CHAPTER 18

I set a copy of this morning’s Honolulu Star-Advertiser down on the dashboard of my Jeep. The governor had lost a few points in the polls but maintained a double-digit lead. Still, Omphrey wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He was convinced that as the election grew closer, his critics would jump on his alleged ties to Oksana Sutin and attempt to implicate him in her death. Thus, the governor wanted me to handle this case as though he’d already been indicted. That meant a full independent investigation by the defense. Which was fine by me, since I was currently handling Turi’s high-profile homicide case pro bono. And I still had to eat, still had to pay the rent.

So Flan and I sat quietly in my Wrangler, watching Oksana Sutin’s ritzy apartment building in Diamond Head, waiting for one of its residents to exit. Knocking on doors in a murder case was not a proven strategy. Better to catch your witnesses offguard, on neutral turf. Preferably in a public place, where they were less likely to cause a scene or run away.

Since the governor couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell us much about the deceased, the only way to learn the details of her life would be by hitting the pavement. Learning the details of a victim’s life was the best and often the only way to learn the details of a victim’s death.

“My father’s flying out here tomorrow,” Flan said out of the clear blue.

“All the way from New Orleans? What for?”

“To die, I guess.”

That was one hell of a conversation-stopper. Flan’s dad, Miles, was an eightysomething widower with no family left on the mainland. He had two daughters, but one went MIA once she married and the other had moved to France. Still, the flight from New Orleans to Honolulu seemed like a long way to go just to die. A man could die pretty much anywhere these days.

“You going to take him in like you did Casey?”

Casey was the younger of Flan’s own two daughters. Up until last year he’d seen neither of the girls since they were babies. Casey was now eighteen years old and living with Flan after a fight with her mother, Flan’s ex-wife, Victoria, back in New Orleans.

Unfortunately, Flan’s unexpected leap back into fatherhood wasn’t a story straight out of a fifties sitcom; it was more like a risqué reality show, complete with a glove box filled with used condoms, and Casey’s footprints scuffing the ceiling of his ancient Ford. In her first few months in the islands, Casey racked up enough speeding and parking violations to pay down half the state deficit, and she was filching Flan’s money and painkillers with the aptitude of a professional thief. Still, I had to hand it to him; Flan was hanging in there when few formerly estranged fathers would.

“Nah,” Flan said. “Can’t do that. Gonna have to put him in a nursing home.”

“Your dad have any money?”

“Some. In fact, I was talking to Jake just yesterday about updating my dad’s will.”

A brand-new navy Jag passed us on the street, followed by a mint silver Porsche Carrera GT. Typical of these Honolulu neighborhoods just outside Waikiki. Diamond Head, Black Point, Kahala. All of the glitz and convenience with—at least ostensibly—none of the crime or noise.

“Here’s something,” Flan said, motioning with his chin to a shiny black Lincoln pulling up to Oksana Sutin’s building.

Thanks to the Lincoln’s tinted windows, we couldn’t see in. The driver parked the car but didn’t get out.

A few minutes passed before we realized why. The Lincoln was there to pick someone up. An interesting someone with an unbelievable body and dirty-blond hair all the way down her back. The driver did get out when he saw her. Walked around the rear of the car and let her slide that figure into the backseat. Then he got back into the driver’s seat and drove away.

I started the Jeep and pulled away from the curb. I kept the Lincoln in sight while hopefully maintaining enough distance so that we wouldn’t get made. Not that we were doing anything wrong. Not yet anyway.

The Lincoln kept a steady pace, obeyed all the laws. When it pulled into the Grand Polynesian resort, I pulled in after it. The Lincoln stopped in front of the main lobby, and a bellhop helped the young woman out. Then the Lincoln kept moving.

I asked Flan to take the wheel and I jumped out of the Jeep, nodded curtly to the bellhops, and followed the blonde inside. Meanwhile, Flan followed the Lincoln in the Jeep.

A few minutes later, while I was standing in the main lobby, Flan called my cell. “The Lincoln’s parked. Looks like he’s waiting on her.”

“She went into the spa,” I responded. “I’m going to catch her on her way out. If I keep her attention too long and you notice the driver getting antsy, send me a text. And if he makes his way over here, be sure to follow him inside. I don’t want to be blindsided if we can help it.”

I ended the call. Bought a copy of Newsweek at the gift shop and waited on a bench outside the spa. I read an article about the nation’s tightest congressional races. It was only August and I was already sick of politics.

A little over an hour later I received a text message from Flan. The Lincoln was headed back to the front entrance of the main lobby.

I tossed the copy of Newsweek in the trash and bolted toward the spa. When I opened one of the double glass doors, a petite brunette was standing at reception, making her next appointment. I risked a bit of rudeness.

“Excuse me,” I said, nearly muscling the brunette out of the way.

The tanned young woman behind the counter stared at me hard.

I ignored the looks from both of them and said, “I’m a driver. I’m here to pick up a young woman, a tall blonde, but I left my client list back at the garage. Am I too late?”

“Iryna?” the receptionist said.

I shrugged. “I’m sorry, I’d only recognize her last name.”

The receptionist hit a few keys on her computer. “Kupchenko.”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s still here. Would you like me to notify her that you’re waiting?”

“No, no. I’m in enough trouble. I missed my last pickup by thirty minutes. I’ll just wait out in the lobby. Please don’t let her know I stopped in. I’ve got four kids, all under the age of two. If I lost my job in this economy…”

“I understand.”

I stepped out of the spa, thinking, Four kids, all under the age of two?

I didn’t have long to dwell on it. Two minutes after I left the spa, the blonde stepped back into the lobby, her skin glowing, hair shimmering, finger- and toenails ready to party.

“Don’t I know you?” I said as she passed me.

She glanced at me but didn’t stop, didn’t slow. “I don’t think so.” Her Eastern European accent was thick and smoky.

“Iryna,” I said. “Iryna Kupchenko.”

That stopped her.

“You don’t remember me?” I gave her the sad, hound-dog eyes. “I believe Oksana introduced us.”

“I know no Oksana,” she said, turning toward the exit.

I wrapped my fingers gently around her pencil-thin forearm. “Oksana Sutin. She lived in your apartment building in Diamond Head.”

“I didn’t know her,” she insisted.

“Come on,” I said, smiling. “Two beautiful, young Russian women living in the same building…”

“I am not Russian.” She was growing irritated, her perfect cheeks tinged red. “I am Ukrainian. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must run.”

I gripped her wrist a little tighter. “Please, just a few words.” My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, but I ignored it.

“A few words about what?”

“About Oksana.”

“I told you—”

Iryna’s eyes flashed over my shoulder, then a firm male hand gripped the back of my neck, the same spot where the painful lump had formed, the exact area that carried all of my stress. It actually felt good. But the hard jab to my left kidney that followed, not so much.

I would’ve fallen to the ground but Iryna’s driver held me up.

“Go outside to the car,” he instructed her.

I heard Iryna’s heels clip-clop across the lobby.

“As for you, Mr. Corvelli…” The driver’s voice was gruff and accented, another import from Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, Romania, somewhere along the Black Sea. “You should be minding your own business.”

“This is my business.”

He wasn’t impressed. Suddenly I felt the sharp tip of a blade through my shirt. “Ever get fucked in the ass with a hunting knife?”

No, but last year I did get fucked in the upper abdomen with a stiletto.

“This is your only warning,” he said, parting the flesh at the bottom of my spine. “Stay away from the girls.”

He swung my right arm around my back and lifted it up until I heard a crack and felt a sharp pain flash from my elbow up through my shoulder. I swallowed a scream, and no one in the lobby seemed to notice. The knife stayed in my back.

Then Flan’s voice emanated from behind my attacker. “I’ve got a thirty-eight Special aimed right at your balls, Yakov. Let the lawyer go or you’re gonna have one hell of a worker’s comp case. And let me tell you from experience, the settlement will not be worth the anguish.”

The driver slowly released me.

“Now head out the door, get back in your Lincoln, and drive,” Flan ordered him. “And if I see you near the lawyer again, you might as well have your nuts in a jar so you can simply hand them over to me. Because I promise you, you won’t be going home with them.”

The driver turned and scurried out the revolving door.

“Nice bluff,” I said.

“Who’s bluffing?”

I looked down and saw the .38 Special in Flan’s rough hands. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Flan shrugged. “Found it in Casey’s room.”