CHAPTER 13

Outside the prosecutor’s office, I glance at my watch and sigh. Auntie Naomi’s appointment usually lasts two hours, she said, which means that the kid and I still have over an hour to kill. If I were going to kill it alone, I’d kill it at Kanaloa’s. But the kid’s seventeen years underage, and I don’t think his auntie would appreciate me driving him back into town smashed on Koa’s killer mai tais.

I pluck my cell from my pants pocket and dial my office. Hoshi picks up on the third ring with a cheerful “Harper and Corvelli.”

“Any luck locating a detailer for my Jeep?”

“Yes, Kevin,” she says, paging through her notes. “I found one in Waipahu. Very high-priced.”

I glance down at Josh, who’s staring at his feet. “Nothing in town?” I ask. On Oahu, “town” refers to Honolulu. We islanders just loathe the word “city.”

“You usually ask for something outside of town,” Hoshi says, “so you don’t have to deal with the traffic.”

Maybe she’s right. “I don’t know what I want, Hoshi.” I look down at the kid, two fingers now up his nose, one snaking each nostril. I dismiss the idea of walking him around town. “All right,” I say into my cell. “Give me the address.”

Back at my Jeep in the blazing heat, I strip off my suit jacket and toss it onto the backseat. Then I move around the vehicle and open the door for the kid, watching as he struggles to climb aboard.

“You always dress like that, kid?”

“Whaddya mean?”

What do I mean? Josh is wearing a mismatched jumpsuit that looks like it belongs to Paulie Walnuts on The Sopranos.

“Think your aunt would be okay if I bought you an outfit or two?”

The kid shrugs. “I dunno. But you don’t have to. I don’t care what I wear.”

“Clearly,” I say. “But it’s not for you. If you’re going to be hanging out with me during your aunt’s doctor appointments, I need you to look presentable. Not like some wise guy who just stepped off the set of Jersey Shore.”

I start up the bright orange Jeep. Maybe a stop at the Tommy Bahama outlet in Waikele to see if they carry anything in his size. But first to Waipahu, to this detail shop called King Kam Auto. Because I won’t be able to quit checking my rearview until this electric-orange Jeep is a nice, inconspicuous white.

*   *   *

As I pull into the parking lot of King Kam Auto, the kid’s eyes go wide. I tell him he can wait in the Jeep and show him how to control the radio and A/C, but I can tell he’s not listening to a word I’m saying.

In the garage, grease monkeys are hunkered over or lying under cars, working to the sound of some god-awful heavy metal music. No one pays me any mind, so I find my own way to the office.

Behind a small desk, cluttered with work orders and receipts, sits a young Hawaiian woman with a stick-figure body and huge breasts.

“Aloha,” she says, distracted.

A strange greeting in a garage, I think, with drills going off, metal tools clanking off the cement floor, the occasional horn. But I give her an aloha back just the same.

“Interested in having my Jeep Wrangler painted,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, shuffling out from behind her desk. “Let me go get Mongoose.” She turns just in time to catch me looking at her ass. Our eyes meet and she smiles. “Be right back.”

But she isn’t right back, isn’t back for quite a long while, in fact. In the meantime, I alternate between glances at my watch and my Jeep out in the parking lot. Checking the kid, making sure he doesn’t drive off with my wheels.

A copy of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser sits unopened on one of the worn green customer seats. Without touching it, I read the first page headline above the fold: HIGH PROFILE LAWYER CORVELLI TO REPRESENT ACCUSED MASS KILLER IN KO OLINA RESORT FIRE

“Goddamnit,” I mumble to myself. “Here we go again.”

“Help you, sir?”

The guy called Mongoose stands about my height and walks with a bit of a swagger. A few days’ scruff covers an otherwise handsome face and a once-white muscle shirt smudged with grease reveals a set of toned biceps colored with ink.

“Looking to get my Wrangler painted,” I say. “Orange to white.”

Mongoose nods, slowly walks me to the opening of the garage, then points to the Jeep parked about fifty yards out. “That yours?”

“Yeah.” The kid ducks down just as soon as he sees me. Either he fucked up the radio or is playing some freaky game of hide-and-seek.

“That’s no problem,” Mongoose says, turning us back around. “Let’s step into my office and I’ll briefly explain the process, go over the costs, and give you an estimate on how long the job will take.”

I follow him into a cramped room that reeks of oil and grease. Calendars float lopsided on narrow wood-paneled walls, pictures of scantily clad women on the hoods of various sports cars representing the months of the year. Still mid-July, and August isn’t promising to be much cooler.

Thirty seconds pass before I begin to feel claustrophobic, sweat causing my white button-down to stick to my back.

“So,” Mongoose says unenthusiastically, “the process goes something like this. First we prep the vehicle—tape, newspapers, paper mats to protect the windows, wheels, head and taillights, et cetera. That’s more than half the work right there. Next we prime it. Then we paint it, probably three coats for a new vehicle like that, especially since we’re going from color to white. Then, ten to fifteen coats of lacquer and it’s done. It’ll look like it just came out of the showroom.”

I stopped listening somewhere around the word “prep,” but I’m pretty sure I have the gist. “How long will this take?” I ask.

“Five, six days. A week at most. Whole job will probably run you about twenty-five hundred.”

“Perfect,” I tell him. “Let’s do it.”

Mongoose calls out to Justell—the girl with the huge breasts—who brings in some forms and replaces him in his seat.

“What’s your name?” she says.

“Corvelli. Kevin Corvelli.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Mongoose glance down at the Honolulu Star-Advertiser resting on the empty seat.

Justell seems oblivious. “Address?”

Once I supply her with my home address in Ko Olina, Mongoose points to the paper and says, “You the lawyer representing that chick charged with arson?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “That’s me.”

He whistles, low and long, lifts the paper and leers at the booking photo of Erin Simms below the fold. “She looks like a handful,” he says. “Good luck.”

I finish giving Justell my information, anxious for fresh air and some A/C.

I grudgingly shake Mongoose’s hand and I’m out the door and in the parking lot, headed back to my Jeep. When I unlock the door, the kid finally pops his head up.

Climbing in, I ask, “What’s with you, kid? Why were you hiding? You afraid of tits?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “It’s just that man you were talking to…”

“Yeah?” I say, turning the engine over, glancing in the rearview to back out. “What about him?”

“That’s my dad.”

I turn my head and stare at the kid. “No shit?”