CHAPTER 32

“Ouch,” Koa says later that night after I tell him about my meeting with Mia Landow at the airport. “You sure you don’t want something stronger than that ginger ale, Kevin?”

“No,” I tell him. “I’ve got to meet the kid tomorrow morning. We’re going up North Shore to Shark’s Cove. I promised I’d teach him how to snorkel.”

“So how are things going with Miss Hawaii?” he says.

I shrug. “I’ve been preoccupied, so it hasn’t gone quite as I’d expected.”

“Shame, brah. That is one hot lady.”

A couple next to me orders a round of mai tais and Koa steps away to mix their drinks. When he comes back he asks me if I’m hungry.

“I am.”

“What you want?” he says. “Plate of them Buffalo wings?”

Thoughts of my last Buffalo wing fiasco steer me clear. “Nah,” I say, getting up from my barstool. “I think I’m going to head over to Chip’s, maybe get myself some of those teri sticks.”

“Awright, brah,” he says, reaching over the counter to shake my hand. “Be good.”

What exactly does that mean?

*   *   *

Chip’s has a packed house tonight, so I sit at the bar. Not that I mind a table for one; in fact, sometimes I prefer it. But for teri sticks and a glass of ginger ale, the bar will do just fine. Besides, tonight I’m anxious to get home, crank up the A/C, and get some badly needed sleep.

Mia is right. Sometimes it takes a non-lawyer to see through the smoke. The jury will hear witness after witness testify about how Erin was hurt, how she was fragile to begin with, how she cut herself, even burned herself at times. They will see her Zippo lighter up close, get to hold it in their hands. They may or may not see the knife, depending on whether it’s found, but they will hear testimony from Lauren Simms about how she saw Erin with it—a switch with a three- to four-inch blade with a serrated edge. The same type that killed Trevor Simms.

Hotel security will testify. They’ll say they were called up to Trevor and Erin’s room not once but twice. That she reacted furiously to their visit, cussing them out and ultimately slamming the door in their face each time.

If someone did indeed steal Erin’s little leather Fendi, the jury will want to know who. I don’t have an answer. And if I don’t have one come the time of trial—if I can’t place someone with motive at Trevor’s door—then Erin Simms is in peril. She will spend the rest of her life in a goddamn cage.

And it may be that justice is served.

Once I close out my tab I step away from the barstool and halfheartedly wink good night to a hostess I’ve had my eye on for months. Then I do a double take. At a table in the rear of the restaurant I see Kerry Naikelekele seated with a man with his back to me. I sigh; no question I blew it.

As I walk along the koi pond, I notice the man stand. From the corner of my eye, I watch him move casually toward the men’s room.

Can’t be, I think.

But it is. He sees me, too, staring at me as he winds his way through the occupied tables, not smiling, not frowning, not offering so much as a nod of the head, the prick.

Once he enters the men’s room I move a little faster, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible.

I’ll see him in a few days when he argues his motion to have me removed from the Simms case. But tonight I need not spend another moment looking at or thinking about prosecuting attorney Luke Maddox.

Or his date.