continue to do so for the rest of Jabar's incarcerated life.

“It's never easy losing a child, no matter what they've done or become.” I sprinkled toasted coconut and almond slivers on a mini mountain of thick, sweet creaminess.

We chatted for a few moments about inconsequential doings and when she asked what I was up to, I casually mentioned the team was keeping an eye on the Picolo situation. Faith was a trustworthy woman, of this I had no doubt, but at this early juncture, it was best to maintain a level of discretion.

“Jimmy Picolo, huh?” She chuckled, but not with humor. “No great loss there.”

“He must have made a whack-load of enemies over the years.”

“That would be an understatement,” she laughed. “Dragan did some work for him.”

“Dragan?”

“He was the ex-boyfriend I once mentioned, the one who had a bad temper when he got drunk and was knifed to death.”

I recalled the long jagged scars I'd viewed on her arms upon my first visit to the diner. “What kind of work?”

“He did fix-it stuff for the construction company, and some chauffeuring. He was a primo driver, when he wasn't tanked, of course.”

“Did you ever meet Picolo? Can you tell me anything about him that might be of interest?”

“I met him twice at his ten-bedroom house in Kahala, once for a huge and lavish birthday party he'd thrown for himself and once for a humble dinner party. By humble I mean eighty people. I'd also met him on a site when Dragan was finishing off a project. Let me think.” She drew on a cigarette as she pondered. “His drink of preference, get this, was arrack. You'd think a man of his background and heritage would be into vino or grappa, but no, he had a real thing for that powerful Middle Eastern alcohol. Never drank anything else – no, I take that back. He was known to imbibe in the odd shot of absinthe, the real European deal, not the fake stuff currently available.”

“Was he as charming as he was rumored to be?”

“And then some,” she replied earnestly. “It's been said he has – er, had – a photographic memory and I can attest to that. You know, the really weird thing was, when he was recalling something, his eyes would flicker like a 100-sec flash synchronization in one of those old Pentax cameras.”

I couldn't imagine how either fact would prove useful, but I stored both in my mental files.

“He loved precious gems. And shelled peanuts, yeah. I remember watching him crack a few and seeing these huge diamond rings on both middle fingers and catching the sparkle of a diamond-heavy Rolex. There was also a thick gold chain that sported a diamond-encrusted crucifix that always seemed to peek from a monogrammed silk shirt.” Her laughter was delicate and musical, like wind chimes. “Dragan yearned to dress like that, but wouldn't shell out for a thirty-dollar shirt, much less a two-hundred-dollar one. Jimmy and his brother, Ric, shared the same tailor: Domenic Valuta. He also happens to be a cousin by the way, and he's very skilled. Armani and Boss have nothing on Valuta.” More laughter. “The only other thing I can think of is that quasi Australian accent, yeah.”

“Quasi?”

“He'd acquired it while living Down Under with Uncle Guido and Cousins Mario and Francesco … from the age of eighteen to twenty-seven, I believe. He'd lived in Honolulu five times longer than he had in the land of sheilas, joeys, and roos. Dragan told me Jimmy used it because he thought it made him sound tougher and harsher, and smarter or classier like a world-smart don. In all honesty, it sounded as silly as it did fake.”

Interesting, but of little value.

“Oh, here's one little fact not known to many: Jimmy's mother was Japanese. She was beautiful, delicate like a Swarovski figurine, and only thirty-two when she died, no thanks to a hit-and-run.”

“Did they ever find the driver?”

“The police didn't.”

“But the Picolos did” was implied in the tone. With a promise to call back if she thought of any other interesting Jimmy Silone Picolo the Third tidbits, Faith disconnected.

I eyed the cake, realizing there was one more call I had to make … fool that I was.

Chapter Three

Before lunch was served in the lanai, Buddy, Rey, Linda and I had chatted a little about ourselves, a lot about local news and weather, and plans for the remainder of the weekend.

Buddy described her Maui house in historic Lahaina as a “humble but lovely little two-bedroom number” that would take a few years to pay off. She was fine with that; there was self-satisfaction to be had in doing it all on one's own. While on Oahu, she was staying in a spacious three-bedroom Kahala condo with best friend from Vassar days, Eda Kona. The two planned to attend a luau this evening and brunch on the Leeward side tomorrow.

Rey, never one to beat around the bush, started the Picolo session with a blunt, “Do you own a gun?”

Buddy studied my cousin's attractive face and then laughed. “I like you – you've got what my father would have called grit. I do in fact: a Glock 29. I left it with my best friend on Maui before I came here. There's been a rash of break-ins in my neighborhood and I didn't want to take chances … just in case, you know?”

“Smart thinking,” Linda said. “Would you like to start sharing Jimmy Picolo memories?”

“Jimmy was quite a character, but despite all that had been said about him, I liked him. You know, he'd never called me Buddy, not in the two-and-a-half years I'd been trucking for him. It was always Ms. Feuer. If he did use a first name, as in the cases of his son, personal assistant, and Coco Peterson, it would have been preceded with a form of address: Mr. Junior, Mr. Razor, and Mr. Coco.” She forked up rice and giggled like a little girl. “We all have our idiosyncrasies.”

Rey appeared riveted by Buddy's beauty. Her eyes never left the truck driver's face as she ate. “Tell us about Junior, Razor, and … Coco?”

“Coco,” she affirmed. “I'll get back to Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood in a few.”

“Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood?” Linda chuckled.

Buddy grinned and rolled her eyes. “Coco believed he was – is – the reincarnation of Freddie Prinze of Chico and the Man fame. At thirty-five, given the math, this is highly unlikely, but who knows how this 'rebirth' thing works. Moreover, Coco wasn't – uh – isn't even remotely Latin. He's a Hawaiian-Irish mix, courtesy of Makani Kalama and Druson Patrick Peterson, with taro-colored hair and freckled skin an odd shade of sand-beach brown.” She sipped of iced tea. “Jimmy Junior is –”

“No you don't,” Rey cut in, pointing her fork. “You can't move on to the kid until you finish with this peculiar Coco dude.”

Linda and I concurred. Coco Peterson had our curiosities piqued.

Buddy's description of Coco was quite extraordinary, but totally imaginable. Hooded bile-green eyes ogled anyone remotely female. Apparently, when you looked into those gawking, goggling eyes you could almost feel those unusually short stumpy fingers of his clutching you with libidinous zeal. And that tongue – he flicked it as if he were a gecko on amphetamines. It was all the more gross because he had a gap the width of the Suez Canal between two big front teeth. But Coco truly believed he was cute and sexy when he did that tongue thingy.

Linda, Rey, and I fell about, so intense was our laughter. And yes, accordingly to Buddy, Coco Peterson, pathetically enough, was for real. “Guys like Coco … they look and act like small-time hoods or mob-boss wannabes, wear a lot of silver and gold, and jewels of choice. They dress in snazzy suits and sport a flashy gold tooth or two – in Coco's case, crazy pimp ensembles circa 1973, worn with cheap Aloha shirts, and two gilded lower eye teeth.”

“Ooh, I'm so not liking what I'm envisioning,” Linda giggled, getting up to refresh glasses with club soda.

“Be thankful you've not had to work with him.”

“Does he really look like that?” Rey questioned skeptically.

“Coco doesn't look like a pimp, not with the schoolboy looks, the 5'5” stature and weight of 130 pounds – 132 after attacking a buffet. One of his favorites is on Maui, in fact at Poko's Eat'um Emporium, which is a nondescript diner in notorious Happy Valley. While the place does give a big bang for the buck, if you're ever on the Island, do not go there. That guy can tuck away copious amounts of Spam musubi, humungous portions of poi, and big bowls of chicken curry in one short sitting, and then gobble up a gargantuan slab of guava cake with three scoops of haupia ice-cream. …He claims he has a hyperactive thyroid.” Sparkling cornflower-blue eyes peered from one face to the next. “The guy has an overactive something and it surely has to do with glands but, I'd bet a dinner at Hoku's, it's not located in the trachea region.”

Buddy's highly descriptive tales were as animated as they were entertaining. If she decided to give up truck driving, she might consider becoming a storyteller.

“How'd he get the name Coco?” I asked, clearing plates.

“There are two popular versions of how he acquired it, one provided by the man himself, the other by Kent Winche, a work pal. Coco's story: he got the nickname in grade school, not because he'd been stout and squat like a coconut, which he'd been until he turned twelve, but because he'd gotten beaned by a school bully with one of those brown husks almost daily for three years. Kent's story: Auntie Lae'ula had dressed young Coco in a pa'u – a grass skirt – and coconut bra for Halloween and different costume events. She so loved the outfit on her nephew that she teasingly, but lovingly, called him Coconuts. Over time, the name got shortened to Coco. Per the gossip mill, which is one and the same as Kent Winche, his real name is Polunu.”

“Polunu?”

“Polunu Druson Peterson,” she affirmed.

“Tell us more,” I requested as I put on coffee.

“Being in the presence of 'Chico' is enough to give you the willies. The man oozes slime. A lot of fellow truckers have wondered how he'd managed to stay in the good graces of Jimmy Picolo for as long as he had, but I'm one of the few who knows the truth, thanks to Coco's motor mouth. He'd been best friends with Jimmy Hibiki Picolo – Jimmy Junior – in grade and high schools, and the two had maintained a solid bond through adulthood, even when Coco left the Islands for a while.” Buddy got up to stretch. “Daddy begrudged Jimmy Junior little, so when he asked Daddy to help a friend, Jimmy had seen to it that Coco received a job upon high-school graduation. The buzz was that Jimmy had also paid Coco's rent for a time when he'd left his auntie's home at sixteen.”

“He lived with his aunt?” Linda appeared confused.

“Coco lost his mother to cancer when he was young and proved a handful for his dad, who was having a difficult time dealing with depression-heavy grief. The family agreed he'd do better living with his auntie for a while, but weeks evolved into years,” Buddy explained.

“Was that Auntie Coconuts?” Linda asked with a grin.

“No, Auntie Lei-Lei. She was the oldest of six and childless, so it was decided that Coco would be best placed with her.”

“Picolo was pretty accommodating,” Rey murmured, traipsing over to help me serve cake. “What job did he get?”

“Initially, a mail room job at the plant. Later, when he returned from a Mainland sojourn, he became a driver for a couple of Jimmy's companies.”

“How did Picolo feel about him?” I asked.

“In the early years, he seemed okay with Coco. After all, he was a close friend of his son's and the two never misbehaved or anything. In the last couple of years, however, Coco – and anyone hanging around with Coco – fell out of Jimmy's good books,” she answered slowly, reflectively. “Jimmy had really grown to loath him. He said he was as wanted, and as hard to get rid of, as toe fungus.”

“Why the change of heart?”

Buddy sat back down and looked from me to Rey to Linda. “Coco's love of gambling got him into some sketchy episodes. And because of this vice, he'd also started associating with not-so-nice people.”

“Was he into illegal stuff?” Rey asked, licking icing from her fingers like a kitten did cream.

Buddy arched a shoulder. “It's possible.”

“What's the brother like?” Linda asked, shoving a teaspoon into a brick-sized piece Rey placed before her.

“Ricardo Mako Picolo – Ric – is big on health foods and had recently bought into a new company, Escape the Inedible Inc. This, and the mid-size exercise-health chain he owns, Healthy, Wealthy & Wise, have provided exceptional financial security.”

“I'm more interested in hearing about Coco.” Rey plonked three more bricks on the table and dove into hers like a grocery-deprived university student who'd just returned home for Thanksgiving dinner.

Our guest eyed the huge piece like a little girl might a strawberry sundae and dug in with gleeful zeal. “Coco always liked garlic shrimp – just like Mom made, though not necessarily his mom. The shrimp and rice would always be drowned in a sea of butter-garlic sauce, and the salad dressed with pineapple vinaigrette. Let's see. There's a leprechaun tattoo on his left arm with 'Coco' etched into a bright rainbow curving over the grinning elf.” She took another mouthful and chewed slowly as she gathered memories. “He always wears a 24-karat ring with tiny rubies and diamonds forming the letters CP and a 22” square link chain necklace with a tiny dog tag reading CP by the clasp. Sometimes he'll wear a bracelet or two and a tiny hoop earring. I hear there's also a nipple ring, but I've never been inspired to find out,” she related with a dark smile.

I began pouring coffee. “Let's move on to the others, Razor and Junior, and anyone else close to Picolo you believe is worth mentioning.”

She dabbed icing from pretty Scarlett Johansson lips and waited until I'd placed sugar and milk on the table.

* * *

Stone-faced Razor was Jimmy Picolo's Mack-sized personal assistant-bodyguard, and a man much too serious for someone of twenty-seven years. Buddy had heard through Kent Winche – a young man who knew all and had been dubbed “The Source” – that Razor had gotten the name because of an alcoholic father who'd drank one too many rums and started using a razor on his son and daughter before his panicked, but not completely hysteria-numbed wife managed to fry-pan him into oblivion. Scars never faded, nor did memories. Maybe some of us didn't want them to, Buddy solemnly stated. I suspected there was more to that statement, but decided to pursue it at another time.

There was also Fugger, Picolo's chauffeur for the last thirty-five years. Like Razor, he didn't talk much, simply did as instructed and earned a six-figure salary, which was used to educate ten children and seventeen (at last count) grandchildren.

Although rumored to be useless at business, Jimmy Junior had a dream of owning a noodle house one day. While he'd never assume his father's entrepreneurial endeavors, Annia Picolo-Advertere, his sister, most certainly would.

“Then we can rule out Jimmy Junior killing his father to move up the ladder,” I said, refilling coffee cups. “But money is almost always a motivating factor.”

Buddy shook her head, her expression set. “He has a sizeable bank account thanks to trust funds his mother set up for him and Annia. She died when Jimmy was eight and Annia ten. They received the money on their twenty-first birthdays. He'll inherit more from his father, sure, but considering his current bank account, it's unlikely he'd be that desperate to kill the old man.”

“I get the feeling it couldn't have been easy being the son of Jimmy Silone Picolo,” Linda commented. “Never mind having to carry the 'Jimmy Junior' all these years.”

“I heard he never cared for 'Junior' or 'Mister Junior', as the old man called him,” Buddy declared, forking up the last nub of cake. “It must have annoyed Jimmy big time that his only son displayed no entrepreneurial aptitude or talent, and ended up working at a reinsurance company after college.”

“Facially refurbished” Annia Picolo-Adverterre could be tough as nails. Possessing a no-nonsense demeanor and demonstrating superlative visionary, facilitation and communication traits made for an excellent Chief Marketing Officer for the demolition-construction firm. Indulging in the stock market and flipping homes enabled the thirty-year-old to support two personal interests, trendy fashions and fast cars, and engage in an exotic swinger lifestyle that was apparently more fact than rumor.

Thirty-six-year-old Kent “The Source” Winche stood just over six feet, sported six-pack abs and rippling muscles, shoulder-length blond locks, and unusual cinnamon-brown eyes. He was exceptionally good-looking or “drop-dead, droolable gorgeous”, as Annia had once described him with a lustful smirk. According to her, he should have been gracing a runway instead of serving as General Manager at her father's fish processing plant, a role he evidently excelled at, for he'd moved up the ranks quickly.

Our guest smiled drolly. “Depending on who you talk to, Kent has also been depicted as – among other things – a cross between charming Hannibal Lector and not-much-in-touch Lieutenant Colonel William “Bill” Kilgore.

“Meaning?” Linda asked, puzzled.

“Some coworkers find him curious.”

There were six solid Picolo sources to begin the investigation with: the brother, son and daughter, chauffer, bodyguard, and GM. There were also two detectives to steer clear of: one we knew and the other we could care less about knowing, given Buddy's meticulous account of the Saturday evening they first rapped on Eda Kona's Kahala condo door…

Chapter Four

“Gee, who could that be?” Eda grimaced, pitching finely plucked eyebrows popular in the early 70s.

“It ain't the postman or pool guy.” Buddy placed a half-eaten vegan pizza slice back in the carton and brought it to the kitchen while Eda ambled over to greet the uninvited guests.

Dressed in similar black pants, one sported a Club Room long-sleeved polo shirt, the other a beige Ross Dress for Less special. In their mid-forties, they were old enough to have seen it all, young enough to not be tainted. Just short of brusque, they presented IDs and stated their business.

Eda led them into a long rectangular living room that ran off the kitchen and lanai, introduced Buddy, and went to prepare coffee when they accepted her offer. The one who had introduced himself as Detective Gerald Ives passed a card. His hand was strong and scarred, and looked as if it had indulged in a skirmish or two. Attractive in a wrangler or ranch-hand sort of way, the man possessed an athletic build with a broad chest and brawny shoulders, and muscular thighs hugged by slim-fit pants. He had intriguing blue eyes and they appeared to survey everything and everyone with great intensity. (Buddy would have bet ten kalua pork platters that those orbs unsettled individuals questioned in the line of duty.)

The other detective, Devoy Hunt, wasn't as intimidating. He was soft where Ives was hard, fleshy but not fat. Sparse straw-blond hair was worn à la Donald Trump. If he worked out, he'd be as attractive as his partner, but sagging flesh tended to detract from a cream-colored complexion and sparkling copper-brown eyes. So did the coif.

Once everyone was seated in thickly-padded armchairs with coffees in hand, Ives got down to business. Evidently, he was the inquisitor, Hunt the keeper of records. The focus: Jimmy Picolo's murder the night the two women had dined at J&B, Picolo's favorite restaurant, at his invitation. The upscale eatery was four blocks from where his body had been found and six from the Bishop Street offices.

Questions about the evening streamed like banners blown by a zephyr. What were their relations to Picolo? What had the two women talked about with Picolo when he'd stopped by their table to chat over glasses of arrack that he'd ordered? Who else had dropped by? Why had Buddy met him in the lobby? Had the “renowned entrepreneur” (Ives had exhibited contempt when he enunciated the words) mentioned something was troubling him? Did he appear distracted, worried, or anxious? It was the usual law-enforcement show interrogation drill.

“Are you sticking around, Ms. Feuer?” Gerald Ives asked, staring hard.

She had to laugh. “Are you telling me not to leave town?”

“We may have more questions.”

“You can always contact me on Maui.” Her tone reflected indifference.

“When are you planning to go back?”

She met his concentrated stare with one of her own. “The day after tomorrow. Eda and I have theater tickets for tomorrow night.” She could read what was running through his mind: a truck driver going to the theater? Must be stand-up comedy.

He thanked them for the coffee and their time while Hunt pocketed a small spiral-wired notebook and led the way to the front door, with Buddy and Eda trailing behind. He turned abruptly, prompting Ives to walk into him. Hunt remained unflustered, but Ives was discomposed, which was evident in the rigid jaw and flushed high cheekbones. It was a prime Fuji moment.

The sparse-haired detective, speaking for the first time since the introductions, had a slight Irish accent. “Please call if you think of anything that might help with the investigation.”

“You betcha.” Buddy offered a saccharine smile and closed the door with a resounding thud…

* * *

Rey, Linda, Button and I escorted Buddy to the corner bus stop. She'd actually walked all the way over from Kahala, a trek not for the uninitiated or timid. Once our client was settled into the Route 24 drive, we started toward Ala Moana Park. At half past four, the afternoon was dark and dismal, as if a storm were hovering nigh. Still, it was temperate enough for a stroll.

“Should we follow up with Ald?” Rey asked, motioning.

We crossed a small road to the side on which the yacht club was situated and strolled along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.

“We shouldn't,” Linda grinned impishly, “but JJ definitely should.”

“Ald's not likely to share information with me.” I watched Button light up upon sighting a Bean Butterfly.

“But you two get along so well.”

“We got along so well – all four of us did, to a point, anyway,” I advised Linda.

“He seemed to favor you,” Rey grinned.

“We haven't talked since we saw him at the station the time we took Gail out for lunch.” That had been a month ago. Gail Murdock, who served as HPD Administrative Specialist, was no longer merely a professional acquaintance, but a personal friend.

“Didn't he go visit his brother in Florida?”

“For a week.”

Rey frowned. “Men. Just when you think you may have figured them out.”

“To be honest, I'd have liked us to remain casual coffee or lunch colleagues, because – unlike our client – I find the detective quite affable.” I slapped her back. “But if he doesn't want to call, that's fine. We'll connect on a professional basis again, I'm sure.”

Linda concurred.

“Buddy really doesn't like him,” Rey stated.

“They get along as well as presidential candidates at a primary debate,” Linda stated.

“Did you find out anything about Picolo?” I asked Rey, realizing she'd not mentioned anything earlier.

“Maybe.”

I pinched her arm. “Since when can you keep information to yourself?”

“Since we got caught up in Buddy's fascinating tales.” She pinched in return. “I spoke with Colin, who also hails from Nancy-Anne Kikuta's talent agency, and does those credit commercials with the Olivia Octopus mascot. 'Don't let your debts wrap you up'. He'd met the man on a few occasions. It seems that the big guy was a good friend if he liked you and your worst nightmare if he didn't. Colin's going to see if he can get some names and facts.” Rey looked upward with a frown. “Did the sky just spit?”

“No. A bird pooped on your shoulder,” Linda chuckled.