Five Decembers E-Book

James Kestrel

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Winner of the 2022 Edgar Award for Best Novel "War, imprisonment, torture, romance…The novel has an almost operatic symmetry, and Kestrel turns a beautiful phrase." -New York Times Five Decembers is a gripping thriller, a staggering portrait of war, and a heartbreaking love story, as unforgettable as All the Light We Cannot See. NOMINATED FOR BEST THRILLER IN THE 2022 BARRY AWARDS FINALIST FOR THE HAMMETT PRIZE 2021 "Read this book for its palpitating story, its perfect emotional and physical detailing and, most of all, for its unforgettable conjuring of a steamy quicksilver world that will be new to almost every reader." - Pico Iyer December 1941. America teeters on the brink of war, and in Honolulu, Hawaii, police detective Joe McGrady is assigned to investigate a homicide that will change his life forever. Because the trail of murder he uncovers will lead him across the Pacific, far from home and the woman he loves; and though the U.S. doesn't know it yet, a Japanese fleet is already steaming toward Pearl Harbor. This extraordinary novel is so much more than just a gripping crime story—it's a story of survival against all odds, of love and loss and the human cost of war. Spanning the entirety of World War II, FIVE DECEMBERS is a beautiful, masterful, powerful novel that will live in your memory forever

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Part One: Knives and Scars

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

Part Two: Chakken

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Part Three: Meetinghouse

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

Acknowledgments

Raves for JAMES KESTREL and FIVE DECEMBERS

“Utterly enthralling. Wildly ambitious and deeply haunting, Five Decembers drops you in the middle of a dark noir dream full of heat, loss and memory. Not to be missed.”

—Megan Abbott

“A crime epic for the ages.”

—Dennis Lehane

“Five Decembers is really excellent. A first-rate book.”

—James Fallows

“James Kestrel evokes the Hawaii, the Hong Kong and the Tokyo of the 1940s with an urgency, a vividness—a passion—few of us can have met before. Read this book for its palpitating story, its perfect emotional and physical detailing and, most of all, for its unforgettable conjuring of a steamy quicksilver world that will be new to almost every reader.”

—Pico Iyer

“Five Decembers is absolutely terrific. I can’t remember the last novel I read that was so beautifully immersive. A joy to read.”

—Lou Berney

“What a story! Totally engrossing, beautifully written, sometimes shocking and very moving.”

—Elly Griffiths

“Five Decembers is a masterpiece. You’ll stay up all night with this one. It’s unique and it’s terrific.”

—Eric Redman

Acclaim for the Author’s Previous Work

“A deliciously dark tale…gripping.”

—Washington Post

“An electrifying read.”

—Stephen King

“Utterly compelling…a stunning story.”

—Daily Mail

“Sophisticated, engrossing entertainment.”

—Sunday Times

“Dark, compelling, and frighteningly plausible. Every twist grabs you hard and pulls you deeper into the mystery. I absolutely could not put this novel down.”

—Meg Gardiner

“Classic noir reminiscent of Chandler and Hammett…Taut, smart and electrifying.”

—Liv Constantine

“Suspense that never stops. If you like Michael Connelly’s novels, you will gobble up [Kestrel’s].”

—James Patterson

“Complex and often deeply disturbing…this book leaves…an indelible impression.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Patient, stylish and incredibly suspenseful.”

—Lee Child

“Sharply conceived and even more sharply written.”

—Toronto Star

“A complex, edgy, elegant novel that is at once macabre, menacing and mesmerizing.”

—Open Letters Monthly

“With crisp dialogue and skilled plotting, this…is an engrossing thriller by an author to watch.”

—Booklist

“As revealing a book as you are likely to read in this or any year.”

—Book Reporter

“Hypnotic rich prose…thoroughly unnerving.”

—The Observer

“As dark and intoxicating as the bars where the mystery begins.”

—Sunday Mirror

“A mystery that will pull you in as deeply as a glass of absinthe.”

—Reviewing the Evidence

“An exquisite tale of obsession.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Crisp, vivid writing—not a word is wasted…as satisfying as it is deeply unsettling…Highly recommended.”

—The Guardian

“A magnificent, thoroughly unnerving psychological thriller written in a lush, intoxicating style. I dare you to look away.”

—Justin Cronin

The wind picked up after sunset. The house got cold. They sat next to the fire and looked at a book of photographs her father had brought home from Berlin. She flipped through the pages and described the things she saw. Gothic churches and stone buildings. Subway stations. Flashy nightclubs. She told him about her time in Berlin, living there with her father.

He supposed that most of what they were looking at no longer existed. Whatever she’d seen there was gone. The British and the Americans had seen to it.

They stood up together. She led him down the corridor. The stairs were narrow and steep. She stepped up into the darkness.

“This way,” she said. “I’ll guide you…”

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THIEVES FALL OUT by Gore Vidal

SO NUDE, SO DEAD by Ed McBain

THE GIRL WITH THE DEEP BLUE EYES

by Lawrence Block

QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

PIMP by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

SOHO SINS by Richard Vine

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CHARLESGATE CONFIDENTIAL by Scott Von Doviak

BLOOD SUGAR by Daniel Kraus

DOUBLE FEATURE by Donald E. Westlake

KILLER, COME BACK TO ME by Ray Bradbury

THE TRIUMPH OF THE SPIDER MONKEY

by Joyce Carol Oates

FIVE

Decembers

byJames Kestrel

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A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-150)

First Hard Case Crime edition: October 2021

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street

London SE1 0UP

in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

Copyright © 2021 by James Kestrel

Cover painting copyright © 2021 by Claudia Caranfa

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Print edition ISBN 978-1-78909-611-8

E-book ISBN 978-1-78909-612-5

Design direction by Max Phillips

www.maxphillips.net

Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

PART ONE:

Knives and Scars

Honolulu | Wake Island | Hong Kong

November 26, 1941 – December 7, 1941

1

Joe McGrady was looking at a whiskey. It was so new the ice hadn’t begun to melt, even in this heat. A cacophony surrounded him. Sailors were ordering beers ten at a go, reaching past each other to light the girls’ cigarettes. Someone dropped a nickel in the Wurlitzer, and then there was Jimmy Dorsey and his orchestra. The men compensated for the new noise. They raised their voices. They were shouting at the girls now, and they outnumbered them. The night was just getting started, and so far they weren’t drinking anything harder than beer. They wouldn’t get to fistfights for another few hours. By the time they did, it would be some other cop’s problem. So he picked up his drink, and sniffed it. Forty-five cents per liquid ounce. Worth every penny, even if a three-finger pour took more than an hour to earn.

Before he had a taste of it, the barman was back. Shaved head, swollen eyes. Straight razor scars on both his cheeks. A face that made you want to hurry up and drink. But McGrady set his glass down.

“Joe,” Tip said.

“Yeah.”

“Telephone—Captain Beamer, I guess. You can take it upstairs.”

He knew the way. So he grabbed the drink again, and knocked it back. The whole thing, one gulp. Smooth and smoky. He might as well have it. If Beamer was calling him now, then he was going to be pulling overtime. Which meant tomorrow—Thursday— was going to be a bust. Molly was going to be disappointed. On the other hand, he’d be drawing extra pay. So he could afford to make it up to her later. He put three half-dollars on the bar, wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, and went upstairs.

***

“This is Detective McGrady.”

“Thank Christ.”

“Sir?”

“You’re not drunk.”

“I punched out a half hour ago. If you’d given me a whole hour, maybe I could’ve done something.”

“Some other night. Get back here on the double. I’ve got the Chief waiting.”

“Yes, sir.”

He set the receiver back onto its Bakelite cradle and took the other staircase, the one that led directly from the Bowsprit’s upstairs office to the street. It was raining, but it wouldn’t last. Besides, there were awnings and porticos above most of the Chinatown shops. He had a roof over his head for all but the last minute of the walk back to Merchant Street. He waited on the steps of the Yokohama Specie Bank as a dozen black-jacketed cops roared up and parked their motorbikes stern-to along the curb. Then he crossed Merchant and went into his headquarters.

Captain Beamer’s office was in the basement. McGrady came in without knocking and shut the door behind him. He took off his hat and settled it onto his knee when he sat down.

“This just came in,” Beamer said. “Not half an hour ago.”

“You said the Chief was here?”

“He stepped out a minute.”

Beamer pushed up his glasses and swiveled the green shade of his lamp, uncovering the bulb. Now the room was brighter, but just as stifling. Beamer chain smoked with the door closed. There was no ventilation, and tropical heat seeped through the bedrock. Now he was lighting a new cigarette off the butt of his last. He ground out the old one, the ashtray overflowing to the desk. Even in here, Beamer wouldn’t roll up his shirtsleeves. He was that kind of guy. He was wearing a dark uniform jacket and tie, his Sam Browne belt cinched tight around his waist and across his chest. The man was too skinny to sweat.

“We’re short. Happens every year, day before Thanksgiving. I’d go up there myself if the Chief could trust someone to sit in this chair all night. He’d rather have you in the field than on the phones. Even if you’re a risk. You okay with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s what they taught you in the service?” Beamer asked. “No matter what, you say yes, sir?”

“Yes, sir,” McGrady said. “That’s how it goes.”

“I’m still getting a feel for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You worked a homicide?”

“Five, on patrol. I was first on the scene—”

“But as a detective?”

“No, sir. You know that.”

“I’m making a point. And you’re not from here, are you?”

If Beamer had seen the personnel file, then he knew McGrady wasn’t from anywhere. He’d seen Chicago, San Francisco, Norfolk, and San Juan before turning six. That was just a warm-up for what came later. His father had given him a good enough taste of the Navy, so he’d tried college instead. Four years later, he was back where he started. Except that he’d joined the Army. His hitch had ended in Honolulu, and he’d stayed on. Beamer might have known plenty about him, but it wasn’t a two way street. McGrady wasn’t even sure of his new Captain’s first name.

“I’ve been here five years since discharge. Most I’ve ever lived in one spot. This is home, sir.”

“You’re either from here, or you’re not,” Beamer said. “And you’re not. You ever walked a dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it doesn’t know the length of its lead, it’s liable to get hurt,” Beamer said. He held his hands about six inches apart. “Yours is like this. Run ahead, I’ll yank you back so hard your neck snaps.”

“All right,” McGrady said.

It was just a little thing, dropping sir. But it stopped him from reaching across the desk, wrapping Beamer’s tie around his fist, and bouncing his pinched face off the desktop. And Beamer didn’t even register it. Either you’ve been in the Army, or you haven’t.

“We’re absolutely clear on that?”

“Sure thing, Cap.”

“Then we’ll get along fine.”

Beamer’s door opened, and Chief Gabrielson stepped in. McGrady began to stand up, but Gabrielson motioned him down. There was one empty chair, but Gabrielson stood with his back against the closed door.

“You tell him yet?” he asked Beamer.

“Just getting there.”

“Start with the call,” Gabrielson said.

Beamer blew smoke in McGrady’s direction. “You know Reginald Faithful?”

“I’ve heard the name. The dairyman.”

“He’s got a house around the bend from Kahana Bay. But he runs most of his herd in Kaaawa Valley. He and the Chief are friends, so he called the Chief first. You follow me?”

“No.”

“He didn’t call the front desk, and tell his story, and get passed around till he got to someone.”

“Okay.”

“Which means, right now, there are exactly three people in the department who know about this. Which means, I’m not going to open the paper tomorrow and see a story. Am I?”

“I understand.”

“Reggie’s got this boy,” Gabrielson said. “Miguel.”

“When you say boy—”

“Not his son. A hired hand.”

“Okay.”

“So, Miguel came knocking on his door tonight,” Gabrielson went on. “He was rattled, had a story to tell. Reggie didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But if it’s true, you’ve got a case. Can you handle it, you think?”

“I’ve just been waiting for the chance.”

Beamer blew smoke at the ceiling.

“There’s an equipment shed at the back of the valley,” Gabrielson said. “Miguel keeps a cot and a blanket in there. Probably a bottle, too. He went in tonight, and got his lantern lit, and the first thing he saw was a guy hanging from the rafters.”

“A suicide?”

“You ever heard of someone putting himself upside down on a meat hook?” Beamer asked. He took a long draw on his cigarette. When he spoke again, smoke came spilling out both corners of his mouth. “That’d be a new one to me. In terms of suicide.”

“He was hanging from a hook?”

“You better get up there and find out,” Beamer said. “Maybe it’s nothing but a cowhand with the DT’s. But the second you know either way, what do you do?”

Beamer held up his hands again, indicating the length of McGrady’s leash.

“Make my report.”

“To me.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s your first murder. You’ve been here five years. I was clearing cases with Apana Chang before you were born. Remember that, and we’ll get along.”

***

McGrady took the Pali Road, the lights of Honolulu disappearing behind him as he ascended into the mountains. Then he went over the edge of the cliffs, and the only sign of civilization was the road itself. In full darkness, he came through the switchbacks. He was on the windward side. Jungle shouldered over the road and pushed through the pavement cracks. At stream crossings, waterfalls sprayed the asphalt.

In perfect conditions, it was the better part of an hour to Kahana Bay. Double that at night, then add half an hour for the rain. So it was past ten when he missed the driveway to Reggie Faithful’s half-timbered, mock-Tudor house. He found a pull-off, turned back, and skidded to a stop behind three other vehicles.

He switched off the lights and got out of the car, then looked up at the house. The size alone would have impressed him. He lived in a rented room above a chop suey shop on King Street, the smell of onions and oily pork seeping out of the walls. He could reach out from his bed and touch both of his suits, where they hung on the wall.

McGrady shut his door and walked up the stone stairway, and then across a patio. He climbed a second set of stairs to the porch, and there was Reginald Faithful, waiting for him.

“You’re McGrady?”

“That’s me. You talked to Chief Gabrielson again.”

“To find out when you were coming. And that was an hour ago.”

“Maybe you’ve got a faster way over the mountains. Where’s Miguel?”

“Inside. My wife’s keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s in shock?”

“You might put it that way.”

“How would you put it?”

“The boy’s legs were going out from underneath him. Either we gave him the couch, or he’d be on the floor.”

“You give him a drink?”

“There was no point. He was drunk when he got here.”

“That’s his truck down by the road?”

“It’s mine—my company’s. But he drives it.”

“Your wife drives the LaSalle, and you’ve got the Cadillac.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else in the house?”

“No.”

The dairyman set his hand on the porch rail and faced down the slope toward his driveway. He was wearing a wash-worn white shirt. Black suspenders kept up his khaki pants. He’d loosened his tie. He looked at the line of four cars, then back at McGrady.

“And what about you?” he asked. “No partner. You didn’t bring backup?”

“It’s just me.”

Faithful tapped his cigar on the rail.

“If you’re all I’ve got, I guess I ought to show you Miguel.”

“I’d rather get to the body—if there is one. Can Miguel walk?”

“It’ll take both of us to get him down the stairs.”

“That’s fine. You’re coming, too.”

***

Miguel Silva, Reggie Faithful’s cowhand, must have been older than Reggie Faithful’s father. He had creased, sun-darkened skin, the color of scorched mahogany. His hair was silver-black, and clipped short. He was sprawled on the couch, face up, his eyes covered with a rolled towel.

“Really? You’re taking him?”

That was Mrs. Faithful, kneeling on the floor next to her husband’s employee. She was in a gingham housedress, a loose button at the top. Wavy dark hair, eyes to match it.

“Can’t he stay with me?” she asked. “Look at the poor man.”

“Until I figure out what’s going on, you shouldn’t be alone with him.”

“He’s been with us forever. I trust him.”

“Then I shouldn’t have any trouble with him, either.”

Miguel’s clothes were soaked through with sweat. There was a strong odor of liquor coming off him. Otherwise, there was nothing wrong with him. He didn’t need Mrs. Faithful’s tender ministrations. He could sleep it off in a concrete cell, wake up with a bucket of water, and talk.

McGrady leaned down, pulled away the towel, and slapped the old man’s left cheek. He could have been rougher. It would have sped the process of rousting the guy, but there was Mrs. Faithful to consider. He wanted her on his side. Someone ought to be.

The old man opened one eye.

“You a cop?”

McGrady had one of those faces. Everything squared off and somehow unfinished, as though his sculptor had snapped a chisel on unexpectedly hard stone.

He nodded, and the man began to sit up.

“You’ll be coming with us.”

“Not going back in there.”

“All the same.”

He took Miguel’s wrist and hoisted him to his feet. After that, they went three abreast, McGrady on one side and Reggie Faithful on the other, Miguel’s arms over their shoulders for balance. Across the porch, and down the steps, and to the car. They left him sprawled across the back seat. McGrady shut the door on him and looked back at the house. Mrs. Faithful stood at the top of the steps, just the silhouette of her, the house all lit up behind.

2

The pavement ended as soon as he turned off the coast road and into Kaaawa Valley. At the beginning, the valley was broad and there were fields on either side of the stream. He caught scents of wet grass and cattle, of jungle water running down out of the mountains. But the valley narrowed as he drove up it, the fields shrinking as the cliff walls came in toward the stream. They went under a stand of mango trees and then came into a sodden meadow where nothing grew but ginger.

“It’s just around the bend,” Faithful said. “A quarter mile.”

McGrady glanced behind him. Miguel was asleep again.

“Where’s he live when he’s not sleeping in the shed?”

“His whole family’s out in Nanakuli.”

“That far?”

“He gets out there once or twice a month.”

“So he lives in the shed.”

Faithful shrugged.

“It’s got what he needs.”

McGrady rounded the last bend and saw the shed. It was backed up against the cliffs, a low waterfall off to the right where the stream broke out of the mountains. It was made of unpainted hardwood lumber. It was rotting from the outside in, but the boards were so thick it probably had a hundred years to go.

“I’m going in,” McGrady said. “Stay here with Silva. Shout out if he wakes up. Or makes a run for it. Or comes after you.”

He pulled the keys from the ignition, got out of the car, and slammed the door. Faithful jumped out and spoke to him over the roof.

“If he comes after me?”

“Half the time, the guy who finds the body is the one who put it there. So if he comes at you, do whatever you have to do. And shout for me. I’ll come running.”

McGrady went to the back of the car and used his keys to open the trunk. He found his flashlight. A big six-cell rolled-steel job, heavy as a truncheon. He thumbed the switch. Nothing happened. He gave it a hard slap against his left palm. The trunk flooded with yellow light. There was a black leather satchel with the tools of the trade. He opened it and dug past the extra cuffs and the booklets of blank forms and the teak billy-club. He took out his backup piece, which was a .45 ACP automatic. An unauthorized holdover from his Army days, and not the kind of thing he wanted unattended in a car with his captain’s friend and a possible murder suspect. He chambered a round, tucked it behind his belt, and slammed the trunk lid.

Reginald Faithful was a foot away from him, blinking against the light and swatting mosquitoes away from his face.

“You got one of those for me?”

“No.”

“How about a light?”

“You’ve got the car lights.”

“You’re leaving me out here?”

“It’s your land.”

He walked across the hoof-trodden dirt, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and stepped inside. Before he even brought the light around, he knew the old man hadn’t lied about everything. There was death here. If the smell hadn’t given it away, the flies would have.

The day had topped out at eighty-five degrees. It was cooler now, with the rain blowing in and out. But the shed had been sealed tight, and was holding onto the day’s heat. When the door cracked open, McGrady recognized the stench right away. There was a slaughterhouse on the west side of the island, and his business had taken him there twice in the last six months. So he knew the smell of pooled blood and piled entrails, and that at least prepared him for what he saw when his eyes focused.

The dead man hung upside down from the rafters, his ankles impaled on either side of an iron spreader bar. There was no question but that he was dead. He’d been split nearly in half, and most of his guts were on the dirt floor. McGrady covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his left arm, and stepped the rest of the way into the shed.

A fly rose up from the floor and settled on the lens of his light. He waved it away, then crouched to look at the man’s face. He was young, maybe eighteen or twenty. It was hard to say, because his eyes were gone and his tongue may have been missing. McGrady wasn’t about to dig around in his wrecked mouth to find out for sure.

He got to his feet and turned slowly, casting around with the light. He saw Miguel’s camp stove and coffeepot. There was a wooden bucket with water and a bamboo ladle. There were shovels and pickaxes, and bits of nameless tackle and gear hanging from wall hooks. There was a cot along the far wall, piled high with a jumble of sheets and old canvas tarpaulins and Miguel’s other clothes.

He turned the light up, and saw the rafters and the underside of the tin roof. The spreader bar hung from a rope, which was looped through a pulley. Someone had hoisted the man up, his whole weight on hooks sunk deep into his ankles.

If he’d been alive for that part, the screams would have carried a mile. McGrady figured he’d been alive. His legs and back were slick with blood that had run down from his ankles. Impossible if he’d been dead. So he would have screamed, long and hard. But there was no one within screaming distance. This far back in the valley, only the cows would have heard him.

McGrady backed out of the shed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went over to the car. Miguel was motionless in the back. Reginald Faithful came out of the shadows.

“It’s true?”

“I need your telephone,” McGrady said. “Unless there’s another one closer.”

“We leave all this here?”

“The sooner we go, the sooner I can come back. But I’ve got to talk to my captain, and call in the meat wagon.”

***

The Faithfuls left him alone in the house. He decided to call Molly first. One of her roommates answered. The new girl, from California. He couldn’t remember her name.

“It’s Joe,” he said. “Can you put Molly on?”

“She’s been asleep an hour. Since she got back from the library. You want me to wake her up?”

“Can you leave her a note?”

“What note?”

“I caught a big case. I’ll make it for dinner tomorrow if I can. If I don’t, tell her I’m sorry.”

The California girl muttered something and hung up. McGrady called the operator again, and got himself transferred to the downtown police station, detective bureau. He had Captain Beamer on the line inside of a minute.

“McGrady?”

“Yeah.”

“I was starting to wonder if I could trust you. What’ve we got up there?”

“It’s what the man said. A body, hanging from the rafters. But he’s cut up bad.”

“It’s a man?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“He’s naked.”

McGrady paused, waiting for his Captain to cut in. But the man said nothing, so McGrady went on.

“I think what killed him was the disemboweling.”

Beamer was rubbing the telephone’s receiver against his chin. It had been a while since he’d shaved.

“Other marks?”

The truth was McGrady had looked at the body for maybe ten seconds, holding a shaking flashlight against the dark. The guy could have had words carved into his back, entire paragraphs with names and addresses, and he wouldn’t have seen it. He’d just seen the one angle.

He said, “Maybe when the coroner washes him off, we’ll know more.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Hard to say,” McGrady said. “He’s covered with blood and his face is a mess. I don’t think he’s anyone I know. I don’t know who you know.”

“Race?”

“He’s got white skin—I can say that for sure. Take out a guy’s eyes and it’s hard to rule some things out.”

“He could be a Jap, is what you’re saying. What color is his hair?”

“Bloody,” McGrady said. He pictured the body again. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s Caucasian. He’s too tall. Shoulders are broader than mine.”

“All right,” Beamer said. “Get back out there and sit tight. I’ll round up some help and send it your way. And put Reggie on. I want to talk to him.”

McGrady set the phone on the table and walked out of the house. He found the Faithfuls on the porch. Reggie was leaning against the rail, watching the road down below. His wife was on a rocking chair thirty feet away, at the opposite end. Just a shadow, and the lit tip of a cigarette. He hadn’t figured her for a smoker. Maybe she dealt herself an exception on nights when corpses turned up on their land. He could relate.

Reggie heard the door close, and turned at the sound.

“Yes?”

“Beamer wants you,” McGrady said. He put his hat back on, and nodded toward Mrs. Faithful. Then he hurried down the steps to his car. Miguel was asleep in the back. That was fine. He could hand him off to the patrolmen when they arrived, or he could bring him to town himself.

3

He was on the last bend before the shack, so he took his foot off the gas, letting the rutted road slow the car. There was a noise from the back. A shuffling thump. Then a moan. He turned to check Miguel. One second of inattention, and it almost cost McGrady his life.

Miguel had fallen off the back seat and was now sprawled over the carpeted hump that housed the rear wheel drive train. He hadn’t woken up. So it was no big deal. McGrady looked ahead again, and this time he slammed on the brakes.

Fifty feet in front of him, all lit up in the headlights, was the shed. Ten feet closer than that was a pale yellow Packard coupe. In between the car and the shed, there was a man. He was wearing green mechanic’s coveralls. He had on a black watch cap that hid all of his hair. He had a scar on the left side of his face that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. He was darkly tanned, but the scar was bone white and almost glistening in the headlights’ glare. In his left hand, he held a wood-frame bucksaw. By his right foot, a five-gallon gas can. He was squinting into the headlights, blocking the glare with his free hand. He was trying to identify either the car or its driver. And then he dropped the saw, and reached inside his coveralls.

McGrady went for his gun, but the man outside had started earlier. McGrady was still yanking his service piece from its holster when the man came out with a big revolver. He took a two-handed stance with his feet planted and his knees bent, and he started pulling the trigger.

McGrady saw the muzzle flashes—one, two, three—but he never remembered hearing the blasts. A hole the size of his fist appeared in the windshield. Dagger-sharp glass dust peppered his forehead and forearm. A bullet sang past his right ear. He jammed his foot on the gas as the windshield exploded, bullets punching through in a horizontal line as the man outside corrected his aim. The last bullet would have taken his head clean off his neck, but by then he’d drawn his .38, and had his door open, and he was on his way out. He hit the ground shoulder-first, the car still moving. He rolled away from it, got to his knees, and fired twice.

Fast and wild shots, no attempt at aiming. One of them might have hit his own car, but by then it hardly mattered. The thing was shot up anyway. It was still moving, but its momentum was just about gone. It spent the last of its energy ramming the side of the shed. Its motor died, but its headlights stayed on. There was enough light to see the man. He’d run for cover behind the yellow coupe, and now he was aiming over its roof.

He fired three more times, and McGrady felt the slugs burn past. All misses, and now the shooter’s gun was probably empty. McGrady stood and fired twice more, going for the coupe’s windows, hoping to plug the guy through two sets of glass. The man fell out of sight, but McGrady didn’t think he’d been that lucky. He dropped to his knees, then fell on his side, and fired two shots beneath the car’s undercarriage. He pocketed the .38, stood up, and pulled his Army sidearm from his waistband. He kept it low down and halfway behind him.

He took a couple of steps toward the car.

“You’re all out,” he shouted. “And so am I. Six each, right?”

No answer. Maybe the guy couldn’t even hear him. Six rounds from a big revolver would do that.

“Come out, and we’ll talk. Just a couple of men.”

He covered the rest of the distance to the coupe. The driver’s window sported a pair of bullet holes a hand’s width apart. The rest of the glass was opaque, held up only by the laminate safety film. He couldn’t tell if his shots had gone through the passenger window or not. There was no sound at all, except for the ringing in his ears. He tracked around toward the hood. When he was even with the front bumper, he caught motion to his left. He spun that way. Miguel Silva was stumbling out of the stalled-out city car. So disoriented he could barely stand.

McGrady turned back to the coupe, where the danger lay. He was in time to see the man flying at him. He’d coiled himself up like a spring to launch himself over the Packard’s hood. He was holding his big revolver by the barrel like a club. McGrady took two steps backwards, lost his footing in a muddy wheel rut, and fell. He got off five shots on the way down.

The powder flashes gave him a stop motion film. Like something from the old penny arcades. The man’s arms flew out like wings. He spun, he twitched. The empty revolver was out of his hands and spinning backwards, toward the coupe.

Then McGrady was down in the mud and banyan roots, and the only sound was the ringing in his ears.

McGrady got up. The other man didn’t. He was laid out in front of the Packard, face down and arms flung in front of him. McGrady went to his car for his flashlight. He slapped it until it came on, then passed the light over the man. There were big exit wounds in the side of his head and between his shoulder blades. His coveralls were torn open and stained black. There was no point in kneeling and checking for a pulse.

There was something going on behind him. A voice, maybe. He couldn’t make it out. His ears were ringing to the point that he was dizzy. When he turned around, Miguel was there. His mouth was moving, but McGrady still couldn’t hear it. He stepped closer.

“What?” Even his own voice was all wrong. He sounded like he was talking from somewhere deep underground. “You gotta speak up.”

Miguel was steadying himself against the city car’s open door. He looked like he might fall down on his face. But, with effort, he lifted his head and spoke up.

“You a cop?”

“We already talked.”

“Inside—it’s for real?”

McGrady didn’t answer. The way he figured it right then, he was going to be up for at least another forty-eight hours. No use wasting his energy. Instead, he cuffed Miguel’s wrist to the car door. Better not to have him wandering around again. Then he took the light and went back to the man he’d shot. The frame saw and the gas can were on the ground a few paces away. After he’d sliced up the boy inside and left the shack, he must have started getting doubts. He must have been worried about what he’d left behind. So he’d gotten the saw and the gas and had come back to finish it. That seemed mostly right, but there was something missing.

McGrady knelt by the dead man and patted him down. No wallet. Nothing in his pockets but a folding knife and a Ronson lighter. No car key. McGrady rolled the man over. His face was a wreck. What wasn’t covered in blood was plastered with mud and dead leaves. There were pockets all over the front of his coveralls. He patted them down and found nothing. Not even a gum wrapper.

McGrady went over to the coupe and opened it up. The inside light came on. The stitched leather seats glittered with fine shards of glass from the bullets. There was no key in the ignition and no key anywhere else McGrady could see. But the wiring harness had been yanked out from behind the dash and was hanging beneath the steering column. There were strips of rubber insulation down in the foot well, probably peeled off the ignition wires with the folding knife McGrady had found.

He sat in the driver’s seat and leaned across to open the glove box. It was empty. The guy must have tossed the registration out the window after taking off with the car. McGrady got out and walked around the back to check the plate. It was gone, too. The threading inside the screw holes was bright. The plate had been taken off that day. Any earlier, and the metal would be grimed over with road dust.

***

He checked Miguel once more, and then walked down past the deep shadows of the mango trees. The rain had blown off, so he stood under the stars at the edge of the pastureland, where he could see the dark outlines of cattle sleeping on their feet. He leaned against a section of the split-rail fence, and took inventory.

He had two John Doe stiffs. A young guy who’d been killed like an animal in an abattoir, and the scar-faced man who’d come back to tidy up. A mop-job would’ve been a fine idea. Except he’d shown up in a stolen car just in time for McGrady to shoot him down. Bad timing, but dead men weren’t known for their luck. Not that McGrady felt especially lucky himself. If anyone could have explained the scene in the shed, it would’ve been Scarface. Now they could scratch that out.

McGrady looked up, and out.

Approaching headlights lit the mouth of the valley. He pushed off the fence and started walking down the road to meet the cavalry. He met them on a wooden bridge a quarter mile from the shed. Three city patrol cars, plus a meat wagon bringing up the rear. He stood on the middle of the bridge, his badge outstretched. The lead car came to a stop ten feet from him. Bugs buzzed through the headlights. The driver jacked his window down, then cracked the door, so the dome light came on.

A face McGrady knew, back from his first year on patrol. An old sergeant named Kondo. Good in a street fight, but not limited to that. All the bottles and bricks broken on the crown of his head hadn’t done anything lasting.

“Where’s the guy?” Kondo asked. “Beamer said there was a shed.”

“It’s down the road a piece.”

“You want to get in?”

“I want you to get out. Pull to the side and let the meat wagon through. It needs to be closer, but the rest can stay down here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I had to put a guy down.”

“You what?”

“He was all set to torch the place. I came up on him. It happened fast.”

“Surprise asshole. HPD’s here.”

“Like that. And he pulled a piece on me.”

“He’s dead?”

“Clean head shot. The whole thing outside the shed’s a mess. We’re going to need a couple tow trucks, too. My car, his. Who’ve you got with you?”

“Everybody Beamer could spare.”

“You the senior guy?”

“Yeah.”

McGrady chewed on that for a second, but couldn’t draw any conclusions. Either Beamer couldn’t find another detective to take the case, or he was trusting McGrady to run with it. It probably didn’t matter which, because they both came out to the same thing. McGrady was going to run with it.

“Pull to the side and get your guys. Let’s huddle up. I want to do this right.”

4

They huddled in front of Kondo’s car. Six patrol cops, two men from the coroner’s office, and McGrady. He didn’t know anyone but the old sergeant, and that was fine with him. They wouldn’t start second-guessing his experience. Which was essentially zero, for a thing like this. He gave them the score. He was going to play it safe and slow. Two of the patrolmen were going to uncuff Miguel from the back of McGrady’s car, and take him downtown to sleep it off in a cell. Two more were going to drive down to the end of the valley. One guy would get out and stand guard at the valley entrance, and the second would drive up to Faithful’s house to borrow the phone. They needed tow trucks. That would leave McGrady and Kondo and the coroner’s men on the scene.

The meat wagon had more than one body bag, and that was good. It also had camera gear, which was even better. But they didn’t have big stand lights or the right kind of film to shoot anything in the dark, so photos would have to wait until sunrise. Which wasn’t all that far off.

The coroner’s men could stand off in the shed’s yard and wait it out. Animal duty. If a sounder of feral pigs got the scent of blood and came out of the undergrowth, the corpse had to stay intact. Meanwhile, McGrady and Kondo would be in the shed. There was plenty left to look at in there.

***

They left the door open for air, and stood just inside the threshold with their lights on the hanging body. McGrady’s batteries were dying and his light was getting weak and yellow.

“You seen one like this before?”

Kondo grunted. Shook his head.

“Not even close,” he said. “Guy must’ve rubbed someone the wrong way.”

“You think?”

“Different if it was a girl. Then it could be someone having fun. Like a sex-fiend thing. But with a man—not the same. How long you think he’s been up there?”

“I’ll ask the coroner.”

“Best guess?”

“A day or two.”

“No more, though,” Kondo said. “The blood’s not dry enough.”

McGrady went to the shelf in the back and found a box of matches. Then he went around the room and lit all three lanterns. He pumped them up and got the mantles glowing bright white, and then the little shed was full of hot light and strange shadows.

“What do you want me to do?” Kondo asked. “We could lift the kid down.”

“Leave him. Just watch me.”

“Watch you do what?”

“If I find something, you can say I didn’t plant it.”

Kondo made a sour face. The skin on his forehead bunched together over the ridge of bone. McGrady had just trampled some point of honor.

“I could be home asleep right now, and I’d say that anyway. Hand on a bible.”

“The jury would give it more credit if you’re here.”

“What jury?” Kondo said. “You plugged the guy. Case closed.”

“I think he had some help.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.”

“You got a feeling about that cot?”

McGrady looked at the cot. Now both their lights were on it. It was piled high with dirty blankets and old clothes.

“What about it?”

“It’s bleeding.”

Kondo was right. There was a pool of blood on the floor underneath it. The thin mattress was soaked through. The blood had dripped down, had ponded on the packed dirt. Black ants had found it and were lined up along the edges.

“Shit.”

“You didn’t look under there before?”

“I missed it.”

He’d been in too much of a hurry to get out. To get Beamer on the phone, and get backup. He went up to the cot. He picked up a pair of threadbare denim pants and set them aside. Then a checkered cowboy shirt, and a yellowed undershirt. An old sheet. A busted pillow. The last thing was a thin cotton blanket. It was soaked with blood in places. It had gotten wet enough that it clung to the form beneath it. Now it had started to dry, and it would stick when he lifted it. By the shape, McGrady knew what he was going to find, what the blood was adhered to. He found a dry corner and pulled.

“Oh goddamn,” Kondo said. “I hate to see that.”

She’d been pretty, is what Kondo meant. Probably she’d been pretty. It was hard to say for sure, now. She had dark hair that was long and straight and lustrous. That was easy enough to see. She was naked and bound up with her wrists tied behind her bent knees. The man must have liked his knife. He’d left her body intact, and had focused his energies on her throat and her face.

“Both naked and all torn up,” Kondo said. “You think she was his girlfriend? Maybe her old boyfriend didn’t like it.”

“It’s possible.”

“Oriental girl, white kid,” Kondo said. “If they were seeing each other, they might’ve had reasons to keep it a secret. Daddy walks in on them, and—”

“Nobody’s dad did this,” McGrady said. “And if they were lovers, it started somewhere else. They’re both undressed, but their clothes aren’t here.”

“The guy left once, then came back. Maybe he already dumped the clothes.”

“They thought this thing through,” McGrady said. “They boosted a car, and had a kill spot picked out ahead of time.”

“You keep saying they.”

“The guy I put down, he had help. He didn’t do this by himself. And I don’t think he’s the one who planned it. His partner’s sitting easy, not taking the big risks. Scarface out there—he’s the one who got sent back to clean the mess.”

McGrady knelt down and looked at what was left of the girl’s face. They hadn’t taken her eyes. They’d wanted her to see. They’d arranged her to face the kid. They’d made her watch as they worked on him. Cut by cut. It might have lasted hours. And then they’d started in on her.

“What do you want to do?” Kondo asked.

“Let’s check his car again,” McGrady said. “I could use some fresh air.”

***

It was a Packard coupe, maybe a ’37 or a ’38. A long hood encased a big eight-cylinder block. Spare tires were enclosed in housings between the front fenders and the foreshortened cab. Inside, there was one generous leather bench seat up front and a tiny perch in the back. The sharply sloped trunk led to the curved bumper. Stem to stern, it was a lot of car. Chrome everywhere, high-end paint. It was probably worth three times McGrady’s city-issue Ford. McGrady opened the door. The dome light came on, but his flashlight was dead. He switched with Kondo, and knelt down. There was nothing under the seats. He’d already checked the glove box.

“How about the trunk?” Kondo asked.

The lid was unlocked. They lifted it and shined the light inside. The felt liner was dark brown, but had darker spots in it.

“Is that blood?” Kondo asked.

McGrady touched one of the spots. His fingertip came back stained red.

“Got to be.”

He leaned further into the trunk with the light. Then he backed out and stood up. He showed Kondo what he’d found, aiming the light to illuminate what he’d plucked from the back. It was a long black hair.

“It started somewhere else,” McGrady said. “They grabbed them, stripped them.”

“Unless they were already naked.”

“Either way. They got them into the trunk and brought them here.”

“Could you get the two of them in there?”

“The girl was pretty small,” McGrady said.

“It’d be tight. Not much air.”

“Whoever did this didn’t care.”

“What now?”

McGrady looked around. The coroner’s boys were waiting under the trees upwind of the shed. The man he’d shot was still on the ground, open-mouthed and drawing flies.

“Pop the hood,” McGrady said. He got out his notebook and pencil. “I want to get the number off that engine block.”

5

Ten o’clock, and McGrady was riding shotgun in Kondo’s patrol car as they went back up the Nuuanu Pali switchbacks. Up ahead was the meat wagon. Three stiffs, no IDs. They hit the high point, where tangled ground ferns clung to the mountainsides. Saw-toothed peaks disappeared into the clouds.

“What do you think?” Kondo asked.

McGrady shook his head.

“Beamer won’t be happy. I told him one body. Now we’ve got three.”

“He’ll like the third body. You got the guy good.”

“He ran out of bullets. I didn’t.”

“You seem pretty cool about it.”

McGrady didn’t answer.

“You done it before,” Kondo said.

“A couple times.”

“Not here, or I’d have heard.”

“Not here.”

“But you were in the Army.”

McGrady nodded.

“Philippines?”

“Outside Foochow. 1934.”

“Foochow—where’s that?”

“China. Across the strait from Formosa.”

Kondo slowed to get through a rough section of road. There was a waterfall here. It misted the pavement, then the car.

“We were in China in ’34?”

“I was. I was in the Army, but I’d gotten attached to a company of Marines. We were protecting a consulate.”