Stella interrupted the conversation about toxic ex-boyfriends with a call for Lara to get the phone. Lara shot from her chair as if springs had fired her into the air. Storm could hear her book a string of dive outings, the relief in her voice resonating at a level that would leave her customers delighted.
The morning session had obviously come to an end. That was okay; Storm had plenty on her mind. The Hawaii State Family Court had appointed her guardian ad litem for an O‘ahu child, but the grandparents, with whom she needed to speak, lived in Kahului. She’d called earlier and set up an appointment.
On the way out of the shop, she paused to look at the progress in the large front room, where a worker was laying ceramic tile the color of the ocean. In a side room, wet suits and BCDs hung to dry and scuba tanks lined a wall. Ken McClure was busy in there with an assistant, some buff, bare-chested guy in surf trunks with a big eagle tattoo on his arm. It was heavy work, and they were sweating as they arranged equipment and loaded supplies into the back of a van with Lara’s Aquatic Adventures emblazoned on the side. The shop even had its own air compressor for filling the tanks to exact safety standards. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were going into Lara’s new business.
Damon emerged from the back room and headed outside to his truck. Storm followed him. “I’m going to Kahului on other business. Do you know if Carmen was taken to Maui Memorial Hospital?”
He gathered a load of tarpaulins and paint rollers. “Probably. That’s where I’d go. You think she’s covered by Hiroki’s insurance?”
“You pay his premiums, right?”
Damon nodded.
“I’ll check and let you know.”
“The hospital’s in Wailuku, not Kahului.”
“No problem, they’re close.”
Storm drove out to Pi‘ilani Highway, then pulled into the parking lot at Elleair Golf Club where she could make a couple of calls on her cell phone without running red lights or rear-ending someone. One of the calls was to a Honolulu number.
“Bureau of Conveyances,” the operator answered.
“Mike Chilworth, please.” Storm hoped he was in the office and not out on a site.
Mike picked up, and Storm went through the usual pleasantries regarding his wife and kids before she got to business. “Mike, how do I check who holds a land lease on a strip mall in Maui? It’s in Kihei.”
“You on Maui? You’re one lucky wahine.”
“Like I’ve got time to enjoy it.”
“Not surfing?”
“I wish.” Storm could hear Mike flipping through papers.
“Okay, here we go. You want the Maui County Real Property Assessment Division in Kahului. Here’s the number. Ask for Sally—tell her I sent you.” He chuckled. “Maybe you can finish early and go to Ho‘okipa.”
“I’m not holding my breath about getting to the beach, even if it is Ho‘okipa.”
Storm smiled at Mike’s teasing, but it faded when she remembered one of the errands she wanted to accomplish. Visiting a twelve-year-old orphan with a gunshot wound wasn’t going to be easy.
She had to drive around a bit before she found the Property Assessment offices, and in doing so, she made a detour around a badly damaged, once-elegant restaurant surrounded by warning signs, crime tape, and a handful of official-looking people. The site of the explosion that had tied up traffic on Wednesday. Still under investigation, and it probably would be for days. She parked a few blocks away and walked by the place. The whole left corner of the building had been ripped off, revealing a scattering of dining tables and tattered linens, along with part of the sign, which now said “—lue Marine.”
When she got to the Property Assessment offices, she was sweating from the bright, hot sun. Inside, though, the air conditioning was set to January in Nova Scotia. The clerk who told Storm that Sally was at lunch wore a sweater buttoned to the neck.
“She should be back in a half hour.”
In her sleeveless linen blouse, Storm was covered with goose bumps, so she headed back outside. On the other side of the shattered restaurant was a small mall, which was sure to have a sandwich or coffee shop. She skirted the yellow crime tape, but along with all the other pedestrians, ignored the signs to use the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
It was hard not to stare at the destruction. The missing wall reminded her of the open side of a doll house where the petulant owner had reached in and tossed furniture, draperies, and wiring into a violent tangle. The dangling table linens were blackened and torn and dining chairs leaned, askew. Storm looked away from the dark stains on the carpeting.
Three police officers, alert but not vigilant to the point of obsession, patrolled the area and watched pedestrians and traffic. They weren’t fiddling with the holsters on their hips, or speaking into radios.
Storm squinted in their direction. One of the cops looked like the guy she’d seen last night. And how had Damon introduced him? Moana. She remembered because it meant ocean in Hawaiian. A soft word for a man with a hard job.
She waved at him. All three officers’ heads swung her direction, but only Moana walked over.
“No stopping, please.” He pointed at the signs directing people across the street, through the busy traffic. The closest crosswalk was a block away.
“I met you last night. I was with Damon.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sadness softened the authority in his eyes. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Storm Kayama. You’re Sergeant Moana, right?” He nodded, and Storm asked what had been on her mind all day. “How’s the little girl?”
“I called the hospital this morning. She should be okay, barring infection or other complications. She got shot through the shoulder. Lucky, considering.”
“Does she know about her dad and sister?”
“Yeah. We talked to her.” He looked down at his shoes, somewhat dusty from the bomb detritus. “I thought I’d take my daughters to see her this afternoon.”
“I can’t help thinking about her. You think I could drop off a little gift?”
“Sure, any support would be good. Though she’s getting a lot of attention from the hospital personnel.”
“Does she know what happened?”
“She’s been told, but I’m not sure she understands. Hell, I’m not sure I do.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, but Storm thought he might be trying to hide anguish that had crossed his face. He braced himself and continued. “She told us her dad was crying, and that he had a gun. She started to run away, and heard the shots. She keeps asking,” Moana cleared his throat, “about her sister.”
Storm looked at the ground. If she looked in his eyes, she’d tear up. “That’s terrible.”
“It is. Seems Yoshinaka had gambling debts and had missed a couple rent payments. It looks like he just got real depressed. He had high blood alcohol levels.”
“Any chance he was into a loan shark?”
“Could be.” Moana’s gaze slid away from hers.
For sure, Storm thought. He just can’t talk about it. “Poor kid’s going to need all the help she can get.”
“We’re trying to find family in Japan,” Moana said, then looked over his shoulder. A big sedan had pulled into the building’s parking lot, right up to a strip of crime tape. Four doors popped open and four suits emerged from the car.
“I’ve gotta go.”
Storm watched Moana hurry off. If the coconut wireless was operating at full efficiency and the pregnant clerk’s information was accurate, those were the JTTF agents.
Storm found a sandwich shop, picked up a copy of the newspaper, and sat on a bench to eat. The front page was covered with a photograph of Hiroki Yoshinaka’s house, with police cars, two ambulances, and Damon’s pickup on the front lawn. Storm could see her own shadowy form in the front seat of the truck. Unidentifiable, thank goodness. The story of the murder/suicide continued onto page two, and Storm didn’t read it.
On her way back to the Property Assessment office, only one police officer hung around outside the restaurant, but the sedan still sat in the parking lot. She could imagine Moana and his colleague picking their way through the rubble with the Federal agents.
Sally was back from lunch and was happy to look up the land lease records for Lara’s shop. “It’s held by Mālua LLC.”
“Do you have the names of the corporate officers?”
“Ichiru and Ryan Tagama are the president and chief operating officer, respectively.” Sally read over the fine print. “They do have another investor in the property,” she said. “Paradise Consortium holds ten percent.”
“I’m helping Lara Farrell set up the corporation. Are there any liens on the land?”
“Not that I can see here. It looks as if it’s owned clean and free.”
“Thanks,” Storm said, and began to leave, but turned back. “Say, what was the name of the restaurant that was bombed?”
Sally didn’t have to look that up. “Blue Marine. Fine dining, known for their seafood. They weren’t normally open for breakfast.”
“You wouldn’t know who owns it, would you?”
Sally typed in information on her computer. After a minute or so, she hit the print button, scooped up some papers and said, “Paradise Consortium.”
“Who are the officers and owners?”
“That’s coming out in the news. Some conglomerate, a combination of local guys—I have their names—and a couple big investors from Japan.”
Storm was a decent upside-down reader, so she could see the address of the corporate headquarters, here in Kahului. If she had time after her morning appointments, she might drop by. “Who are the local investors?”
Sally mentioned three names that were unfamiliar to Storm, but the fourth was Ichiru Tagama. Ryan’s dad.
“Does the company own other businesses?” Storm asked.
“Let me see here.” She tapped away on her keyboard, and her eyes flicked across the screen.
“It’s public knowledge?”
“Sure. But sometimes the companies are owned by other companies and so on. I might have to dig around.”
“Shell corporations?” Storm asked.
“Depends if they have any assets or operations. It happens, especially when foreign investors are sheltering taxable money in local investments.” She paused. “Looks like Paradise Consortium owns two hotels, a handful of restaurants and bars, and two or three residential properties.”
Sally seemed to enjoy gossiping about elusive property owners, so when the thought came to her, Storm decided to ask one more question. She unfolded the newspaper she’d picked up earlier and pointed to the murder/suicide story. “Any chance we could find out who owned this house?”
“Wow, I heard about that. Sad, yeah? You know the address?”
Both women leaned over the paper. The mailbox was visible, and the number 4028 was easy to read, even in the grainy photo.
“I need the street name, too,” Sally said.
“I saw the name—it’s a fish. Kumu? Kamanu?”
Sally typed, then scanned the computer screen. “Those poor little girls.” She sighed, but stopped mid-inhale. “Oh, that’s interesting.”
“What?” Storm asked.
“I went back to the screen with Paradise Consortium’s local holdings.” She hit the print button, then handed a sheet of paper to Storm. “Look, Paradise Consortium holds the title on 4028 Kumu Street.”
Storm stared at it.
Sally pointed to the list. “Same group that owns Blue Marine.”