After we left Pelekai's place, Ridge asked me: "So, other than being a well positioned drug dealer, illegal firearms dealer, pimp, and all around son of a bitch thought to be involved in organized crime throughout the islands and on the mainland, what was your take on Pelekai?"
As if those things weren't bad enough, I answered bluntly: "He knows something about Carter's murder. Don't ask me what. Call it women's intuition."
"Maybe," Ridge said, sounding less than convinced. "Try taking that to court."
"I didn't say he killed Carter," I told Ridge. "I'm pretty sure Pelekai wouldn't do the dirty work himself, but that doesn't mean one of his bodyguards or other associates couldn't have done the deed."
"Yeah, I agree," Ridge said. "We've had our eyes on the so-called bodyguards for some time now. Alfonso Takemoto and Masakazu Miyoshi. A couple of scumbags who are suspected of drug dealing and assault, among other things. They're also suspects in a drive-by shooting that killed a snitch named Frankie Pokipala."
I wondered what Ridge meant about the cops having their eyes on the bodyguards. Either they believed Kazuo Pelekai and his comrades were involved in Carter's death or they didn't, apart from their other alleged criminal activity. I steadied the car over a bumpy stretch of road, then inquired innocuously: "Does the P.A.'s office, or your office for that matter, really think it has a case against Pelekai in Carter's death? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?"
Ridge ran a hand across his head, which also seemed to give him time to consider the question carefully. "Sure would wrap things up in a nice, neat little package if we could arrest Pelekai and his cronies for Carter's murder," he admitted. "And, to be quite honest about it, it would make our job in the department a hell of a lot easier if they were all locked away—"
I flashed him a look of skepticism. "Does easier mean looking for a scapegoat instead of finding the real murderer?" I had to ask, though I already knew the answer.
"We're doing the best we can," Ridge said defensively. "Carter Delaney, like him or not, left his mark on this city and many of the people in it. No one in the department wants to pin his death on the wrong person or persons. If Pelekai had nothing to do with it—and I'm not sure I buy that—he'll be dropped from our list of suspects and we'll go on from there."
"Sorry," I told him sincerely. "Guess it's easier being a cop when you're not one anymore." This seemed especially true when it happened to be your ex-husband's murder that was being investigated.
"Hey, there's nothing in the rule books that says a cop who retired ahead of schedule can't rejoin the force," Ridge hinted. "I think it would be fun working with you officially for a change."
"Don't hold your breath," I warned him. "There's no amount of money or other enticements that could get me to give up my freedom to return to the grind of the rank and file. Besides, I'm not sure you could handle dating someone you had to work side by side with on a daily basis."
He must have agreed, given his sudden loss of speech.
* * *
Ridge and I went to dinner at a place on Ala Moana Boulevard called Yoshio's Bar & Grill, where we ordered smoked salmon and fettuccini.
I took a sip of red wine before asking Ridge: "So how the hell does someone with Carter's same rare blood type follow him to my house, strangle him, dump him in the Jacuzzi tub, lose some flesh and blood to Ollie's fangs, and then manage to apparently go underground—all without being seen or heard by anyone? It can't be that easy to hide in Honolulu."
If that was a mouthful, Ridge seemed able to digest it with one even swallow. "Obviously, the whole thing was well thought out and executed without a hitch, except for Ollie's ferocious appetite. And maybe it wasn't so ferocious after all. Unless he bit a doctor, it couldn't have been much more than a flesh wound, since there's no indication the person was treated anywhere on the island."
A thought occurred to me as I tasted more wine. "Do you remember reading about that clinic in Manoa on Punahou Street that was shut down a few weeks ago due to unsanitary conditions?"
"Yeah, why?" Ridge asked.
"I think I heard they were back in business while they appealed their case," I told him.
"So?"
"So," I said, "whoever Ollie bit could have gone there for treatment..."
"That's assuming they knew the clinic existed, much less reopened," Ridge said skeptically.
"But it makes sense," I said. "The clinic isn't far from my house, and just about every other medical facility in the city has already been accounted for. Being under the radar, it would have been the perfect place to get patched up."
Ridge dribbled his fingers on the table pensively. "Seems like a stretch, but I suppose it's worth checking out."
That told me the cops hadn't checked it out yet. It was a surprising oversight for a police force that was supposedly checking every nook and cranny to find Carter's killer. I didn't blame Ridge, per se. He may have been in charge of the investigation, but he was only one man dependent on the professionalism and dedication of his partner and their subordinates.
Meaning I needed to check out the clinic myself and see if it led anywhere.
The conversation turned to topics more suitable for two people who were seeing each other socially, if not sexually of late. The timing for intimacy hadn't been right, and the mood had definitely been all wrong ever since Carter's death, as if he were somehow sabotaging my relationship with Ridge even from the grave.
This night was no different, as I dropped Ridge off at his house and went straight to my own, favoring my company over his. He didn't press it, and I hated putting him in a position where he had every right to press. I didn't want to lose him, but was afraid I might do just that if he got tired of waiting while I sorted out what I needed to.
Sleep was my escape—but it came at a price. In a dream, Carter came back to haunt me in the image of how I had last seen him dead in my tub. I awoke in a cold sweat and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. It seemed like Ollie was also having a restless sleep. I found him half-draped over a living room chair, whimpering.
"It's just a bad dream, boy," I said, gently running my hand across his head. "Maybe water will work for you, too?" He licked my hand. I took that as a yes and put my glass to his mouth where he quickly lapped up the rest of the water with his tongue.
Back in bed, with Ollie on the floor beside me, I was ready to give sleep another try. When it finally came, I was spared the nightmare of Carter's death. But I had a feeling that it was merely waiting for another time and place to strike again.