Chapter Eleven

The address for Paradise Consortium was located a few blocks from the Property Assessment offices, and Storm drove right by it the first time. It was one of those multi-story storage units that were springing up throughout the state. Big, expensive buildings on prime real estate. She pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and checked the street number again. This was an office for a conglomerate that owned millions of dollars of real estate? Her curiosity was piqued.

A front office with a wide, open window was just inside the front door. A bell to get attention sat on the countertop, along with a lineup of Plexiglas business card holders. It looked like there were a number of businesses located here.

In the office, a man with a cell phone pressed to his ear paced back and forth on the industrial carpeting. He spoke loudly in Japanese-accented English and gesticulated with his free hand. Storm didn’t want to interrupt, so she took a step back and looked around.

Doors appeared at regular intervals down a long corridor, which was lit by caged light bulbs dangling on long wires. The concrete floor was clean, but lacked any pretense of comfort or luxury, and the hall ended in a steel door that was stenciled with a sign, “Exit Stair.” Perhaps there was an elevator down there, too, but Storm couldn’t tell because the ceiling light at the end of the passageway had burned out. If light hadn’t spilled from one of the unit doors, it would be quite dark.

The clerk hadn’t acknowledged her presence, so Storm ambled toward the open unit. She was about halfway down the corridor when the man in the office noticed.

“Hey, stop!” He slammed the office door and dashed down the hallway. “No entry without authorization.”

Storm turned around. “Sorry, you were busy. I’m interested in renting a unit.”

“We protect the privacy of our clients,” he panted. “Come to the office. I’ll show you rates.” Sweat trickled from his hairline. “What are you storing?”

“Antiques,” Storm said. “My mother left me some very nice pieces. I’m going to open a shop.”

“Our security is excellent.”

“Obviously.”

“Let me show you some available units.” They were back at the office and the man let himself in while Storm waited at the counter.

“What size unit do you need?” he asked from the other side of the counter.

“Some of the furniture is quite large. I’ll need at least seventy or eighty square feet.”

“We have units that size.”

“I may need a phone line, too. Is that possible?”

“Yes, we can set up phone and fax facilities. For a fee, you can have wireless internet access.”

“How about a mailing address?” Storm asked.

“Yes, of course. You would pick up mail here.” He gestured to a series of cubbyholes at the back of the office. “Let me get our rate list and floor plan for you.”

He slapped a document on the counter and turned it for her to see. It was a diagram of units, but what drew her attention were his hands. Both pinkies were chopped off at the first knuckle.

“Could I see an ID, please?” he asked.

Storm dragged her attention from the missing fingers. “Um, I don’t want to move furniture to the second floor. Do you have something on the first floor?”

“Maybe. The ID?”

Storm dug around in her bag. “I must have left it in the car.” She dumped a hairbrush, a compact, and two lipsticks on the counter.

He looked doubtful. “Security. I must see ID.”

Storm had heard stories about missing fingers as a sign of allegiance to the Yakuza. Ten or fifteen years ago, the organization had been quite active in the islands, particularly in real estate adventures, as it was an effective way to launder large amounts of cash.

She eyed the guy. No tattoos crawling up his neck, but his collar was buttoned and the shirt had long sleeves. She was leery of handing her ID over to this guy.

“I don’t have it right now. I can give it to you when we sign the contract.” Storm scooped her things back into her purse. “I need references from some of your customers.”

The phone rang again, and the man answered it. Storm hesitated a moment, then folded the contract and put it into her bag with the hairbrush and lipsticks. She gave the man a little wave, but he was speaking to someone in Japanese and had resumed pacing and gesturing.

Outside the building, she hopped into her rental, turned the ignition, rolled down all the windows, and set the air conditioner to high. A turkey could roast in there, and she was beginning to. Drops of sweat crept down the sides of her face.

She readjusted the vent and took a moment to remove the contract from her purse. Nothing too interesting about it. Across the top of the torn paper was Ma‘alahi Storage, with phone and fax numbers, in both English and Japanese. There was also a hand-written doodle in Japanese that Storm couldn’t read, followed by $18,765. Apparently the office manager had been using the contract for scratch paper.

Storm shrugged to herself, rolled up the windows and exited onto the main thoroughfare. She didn’t look back, so she didn’t see the office clerk at the building’s entrance. He watched her drive away and chattered into his cell phone.

***

At a red light, Storm called the office and made a report of her day to her ever-protective and efficient secretary.

“Two things,” Grace told her. “Call your Aunt Maile and Hamlin’s on his way home.”

“He is? That’s great news.”

“I thought so, too. Finish up with the dive shop and get back here. Don’t forget your aunt, either, or she’ll be on the next plane to Maui.”

That part was true, Storm thought. “I’ll call her. But the dive shop business is a little more complicated than I originally thought.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Grace hung up.

On her way to Maui Memorial Hospital, Storm had a chance to ponder the ball of tangled ends she was trying to unravel. Lara hadn’t been forthcoming with the information Storm needed to set up liability protection. Instead of volunteering that Ryan and his father owned the land under the shop, Lara had mentioned it as if it were afterthought, even as Storm was begging for the information. Ryan was a little better, but he’d ducked out before Storm got the specifics about water, electricity, and the other stores in the little mall.

It was not the kind of thing she could let go. What if, God forbid, there was a lawsuit against the shop? Not only would Lara and Ryan blame her, she could be sued for legal malpractice.

Several other things niggled at her, more misgivings than specifics. Damon had quickly changed the subject when they’d talked about Lara’s family. Storm supposed he felt it wasn’t his place to discuss it, but there’d been something in the way he’d clammed up after bringing up the death of Lara’s sister.

Another concern was the fact that the older Tagama did business with Paradise Consortium. It could be nothing, as he seemed to be a wealthy, well-connected businessman. Local bars and restaurants would be logical investments. But when the pushy, chop-fingered clerk in the storage facility where Paradise Consortium had its office insisted on her ID, alarm bells sounded.

She needed to find answers to a long list of questions, but by the time Storm drove into the hospital parking lot, her mind was on the child with the gunshot wound. This visit had little to do with her legal clients. Storm had been twelve, the same age as Carmen, when her mother killed herself. It had affected everything in her life, just as this event would color Carmen’s life. This visit was for herself and, she hoped, another little girl.

A volunteer at the information desk in the lobby gave her directions to Carmen Yoshinaka’s room. Despite her nervousness and the desire to turn around and leave, Storm knew why she was there.

Storm’s father died four years after her mother. For most of those four years, her father had been moody and preoccupied. Even if he was staring across the dinner table at her, he’d been elsewhere. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone, recognizing his despair, had stepped in. Storm had had her rebellious period—the purple hair and tattoo—but they’d been there. And they still were. This twelve-year-old had no one.

Worse yet, Carmen’s father had tried to kill her. The kid probably recognized this on some level, even if she couldn’t tell the police about it. Storm’s parents may have left her, but they didn’t try and take her with them.

There were two nurses in Carmen’s room. One sat on her bed and read a story from a children’s book.

Storm had picked up a big white teddy bear in the hospital gift shop. It was half the size of the child on the bed. The nurses smiled, but Carmen looked surprised. “Aunt Kiki?”

“You look a little like her aunt,” one of the nurses explained.

Storm was buoyed by the idea of the child having an aunt. “No, I’m a friend. My name is Storm. Your dad worked with some people I know, and I heard you got hurt.”

She handed the furry bear to the little girl. “I hope you feel better soon.”

Carmen’s eyes were very large in her pale face. “Where’s Daddy? And Crystal?”

Storm was glad Carmen didn’t see the anguish on the face of the nurse with the book. The other one froze in the act of adjusting the window blinds.

The nurse put down the book and hugged Carmen. “They can’t come visit,” she said. She motioned for Storm to take her chair by the bed, and she tiptoed from the room.

Storm remembered her mother’s death. She’d been the one to find her mother in bed, and had phoned for help when she couldn’t rouse her. She still remembered how one of her mother’s friends had patted her head and told her that her mother would wake up. Storm’s hopes had soared, then plummeted into loathing.

“Do you like animals?” Storm stroked the bear’s fur.

Carmen’s eyes stayed wide, and after a moment she nodded. “I have a kitten.”

Storm sat up a little straighter. “A real kitty? Um, the kind who has to go outside?”

“Her name is Neko.”

“What color is she?”

“Orange.”

Storm drew a careful breath. “Do you leave water and food out for her?”

Carmen frowned. “No, silly. She lives on my bed. Daddy won’t let me take water in my room.”

“I see,” Storm said, and hoped she really did. “Do you think she’ll like your bear?”

Carmen thought for a moment, then nodded. “Can you bring Neko to me?”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” Storm said.

The nurses came back with a doctor. All three wore concerned expressions.

“I’ll see you later, Carmen.”

“Will you help me go home?”

“Yes.” Storm nearly choked on the word. Where would home be for this child? She stood up to give the doctor her place at Carmen’s bedside, but she would be back. After all, she had to find Neko.

On the drive back to Wailea, her mobile phone rang, but she didn’t reach for it. Whoever it was could leave a message. She was wrapped in empathy for Carmen Yoshinaka. The child’s sad eyes had left a piercing ache in Storm’s chest.