CHAPTER 64

When I arrive at the lagoon at dawn most of the area is already cordoned off with blaring yellow police tape. The water in front of the Kupulupulu Beach Resort itself looks as though it’s readying itself for a Jaws shoot. What once was a picturesque blue is now a grisly violet.

The body floats faceup, naked, arms spread as though crucified to the surface of the water. Even now her face is beautiful, a visage burned into the mind, a smoking, stinging memory that will remain with me until my very last moment of life.

I lower the Panama Jack hat until it pushes against the rims of my prescription sunglasses. The sky is clear, the sun is rising, and the photographers are vying for optimum space.

“Slit both wrists with a switchblade,” John Tatupu says from behind me.

I already know. The blade lived at the bottom where I left it, waited for her for six whole months, guarded by nothing more than a moray eel with a sharp set of teeth.

“We can’t be sure yet,” Tatupu says, “but we think it may have been the knife that killed Trevor Simms.”

“What makes you think that?” I ask.

“Got a full confession from Sebastian Haslett overnight at the Queen’s Medical Center. Told us everything, including where he dumped the knife.”

“That’s good.” I finally turn to face him. “Catch him without a lawyer?”

“No, actually. Mickey Fallon sat there reading a newspaper the entire time.”

“Figures.” I turn back to the lagoon.

“You did a number on Haslett, Corvelli. He’s lucky to be alive. His buddy Dominic, though, didn’t fare so well.”

“You looking for a statement, John?”

“No, there’s plenty of time for that later. I just wanted to express my condolences to you for your client.”

I feel photographs being taken of me, the lenses violating me in ways most could never comprehend. Me in my soaked-through suit, covered in scarlet from head to toe.

“You been to the hospital yet?” Tatupu says.

I nod my head. “It’s not so bad. Just lost some blood.”

“They released you pretty quick, Corvelli. You still look very pale.”

“HMO,” I tell him, but that’s not the truth. I’m a fugitive from Wahiawa General, pulled off a brazen escape just before they could transport me to Honolulu, to the Queen’s Medical Center. I think I’m due a blood transfusion, but when I heard about Erin, I figured it could wait. At least Wahiawa stopped the bleeding.

“Here come your friends,” Tatupu says, looking over my shoulder.

I turn and see an entourage heading this way: Dapper Don Watanabe, Luke Maddox, even old man Frank DiSimone.

“Do me a favor, John,” I say. “Keep Maddox away from me.”

“He wasn’t the one who tried to kill you, you know.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I just don’t fucking like him.”

And I’ll forever blame him for Erin’s suicide, regardless of what her suicide note says.

I turn and start walking painfully away in the direction of the resort.

“One thing that bothers me,” Tatupu says from behind me.

I stop but remain with my back to him. “Yeah, John?”

He comes up behind me so that I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. “Yeah,” he says. “I can’t for the life of me figure how Erin Simms knew the knife was at the bottom of the lagoon.”

*   *   *

“Come to say ‘I told you so’?”

“Hell, no, son. You know me better than that.”

I suppose I do.

We stand on a hill under a palm tree a few hundred yards from the lagoon, away from the photographers and cops, away from the gawkers and closet fans of raw violence.

“So what happens with the kid now that Chelsea’s passed on?”

I shrug. “Foster home, I guess.”

Jake nods but says nothing more on the subject. There’s nothing more to say.

After a few minutes of silence, Jake leans against the trunk of the palm and clears his throat. “Tatupu tells me that Sebastian Haslett had some help aside from his boy Dominic.”

“I know,” I tell him, my voice little more than a rasp. “I had Flan subpoena the passkey records for hotel security. Erin said she might have opened the door voluntarily the first time Izzy Dufu visited. The time of the first noise complaint and Izzy’s first use of the passkey to enter the honeymoon suite didn’t match up. Izzy went in there while Trevor and Erin were both out of the room to case the joint.”

Jake sighs. “For fifty bucks.”

I shrug. “Izzy didn’t know what Sebastian was going to do with the information. Probably he thought it was just going to be a simple in-and-out thieving. Happens every day at large resorts all over the world. Izzy knew he fucked up; that’s why he doctored the records before sending them off to Maddox.”

“What I don’t get,” Jake says, “is why Sebastian Haslett would enter the Simms suite knowing Trevor was in there.”

“He didn’t know it,” I say, swallowing hard, craving a drink of cold water. “Dominic spotted Erin down near the beach sucking face with a guy. Figured it had to be her husband, which meant the suite had to be empty.”

Jake shakes his head incredulously. “So Trevor caught Sebastian by surprise.” After a moment he asks, “Who was the guy she was smooching with?”

“Isaac.”

“The best man.”

“That’s right.”

“If Isaac had stayed there on the beach with her she would have had her alibi.”

“She and Isaac got into an argument,” I tell him. “That’s when Isaac took off for the Meridian, inadvertently creating his own paper alibi.”

“How do you know all this, son?”

“Talked to Isaac this morning. He’s the one who informed me that Erin was dead.”

“How’d he get ahold of you?”

“He didn’t,” I say. “I got ahold of him. He picked up the phone the last time I dialed Erin’s number from the hospital. After we talked about the night of the fire Isaac told me she’d left me a letter. He’d already opened it, so he read it to me over the phone. Then he threatened to kill me.”

“Jesus,” Jake says. “What the hell did the letter say?”

I don’t answer him and Jake knows better than to press.

“I’ll let you alone now, son,” he finally says, gently resting a hand on my shoulder. “We all right now?”

I nod without looking at him. “We always were.”

Jake crosses his arms against his chest. “I’m sorry I allowed a little thing like money to come between us.”

“You were going through a lot with Alison,” I say.

“Oh, I was going through a hell of a lot more than that, son.”

I remove my sunglasses and look at him.

Jake says, “I’ve been sober now going on six months.”

My eyes narrow. Am I so obtuse? I think. So self-involved that I didn’t even notice that my partner had quit drinking after spending so many years in the bottle?

“Wasn’t easy,” he says, “and I sure as hell didn’t want to burden you with it. I’m only telling you now to explain. Maybe help you avoid the same mistakes I made in my life. You’re one hell of a lawyer, son. Don’t you waste your talent and piss away your prime the way I did mine.”

I watch as Jake wipes the sweat from his eyes.

“No more secrets between the two of us,” he says. “Can you live with that, son?”

I bow my head. “Turns out, I can live with a lot of things, Jake.”

He turns to leave.

“About the secrets, Jake,” I say, spinning him around. “I should tell you that last week I turned down a new case. Some prick—our prospective client—clubbed to death a pregnant monk seal.”

“Well,” he says, “the hell with it. Like you said, we’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.”

He sticks out his hand and I stare at it.

“Think I’m coming down with something,” I tell him. “Maybe the swine flu.”

Jake nods and offers up a knowing grin. “Jeez, that Casey is something, isn’t she? What a hell of a cross for Flan to bear.”

“She’ll be all right,” I say, lifting my Panama Jack and wiping the sweat from my forehead. “Flan’s a good father. He’s going to let Casey make her own mistakes, and he’s always going to be there to bail her out. Can’t ask for more than that.”

“Suppose that’s true.” Jake stuffs his hands in his pants pockets and his voice takes on a serious pitch. “Son, I ever tell you I have a—”

“No, you didn’t, Jake. And let’s keep it that way for the time being, huh?”

He nods, takes one final look at me, says, “I reckon a closed book is better than no book at all.”

Then he walks on down the hill.