Triple Threat Mysteries - Books 4-5 E-Book

Tyler Colins

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Books 4-5 in the 'Triple Threat Mysteries' series by Tyler Colins, now available in one volume!
Forever Poi: The indomitable trio of private investigators, JJ, Rey, and Linda, embark on a fiery new case in the vibrant streets of Chinatown. Tasked with unraveling the mystery behind the devastating arson that reduced two esteemed art galleries to ashes, leaving charred bodies in its wake, the determined investigators find themselves immersed in the enigmatic world of the local art scene. With a plethora of intriguing suspects, including a haughty gallery owner, a daring art consultant, and an aspiring manager with a shadowy past, the Triple Threat Investigation Agency must navigate a labyrinth of motives. Was it fueled by a desperate desire for a hefty insurance payout, a bitter fallout in a tumultuous relationship, a thirst for revenge, or an elaborate cover-up?
Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha: The fearless and fabulous trio of private investigators, JJ, Rey, and Linda, find themselves entangled in a dangerous game orchestrated by a twisted serial killer known as the GrimReaperPeeper. With their lives on the line, they are determined to bend the rules and rewrite the game in their favor. As they strive to prevent more lives from being claimed, they also find themselves immersed in other intriguing cases, including a suspected cheating husband and a mysterious stalker targeting a young woman. In a thrilling race against time, the lines between the cases blur, and the stakes become higher than ever. Will these seemingly unrelated investigations converge, revealing a shocking truth? And who will emerge victorious in this deadly battle of wits - the cunning killer or the resourceful private eyes?

Leseprobe

TRIPLE THREAT MYSTERIES

BOOKS 4-5

TYLER COLINS

Copyright (C) 2023 Tyler Colins

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

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.

CONTENTS

Forever Poi

Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha

About the Author

FOREVER POI

TRIPLE THREAT MYSTERIES BOOK 4

UNTITLED

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

As always, a big heartfelt thank-you to the ever-kind formatter and cover designer (animal lover/rescuer, writer and blogger, and actress) Katrina Joyner; she's truly the best.

PROLOGUE

“That's one mother of a fire,” Cousin Reynalda exclaimed, wrinkling a Hollywood [perfect] nose as an acrid burned-toast smell pervaded thick, humid-heavy air. “Weird, but I've got a real hankering for s'mores.”

“I'm thinking roasted tofu myself,” Linda stated, breathing down my neck. “You, JJ?”

“…Corn on the cob, maybe.”

Rey snorted. “Get real.”

On the opposite side, eight and nine doors down respectively, tendrils of amber and silvery flames interwoven with raven-black smoke twirled heavenward from two art galleries. The two kitschy salons seemed out-of-place in Honolulu's Chinatown, like wagyu beef amid flank steak. In homage to art-washing, the owners had chosen the unconventional location to bring culture to a district that saw life's cast-offs struggling with liquid addictions and monetary woes.

A wailing ambulance braked to a stop behind a recently arrived mate. When paramedics sprang from the vehicle, urgent commands and questions fused with frantic action.

Four fire trucks and a half dozen cruisers were positioned near a narrow lane that ran between the galleries. Their bright emergency lights, flashing like dance-club strobes, bounced off concrete and people. Like flies and ants at a church picnic, reporters and journalists scrambled from remote trucks and live-eye vans situated sporadically along the street. Cameras and mikes were zealously poised to capture the smoldering excitement for viewers and readers.

As ominous yellow tapes flapped like long-forgotten prom ribbons in the breezy night, law and fire enforcement personnel briskly attempted to piece together what had transpired. Patiently but firmly, police officers held the curious at bay while firefighters darted like baseball players racing for home plate.

Rey, her best friend Linda, and I peered back out a second-floor window of our corner office, the Triple Threat Investigation Agency. Our heads and shoulders were all but super-glued together as we gazed repeatedly from one end of a smoke-dense, water-logged street to the other.

It was 10:20 in the evening, early January, and warm as Hades. We'd popped home to our Ala Moana condos to tend to pets, then grabbed a quick bite at a favorite Korean barbecue joint before returning. The plan: update the company website and complete two final reports and invoices for a couple of wayward spouse cases. We were getting pretty good at them, which wasn't a bad thing, but we really wanted to engage in more challenging detective work than shadowing cheating partners.

In addition to the aforementioned, there'd been two formidable cases since setting up shop a few months ago. We'd done pretty decently, considering the only experience prior to becoming private eyes was neophyte involvement in multiple murders back at Aunt Mat's haunted Connecticut mansion. Talk about [shaky] hands-on training.

“Isn't that Ald by the restaurant?” Linda asked.

I watched the ruggedly handsome detective (reminiscent of Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises) tuck a Smartphone into the breast pocket of a short-sleeved polo shirt, leap over a pumping hose, and sidle up to a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man of Polynesian descent.

“If he's here, there must have been a murder,” Rey stated excitedly.

“If that's the case, that fire's a result of arson.” Linda stepped back and snatched a half-eaten bowl of poi sprinkled with raw sugar and cinnamon.

While she liked it sweet, Rey preferred taro in the form of chips, and me as soft-serve ice-cream or mooncakes. Maybe we worked together, lived in the same building, and pretty much did everything as a threesome, but we had distinctive likes, dislikes, and personalities. Rey was melodramatic and tended to run on overdrive (think “locomotive”) while Linda was serenely confident and easy-going. I leaned toward the practical and stubborn.

“What's say we check it out?”

“Right, Cous,” I stated wryly. “The homicide detective would welcome us sticking our noses where they don't belong.”

“He'd probably yell at us to get off his turf and have officers drag us home.” Linda spooned a mouthful of the sweetened paste past unusual button-shaped lips. “He's really not your favorite fan, JJ—not since he learned you were under the covers with renowned local drug dealer, Richie J.”

Ald and I had had an odd warm-cool-lukewarm relationship since the agency's second key case involving the deaths of Jimmy Picolo, an infamous entrepreneur, and his nutty employee nicknamed Coco (in fact, these had been two of a few). Drawing a sharp breath, I recalled the night Ald had learned of Richie J.

I'd shot a traitorous government agent to death when I'd aimed for the shoulder, but caught him in the heart (meeting a bullseye had always proven challenging). That tense scene had transpired in the main cabin berth of a sleek Alerion 41. To not blow his cover, undercover agent Richie J—real name Cash Layton Jones—had hastily devised a story to explain my presence in a drug dealer's nautical bed. The arrogant, audacious man (yeah, I could pick them) and I had had a short-term, tempestuous on-off relationship which, at the moment, was non-existent.

As far as Ald was concerned, Richie J was scum, someone he was determined to put behind bars for life. Fortunately, Richie/Cash now resided in Miami, far out of the detective's jurisdiction … and my life.

The detective must have sensed someone watching for he gazed vigilantly around before zeroing in on us. At the same second our eyes connected, a small explosion rocked the street with the velocity of a low-magnitude earthquake.

Instinctively, Rey and I jumped back, and almost instantly, like over-cranked Jack-in-the-Box toys, the three of us poked out our heads to see the blaze surge and spiral like a meteor shower. Those working the scene rushed around as if they'd ingested mega doses of caffeine and media folks scrabbled like crabs crossing a wave-washed pier.

Two firefighters speedily yet diligently escorted one of their own from the smoke-filled laneway to an ambulance as two men transported a wrapped body.

“I've Gotta be Me” by Sammy Davis Jr. announced a call. I didn't recognize the number or name, but answered my cell phone regardless.

“Fonne, you'd better have a damn good reason for you and your colleagues being up there.”

“It's our office. No one advised us—”

“Save it,” Ald snapped. “I can't find Shillingford's contact info. You're on quasi-business terms with him. Get him to call me.”

I gazed around and sighted the detective on the sidewalk immediately below. “What's up?”

“None of your business.”

“It will be, if Xavier's involved,” I affirmed, fighting a juvenile urge to stick out my tongue.

Insurance adjuster Francis Xavier Shillingford (he preferred being called by his middle name) had arrived on Oahu last November. Not long after, he'd approached the agency to see if we could collaborate on insurance cases when additional investigation proved necessary. While we'd not yet worked together, the four of us had remained in contact and had occasionally gone out for drinks. Oddly enough, the person who'd put Xavier in touch with us was none other than Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives (his unconventional pathologist mom and chemist dad named their twins Gerald One and Gerald Two, or Ger and Ald for short).

I put the man on speaker. “Did someone torch the galleries? Are Carlos and James-Henri okay?”

Rey and Linda sidled close, concerned and curious.

“You know the gallery owners?”

“We'd met them over the holidays, courtesy of Xavier, who knows both from Mainland days. In fact, I brought my mom and nephew to the galleries while they were visiting … Are they okay?” I asked again.

“I don't know.” He sighed loudly. “But we have a body crunchier than a KFC drumstick that a newbie cook left in a fryer too long.”

“How do we know it's not one of them?” Linda asked anxiously.

“We don't. Mr. Charcoal-Broiled was found in Carlos Kawena's rear studio-office seconds before the explosion. The fire appeared to be under control, but suddenly accelerated.”

“We're talking homicide, aren't we?” Linda prodded. “Why else would you be on the scene?”

“I was at Carlos' private '6-tu-8' earlier,” he replied slowly, as if it were an effort.

“You said 'too' like 'tu', as in French for 'you'.” Linda eyed him curiously.

“That was the name of the little art-show-slash-birthday 'do'.” He smiled dryly.

“You attended a 'do'?” I had to sound as stunned as I surely appeared.

“Listen, Fonne, I can appreciate art—and the fussy crowd associated with it—like any highbrow, even with thick swirls of vivid color and distorted human-like forms, and abstract objects jammed together on one canvas, carving, or sculpture,” he groused. “Now, are you going to call Shillingford or give me his number?”

“Are you going to let us come down there?”

He cursed softly. “I'm coming up, and you're going to have him on the phone when I get there, or else. Is the downstairs door open?”

“It will be,” I replied tersely with a nod to Linda.

Our fit and nimble-footed fellow P.I. raced from the room as he disconnected.

“He sure is p'o'd,” Rey commented as we took seats on one of two rattan sofas.

“That may be an understatement,” I said dryly.

Slipping on Hello Kitty faces, we turned to the office door and waited.

CHAPTERONE

Ald marched into the main office with Linda immediately behind, a thin layer of sweat veiling his handsome, peevish face and flecking a cream-colored polo shirt.

“Welcome.” With a scornful smile, I brandished an arm like a gentleman usher might someone of lesser rank.

Glowering, he cast an eye over the room. “I don't see you on the phone.”

“We decided to wait until you officially brought those flat feet inside, Detective Hives—er—Ives,” Rey purred, getting up and grabbing the mobile phone from a custom-made black sideboard.

He flipped her the bird and eyed a stylish, contemporary black desk, one of two my friends had finally agreed upon, after a small [over-the-top] free-for-all at a furniture shop. Sitting on a corner, he murmured, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“We like it,” I said as Linda dropped onto the sofa beside me. We'd taken possession of the Chinatown office last November, just before completing our second key case: The Coco's Nuts Affair. The first one had been named The Gruesome Twosome Case, thanks to the two central (f'g demented) players. There'd also been a bad guy nicknamed Mr. Gruesome, due to an ugly visage only a mother could love, but we'd opted to keep it at Twosome.

The Coco's Nuts Affair had involved multiple murders, all tied to the death of Jimmy Silone Picolo III, a diversified local entrepreneur also allegedly into racketeering and loansharking. This time, there'd been three killers, two in cahoots, and one we'd not in a million years have believed capable of serving as assassin. It went to show that you truly couldn't judge a book by its cover.

“Xavier's on speaker,” Rey announced, smacking Ald's shoulder as she slipped past and dropped onto a second, smaller sofa.

“Hey A,” Ald said.

“A?” Rey mouthed.

My response was a you-got-me shrug.

“Have you heard the news?” the detective asked.

“I've been on the road with meetings and missions since noon. I just finished up in Mililani. What's shaking?” Traffic hummed in the background as Xavier's baritone voice boomed over the speaker.

Ald adjusted the volume. “Two galleries are pretty close to being cinders, specifically the ones belonging to Carlos Kawena and James-Henri Ossature. Weren't you supposed to be here for Carlos' 6-tu-8 do?”

“I had to be somewhere. But I had drinks with Carlos last night to celebrate his forty-sixth and he provided a sneak-peak of the exhibit.” Xavier's voice had taken on a serious, business-like tone. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“We found a body that wasn't recognizable. All I know at this stage is that it's pretty certain the fire was no accident. The only thing I can confirm is the little intimate soirée ended at eight on the nose. He'd planned to leave the gallery no later than 8:20 to be at a snooty function at nine. The fire was called in at 8:35 p.m.”

“Did he show up at that affair?”

“He didn't tell me much about it. And I haven't been able to reach James-Henri.”

Rey, Linda and I gazed solemnly at one another.

“Where can I meet you?”

“I'm at the Triple Threat Investigation Agency.” Ald snickered and rolled intense Maya-blue eyes. He'd always found the name of the agency comical, but hadn't mentioned that until a few weeks ago. In truth, I'd never liked it much either, but my theatrical over-the-top cousin, also a part-time actress (commercials primarily these days), had insisted upon it. Arguing with her was rarely worth the effort, so the Triple Threat Investigation Agency it was.

“Be there as quick as I can.”

“We need serious caffeine, A, not the watered-down crap I see sitting in a pot across this office.”

“You got it.”

Ald replaced the mobile and exhaled at length. Facial lines were beginning to deepen and a thick, notched scar along the right temple was pulsing, sure signs he was growing both fatigued and irritated.

“A?” Linda asked, getting up and stretching.

“A for adjuster,” he replied with a pert smile. “That's what he does for a living.”

“Does that mean we call you D for dick?” Rey asked breezily.

“That's dick as in detective, of course,” Linda said sassily.

With a sneer, Ald moved to the window and peered onto the street.

We did the same.

Under an assortment of multi-colored lights and flames, the slightly less frenetic scene looked more like a cerebral fringe-theater production. Although the fire now appeared pretty much under control, everyone kept performing tasks with tenacity and focus. Reporters and photographers were clustered to the far right, some chatting to cameras and some conversing among themselves, while the dwindling crowd of curious onlookers now seemed more interested in rambling media personnel.

Two loners stood behind a barrier a few yards away. A cylindrical-shaped grizzled gent in his forties, wearing an askew Yankees cap, black T-shirt and denim vest, was taking photos with an action camera while a tall slim woman sporting a jaunty peanut-colored straw fedora hat, slim black ankle pants and floral off-the-shoulder blouse scrutinized the area. Full, dark-red glossy lips spoke into a cell phone held by long slender fingers; a large ring glimmered under stage-set lighting. Only the bottom of her angular face was visible, but I suspected it was pretty.

“It's going to be a long night,” the detective murmured and sighed.

* * *

Francis Xavier Shillingford arrived twenty minutes later, carrying a tray of extra-large coffees and box of donuts. “It took me a while to get through, but I'm here—with liquid energy and sustenance.”

Rey hastened forward, grabbed both, and placed them on a long, narrow counter in what we called “the sort-of kitchen”, a niche that housed a small fridge, coffee machine, kettle, and toaster oven. Her appraising gaze swept down a Tommy Bahama short-sleeved chambray sport shirt and slim-fit chinos as she pulled out plates and napkins. “Would you prefer we call you 'A'?”

At 6'2”, the muscular insurance adjuster was easy on the eyes, a cross between Shemar Moore and Boris Kodjoe. Cousin Reynalda liked her eye candy and this was one sweet piece.

“Whatever my lady prefers.” He bowed regally and stepped to the window. “Is my boss around?”

“Isn't he always?” Ald smirked. “How does he do it, arrive so quickly on the scene, no matter where or when? Do you know? He won't tell me.”

“He won't tell me, either,” Xavier grinned. “Must be the insomnia. It keeps him anxious and shuffling.”

“So, what had you so busy today besides 'meetings and missions'? That dishy redhead I saw you with at La Mer last month?”

“She's history.” He feigned sadness. “Some women don't appreciate the complicated life of an insurance adjuster.”

“If there was no 'she' tonight, you must have been out doing good deeds, huh, Mr. Do-Gooder?”

Rey, Linda and I eyed Xavier curiously.

“Do-gooder? Me?”

“That's the scuttlebutt,” Ald said. “I hear you keep certain Oahu neighborhoods and parks safe. Coach youth and adults with drug and alcohol issues. Help little old ladies. You're rumored to be a mix of Superman, Sir Galahad, and Great Kahuna. Any truth to that?”

“I'm just a humble insurance adjuster. I save Conwind Assurance and its subsidiary CON Hawaii Security Systems crap-loads of money. And, occasionally, I help find the police super bad-ass bad guys.”

Leaning into a wall, he pulled out a slim Davidoff carrying case from his shirt pocket. Within were two Short Coronas.

“No smoking,” Linda said cheerily as she grabbed two coffees and brought him one.

He eyed the brown cylinders longingly, sighed wistfully, and put the case away. Accepting the coffee with a resigned smile, he was about to take a sip when the snap of a whip announced a call. He yanked out a Smartphone from a pants pocket. “Yeah?”

Linda nibbled a glazed cruller as Ald marched to a corner and made a call. Grabbing cups, Rey and I gazed back out the window.

Several seconds later, Ald cursed softly. “They found another one tucked under turned-over trash cans at back exit of James-Henri's gallery—and this one's crisper than our pal Lou's kalbi ribs after he's sucked back too many brews.”

* * *

While the detective hurried back to the crime scene to view the body before it was transported to the morgue, the four of us stood before the window and chewed.

“Looks like the curious are finally going home,” Rey murmured through a mouthful of chocolatey sweetness.

“Even the reporters are dispersing,” Linda concurred and gulped coffee.

“I wonder who the two victims are,” I wondered aloud as I watched Ald converse with an officer and a paramedic.

“Hopefully not Carlos or James-Henri,” Xavier stated broodily. “Not that anyone should have died.”

“How well did you know them?” Rey asked.

“Fairly well. I met James-Henri at an NYC exhibit when I was studying business there in 2005 and Carlos—through James-Henri—in 2008. Since we'd gotten along from the onset, we remained casual friends.”

“What're their stories?” Rey prodded.

“James-Henri and Carlos had met in the late 90s and ended up in Paris with an art consultancy business, advising collectors, the au fait and the neophyte. Most of the time, James-Henri told friends what not to buy rather than buy while Carlos tracked down promising new artists. Eventually, the two became lovers. They lasted two tumultuous years, split up, but got back together again.” Staring into the past, he chuckled.

“Do you know a lot about their early years?” I asked. “I got the impression—those few times we'd chatted with them—that those were happy days.”

Xavier nodded as he drank coffee. “After the consultancy biz started to show promise, and they'd developed a loyal client base, James-Henri bought his first gallery—a derelict warehouse.” He chuckled again and drank more coffee. “While he was getting the gallery going, Carlos was serving as a curatorial aide to a couple of small museums. Those guys worked 24/7 and absorbed knowledge like sponges.

“Anyway, very long story short, Carlos managed to acquire the financial support of an established dealer, and invested in James-Henri's warehouse gallery. With their own exhibition space, they were able to graduate from middlemen—negotiating among artists and dealers and collectors—to representing artists on their own terms.”

“It sounds like Lady Luck was on their side,” Rey said.

“Lady Luck certainly favored them to a degree, but the guys had serious smarts, and a select group of up-and-coming and established artists.”

“So they've been together all these years? That's got to be true love,” Linda said.

“Those two have had an unusual on-off-on relationship for eons but, at some point, one always ends up following the other.”

“Tell us about you and James-Henri and Carlos,” Rey requested.

“In 2007, I'd moved to Chicago and started working at Conwind. James-Henri ended up there not long after. We had a mutual friend in the entertainment business, so we'd bump into each other at exhibits and screenings. I first met Carlos when he visited James-Henri in 2008. He settled in Chicago in 2009 and stayed two years before returning to Cali, and then Hawaii.”

“Did James-Henri move to Oahu to start up the relationship again?” I asked.

“Yes. You know, Carlos hails from Maui originally, but lived here with his cousin for a few years when his parents split. He eventually moved to the Mainland to pursue art and photography. He still has a lot of friends and contacts there.”

Rey sighed softly. “It's a shame they've lost the galleries—and so soon, too. They only opened—what?—three months ago?”

The insurance adjuster nodded solemnly. “Nine weeks ago today, to be exact.”

“Why two galleries?” Linda asked.

“Besides the fact that Carlos has always been into studio galleries—that is, having a single artist work there and exhibit—and James-Henri more interested in art boutiques—small, temporary exhibits—they're too aware of their volatile history. It's as inevitable as lava spewing from Kilauea they'll break up at some point. That means they won't talk to—or stand—each other for weeks, even months.” He smiled wryly. “But they'll make up and all will be good again.”

“Here's hoping all is good,” Rey said somberly.

“God willing,” Xavier said quietly, scanning the street.

“They'll rebuild,” Linda affirmed.

CHAPTERTWO

Ten a.m. found the three of us in Xavier's fifth-floor office at Conwind. He was leaning into a textured wall beside a tall, wide window overlooking the busy sun-drenched intersections of Bishop and South King. As always, he was dressed in clean, pressed business casual attire—this time, double-pleated cotton pants and a Robert Graham paisley sport shirt. Handsome Ferragamo designer loafers adorned size twelve feet.

We, on the other hand, looked like triplets, dressed in boyfriend jeans and frilly, low-cut peasant blouses. Evidently, when we'd left at different times this morning to run personal errands before convening at the office, we'd experienced some sort of telepathic accord.

We'd brought the coffees this time, industrial-sized and sugar-loaded, which we all drank quickly and gratefully: caffeine boosts were a must after only three hours sleep. Having arrived ten minutes ago, we'd chitchatted about the weather and our health, and were about to discuss the fire, when administrative assistant Cindy Castaňeda strolled in, clutching a fat file folder. A fashionable dresser, the twenty-two-year-old was tuned in to an iPod and carrying a decorative beaded bag from which a tiny fluffy Pomeranian, sporting a raspberry-red sequined bow and matching top hat, peeked.

“Oh my goodness,” Rey all but squealed. “Who's the cute little bugaboo?”

Linda and I exchanged amused glances. Ever since my cousin had become Bunny Mom a few months back, she'd taken an interest in all things fuzzy. Her baby, Bonzo, was a Checkered Giant rabbit that had belonged to a young man murdered during The Gruesome Twosome Case. Oddly enough, my cousin had requested—demanded, implored, and pressured as only Reynalda Fonne-Werde could—that the rabbit be placed in her “custody” when she'd heard he'd be removed to an animal shelter. She'd never been much of an animal/pet person previously and what had changed her mind, and heart, I'd never know. But God bless her. Home to Oahu the rabbit came.

“Twinkie.” The tiny, pretty woman's toothy smile disappeared when she sighted Angus Kale Kapua'ula hovering in the doorway.

“For heaven's sake,” the fifty-year-old Senior Manager growled. “That's a guy dog. If you're gonna dress the puff-ball up, make him G.I. Joe, not Barbie. And how come you get to bring that thing to work?” A beefy hand flew up. “Never mind. President's pet. And we're not talking about the dog, right?”

Twinkie barked and Cindy stuck out her tongue as Angus turned and greeted a lanky lady stepping from one of three wide-front elevators. Dropping the folder on the corner of the desk and high-fiving Xavier, the admin assistant rushed into the hallway as a man of thirty hastened in.

“Howzit?” Of medium height and build, he sported an expensive flashy suit and bright, funky glasses that would have made a young Elton John proud. Wavy, highlighted cocoa-brown hair framed an angular face that was smooth and soft, and gave the impression he'd been born with a silver spoon in that small, lipless mouth.

“Ekeka, I'd like you to meet the gorgeous Triple Threat Investigation Agency ladies.” Xavier motioned the three of us seated on a long merlot-colored leather couch. “Reynalda Fonne-Werde's the tall beautiful one with the intriguing wheat-and-lemon-streaked hair. Linda Royale's the lovely athletic one with the vibrant raspberry-red layers. And fit and pretty JJ Fonne's the chocolate-and-honey haired one.”

“That's our ever-so suave and not too subtle Francis Xavier Shillingford.” Ekeka spoke with a pseudo British accent that sounded muddled, as if it encompassed various regions. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ekeka's one of three junior adjusters.”

“That's an unusual name,” Rey commented.

“It means 'wealthy', doesn't it?” Linda asked. She'd been studying Hawaiian from a book and CD the last few weeks. It took up some of the void that had been previously filled by ex-beau Makaio Johnson Mele, or Makjo for short. He'd flown to Japan for two weeks to attend a wedding and reconnect with relations, and had fallen head-over-heels in love—with the bride-to-be. The couple had run off to Fiji to get hitched and was still there. At least he'd had the decency to text Linda, even if the announcement was pithy: Linda, I've found the real deal. Isn't that awesome!? My sweetie and I are getting married. Wish us luck. xox

Getting Linda to focus on Hawaiian lessons had been Rey's idea. The gruesome voodoo dolls her best friend had been crafting, with pins in the eyes and private parts, had started to creep her out.

His smile displayed small, blinding-white teeth. “It does. My grandmother on my mother's side nicknamed me that when I was three and it stuck.”

“Because you were blessed to be born wealthy in family, health, and luck?”

“Because I was—still am—a rich daddy's boy,” he said with a shrug. “A, I got an urgent call from Esther Val—”

“Not now.” Xavier held up a long, muscular hand. “I need you to get hold of Jester Risco and have him call me.”

“Jester Risco?”

“Crispy.”

“Ri-ight. The arsonist-slash-informant and your new buddy, courtesy of the boss.”

“His newfound pyro-nut, lighter-sporting pal in the know,” Angus snickered, chewing a large candy with obvious enjoyment. The scent of caramel wafted across the room as the sizeable bonbon shifted like hamster-hoarded nuts from one cheek to the next.

We'd not noticed his return. The flabby man stood in the doorway holding a huge mug bearing a hand-painted cross-eyed raccoon giving the finger, er, paw. With a smirk, he tramped on.

Ekeka glowered, nodded, and raced down the hallway.

“Crispy?” Rey asked, curious.

“Jester?” Linda appeared bemused.

“Luigi Risco had planned to name his son after beloved Cousin Chester,” Xavier explained. “But when Proud Papa viewed the newborn, his first thought was that the kid had the face of a joker … like he was laughing at the world.”

“So Papa Risco named the kid Jester,” Linda concluded.

The insurance adjuster nodded. “The fact is, the kid's never taken life seriously. He truly is a 'jester'.”

“And where does 'Crispy' come from?” I urged.

“Camping and barbecues, volcanoes and pyrotechnics were obsessions from a very young age. In his early teens Jester had posters of blazing skulls, spewing volcanoes and gas explosions on the bedroom wall, which should have triggered alarm bells.” He shook his head. “He wasn't caught setting fires until he was eighteen. Not realizing that dynamite was inside a shed when he'd torched it, he'd stuck around to admire his work. He ended up maiming his right hand and 'crisping' three fingers.”

“Ouch.”

Xavier smiled pensively. “A kind-hearted judge sentenced him to one week so he'd get a taste of what prison life entailed and, hopefully, be deterred from a crime-laden future. On day one, Belching Bart granted the moniker 'Crispy' to the young pyro.”

Rey looked aghast. “Belching Bart?”

“A career criminal whose specialty was robbery. He had a love-hate relationship with cream soda.”

“He sounds as much a character as Risco,” Linda grinned.

“That he was, all three-hundred pounds of him.” Xavier chuckled softly and pushed back from the desk. “If anyone can tell us what went down last night, Crispy can.”

* * *

Rey, Linda and I met Xavier at the corner of Kapahulu and Kanaina just before two. While we'd stopped off at home to change before the meeting, he was wearing the same attire, with the addition of a crocheted raffia straw trilby.

“I can't wait to meet your flame-loving pal,” Rey said gaily as the four of us strolled to the popular Rainbow Drive-In.

“That's him.” He pointed to a shaggy-haired man in his early twenties seated at a picnic table several feet ahead.

Dressed in boot-cut jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, with a small silver crucifix hanging from a thick neck sporting a thin 4” scar beneath the right ear, Crispy was, in a word: unattractive. The poor fella. Dull cola-brown eyes, set deep in a worn face scarred by acne, were fixated on a Smartphone screen. While he managed to fork a sizeable chunk of hamburger steak between boxy lips without piercing anything, a jumbo soda nearly toppled onto a bed of fries.

“How's Crispy doing on this gorgeous Wednesday afternoon?” Xavier slipped alongside.

“Friends call me Mr. Crispy, yeah?” A wide smile displayed two tiny front gold teeth.

Rey, Linda, and I parked ourselves on the other side of the table after Xavier introduced us as freelance insurance investigators.

With the barest of nods and an expression devoid of emotion, Crispy popped a couple of fries into his mouth as he peered from one face to the next.

“So, Mr. Jester Crispy Risco, tell us what you know about the two gutted dwellings that up until early last night served as art galleries. They were torched, right? Were Carlos Kawena and James-Henri Ossature the targets? Or were the two bodies collateral damage?”

Jester picked at the hamburger steak with child-sized fingers, three of which were horribly disfigured, like brittle twigs. The rest of the right hand resembled a spider's web. A long twining scar on the left hairless arm had me wondering if it was another “reminder” of bad deeds gone wrong.

Xavier stole a fry and eyed him closely.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft yet prickly, like pine needles. “They know for a fact it was them two?”

“No.”

He drew a long, steady breath. “Ain't heard anything—as you would say—noteworthy.”

“What's un-noteworthy then?” Rey asked casually.

The lover of hot and fiery things eyed her for several seconds. Again, there was no emotion. “Not frickin' sure. Not yet.”

“Per our call earlier, have you started asking around?” Xavier prodded.

“You know me, A. I'm a man of my word. But you also know my contacts are bat people; they love the night. They don't take kindly to being bugged early in the day.”

“It's two o'clock,” Linda pointed out.

His flat face finally conveyed emotion: amusement.

“For these folks, two is early in the day.” Xavier smiled patiently and turned back to his informant. “Call me when you get something.”

“And if you can't get a hold of A, get a hold of us.” Rey slipped an ivory embossed card into his breast pocket.

Crispy shoveled gravy-slathered meat into his mouth and gave a thumb's up, and the four of us sauntered towards Xavier's car, parked in a lot so close to the Honolulu Zoo you could hear an animal concerto.

“What's next?” I asked.

Before he could respond, the crack of a whip announced a call.

Rey laughed. “Is that a not-so-subtle jab about your job?”

He winked and leaned into a freshly washed four-door black 2014 BMW 328 as he took a call that lasted barely a minute.

“I'm expecting photos and preliminary fire details late this aft. You're welcome to meet me at the office later—say half past four. Afterward we can discuss the case over drinks.”

“It's an official case, is it?” Linda looked hopeful.

“I believe it is,” he said wryly. “And it's going to be, as they used to say, a lollapalooza.

CHAPTERTHREE

We entered Xavier's office at 4:25 to find him on the phone, standing by a window and staring contemplatively across the intersection. Linda motioned the sofa and she and Rey sat, while I chose to lean into a seashell-colored wall, alongside a stunning mixed-media Noe Tanigawa floral painting.

Two minutes later our colleague bid farewell and, with a lackluster smile, motioned the door. “Angus is waiting with photos and details.”

“What's he all about?” Rey rose onto long, lanky legs. “Ekeka and Cindy don't seem fond of him, and I gotta admit that he doesn't do much for me, either.”

“Besides the fact that they're scared of him, they don't tend to trust anyone over thirty-five.” Chuckling, he tucked his cell into an interior pocket of an espresso-colored linen-blend blazer.

“The man looks like a scrapper,” Linda commented. “That nose had to have been broken on a couple of occasions, and those scars on his lower neck look like they resulted from a brawl or two.”

“He seems to have a lotta bulldog in him,” Rey added.

“Angus is all right.” Xavier leaned into the lightweight door. “A lot's an act. He's threatened by good looks and intelligence, particularly from women. It's not obvious, but he's very unconfident, so he covers this by being loud and abrasive. As for the nose and scars, they're the result of a car crash he had in his late twenties. Chuck Hansburger, a drunk friend, was driving his Camaro way too fast.

“He lost control and they hurled across a beach, and crashed into a restroom, but not before bowling over an aiming-to-be-pro surfer, who suffered two broken legs and a fractured collarbone. Hansburger was fine, but Angus had to get two-dozen stitches and hobbled around for several weeks on a broken ankle. He still walks with slight limp now and again, mostly when it's rainy or he's in the mountains.”

“What happened to luck-bound Chuck Hansburger?” Linda asked.

“He died three years later when once again driving under the influence. He plowed into a brick wall and probably never knew what hit him—or what he hit, as the case may be.” In the brightly-lit corridor, he motioned to the left. “Angus is known to belt back a few, but he'd never drive after drinking.”

“Smart man,” Rey murmured and we followed Xavier.

Ekeka, exiting the men's room, drew up the rear. As we sauntered towards Angus' office, Poison's “Every Rose has its Thorn” grew louder, softer, and louder again. Inside a 15X20 taupe-colored room Angus, red-faced and perspiring, was listening to someone on a Galaxy phone and playing with the volume on a Bluetooth table radio like a zealous teen attempting to maneuver a Wii game.

“I told you—will you frigging listen, you stupid bitch!” Sighting us, he grabbed a manila folder and courier bag from one of two stacked trays. “Loretta-Lee, you're going to be the death of me—no, make that I'll be the death of you.” Disconnecting, he drew a deep tremulous breath and tossed both items on a corner of the desk. “That soon-to-be-ex of mine is driving me insane!”

“Divorce is never easy,” Rey commiserated.

Angus' small, toad-brown eyes scanned her face. “You've been there?”

“Three times.”

“Poor you,” Ekeka murmured with a bittersweet smile.

Angus eyed the young man up and down, visibly appalled by the mode of dress.

Ekeka, now standing alongside Xavier, scrutinized Angus' prêt-à-porter attire with equal distaste.

“You have something for us?” Xavier cleared his throat and ushered us inside.

His boss nodded to the folder and bag. “Preliminary info on the fire and photos from a photographer pal. I also talked to Fire Lieutenant Muraoka a half-hour ago and it's definite the fire was deliberately set. There was accelerant on the clothes of Victim #2. Toluene possibly, given it had a benzene-like odor.”

Ekeka sat on the edge of a crow-black two-seater. “Toluene? As in solvent in paints and coatings?”

“And paint removers, and TNT,” Xavier added, moving to a window and perching on the sill.

“That's nothing out of the ordinary, given your friend Kawena's gallery was part studio. Linseed oil, mineral spirits … he'd have had a whack of accelerants a hop and skip away.” Angus' expression grew grim. “Gas chromatography and mass spectrometry, and the rest, will reveal all soon enough.”

“What do we know about Victim #2?” I asked, sitting alongside Ekeka.

“Not much, other a portion of the back of the head was bashed in and there were some odd indentations on the forehead and face. Those injuries suggest foul play … and we know it was a girl.”

“Girl as in someone under sixteen? Or girl as in grown woman?” Linda asked tartly.

“We-ell, excuse me.” Angus rolled his eyes and rubbed the flat tip of his boxer's nose. “Sorry if I'm not politically correct: a woman under thirty. Happy, my dear?”

“How'd you find that out?” Xavier eyed him curiously.

“What?” he asked, appearing innocent.

“That Victim #2 was a woman under thirty. In fact, how do you find out what you do, when you do?”

“Do you have connections we should know about?” Ekeka asked suspiciously.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Weird-Taste-in-Clothes Junior Adjuster.”

“At least I have taste,” he said under his breath with that annoying pseudo British accent.

Angus smirked and before he could respond, Rey interjected, “What about the age? How could they tell? They got an ID already?”

“No ID yet, but she was wearing brass arm cuffs and ear cuffs. That type of jewelry tends to appeal to a younger crowd. As for Victim #1, Franklin hasn't confirmed the identity yet, but it's looking like a pretty sure thing it's Carlos Kawena.” Angus' rueful smile was fleeting. “You may want to check with Franklin later this evening or first thing in the morning. He's made both top priorities.”

* * *

Once settled in McLord's, an Irish pub around the corner from the Conwind offices, drinks and food were quickly ordered. Xavier then opened the folder and solemnly surveyed a dozen photos.

“You gonna share or keep 'em a secret?” Rey kvetched, but those pretty grass-green eyes sparkled.

He chuckled. “That's what I like about you, Rey: you always cut to the chase.”

Scrunching up that lovely expensive nose, she was about to speak when a breathless Ekeka slipped into the booth. “Sorry guys, but I wanted to share something, and not with the old fart around.”

“He's not that old,” Xavier admonished, acknowledging a pretty waitress as she placed four icy-cold lagers on the table.

“Get me one, Sheila doll.” Ekeka offered a seductive smile, then leaned into the table and lowered his voice. “You probably know this already, A, but the sprinkler system was off; it was just being installed. Only the main riser was in place. And Carlos had a $5,000,000 policy on his gallery, just like James-Henri did on his.”

Xavier regarded him closely. “They both deal in high-end art and the properties, with the renos and furnishings alone, were worth a couple of mill.”

“Who'd have guessed,” Rey said under her breath.

“I dug around. Carlos had financial issues last year.” Coppery eyes glanced from one face to the next. “He may have set the fire to collect on the policy and, sadly, something went wrong.”

Linda whistled softly. “Why set up shop in the first place, if finances were tight?”

“Maybe in hopes of making much needed money,” Rey suggested with a discouraged expression.

“Art's not the way to make it,” I said.

Xavier's face darkened.

“Nearly one out of ten Americans would commit insurance fraud if they knew he or she could get away with it. Twenty-four percent say it's acceptable to pad an insurance claim to make up for the deductible while eighteen percent believe it's fine to pad to make up for past-paid premiums. And ten percent think insurance fraud doesn't hurt anyone.” Ekeka glanced grimly around the booth. “Arson and suspected arson account for almost 500,000 fires a year. You know the stats, A, and I remember my classes and training. Fraud steals $80 billion a year. During 2007-2011, 282,600 intentional fires were reported each year. Did you know that tens of thousands of arsons may go unreported annually? … And many are likely insurance arsons?”

“I don't and won't believe it,” the insurance adjuster said flatly, curling both hands around a large frosty mug. “I know Carlos. We hung out at the same Chicago dojo. We belonged to the same wine society and attended the same tastings. He wouldn't commit insurance fraud. And he certainly wouldn't commit murder.”

“I never suggested he murdered anyone,” Ekeka said defensively.

“Someone put a serious dent in that woman's skull,” he said dully.

“Her killer has to be the same person who did in Carlos,” Linda said quietly. “If it's Carlos.”

“The guy was in debt,” Ekeka repeated solemnly. “Big debt. If he owed the wrong people…”

We eyed Ekeka, waiting for him to continue, but he raised a square-shaped chin and stared at the busy bar.

“People do desperate things when debt becomes unmanageable.” I squeezed Xavier's hand and leaned back. “You should verify just how badly in the red he was … and see if he owed any dubious characters money.”

“We like to think the best about our friends, but we also need to be objective,” Linda stated softly.

Xavier drew a deep breath and nodded. “It's time you ladies started working for CON, like we discussed back in November. Begin by finding out everything you can about Carlos and James-Henri that's not common knowledge. I'm a little too close and non-objective,” he said with a dark smile, staring at Ekeka.

Sheila placed the junior adjuster's beer on the table and advised that appetizers were three minutes away.

Ekeka watched long muscular legs carry the server back to the kitchen.

“She's not quite your type, is she?” Xavier jested with a weak smile.

The young man looked surprised. “What's my type, A?”

“Socialite.”

* * *

“Pretty gruesome,” Linda murmured. Like the eyes of a Kit-Cat clock, her gaze shifted back and forth between two photos. On autopsy tables, Victims #1 and #2 were so charred, they could have been horror film fixtures. Given how her body had been situated—the face pressed against the base of a step—the eyes and forehead were less burned than the rest. A close-up shot showed the indentations—small partial arcs—that Angus had mentioned.

“They remind me of Uncle Charly's barbecued meatloaf surprise.” Rey held up a photo to study it closely. “Remember the summer of '98?”

“Do I,” I replied. “Uncle Charly brought new meaning to the cooking term 'blackened'.”

“It was like biting into campfire ashes.”

“Or Great-Aunt Gertrude's 'sautéed' breakfast sausages.”

Our laughter was cut short by an admonishing look from Xavier, though his eyes twinkled and an amused smile pulled at those full sexy lips. “Franklin Smithers is overwhelmed at the moment, thanks to a couple of coworkers being down with the flu and a triple homicide, so he hasn't verified that Victim #1 is Carlos.”

“Triple?” Linda appeared awestruck.

“Triple,” he affirmed somberly. “Courtesy of tanked-up Ninja Turtles and a frat party gone very wild and very bad.”

We gazed suspiciously at him.

As Linda started to speak, he held up a muscular hand. “You'd never believe it in a hundred years.”

Ekeka lined the photos on the large booth table and grimaced. “Shit. What a way to die.”

Linda lifted her mug. “May they rest in eternal peace.”

“To eternal peace.” Ekeka toasted.

“What's next?” I asked.

“A visit with Franklin first thing tomorrow.” Xavier gazed at the young adjuster. “I hear Joy Rollins is heading the investigation.”

“She's one of the best fire investigators there is, bar none.”

“Set up an appointment, will you?”

“Even if it means a meal at Morimoto's or Nobu's?” he chortled.

Xavier smiled dryly. “Angus will have our hides if we overdo expenses, but it'll be worth the grumbling and grousing.”

Ekeka grimaced. “I can hear it now.

CHAPTERFOUR

In his late 50s, tall and handsome, Dr. Franklin Smithers possessed a smile as easy as his temperament. Smooth, barely lined skin was a luscious Milky-Way brown. His shamrock-green eyes were as striking as Rey's grass-green ones, but I suspected his were real; hers had been pigeon-gray the first two decades of her life.

A small sky-blue office was sparsely furnished, with beech the wood of choice. Lithographs of water plants and blossoming trees lined the south wall while degrees, diplomas and certificates lined the north. On a small storage coffee table sat a fine white porcelain coffeepot, creamer and sugar bowl, five lovely hand-glazed cups and saucers, and a platter of cheese-flecked buns and fruit-nut scones. The inviting fragrance of freshly brewed dark roast coffee lingered in the air … as did the smells of antiseptic and cleaning products.

The pathologist gestured the table and Xavier made introductions as he saw to Smithers' bidding.

Small talk ensued and revolved primarily around weekend plans and upcoming festivals as we picked clean the platter.

Finally, Smithers rose. “Ready?”

Rey, Linda, and I glanced at one another and nodded solemnly. We'd viewed enough dead bodies in the last two years, but never at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

As we sauntered down a dimly-lit corridor painted light army-green, Xavier asked about the times of death.

“It's not an exact science—yet.”

“Humor us,” Xavier requested flatly.

“I'll humor you with fire details.” The forensic pathologist opened a thick metal door and motioned us inside. “It started around 8:15-8:20 in the rear of James-Henri Ossature's gallery and spread to Carlos Kawena's gallery. Two calls came in, both around 8:30, stating that flames could be seen.”

“So Victim #2 was killed first and the fire set to obliterate clues.”

“And identity,” Smithers declared.

“Do we know who called it in?” As I stepped into the cool long room, my gaze fell on a lab assistant of short height and slim build. Gauging from the length of the torso beneath a white cadaver cover on a pedestal autopsy table, the young man was wrapping up work on a child. I swallowed heavily.

“They found John Doe's upper half early this morning,” he told Smithers grimly. “But we know who he is now, because his wallet was nearby.”

One of Smithers' dramatic thick eyebrows arched questioningly.

“Dom Luk's upper torso was in a pineapple field, two miles from where the bottom half had been found. He must have really ticked someone off to end up like this.” With a nod to his boss and a quick “nice to meet you”, he wheeled the unfortunate Mr. Luk into an adjoining room.

Smithers slipped on a lab coat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted Big Island Candies. “The dark-chocolate manju are a vice, but the mac-nut toffees are damn good, too.”

Removing one, he offered Xavier the bag, who took a milk-chocolate square, and passed it on. We opted to try the manju and found the Japanese dessert, as Rey might say, nummy.

“Two people called in the fire. Jack Fong, who owns a floral shop three doors down from the galleries and Doris, a local bag lady. He called from a cell phone as he was driving past in a cab and casually eyeing the street. Anxious, he hopped out to see what was happening. Doris ran into Kurt's All-Night Diner. You must know it, A.” Finally, he bit into the crispy treat.

Lips wrapped around a sweet, Xavier grunted while Rey and I acknowledged we'd been to the small, popular eatery a couple of times. Adolphus, who'd inherited the place from an uncle (not necessarily his), made great crispy-crunchy fries and juicy herb-infused burgers. He was actually known for deep-fried pig ears accompanied with a dynamite spicy sausage-speckled aïoli, but Rey, Linda and I had never been inclined to try them.

“Doris is a sweet old gal who ended up here once by accident. I don't know who was more surprised: Doris, me, or Stark the intern, who quickly moved into a new career as cupcake maker.” He chuckled.

“Did you check for soot?” Xavier asked as Smithers opened a morgue refrigerator and moved Victim #1 onto a gurney.

He peered down a long, aristocratic nose, feigning affront. “No. I checked his fingernails to see if he'd had a recent manicure.”

Appearing humbled, Xavier said, “Sorry, it's just … he's a friend. Was.”

“So we now know it's Carlos?” Rey asked somberly.

“We do … though you'd never know by looking at the poor guy.” His expression grave, Smithers wheeled the body over and pulled aside the covering. “Carlos Kawena was a friend of mine too, you know.”

Seared flesh that had once been a living, breathing human being lay before us. You'd never have known there'd once been a long, aquiline nose, high ruddy cheeks, wide lips, or close-set charcoal-gray eyes.

The color drained from Linda's face while Rey stared with the barest of flinches. My stomach flip-flopped. “Uh, why check for soot?”

“If soot had been there, it would have meant Carlos was asphyxiated and died due to lack of oxygen,” Smithers explained. “I took blood samples and Myriam analyzed them faster than my brother-in-law can scarf down a heaping plate of shoyu chicken. She checked for the presence of carbon monoxide, cyanide, and other poisons in the bloodstream, which would have indicated death caused by cyanide poisoning … generally, a result of burning synthetic materials.”

“Like furniture?” Linda asked.

Smithers nodded. “Burns on the corpse with inflamed edges—caused by red blood cells attempting to repair burned skin—would suggest a victim died from burns, but that's not the case here.”

Linda stepped beside the man and peered closely, like a scientist studying the contents of a graduated cylinder. “What about wounds and lacerations? I believe I see some indentations and cuts.”

“Wounds and lacerations would, in many cases, appear to have been a result of the fire, such as those incurred when trying to escape flames, or jumping through a window or from a balcony, and so forth. In this case, they came before. And signs of underlying bleeding indicate our unfortunate friend was dead before the fire began.”

“No shit?” Rey asked bluntly.

“No shit.” Smithers smiled, then sobered. “The arson was a means to cover up a more sinister crime.”

“Murder,” I said.

“Murder indeed.”

“Damn,” Xavier murmured.

“He was dead before the fire reached him. Sergeant Obermeier is inclined to believe that Carlos killed the woman at the rear of the adjacent gallery, tucked her amid trash cans along the steps, and doused her with accelerant before setting her on fire. Leo, our chemist, is looking at ILRs—”

“ILRs?” I interrupted.

“Ignitable liquid residues. When a fire accelerant is used, they remain at the scene.”

“But just because those ILRs are at a scene, doesn't mean they actually belonged to the accelerant, right?”

“That's right.”

“Carlos would never murder anyone, but saying he did, why would he risk burning both galleries?” Xavier asked crossly. “Why not have taken her body elsewhere, like the ocean or the mountains?”

“Witnesses are a liability—”

“Someone offed him, for heaven's sake.” The adjuster lowered. “What was he? Collateral damage?”

“While it's possible that he was 'offed', it hasn't been officially confirmed. Listen. Carlos had access to accelerants; they were within arm's reach. He had two studios—a professional one for Nestor Ceviche and a small one where he himself dabbled in oils whenever the mood struck … Take a look.” Smithers moved the head carefully and pointed. A praline-sized indentation could be seen. He then pointed to another a little farther back. “If the first one didn't lend itself to epidural hematoma, the second would have. It's quite possible that he struck his head against the desk he was found prone alongside.”

Like an inquisitive med student, Rey studied the wounds carefully. “So, what happened? He hit the desk twice? He thought the pain was so divine the first time, he threw himself against it again?”

“Obermeier told me there was an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the floor. There'd been copious amounts of champagne at the 6-tu-8 party. Carlos loved his bubbles and enjoyed bending his arm when he threw dos. You know that, A.” He stared at the body. “It's quite possible he killed that woman, set her aflame, and figuring he had time because the fire was at the rear of the other gallery, hastened back to the office to collect something: evidence, documents, who knows? Maybe in that rushed nervous state—and a need for liquid courage—he gulped back the champagne and it overwhelmed him.”

Xavier chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully as I stepped alongside my cousin and we both surveyed the body. Finally, angrily, he asked, “Does Obermeier explain Carlos' death the same way you do? That Carlos killed the woman and then, knowing the fire would spread quickly, ran back to the office to grab something? And as he's rushing madly around and chugging champagne, he trips … twice?”

“There was a sturdy antique pedestal desk in his office if I remember correctly, not a discount-store special. There was also a marble sculpture. Why not? Yes, he trips. Whomp, desk! He slips sideward. Whomp, sculpture! Lights out. Permanently. It's not an impossible scenario, my friend.”

“No, it's not,” Xavier acknowledged with a deep frown. “But I don't buy it. I don't see Carlos killing someone, and certainly not in such a brutal, cold manner. But, if that were the case, why kill her in the adjacent gallery? Why clumsily hide her body? Carlos was a cool and calculating type, not inept or impulsive. That doesn't sit well, at all.”

“Maybe he wanted to get back at James-Henri by torching his gallery. I was told they'd just broken up again and it was very ugly this time around—as in spread the word, and dirt, to the art community across the globe ugly. Maybe she was a witness to his intended crime. Maybe she caught him in the act and he panicked… One action, or accident, certainly precipitated another.”

“Carlos didn't mention anything about a break-up when we met the evening before so it must have happened later that night or the day of the fire.” Xavier drew a long breath and shook his head with resolve. “I can't believe it was an accident any more than I believe he killed someone or set that fire, no matter how pissed off at James-Henri he might have been.”

“Has anyone considered the possibility someone killed the woman, then went after Carlos?” I put forth.

Smithers and Xavier eyed me for several seconds, and Xavier finally asked, “Why hasn't Obermeier proposed that?”

“Perhaps because Carlos' cell phone was found near the woman's body.”

“No one mentioned that,” Rey frowned.

“The cell could have been planted,” Xavier declared. “Carlos has two heavy-duty debilitating depressions in his head. That's fact. The rest is conjecture.”

Smithers' downward-turned lips drew into a tight line as he returned Carlos to the vault.

When he came back, Xavier started to ask, “You tested for alcohol and did—”

“We tested for a lot of things. In fact, we're still testing. We're fast, but not that fast, particularly when we're short-staffed.”

Dejected, Xavier sighed loudly. “What about the origin of that blast?”

“Everything's being investigated, A.” Smithers squeezed his friend's shoulder. “We'll find answers, I promise.”

“And they'll clear the black marks alongside Carlos' name,” I affirmed.

“We still need to discover the woman's identity,” Linda pointed out. “Any leads? Any recently missing women? Someone who didn't return home that night?”

“Most likely she was at the little soiree. Investigators have the guest list, but I understand a few people still have to be contacted,” Smithers answered with a patient smile. “There's always a possibility she broke into James-Henri's gallery and Carlos caught her.”

“And he meted his own form of vengeance?” Xavier asked heatedly.

Smithers held up a soft hand.

“… Come to think of it, James-Henri and Carlos were both interested in collaborating with a couple of local artists. One is a friend of Cholla's, James-Henri's half or step sister.” He slapped his forehead. “Say, has anyone accounted for her?”

“I spoke with him for a couple of minutes this morning. He didn't mention anything and I'm sure he would have if she were missing, given they're very tight.” Franklin Smithers pulled out his Smartphone and held it forth. “But you might want to confirm.”

CHAPTERFIVE

“Of course.” I winked at my cousin and her best friend. “Uh-huh. Count us in.”

Both were seated on a concrete border by the Hawaiian Hilton Village Pier, where the Atlantis submarine and sailing excursions happened regularly throughout the day. The afternoon Tradewind Sail was just pulling away.

“Hey! Wait for me!” A William “Frank Cannon” Conrad double raced with amazing agility toward the vessel, a small black knapsack suspended from a fleshy shoulder and a pricey Sony hanging by a wide strap from a thickset neck.

“Oh-oh.” Rey's eyes clamped shut. “I can't watch.”

“Oh no.” Linda sucked in a breath.

Dumbstruck, I could only goggle as the rutabaga-shaped gent soared like a premier danseur engaging in a brisé … only to take out two crew members as he tumbled onto the deck like a circus clown plunging from a trapeze.

“Wow,” Linda breathed.

Rey opened one eye. “Yow.”

After leaving Xavier at the morgue, the three of us had decided to stroll to the Hilton for exercise and sunshine while determining arson-case logistics. Two other potential assignments had come in during the morning: one to discover if restaurant staff were stealing from the owner and the other to locate a runaway teen.

“What are we being counted in for?” Rey asked, finishing a can of diet Coke.

“Honey's surprise birthday party Saturday after next. The kids are throwing it. So far, twelve people are confirmed—including us—and four more will advise shortly. We're to bring taro buns, coleslaw, brownies, and ice-cream.”

Rey gave a thumb's up and turned to the sparkling ocean where countless swimmers, waders, and surfers congregated. Linda switched to sitting on hot sand and, stretching jean-clad legs, leaned back onto her palms as she slipped into thought.