CHAPTER 10

The plan was simple. Simple and as dangerous as a foolproof suicide attempt. The feds would move money to make it appear as though I surreptitiously bailed Turi out, a move that could get me suspended or disbarred in and of itself. Once Turi was back on the street, he’d get word to his associates that he needed to rendezvous with the kingpin Orlando Masonet himself, that he had under his thumb a criminal lawyer named Kevin Corvelli, who was highly indebted to him and who could get Masonet safely off the island with a single wave of his magic wand. If everything went according to plan, a meeting would be arranged between Orlando Masonet and me. Once the feds had enough to identify Masonet, the rest was up to them. The only guarantee I was given was that the arrest wouldn’t come back to me.

I pulled my Jeep off H1 West into Ko Olina and passed through the gate, thinking about what Turi had told us about this Orlando Masonet. Or “Keyser Söze’s evil twin,” as some were known to call him. The details of Masonet’s past were unknown, but he was said to have come to power in the early nineties when the family-run Mexican cartels seized control of the Hawaiian drug trade.

Some insisted that Orlando Masonet was Colombian, others said that he was the bastard son of Panama’s former military dictator Manuel Noriega. Still others claimed he was an orphan raised by jackals on Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. Whatever his background, all agreed that Orlando Masonet was a man-killer. He took control of the cartels and consolidated power through brute force and intimidation, leaving a wake of bodies only the hardest of Mexicans had ever seen. He oversaw every aspect of the business personally until the late nineties. Just as his ruthlessness became legend, Orlando Masonet disappeared. But only in the flesh. His organization continued on as fluidly as ever with all members behaving to this day as though Orlando Masonet were steps away, watching their every move, hearing their every word. And sure enough, even now, when someone crossed Masonet, his body turned up on the rocks off Ka‘ena Point, if it ever turned up at all.

Of course, few successful criminals achieve power without the help of the cops. It was said that Orlando Masonet was no exception. In return for protection, Masonet aided Hawaiian law enforcement in their efforts to take down Asian gangs. When upper-echelon Asian gang members couldn’t be caught, they were killed. Masonet didn’t care how he eliminated his competition—through force or through the courts—so long as they said their last aloha in the Hawaiian Islands.

As I pulled into my driveway, I was hit with a wave of nausea. Time for my pills. But they could wait until I got inside. I needed to feed Skies, and I needed a nice tall glass of Glenlivet.

The moment I stepped into my living room I noticed a small red-orange dot glowing in the far corner.

My first thought was, Who in hell would have the balls to smoke in my home?

My second thought was far more practical. I reached for my cell phone as I flicked on the lights.

“Relax, Kev. It’s a joint, not a cigarette.”

Scott Damiano sat cross-legged on a folding chair blowing smoke out his nose.

“We’re on a first-name basis now?” I said, trying to catch my breath without demonstrating that I’d lost it.

“I figured if we’re going to be working together and all…”

“Yeah, well, if this is the interview, you’d better start jazzing up the résumé and searching on Craigslist.” I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter and moved toward the liquor cabinet. “How the hell did you get in here anyway?”

“Your garage door was unlocked.”

“No, Scott, it wasn’t.”

“Well then, it wasn’t locked enough.”

I twisted the cap on the Glenlivet and took a swig straight from the bottle. “You’ve been in Hawaii, what, eight hours? How the hell do you have a joint already?”

“One of your neighbors.”

“Really? Which one?”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “But pass it over; I’m having one hell of a day.”