CHAPTER 26

No Honda Civic sat in Max Guffman’s garage, but it sure as hell had room for one. Everything in the garage was neatly stacked on the sides to allow space for a car, and oil stains dotted the floor. Which suggested Max Guffman was lying.

Hawaii has no statewide Department of Motor Vehicles, so we checked with the county. No vehicle was registered in Max Guffman’s name. Not now and not ever. But he did have a driver’s license, and it had been renewed only last year.

Flan and I drove back to Pearl City later in the day, after most people had returned home from work, and canvassed the area, asking if anyone was familiar with a navy Honda Civic with a Jesus fish on the bumper and a KEIKI ON BOARD sticker attached to the rear window. Not one person answered yes.

And I didn’t believe a single one of them.

“Why would the car have been parked in the street instead of in the driveway?” Jake asked when Flan and I returned to the office. Since he’d gone dry, Jake had been putting in odd hours, but not wanting to head home alone was something I understood all too well.

“Maybe his lady friend—this Meredith Yancy—was visiting him and not the other way around,” I suggested. “Maybe her car was in the garage.”

Jake swiveled his chair to gaze out the conference room windows. “What about the ear-witness?”

The ear-witness, one Mrs. Doris Ledford, was a seventy-two-year-old widow who told police she heard two gunshots then “ran” to the window, only to see an obese man bolting from the scene.

“Mrs. Ledford didn’t answer the door,” Flan said. “Her neighbor across the street said she flew to Arizona a couple weeks ago to see her grandkids. The neighbor didn’t know when she’d be back.”

“My bet is she won’t be back in Hawaii until jury selection,” I said.

Jake sighed and swiveled his chair back around to face us. “That leaves finding the Honda Civic.”

I turned to Flan. “Make a list and check every repair shop on the island. It’s a longshot, because if the HPD went to these lengths to cover this up, then they’re going to know how to keep a mechanic who does bodywork quiet. But we’ve got to try. Bring a wad of cash, and if you get any bites, wave the bills in front of them.”

“Your best bet may be the junkyard,” Jake said.

“Are you volunteering?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then I guess you’ve got that one, too, Flan.”

“Where are we with the governor?” Jake asked.

I stood from my chair, suddenly anxious. “Iryna Kupchenko told us that the victim was pregnant. And that Wade Omphrey was the father. That closes the issue on motive. But the feds are clearly hanging back until they can lock down Lok Sun. But if news of Oksana Sutin’s pregnancy leaks, Omphrey’s opponent isn’t going to need the Pharmacist behind bars to beat the governor in November.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Pretty much back where we started. Iryna Kupchenko suggested that someone was paying Oksana Sutin to lie down with the governor, and if that’s true, we need to find out whom. That means finding out exactly where these girls came from, who brought them here, and who is now renting them out as party favors.”

“And just how do you plan on doing that?”

“By having another chat with Iryna Kupchenko.”