CHAPTER 6

Fifteen minutes later I’m in my electric-orange Jeep Wrangler on H-1 West heading up North Shore to a spot called Hidden Beach. It was the only place Erin Simms would agree to meet, and even then, only after I assured her it was the most private place on the island. She’s frightened, she said, and from the sound of her voice over the telephone that was an understatement. She’d been watching the local news all morning, flipping across our three main local stations, and just now learned that she’s been named “a person of interest” in the Kupulupulu Beach Resort fire.

Traffic is light, a far cry from the hell on H-1 heading into Honolulu on a weekday morning and the horror heading out from about four to six in the early evening. That’s why I often try to leave my office on South King Street by three P.M. Well, that and because Kanaloa’s offers a variety of enticing drink specials from four to seven.

Right now driving is fine, and I can almost enjoy the ride, with the soft top down and soothing Jack Johnson melodies pouring out of my speakers. Only I’m none too thrilled to be meeting a prospective client related to the Ko Olina resort fire. It’s big news already, I know, not just on the local stations but on CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. Last thing in the world I want right now is another press case, particularly one that’s gone national. Jake and I have been content handling an array of drug, burglary, and assault cases of late. They pay the bills, my dark hair stays dark, and there is plenty of time left over to enjoy this island paradise.

But this Erin’s voice sounded so desperate I couldn’t help myself. Even as my brain begged my lips to say no, I was telling her that everything would be okay, that I’d meet with her, if not in my office then anywhere on Oahu that she wanted. It was only a few moments before my mind finally flashed on Hidden Beach.

Hidden Beach is a secluded spot few locals and fewer tourists even know about, a remote block of sand that can’t be seen from any road. I was introduced to Hidden Beach by my first lover here in the islands—a beautiful, young Hawaiian woman named Nikki Kapua, whom I met while conducting witness interviews during my first homicide case in Honolulu.

I take the exit for H-2 and head north through some congestion in Wahiawa, relieved when I’m finally hit with the scent of fresh pineapple from the Dole Plantation. The northern part of Oahu remains rural, thanks largely to efforts opposing urban sprawl. With the mammoth Waianae Mountain Range on my left and the pineapple fields to my right, I could very well be traveling through America’s agricultural heartland, were it not for the draw of the azure Pacific Ocean just beyond.

Ten minutes later I’m gliding through the beach town of Haleiwa, which is relatively quiet now but will be bustling with surfers come winter and the hulking North Shore waves that accompany the season. I bear left past Dillingham Airfield, gazing up as a stream of skydivers in rainbow parachutes drift by in a diagonal line overhead. Then I glance in my rearview mirror as I slow my Jeep for the last half mile. Very soon I’ll be running out of road.

At the end of the pavement, I roll to a stop and shift the Jeep into neutral, then into four-wheel drive. Another glimpse into the rearview to make sure no one sees me, then I put the Jeep back into drive and press down slowly on the accelerator.

As soon as my tires hit dirt, I become anxious. Between the massive jagged rocks and the city-sized craters, I feel as though I’m navigating the surface of Mars. Even wearing my seat belt, my head smacks against the side window, and my right knee cracks against the steering wheel more than once. If you ask me, off-roading isn’t damn near as exhilarating as the commercials would have you believe. And it’s sure as hell not as safe.

I nearly flip the Jeep over as I strike a large boulder then mercifully level off. The Jeep’s temperature gauge reads ninety-three degrees and I wonder just when we’ll escape this infernal heat wave. Even in a light Tommy Bahama T and shorts, with a UH baseball cap protecting my head, I’m cooking like a kalua pig at a luau. I could use a dip in the cool Pacific. Come to think of it, a cold hard drink of Coke and 151.

There are, of course, no bars on the mile and a quarter of treacherous terrain between Farrington Highway and Hidden Beach, just a dozen or so old telephone poles and lengths of tall dense greenery, along with the majestic Waianae Mountain Range shielding us from civilization.

I jolt to a stop across from the pole marked 196 and throw the Jeep into park. I unhook my seat belt, fling open the door, and drop onto the rock-hard dirt, my size-12 sandals kicking up enough dust to make me cough.

I head toward the beach, taking in the sound of waves crashing against rocks. Even in the summer the ocean’s choppy at this spot. During winter you wouldn’t head up here without a suicide note.

On the steep slope of dirt and rock that leads to the beach, I remove my leather sandals so that I don’t break my neck. But when my feet finally hit sand it feels as though I’m walking through fire, so I toss my sandals down on the beach and hastily step back into them.

I move toward the water, hoping like hell Erin Simms isn’t here, that maybe I’ll get lucky and she won’t even show.

Who am I kidding? Corvelli and luck go together like peanut butter and arsenic.

And sure enough, there she is, peeking out from behind an eight-foot rock-face to my right like a frightened rabbit. I shield my eyes against the mad mean sun and finally get a good look at her.

She’s long and lean, with a tight body and small breasts, a face that any straight guy could instantly fall in love with. Not all that exotic but rather plain in a strangely perfect sort of way. She’s dressed down in fitted sweats and an oversized T, but she looks every bit as hot as she did when I first caught sight of her.

I bite my lower lip as it fully registers.

Turns out, today’s prospective client is yesterday’s fiery bride.

In other words, Erin Simms is last night’s looker.

*   *   *

“They’re looking for me,” she says, her voice already cracking.

We’re at the edge of the beach where sand meets ocean, and the tide is licking at our heels, occasionally splashing our calves. Our backs are pressed up against tall craggy rocks, so that we can’t be seen from the dirt path.

“They think I started the fire,” she cries.

I raise my palms in front of me and tell her to calm down, to keep her voice steady. I assure her that she’s safe here, that she can relate to me everything that happened in a composed and comprehensive manner, and that our conversation is fully protected by the attorney-client privilege.

But it’s no use.

“They’re after me!” she screams. “The police. And I don’t know what to do or where to go!”

“All right,” I say, still trying to soothe her. “Tell me why. Why do the police think you started the fire?”

She’s crying now, her lower lip trembling. Her knees are wobbling and I fear she’s about to collapse. I try to take hold of her arm but she yanks it away the moment my fingers touch flesh.

“I don’t know,” she says, clenching her teeth. “I think the fire started in our hotel room.”

“Yours and your husband’s?”

She nods without looking at me, her eyes locked on the mountains behind us. Her mouth is open, drool pooling at the corners. She appears to be exhausted and parched.

My own gaze travels from her plastic sandals and worn sweats, to the cheap souvenir Waikiki T, then finally fixes on the fading scars up and down the taut skin of her arms.

“And your husband—”

“He’s dead.”

“Died in the fire?” I say, just to keep the dialogue moving.

She swallows forcefully and nods.

“But you weren’t in the room with him,” I add.

She shakes her head, her light shoulder-length hair clinging to her cheeks and neck from the sweat.

“Think carefully,” I say. “Where were you when the fire started?”

“I don’t know,” she says all in one breath, her watery green eyes suddenly burning with confused rage.

“But you were alone?”

She finally looks me in the face, her lips contorted in an unspoken plea. “My husband Trevor and I got into this terrible fight.”

I don’t tell her that I witnessed at least part of the fray at Kanaloa’s.

Waves of questions flood my head, from how many drinks she had, to what the argument was over, to why she’s decided to go into hiding. But all of this, I feel, is premature because we don’t even yet know whether this is a case of arson or simply a tragic accident that killed her beau. In which case we should probably be discussing a wrongful death suit against the resort.

I lean back against the rock. I’m about to tell her all this when I notice her blanche, her eyes darting toward the path, and suddenly she is kicking off her plastic sandals and starting to run. But there’s nowhere to go unless she’s a hell of a swimmer and thinks she can make it a few thousand nautical miles to Tokyo.

I gaze past the rocks and see six white SUVs marked HPD slide to a stop behind my Jeep, kicking up a wall of dust. Out spill at least a dozen uniformed cops and one lone man dressed in civvies.

Erin Simms had allowed me to hire her a trusted driver to take her to the end of Farrington; from there, she walked. So I don’t know how the police could have found her, why they wouldn’t have just stopped my driver on the road if they knew where she was.

Then I look long and hard again at my bright orange Jeep.

Shit, I think. It was me. I was followed.

Guns are drawn and I turn, see Erin stopped at the edge of the water, her trembling hands held high in the air. She breaks for some bushes and the sky is suddenly filled with sounds you never dream you’d actually hear. At least not in real life.

“Freeze.”

“Show me your hands.”

“Don’t fucking move.”

Erin stumbles and falls flat on her face as she tries futilely to climb up an embankment. The cops swarm over her in a matter of moments. As they cuff her—one cop with the patented knee in her back—I see fresh blood dripping down one slender arm from a gash on her elbow. When they lift her up, I catch another bright red patch on her chin, crimson spilling down her neck onto her cheap souvenir T.

Guilt suddenly hits me like a shot to the chest.

The cop in his civvies slowly descends on the beach, his feet adorned in dark boots, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of a pair of khaki cargo pants. His badge hangs from a thick neck, dangling over a broad chest. His T is a faded dark blue. Long before I can make out the face, I know from the stride and salt-and-pepper hair that it’s my old friend Detective John Tatupu.

I move to intercept him before he reaches Erin, who is now doubled over, still bawling in her cuffs.

“How’d you know she’d contact me?” I say quietly when Tatupu is close enough.

He throws a glance in my direction as he sidesteps me. Then he reluctantly digs into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic evidence bag. Inside are the remains of a charred business card. The sun is in my eyes and I can’t read it from where I’m standing. I don’t have to read it, though, and Tatupu doesn’t have to read it to me.

I already know the damned thing reads HARPER & CORVELLI.