CHAPTER 41

I lift my head off her pillow and immediately breathe in her scent. It’s a little after four A.M. and it’s one of those nights when I’m not sure whether I slept. Erin’s arraignment is this morning; it’s something neither of us can escape. So I lift my uncooperative body out of bed. Quietly I snatch my watch from her nightstand and place it on my wrist. I need to go home to Ko Olina to shower and change into my suit. Then it’s back down to Honolulu to enter Erin’s plea.

Finding my clothes is like a scavenger hunt and I feel her watching me from the bed. As I slip into my pants, she lifts the remote and powers on the small Samsung flat screen TV on the dresser.

“… and it’s gonna be a hot Aloha Friday, folks,” Parker Canton yips. “An expected record high of ninety-five, a UV Index of nine. I’ll tell you, I don’t know where those trade winds went to, folks, maybe they’re on vacation on the mainland or Japan…”

“Please shut that fucker the hell up,” I say quietly.

Erin powers down the television and tosses the remote back on her nightstand.

“Wish you didn’t have to go,” she says, stretching so that the white cotton sheet falls, exposing her breasts.

“Makes two of us,” I say with a soft smile. “But as they say in the movies, I’ll see you in court.”

Outside in the driveway I step into the Maserati. The Jeep, I’m told, has been successively repainted and I intend to pick it up this afternoon. But it will not be easy to bid aloha to this machine.

I fondle the steering wheel, exploring its grooves. Inhale the indescribable scent. I adjust the rearview though it needs no adjusting. I crack my knuckles and press my foot against the break. I slide the key into the ignition and turn.

I listen to the engine purr.

Finally, I lower the top and turn on my headlights. I place the transmission in reverse, back out, and set off for the Likelike Highway.

I see the night road without actually looking at it. In my head images play out more vividly than anything I’ve ever seen with my eyes. Courtrooms and crime scenes, clients and cartoon villains all vie for my attention as I increase my speed and try to steady the machine between the white lines rushing toward me.

I picture the switchblade, protected as it is by me and a moray eel.

I consider the engraved Zippo lighter, damning and wholly out of our reach.

A missing little leather Fendi and a key card that cannot be found.

A fragile woman betrayed by the man whose money she loved most.

Arguments and death threats followed by so much death.

This is our case. These are the brutal facts I’ll have to contend with.

I exit the ramp onto H-3, the faint smell of oil tickling my nose.

There is no one to point to, no ghost occupying my empty seat. Hundreds of photos and hours of video surveillance tapes and I can’t place anyone but Erin near the honeymoon suite. Not Erin’s mother, not her maid of honor. Not Mia Landow, not Isaac Cassel. Each possesses motive yet no concrete alibi. Each is a potential suspect, but not a shred of evidence points in any direction other than Erin Simms.

I enter the tunnel punched through the mountain and listen to the Maserati pick up speed.

I’ll try again tomorrow to connect Josh with his father. After the arraignment this morning, I’ll meet with Jake at the office to discuss our two new cases, then maybe head to a bar and meet up with Flan. Listen to Flan go on and on and on about Casey over glasses of scotch. Next week I’ll see Dr. Opono again. Get a refill on my prescription antidepressant, an SSRI I lovingly call Fukitol.

The Maserati cruises down the dark mountain.

Erin Simms won’t plead insanity but maybe her lawyer can.

This is what I’m laughing about when I first press down on the brake. I glance at the speedometer. Eighty-three miles per hour and headed downhill all the way. I step down on the brake again, the pedal giving all the way to the floor. The Maserati doesn’t so much as slow.

The oily smell is pungent now, the white lines flying past me like stray bullets.

Keep your hands on the wheel.

My left hand stays put, my right reaches for the emergency brake. Lifts it up but there’s no tension. The emergency brake falls back into place as though shot dead.

For a moment I’m paralyzed with fear.

Panicking, I shift gears. The transmission roars and rubber burns the second I move into second gear. The wheel tightens and I know I’m losing control.

On the side of the road I see an escape ramp for runaway trucks, but it’s too late, I’ve already passed it.

I throw the transmission into first gear, the transmission howling like a wounded animal, the tires screeching like an eagle after its prey.

The steering wheel tries to overpower me, but with two hands I keep the Maserati steady as it coasts at sixty miles per hour downhill.

As I fast approach a tight curve, another runaway truck ramp enters my line of vision.

I pull the machine toward the ramp with all of my strength, not knowing what is waiting at the end of it. The vehicle skids in the direction of the ramp, and I can no longer look.

Keep your eyes closed, Kevin. You’re in the ocean. You don’t exist.

The Maserati ascends a short incline, then strikes something that gives. Then strikes something that doesn’t. Last sound I hear is the air bag deploying.

Then nothing.