CHAPTER 4

Outside, watching the flames dance, thick black smoke drifting over the Pacific, I listen to the kid screaming and crying for his grandmother, and I dread the worst. My eyes flick over to the ambulances every few seconds, though I know it’s in vain. Anyone who is getting out has gotten out already, and there is no one alive and outside who meets Grandma’s description. A sick feeling rises in my throat and I taste the remnants of rum, blended with smoke and bile. I nearly vomit at my bare feet but instead choke it back, keep my chin up, eyes focused, my hand resting gently atop the kid’s head, trying futilely to douse the fire in his tortured imagination.

The kid told me amongst a rush of tears that he never made it back into his room after we bought him the Dr Pepper downstairs. The door was locked and he didn’t have a room key. Silly of me now that I flash back to his outstretched pockets to think that one would have magically appeared. He knocked on the door but knew Grandma had long been sleeping. I think that maybe the soda she ordered tasted “oogie” because it was sprinkled with Bacardi light rum. And Grandma had taken her pills, the kid said. Her “Am-beans,” he told me, the white oval tablets that never fail to put her down for the night.

Unable to reenter his room, the kid searched the hallway for me. Then he tried the stairwell, went down one floor and came back. He sat on the stairs for a while, sipping his soda. Figured someone would eventually come by and find him.

When the alarm sounded, the kid said, he immediately had an accident in his pants, peed all down his legs and into his shoes. I told the kid not to worry about that, told the kid that I did that, too.

There are thick gray blankets wrapped around us, courtesy of the Honolulu Fire Department. I’ve taken a few hits of oxygen and all things considered, I’m feeling sublime. The cougar’s fine, too, just a tad shaken up. Standing next to me, the three of us almost look like a family. Which means, I believe, it would be a crime for me to sneak away and head home.

As police and news helicopters circle overhead, I turn and gaze at the swelling crowd of gawkers. Some are in their nightclothes, pajamas, nightgowns, nighties, even teddies. Some guys, like me, are still in their boxers or briefs. One’s standing completely in the buff, a UPenn baseball cap covering his goods. Others are dressed in their day clothes—sundresses and aloha shirts, khakis and shorts. It seems some flocked over from the resort next door, others from the villas, town houses and condominiums that round out the rest of the Ko Olina community.

Through the chaos I eventually spot Koa. The bartender is standing by himself, entranced by the flames, his arms folded tightly across his chest. I wave my arm in an attempt to snag his attention but he doesn’t see me. I call out, but with all the noise—the copters, the crowds, the still-sounding sirens—it’s impossible for him to hear. Finally he tears his gaze away from the fire and searches the throng. I throw up my arm again and he sees me.

When he reaches us, he’s leering at the towel-covered cougar standing next to me. Then he glances down at the kid, one eyebrow arched toward the sky. “Damn, you work fast, Corvelli. The two of you got one toddler already?”

Like most native Hawaiians, there’s a slight hint of pidgin English in Koa’s speech, such that his th’s sound like d’s, many of his r’s disappear completely, and “already” sounds a lot like awready.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask him, glancing at my bare left wrist out of habit. No watch, but I figure by now it has to be well past three o’clock. “I thought Kanaloa’s closes at midnight on Tuesdays.”

Koa half-smiles. “Nah, we just tell you that, Kevin, or else you’d never go home.”

A few yards away flashes are going off. Not the occasional twinkle from a curious tourist, but a full-on barrage of shooting from every which direction, as though the four of us were standing on the red carpet in tuxes and gowns, instead of barefoot on the grass in towels and T-shirts. I shield my eyes against the glints of light, which until now had been aimed at the top two or three floors of the tower, hoping it’s just investigators doing their jobs, looking for fire buffs, seeing who’s lingering a little too long at the scene, who is a little less awed by the rescues than by the flames still creeping and crawling up the night sky. But I know that I’m wrong. I know that it’s the goddamn media.

No sooner do I realize it than a tape recorder is aimed point-blank at my nose. The mikes can’t be too far behind.

“Can you tell us what you saw?”

“How did the fire start?”

“Are you a guest at the resort?”

“Was anybody else up there?”

“How did you and your family escape?”

As I parrot “No comment,” I slowly back up, dragging Koa, the kid, and the cougar away from the predators. My progress is immediately impeded by a large firm hand pressed against the middle of my back. The fingers move gradually up my stiff neck until they rest rigidly on my right shoulder. I turn and see the familiar though not-so-friendly face of John Tatupu.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Corvelli?” Tatupu says.

Although I hold a good deal of respect for this particular native Hawaiian homicide detective with the Honolulu PD, he thinks I’m a sleaze, and I can’t say it doesn’t sting a bit.

I turn toward the media vultures and smile; saved by the dick.

“What can I do for you, John?” I say, moving with him away from the mob.

He flinches at my use of his first name. John and I are clearly not on a first-name basis. “Heard you were on the floor where the fire started,” he says.

I arch my brows. “Really? Who told you that?”

“We’re not in a courtroom, Corvelli. I get to ask the questions tonight.”

“Fine,” I say, stopping mid-moonlight stroll, turning my head up and squinting at a lit tiki torch at the edge of the beach. “If it’s going to be like that, I refuse to respond.”

“Rather do this downtown?”

“Are you asking me on a date, Detective? Because you sure as hell don’t have probable cause for an arrest.”

Tatupu rests his hands on his hips and tries again. “Look, I know you were with that woman over there.” He points with his chin at the cougar ten yards away. “All I need to know to clear both her and you is exactly what you were doing when the fire started?”

“If memory serves,” I say, “I was calling down to the front desk to request an extra Bible. See, there were two of us in the room and only one copy of the Good Book.”

Tatupu sighs heavily, a long and deep, defeated exhalation. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Look, John,” I say, pulling my blanket tighter against the late night trade winds finally blowing in from the ocean. “There are sixteen rooms on that floor, eight down our wing. It’s mid-July and the hotel’s filled to capacity. That means there were probably at least fourteen people besides myself and my date down our end of the hall. Why not hassle them first, see what you can get?”

Tatupu looks me squarely in the eyes, his broad lips sunken on either side. “I would but from what I hear from HFD’s search and rescue team, most of them are already dead.”

*   *   *

As I amble back in the direction of the cougar and the kid, I turn and spot the honeymooners we’d seen arguing at the bar, now huddled in each other’s arms, the young woman sobbing uncontrollably into her husband’s chest. I sigh heavily, Tatupu’s words echoing in my head. Property damage is one thing, even if that property happens to house some of the finest cougars to visit the Hawaiian Islands. Even had the big bad fire consumed my favorite beach bar, it was still something to watch, something to experience, something to tell Jake and our investigator Flan about in the morning at Sand Bar over a few a.m. mai tais. But now that people have perished here …

I do a double-take as I pass the newlyweds. The guy she’s with isn’t the groom at all; he’s someone else entirely. Suddenly it hits me: the newlyweds were on our floor, in the room adjoined to the kid and Grandma’s. The door adorned with the baby blue garter. I take another glimpse, wondering why then the bride is fully dressed, decked out in the same red dress she wore earlier to Kanaloa’s.

“Who was that guy you were speaking to?” the cougar asks, as soon as I elbow my way back through the crowd.

“Cop,” I say.

“What did he want?”

“Just has some questions.”

“Where did he say the blaze started?”

Before I can respond, it hits me like a brick to the back of my head. Who? What? Where? When is obviously next. That’s right, the cougar is a freelance journalist. I’m sleeping with the enemy.

Suddenly the kid tugs on my blanket, nearly yanking it off. “Where’s my grandma?” he shouts.

I kneel in front of him, offering a sympathetic look but no answers. Lying doesn’t seem right, but telling the truth seems a whole hell of a lot worse. “The jury’s still out, kid,” I say.

The kid stares back at me, dumbstruck, tears rolling down his crimson cheeks. “What?”

As I fumble for another answer, the cougar kneels on the kid’s other side, speaks softly in his ear. Whatever she’s telling him appears to calm him, and I realize that whatever that is, it doesn’t really matter now. Whether Grandma’s dead or alive, the kid will have plenty of time to process the verdict. No need to send him into a state of shock just now.

I stand and stare at the long line of yellow fire trucks, recalling the big bright red engines that paraded down Willard Avenue past my own grandmother’s house in Totowa, New Jersey, twenty-five years ago. They rolled by in the daylight once, maybe twice a year, lights flashing, firemen waving, tossing Blow Pops and Tootsie Rolls to the kids on the street. The parade held some kind of purpose, I’m sure. Maybe to commemorate Memorial Day or Labor Day or the Fourth of July. Something like that. All I remember now are the lights and the candy—and my grandmother at my side, holding my hand, preventing me from running into the road, boarding one of the trucks, and leaving my childhood behind forever.

Koa says, “I’m going to take off, Kevin.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back to the present. “If they get this inferno under control before it reaches Kanaloa’s, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nod my head, my attention drawn to a dark-skinned African American man slowly approaching us with a pad in his hand. He’s wearing a bright yellow jacket, the big bold black letters HFD no doubt printed on his back. He is still a few persons away, taking statements.

I slip through the crowd toward him, not quite anxious to answer questions but to ask some. Well, one to be exact.

“Excuse me,” I say, when there is a break in the conversation.

The man holds up one finger, not the offensive one, so I wait while he finishes taking the woman’s statement.

The men in yellow are dispersed now throughout the crowd, seeking those individuals with cameras and video recorders first. Investigators are all around, scanning the crowd, observing the observers with binoculars and cameras and video recorders of their own. This is potentially an arson and homicide investigation. Gathering evidence early on is crucial.

A few minutes later the man in yellow steps over to me. “Name?”

“Kevin Corvelli,” I say, grudgingly. “C-O-R-V-E-L-L-I.” Frustrating as it is, I know he won’t answer my question until I answer a few of his.

“Are you a registered guest at this resort, Mr. Corvelli?”

We go through the whole spiel, from how many drinks I consumed at happy hour to how and when I took the cougar back to her room and did the dirty. Then we finally get to the kid.

I tell him the entire story.

“Pineapple boxers?” he says.

When I’m through, the investigator, who has identified himself as Darren Watts, tells me to hang on a few minutes. Watts steps away, puts his radio to his lips, and says something I can’t quite make out. Then he vanishes into the crowd.

I stare over at the cougar and the kid, heart in my throat, the sick feeling in my stomach growing more intense by the second. Wondering how the hell the kid’s going to handle this.

I swivel my head, a little dizzy from the stress. The looker is still in the middle of the crowd, bawling into some other guy’s chest. A sick horrible thought, the type we all experience but never admit to, flashes in my mind: Hey, Kev. Looks as though she’s single again.

I push the thought away as the investigator Darren Watts returns, one of those you-know-what’s-coming looks on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Watts says quietly, looking past me at the kid, “but I’m afraid the child’s grandmother didn’t make it.”