CHAPTER 7

Foot traffic in front of the Honolulu Police Department on South Beretania Street is a hell of a lot more frantic than usual. That’s because we don’t see all that many homicides here in the islands. Twenty per year on Oahu, tops. Those are typically comprised of domestic disputes gone horribly violent, barroom brawls that were taken outside and finished with switchblades, and of course the occasional drunk driver whose misfortunes included a charge of vehicular homicide.

But last night nine people lost their lives, all in one shot, and the police are desperate to put this case to bed before fear strikes the U.S. mainland and Japan, and tourism takes a vicious hit. And the local media, well, they finally have something juicy to report. A busy news day in Honolulu usually means Dane Cook is in town or an ostrich escaped from the zoo. But this is real news. This is hot. Hell, if this incident indeed turns out to be arson, this was mass murder.

Erin Simms is being processed and I can’t speak to her right now, but I feel responsible for her even being here, since it was my damned bright orange Jeep that led police right to her. So I’m going to stand out here and wait, as long as it takes, until they let me in to confer with my client. I glance at my watch. It’s been seven minutes already. It’s hot as hell out here, and truth be told, I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.

I pluck my cell phone from my pocket and dial the office. I have Hoshi transfer me to Jake, who is still in the conference room, now working on lunch.

“Jake Harper,” he says with a mouthful.

I fill him in on this morning’s happenings and tell him where I am. “Get ahold of Flan,” I say. “Things are moving fast. Too fast for an arson case. We’re going to need to get our own investigation started right away.”

Arson cases are rarely solved early in the investigation. Unless a dozen credible eyewitnesses see someone running from a burning structure with a lit torch, arson investigations are typically time-consuming and usually go on for weeks or months before a suspect is even considered, let alone apprehended. That Erin Simms has been picked up in this case in under twelve hours tells me one of two things: either the police are jumping the gun under pressure from the governor, or investigators discovered a mound of physical evidence linking Erin Simms to the fire.

“Any ideas what they have on her?” Jake asks.

I don’t, but I’m assuming the worst. “You can bet it’ll be on the news before it reaches me,” I say. No way police and prosecutors are going to keep this case quiet. The governor is going to want tourists on the mainland to know it’s safe to continue booking their stays in the islands, that the perp is behind bars and can’t do any further damage. If they have any damning surveillance tapes, we’re going to see them on national television long before we see them in discovery.

Jake eagerly takes the cue. “I’ll run downstairs to Sand Bar,” he says, “see what I can catch on CNN.”

As I slap the phone shut, a sultry voice sounds from behind me. “Well, hello there, Kevin.”

I turn, lower the brim of my cap over my eyes to thwart the sun. Then my jaw drops onto the boiling sidewalk and sizzles.

“Hey,” I say, “um…”

The cougar smiles, her cherry red lips dripping with scorn. “Sherry,” she says, barely parting them.

I nod. “Sherry.” Of course, Sherry. “What are you doing downtown?”

“Same as everyone else,” she says, motioning to the mob. “Getting the story.”

“Didn’t you say you were leaving for the mainland tonight?”

Sherry shrugs. “Change of plans.” She points to headquarters, where a bevy of uniforms are gently shoving back onlookers. “This is big. There may even be a book in it for me.”

I arch an eyebrow, purse my lips as though I’m impressed. “A book?”

“True crime,” she says. “You know, Ann Rule type of stuff.”

“True crime?” I shrug. “We don’t even yet know whether a crime has been committed.”

“Someone’s been arrested.”

“Could be a big misunderstanding,” I volley.

“Not from what I hear.”

I lift the brim of my UH baseball cap slightly, opening myself up to her. “What have you heard?”

Sherry shakes her head, her long dark hair swinging back and forth. No sign of sweat. “Quid pro quo, Clarice,” she says. “You first. Would it happen to be that you’re here in front of police headquarters because you’re representing the accused?”

I smile, my eyes darting left and right to make certain none of the other hyenas have captured the scent. I lower the brim over my eyes. “Wouldn’t I be inside headquarters if that were the case?”

“Not while your client is being booked,” she says, smiling. “Not someone as claustrophobic as you are.”

“Is that what I told you last night?”

“You didn’t need to tell me, Kevin. I saw you move the closest barstool a good eight feet away from you at Kanaloa’s during happy hour yesterday afternoon.”

I glance at the line of people waiting to get through security and cringe. “All right,” I say. “But the answer is no. Far as I know the suspect doesn’t have a lawyer yet.”

Technically, this is the truth. Erin Simms hasn’t retained me. And I haven’t agreed to take the case. She called me for a consultation, nothing more. That the consultation took place at the unconventional venue of Hidden Beach is of no consequence. What is of consequence is that no money has changed hands, no paperwork has been signed. Far as I’m concerned, I can walk away right now.

Just like you could’ve walked away from the kid and cougar last night, Corvelli.

Sherry tilts her head, decides it’s time to play lawyer herself. “But you met with her this morning,” she says. “That’s what I heard.”

I bow my head and concede the point, though chances are she’s just fishing. “I meet with a lot of prospective clients I don’t ultimately represent.”

“They don’t like you?” she says, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Can’t afford me,” I tell her.

Initial consultations at Harper & Corvelli are free. Unfortunately, the only legal advice I’ve thus far been able to dispense to Erin Simms is to remain silent. Not to utter a single word until we have the opportunity to meet again. No chats with Tatupu, no commiserating with her cellmate, not even a phone call to her mother or father or favorite uncle. “The only person you speak to,” I called to her, as Tatupu gently tucked her into the back of his SUV, “is me.”

“Your turn, Dr. Lecter,” I say to Sherry. “What else have you learned besides the fact that the suspect met with yours truly?”

A flirty shake of the head, a wink, a weak half smile. “Too broad, Counselor. Narrow it down.”

“Fine. How did investigators determine it was arson so quickly, when—”

“Mr. Corvelli!” The grating voice comes from directly behind me. It’s instantly followed by another hand on my shoulder. Someone should have gotten the word out by now: I don’t like to be touched with my clothes on.

I spin around. At first I don’t recognize her. Another cougar from Kanaloa’s? I take a good look at her. Dear God, I hope not. If it is, I’m quitting Koa’s mai tais cold turkey.

Then I glance down at the pint-size human picking his nose at her side. He’s holding a can of Dr Pepper with his other hand, and I realize it’s the kid Josh from the hotel fire last night. Which means the woman standing before me is Great-aunt Naomi, Grandma’s sister who has lived in the islands all of her life.

“Hi, Ms.…”

“Leffler,” she reminds me. “Can’t tell you how happy Josh and I are to see you again.”

Behind Aunt Naomi the media is swarming someone from the Homicide Division.

From the corner of my eye I catch Sherry joining the fray.

“Same here,” I say to Aunt Naomi. “How’s the kid?”

“Alive,” she says, beaming. “Thanks to you.” She looks down at him, swats his fingers away from his nose. “You are all he’s been talking about since the fire.”

“Well, it’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I point out, craning my neck to see if Homicide is releasing any new information to the press. “I’m sure Spongecake Square Bob will retake center stage any moment now.”

Aunt Naomi leans in closer to me, her old-lady perfume flicking me in the face. “Mr. Corvelli, we just can’t thank you enough for your courage and quick thinking last night. Maybe you missed your calling. You should have been a firefighter or something heroic…”

I smile, kind of. Shake my head. “I couldn’t stand the heat.”

“Well, Mr. Corvelli…”

It’s all I can do not to box my own ears out. I stand there, staring into her tired face, tense, wanting to escape more than I did that burning hallway on the sixteenth floor of the Liholiho Tower of the Kupulupulu resort last night. I’m straining my mind, sorting through the excuses, when Aunt Naomi says something that truly frightens me to death.

“… and so we were thinking,” she says, “the boy could really use a man like you in his life. So maybe when you’re not so busy, you can find it in your heart to spend a little time with Josh?”

*   *   *

An hour later we are all gathered in front of the Honolulu Police Station for a press conference. The alacrity with which the Honolulu PD has moved on this case is astonishing. And alarming. Folks on the islands ordinarily operate on aloha time, something that has driven me bat-shit crazy since I arrived here from New York City. Nothing here happens fast—and I mean nothing. It typically takes forty-five minutes just to purchase a pack of Stride gum at the local 7-Eleven. I can grow a full beard in the time it takes to get served a chicken Caesar salad at most island restaurants. Now, a few hours after the fire, we are expected to believe that investigators already determined the cause, named their suspect, had her arrested, and are ready to file felony charges.

And all of this under a national spotlight.

A spokesperson for the department takes to the podium and immediately introduces the Chief of Police, who is brand spanking new to the job. Started as chief just last week. In other words, he is someone with something to prove.

“My name is Chief Edward Attea,” he says into a small microphone, “and I’ve called this press conference to announce that we now have a suspect in custody in connection with the devastating fire that occurred last night at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort in Ko Olina, in which nine innocent people lost their lives.”

Attea has a mustache, trimmed neatly across a sincere face. A quick glance at his CV, which was recently posted in the Star-Advertiser, and it’s easy to see how he got the job. The Honolulu Police Commission appoints the Chief of Police for a period of five years. The last chief wasn’t reappointed because of city politics. Well, at least that’s what he claims.

“The suspect’s name,” Chief Attea continues, “is Erin Simms. She is currently visiting the islands from the U.S. mainland. More information on her will be released in the coming days. We can inform you at this time that Mrs. Simms is to be charged with counts of arson and murder in the deaths of nine people at the Kupulupulu resort. As you all know, the names of the victims have not been released pending positive identification and notification of the victims’ families. We can, however, confirm that one of the victims is the suspect’s newly wedded husband, Trevor Simms of San Francisco, California.”

Every hand in the media mosh pit rises at once, as Chief Attea bows his head and steps back from the microphone.

The spokesman steps forward. “I am afraid the chief will be unable to take any questions at this time.”

The chief steps off the stage and wraps his arms around a teary-eyed female civilian, who I assume is related to one of the unnamed victims, if not Trevor Simms himself.

I’m in a daze, everything happening so fast I can barely breathe. It feels as though the sun is punching me in the back, beating every last bit of energy out of me.

I lift off my cap to wipe away the sweat. The moment I do, I hear: “Is that Kevin Corvelli?”

I pull the cap back down, push the brim over my eyes, but it’s too late.

Someone shouts, “It is. Swing the camera.”

The mob turns and trains its microphones on me.

“Word is, you were at the fire, Mr. Corvelli. Are you a witness?”

“Are you representing the accused, Erin Simms?”

“Mr. Corvelli, have police yet identified a motive?”

“Were you surprised by your client’s quick arrest?”

“Have you had an opportunity to meet with your client yet?”

I draw a deep breath, lift the UH cap from my head. Sweat drips into my eyes, causing them to sting.

I take a step back, taking my time, wiping the sweat from my eyes with the sleeve of my T. Finally, I look into the cameras as they look into me.

“No comment,” I say. Then I slowly make my way through the mob toward the station.