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Thursday morning I took Roby for a long walk around the neighborhood, trying to put together the pieces of the case. In January 1959, Senator James LeJeune had been shot and killed in a Honolulu brothel. I believed that the Cabal, as Richard Clark called them, had been involved somehow, in order to protect their pro-statehood interests.
The murder had been blamed on a pimp and the details swept under the rug. Alexander Fields was the last living member of the Cabal. Had he planned to clear the slate as he came to the end of his life? Was that why he was killed, to protect the secret?
I was sure that Bernice Fong was the woman who had accompanied Fields to his death, and that Pika Campbell, and probably his friend Tacky, had driven them to Lagoon Drive, killed Fields and burned the warehouse. Why not kill Bernice Fong with him? Why wait a week? And if what my father said was right, Bernice hadn’t been a member of the Cabal at all; she had merely served them food.
Had she hired the men to kill Fields? Why? And why had she been shot?
My brain was fuzzy from too many details that didn’t add up. I cleaned up after Roby, then led him back to the house. Mike was already dressed and he kissed my cheek on his way out the door. “Early meeting. See you later. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I said to his back. I fed the dog, showered and dressed, and drove in to work, no clearer on who had killed Alexander Fields or Bernice Fong.
“The techs picked up some fingerprints at the crime scene,” Ray said, when I got in. “A couple of matches. Pika Campbell and another moke named Takvor Soralian, who goes by Taki.” He swiveled his monitor so I could see the pictures from their booking. Both were hulking guys with angry faces.
“So that’s him,” I said. “What’s his sheet look like?”
“He’s only been in Honolulu for a couple of years. Before that he was in LA. And with an Armenian name like his, I thought he might have been into Armenian Power.”
“Hold on. How’d you know his name was Armenian?”
Ray shrugged. “I grew up in Philly. Things there aren’t as much of a melting pot as they are here. People have a certain kind of name, you know something about them. Where their family is from, what their religion is.”
“Not from your name,” I said. “Donne’s not exactly Italian.”
“Yeah, but Donatello is. My grandfather changed it to Donne so he could get a job back when companies didn’t want to hire Italians.”
“So you figured out Soralian was Armenian. What’s this Armenian Power?”
“Been reading up on FBI stuff. It’s a gang based in LA, into drugs, murder, fraud, gambling—you name it, they’ve got a tentacle in it. I got Francisco Salinas to check on him, and sure enough, he had some dealings with AP. A couple of arsons, a kidnapping. Not sure whether he’s working for them here, though.”
“Arson? I wonder if he was the one who set the fire in the warehouse.” I dug out my cell phone and called Mike. “Can you run something for me?” I asked. I gave him Takvor Soralian’s name and the information we had. “See if his name ever came up in an arson in LA, and if the same MO was used—the matchbook thing.”
“Like I told you, it’s a pretty common thing. But I’ll give it a check. Love you—bye.”
“Love you too.” I turned back to Ray. “We have an address on Soralian?”
“Interesting,” Ray said. “He’s definitely bunking with Pika.”
“Don’t tell me. The Iolani Palace.”
Ray nodded. “How come nobody caught this before?”
I shrugged. “They were only pulled in on minor beefs. Nothing ever went to trial.” I sat back in my chair. “So we’ve still got zip.”
“Well, maybe not,” Ray said. “One more set of fingerprints found at Bernice’s Fong matched a guy who was picked up two years ago for a DUI.”
“Someone we know?”
“Andre Gardiner.”
I whistled. “Now that’s interesting. So Gardiner was with Pika and Taki.”
Ray shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. Gardiner could have been there a day before or a month before. We don’t know what kind of housekeeper Bernice was.”
“Still, worth paying Andy Gardiner a visit. We know where he works?”
“Gardiner Properties has an office downtown.”
I called Gardiner’s office and identified myself to the receptionist. “I’d like to stop over and speak to Mr. Gardiner. What would be a good time?”
She put me on hold, and when she came back she said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Gardiner is booked up all day today and tomorrow. I can fit you in on Monday.”
“Monday doesn’t work for me,” I said. “How’s this. I’ll show up at your office in about fifteen minutes and wait there until he has time to speak to me. I’ll bring a couple of uniformed officers with me and we’ll hang out in your reception area.”
“Hold on.”
The next voice on the phone was Andy Gardiner’s. “Where the fuck do you get off threatening my secretary?”
“Not a threat, Mr. Gardiner. We need to speak with you and we’re willing to work with your schedule.”
“Twelve-thirty. I can give you ten minutes.” Then he hung up.
“You have such a way with people,” Ray said. “I always admire that about you.”
“Admire this.” I gave him the finger, and he laughed.
We spent the next couple of hours learning everything we could about Andre Gardiner. Like me, Terri and Harry, he had graduated from Punahou, though at sixty-eight he was thirty years older than we were. He had gone to Reed College in Oregon, a popular destination for Hawaiian students, and graduated with a degree in business. Then he had returned to Honolulu and joined his father’s company.
He married and had a couple of kids. In 1992 he divorced his wife and moved to a condo in Kahala. His father died in 1995 and Gardiner took over the family business, and soon after that he’d been picked up driving his Jaguar convertible at nearly a hundred miles an hour down the H1 in the middle of the night.
I did a quick search and found that while Gardiner Properties still owned a substantial range of properties around the island, the company hadn’t built anything new in fifteen years. A search of property sales showed that every year or so the company sold another shopping center or office park. If things went along as they were, Andre Gardiner would soon be scraping the bottom of the barrel his father had left him.
“Gardiner could be in financial trouble in a few years,” Ray said. “But how do we make that into a motive for murder?”
“Beats me. But something tells me we’re on the right trail. And I like the fact that Gardiner had a DUI a couple of years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because he may have to hire a limo when he wants to go out drinking.”
Ray nodded. “Which puts him in contact with Royal Rides. You want to call that dispatcher again?”
I did a quick search through the files on my netbook and dug up the phone number for Royal Rides. The helpful guy I’d spoken with the other day had been replaced by a woman with a heavy Chinese accent. I identified myself once again and asked if she had any record of a client named Andre Gardiner.
“You have subpoena?” she asked, though she mangled the word. “No records without subpoena. Company porricy.”
“I spoke to a guy the other day named Chris. Can I talk to him?”
“He my son. Stupid. Not here.”
“When does he come on duty?”
“He no give you information without subpoena.” She hung up.
“I’m looking forward to delivering a subpoena to her in person,” I grumbled.
“Speaking of in-person, time to get over to Gardiner’s office.” Ray led the way to the garage, where it was his turn to drive.
The first thing we saw when we opened the door to the reception area of Gardiner Properties was a nearly life-sized oil painting of Emile, hawk-nosed and distinguished. There was something very French about him—like an older Louis Jourdan. I couldn’t judge the likeness, but the figure in the painting looked stern, sharp and prosperous.
We identified ourselves to the receptionist, a very pretty young haole with dark brown hair in a girlish ponytail, and she carried on a hushed conversation with someone on the other end of the phone line as we sat down in comfortable leather armchairs.
A few minutes later, an older woman with her hair in a bouffant dyed a false shade of blonde came out to get us. “You handle this one,” Ray said to me. “I’m good out here.”
I was surprised but didn’t show it. I followed the cloud of blonde hair down the hall to a large office with picture windows overlooking the Ko’olau mountains.
Andy Gardiner had none of his father’s good looks or commanding personality. His face was rounder, his bulbous nose spidered with red. Like his father, there was something French about him, but it was more an air of dissoluteness, combined with a louche sort of Tahitian lassitude. He wore a dark suit that had hung limply on his pear-shaped body, with a wrinkled white shirt and a green tie the color of old dollar bills.
“Thanks for fitting me in, Mr. Gardiner,” I said, as I sat down across from his broad, empty desk. “I just have a couple of questions for you.”
“If you’re nosing around Shep for his father’s murder you’re on the wrong trail,” he said.
“Actually, I’m here on another matter. Do you know a woman named Bernice Fong?”
“Aunt Bernice? Of course. I’ve known her all my life. What about her?”
“I’m afraid she was murdered on Tuesday night.”
“Murdered? Don’t be ridiculous. She had to be nearly ninety years old. Probably just gave up the ghost.”
“Not with a bullet hole in her forehead,” I said.
Andy Gardiner paled. “Really?”
“Really. When was the last time you saw her?”
“I’d have to check my calendar. A few months ago.”
I leaned back in my chair. “What kind of housekeeper was Mrs. Fong?” I asked.
Gardiner cocked his head and looked at me. “What the fuck does that have to do with her death?”
“We found your fingerprints at her house. Unless she hadn’t dusted in a few months, that means you’re lying.”
“Like I said, I’ll have to check my calendar.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a leather datebook.
He flipped it open. “Oh, of course. Aunt Bernice made some of her famous dumplings last week, and I went over to have some. She even gave me a package for my kids.” He looked up at me. “You can check with them, if you want.”
“When was that?”
“Last Sunday. The sixth.”
“I noticed that you have a police record for DUI. You ever hire a limousine company called Royal Rides to drive you around?”
“You’re an asshole, you know that, detective?” he asked. “You barge into my office and you challenge me about Aunt Bernice, then you bring up my arrest record. I have powerful friends in this town. You don’t want to fuck with me.”
“Friends like Shepard Fields? You and he go in together on killing his father?”
He stood up. “We’re done here. Get out before I get the Chief of Police on the phone.”
I stood up, too. He looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Have a nice day,” I said, and walked out of his office.
He was still yelling when I got back to the lobby, where Ray was leaning on the desk laughing with the beautiful receptionist. “You watch those pink mai-tais,” he said to her as he stood up. “They can be killer for haoles like us.”
“I can hold my liquor,” she said. “You take care now.”
We got into the elevator and Ray pulled his wedding ring out of his pocket and slipped it back on his finger. “What are you up to?” I asked.
“Brittany has only been in a limo once in her life,” he said. “When she went out with the boss.”
“Royal Rides?”
He put on a Valley Girl voice. “And the driver was such a sweetheart! He told us his name was Pika, which means rock. I felt his muscles and they were as hard as rocks!”
I laughed. “Excellent work, detective. So now we can put Gardiner together with Pika Campbell. Now all we have to do is find Campbell and his bromance buddy.”