The rumble of huge surf fills one’s subconscious with an atavistic wariness before the conscious mind can identify the noise. It’s like hearing distant thunder; a frisson of vigilance passes through a person.
Storm awoke to the pounding of waves and no sense of where she was. The bedside clock wasn’t the one she was used to, though it was familiar, and it read 6:15, which was when she normally got up for work. It was the crash of surf and the smell of the ocean that reminded her she was at the beach cottage. Her head felt as if it was stuffed with steel wool, and she had a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something important.
Staggering into the bathroom, she groped for her toothbrush, and nearly yelped at her reflection over the sink. Dark-circled puffy eyes and hair that would send the bride of Frankenstein over the edge. Damn, now she remembered. She was supposed to go to that dojo this morning to talk to the fellow who thought he’d seen the ka‛ane. Some of Buster DeSilva’s theories had bordered on nutty—even Aunt Maile would agree. Storm hoped the trip to town was worth her time.
The warm yellow glow of the overhead light made last night’s ominous thoughts seem much less threatening. But Nahoa’s death was real. And the whole missing teeth issue tied in too well with the lore of lua and its weaponry.
It was now 6:30 and she didn’t have time to lose. Even in the bathroom, she could hear waves pound the shore. It was going to be huge, and on big days it would often wash over the only road that led from the beach cottage into Haleiwa, causing traffic to inch along. Not only would the driving be slow, but people would be swarming in from the east, west, and south shores of O‛ahu to see it. A traffic jam on what was essentially a two-lane country highway could mean a half-hour drive or more, and Buster DeSilva had asked her to be early.
Storm pulled her hair back with two combs and a big rubber band, threw on a cotton sweater, jeans, and rubber slippers, and dashed through the mist, a combination of a soft winter rainfall and salt spray from the high surf. Traffic wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, and at five till seven she pulled into the dojo parking lot, a rutted patch of gravel next to a simple frame building that looked like termites had been snacking on it since World War II.
When she opened the double door, she was immediately in a small vestibule, which let into a large room. The vestibule held a couple of benches and its floor was littered with footwear. Storm kicked off her own slippers and stepped into the large one-room interior of the building, which was covered with tatami mats.
Mirrors lined the far wall and a cluster of people dressed in traditional white gi knelt in two even lines in front of Buster DeSilva, who stood next to a young man. They both wore black. Buster caught her eye and bowed in her direction. Without saying a word, he nodded to the fellow next to him, who bowed also.
Storm returned their bows. Buster proceeded to lead the class in a series of breathing exercises while the young man jogged over to her and stuck out his hand.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Warren Yee.”
Storm shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me. I hoped I’d get here sooner.”
Warren’s grin revealed a dimple in one cheek, and his black eyes playfully reflected the overhead lights. “I’ll bet the roads are busy. I’m going up to Waimea as soon as I’m finished here. I heard they’re going to hold the first round of the Intrepid this afternoon.”
“It’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” His voice resonated with enthusiasm.
“Are you in it?”
“I wish. I have some friends in it.” His face grew more somber. “But you’re not here to talk about the tow-in contest, are you?”
“First I want to hear about the dog leash that Ken Matsumoto found. Where was it?”
“Hanging on the knob to the front door of our house. But it wasn’t a dog leash.”
“You’re sure?”
“My grandparents used to have a trunk full of Hawaiian relics. I remember the ka‛ane. My popo told me what it was.”
Storm believed him. Some of Aunt Maile’s and Uncle Keone’s friends kept relics from the old times. That’s how she’d recognized the lei o manō.
“Ken was one of your roommates? How many people live with you?”
Warren cracked his knuckles and shifted his feet. “There are just two of us, now. We need someone to share expenses.” Warren looked hopefully at Storm.
“I live in Honolulu, but I’ll keep my ears open for you. Did Ken know what the cord was?”
“No, I think I was the only one. And I didn’t say anything, though now I wish I had. It just seemed too strange at the time.”
“Right, you wouldn’t necessarily think of it as a threat.”
“Well, I didn’t like it.” Warren looked down at his bare feet, then up at Storm. “Actually, I thought it might be directed at me.” He made a motion toward the class. “You know, because I’m into martial arts.”
“Why? Does Buster teach lua?”
“No, of course not.” Warren looked over his shoulder at the class, at Buster, whose voice was louder than it had been a few moments ago. The students were doing stretching exercises.
Storm thought he answered a bit quickly. She regarded him out of the corner of her eye, but Warren was still looking toward Buster, who had begun to break the class into sparring pairs.
“One last question,” she said. “What was Ken like? Did he have a lot of friends?”
“That’s two questions.” But Warren smiled as he said it.
“Right. I meant, was he a nice guy?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he was. Generous, too.”
Warren’s response again seemed somewhat automatic, which made Storm think she should ask the same question of a few more people, and find out if others’ impressions were the same.
She stuck out her hand. “Thanks for talking to me.”
Warren grasped it and turned to face her, his back to Buster and the class. “The spirits of Nahoa Pi‛ilani and Ken Matsumoto will be watching over the competitors today,” he said quietly. “Come to my house if you have more questions.”
Storm exited the dojo. Warren’s friendliness had cooled a bit when she asked if Buster taught lua. Perhaps that was because the class was starting, and as Buster’s assistant, he felt a responsibility to his job. It could also mean that Warren didn’t want to answer her question, especially if he’d worried the ka‛ane had been left for him. Uncle Keone had said that it was kapu for a non-Hawaiian to teach lua, and Storm wasn’t sure whether Buster had Hawaiian blood. It didn’t make any difference to her, but some Hawaiians took it very seriously.
Then again, Warren had offered to talk to Storm at home. She should take him up on that offer and talk to him away from the influence of the dojo. Away from any other ears.
Her stomach was now growling audibly and the aroma of a coffee-toting pedestrian’s take-away cup was so enticing she felt like stalking the guy. The mist had increased to a drizzle, and clouds wafted in from the ocean. She knew if she licked the back of her hand, she would taste salt. Storm shivered in the damp, cool air.
Rosie’s Diner, a popular spot known among locals for a great breakfast, was a half-block away, and Storm was as close to it as she was to her car. The door banged loudly behind her and the couple at the hostess’ podium turned to see who had entered. They nodded a greeting and turned back to the hostess, who gathered a couple of menus and gestured for them to follow. Storm stepped up to wait her turn and noticed a man on the far side of the dining room look up at her. Their eyes met, and he quickly returned his attention to the woman he faced. The two appeared to be deep in conversation.
Storm hoped that her face didn’t telegraph her surprise. She forced herself to calmly pick up a menu from a stack on the hostess stand and run her eyes over it. The woman hadn’t turned around, but Storm recognized her from the back of her head. Even if she hadn’t, she knew the Kate Spade handbag on the back of her chair belonged to Stephanie Barstow.
And the man with her was the wiry fellow she’d seen at the surf contest last week. So that was Marty Barstow, Stephanie’s ex. His mirrored shades sat on the table next to his coffee mug, and his eyes bored into Stephanie’s face. His right hand gestured fervently, as if he had to convince her of something.
Why was she meeting with him? Storm thought she’d always acted a bit afraid of him. Storm let her eyes slide over to the pair, then back to her menu. Marty was doing most of the talking, while Stephanie wasn’t moving much. In fact, she sat with rounded shoulders, almost subdued.
“One?” The hostess broke into her thoughts.
“Yes, please.”
The hostess took Storm around the corner to a side room. “Coffee?”
“You bet,” Storm said. “I’ll be right back.” She draped her napkin across her seat and walked across the room to greet Stephanie.
When Storm appeared at her side, Stephanie lurched as if she’d been caught pocketing lipsticks at Macy’s.
“Hi, Stephanie.”
“Hi, Storm.” Stephanie’s tired eyes flicked from Storm to Marty, then back to Storm. “This is Marty Barstow.”
Barstow got up and reached across the table to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Uh, it’s my day off.” Stephanie sounded as if she might be arrested for eating in a competitor’s restaurant.
“This is a great place to have breakfast.” Storm smiled at the two of them. She could see now that instead of providing the support she’d aimed for, she was making her client more uncomfortable. “Just thought I’d say hello. I’ve got to get back to my table before they give it to someone else.”
“Nice to meet you, Storm.” Barstow was repeating himself, but this had been anything but a scintillating conversation.
“See you later.” Stephanie seemed to shrink.
Storm went back to her seat and poured herself a mug of the restaurant’s good brewed coffee. She wondered what Barstow was telling Stephanie that unsettled her. Maybe he knew about the affair with Nahoa. But so what? In Hawaii and California, divorce was no-fault, so an affair shouldn’t affect a financial settlement. Sometimes an affair could be used against a partner in a custody battle, but Ben was nineteen; he could choose where to live.
Storm took a deep swallow of coffee. She’d always had the feeling Stephanie kept aspects of the relationship to herself. For all she knew, Stephanie might be tired of trying to make it on her own and was begging Barstow to give the marriage another chance. Probably not, but Storm admitted that she knew little about the woman and her past relationship.
She still needed information about Barstow’s business associates and partners. It would be a great excuse to have another friendly, woman-to-woman talk with Stephanie. Maybe Stephanie would tell Storm what this morning’s meeting with Barstow was about, maybe not. But Ben’s mother had asked Storm to protect her interests, and that’s what Storm wanted to do. At least until her client told her to stop.
Right now she needed more caffeine and a stack of Rosie’s maple pecan pancakes. She was halfway through them, enjoying every syrup-soaked bite, with a fresh cup of coffee and the day’s Honolulu Advertiser opened to the police beat. It took her a moment to notice that someone stood by the table.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Barstow said.
Storm was irritated. Not only with her own obliviousness, but with the fact that Barstow had stood by her for a few seconds without making his presence known. It made her feel like he enjoyed being sneaky.
“I’d like to talk to you when you have time,” he said and handed her a business card. It was printed with his name, his company name, and his California address. “I wrote my local contact information on the back.”