CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The place was called “The Scoop Deck,” a neighborhood dive located down a narrow side street and tucked between two high-rise hotels that had been in need of remodeling since the 1970s. The place was done up with walls adorned in dust-encrusted marker buoys, fishnets, dried starfish and old life rings, a faint haze of spilled liquor and pine cleanser in the air.

But it had what I was looking for.

The TV behind the bar was tuned to a cable news channel, MSNBCNBCNN, one of the alphabet networks that were interchangeable with all the others. The talking heads were busy at work behind their broadcast desks, sincere-looking yuppies with freshly cut hair, unambiguous political leanings and stylish wardrobes who excelled at reading words from a teleprompter but didn’t understand a fraction of what came out of their mouths. But that is what I’d come in for, a recap of what I’d been missing from the outside world. That, and the tall Asahi over ice on the coaster in front of me.

The bartender was a heavy-set guy in his midfifties, with a toilet-seat ring of shaggy hair around a shiny head and skin that looked like it had been applied to his face with a Spackle trowel. He busied himself stocking the cooler and the shelves of booze beside the register, then began polishing at a spot on the bar until I thought the finish would either wear off or catch fire. There were only about five of us in the place, and it was getting harder for him to ignore me since I was the only one seated at the bar.

“Where you from?” he asked me.

I didn’t desire a conversation any more than he did.

“Kona.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah,” I said, sipped my Asahi and turned my attention back to the television. The volume was low, so I used that as an excuse to appear focused and concerned as I stared up at the screen. It worked for a couple of minutes while a sportscaster on-screen reeled off half-clever puns about the day’s scores.

“Whattaya do down there?”

“Charter business,” I said, then pointed to the TV. “You mind turning that thing up?”

“No problem,” he said, looked relieved when he went for the remote. “You want the local news, instead?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

He flipped through the channels until he landed on one of the local network affiliates doing its evening rundown. He placed the remote on the ledge behind him and disappeared into the back room.

I was starting in on my third beer and beginning to feel the tension dissipate from the muscles in my neck when the screen filled with the image of what appeared to be an industrial blaze burning out of control. Black smoke poured into an afternoon sky as the words “Lennox Biomedical Plant, San Diego, California” appeared underneath. The camera cut to a team of firefighters directing heavy streams of water onto the roof of the building while a voice-over said, “This was the scene earlier today when another of Lennox Biomedical’s plants went up in flames. The five-alarm San Diego blaze was the second Lennox facility to catch fire today.”

On screen, the image changed over to a three-story urban office building, also belching flame. “This building, in northern Virginia, is one of only two Lennox research facilities in the US. We’ve been informed of two fatalities, among a growing number of minor injuries that have been sustained among employees at the Virginia location, though officials have yet to provide details of any possible victims in San Diego. Both blazes continue to rage out of control at this time; a terror plot has not been completely ruled out by authorities, and local police and fire officials are investigating both as cases of arson.”

A local Oahu anchorwoman appeared on screen. “We go now to Randy Manago, who is standing by at the Honolulu convention center with Phillip Lennox, chairman of Lennox Biomedical.”

“Thank you, Linda,” Manago said. “I’m here with Phillip Lennox, a face that is familiar to many in the business and political arenas. He’s here in Honolulu to serve as tomorrow’s keynote speaker at the pharmaceutical convention that gaveled-in earlier this week.”

The camera panned back to include Phillip Lennox, in an open-collared shirt and business suit, forgoing a tie in deference to the tropics. His son, J.R., stood beside him. The senior Lennox had gathered himself into an expression of both gravitas and control, while J.R.’s resembled something more akin to shell shock. I flashed back to their fund-raiser in LA, only then remembering what they’d said about their plans to visit the islands.

“Needless to say,” Lennox began, “we’re deeply saddened by the events taking place in Virginia and California. Our prayers go out to the families that have been affected by the fires, and Lennox Biomedical is cooperating fully with the authorities in determining the causes.”

The reporter nodded, pulled the hand mic back to speak. “What are your thoughts regarding the investigation of the fires as acts of arson?”

Lennox seemed to ponder that momentarily, though I was certain he’d been well briefed by his legal and public relations people long before he agreed to an on-camera interview. His brow furrowed with paternal concern.

“Randy, I think it’s too early to comment on that. As you know, the fires are still, unfortunately, continuing to burn, and it will likely be several days before the experts will be able to clearly determine the possible causes.”

“Are you worried that acts of terror may have been perpetrated against you or your company?” the reporter asked.

Lennox reacted physically to the question, a flinch and an expression of distaste twisting his face. “As I said before, I think it’s far too early to speculate on the possibility of arson, let alone to sensationalize this tragic coincidence into something as serious as terrorism. Lennox Biomedical has always dedicated itself to the prevention, treatment and the cure of disease, so I see no earthly reason why it should be considered the target of an arsonist, much less of organized terrorism.”

“Will you remain here in Honolulu, or will you be traveling back to the mainland in the wake of all of this?”

“We have no immediate plans to return to the mainland. I’ve made a commitment to speak to this very important gathering of industry professionals, and I intend to honor it. As I said before, my company will be doing everything in its power to cooperate with the investigation, and to minimize any impact on our employees and their families; however, there is nothing that I can add to the investigative process with my presence in either Virginia or San Diego.”

The camera returned to close-up.

“Thank you, Mr. Lennox, for talking with us,” the reporter said. “This is Randy Manago, at the Honolulu convention center. Back to you, Linda.”

Linda was appropriately grim and severe as she took it back into the studio. “Thank you, Randy,” she said, and turned to face the camera. “And in other news, a freighter bound for Mexico was discovered abandoned and foundering in moderate seas, some 140 miles southeast of Hawaii. Coastguard officials stated that every effort will be made to tow the vessel to Honolulu, where a determination—”

A song by REM came ripping through the house speakers, startling the shit out of me and completely obliterating the news story. I turned to see a pair of thirty-something vacation drunks feeding coins into the juke and punching buttons like it was a game of Whac-A-Mole.

I looked back to the TV screen, watched the anchorwoman mouth a few more words, then break for commercial. Hell with it. It was obviously time for me to go. I tossed down the rest of my Asahi, and signaled the bartender for my tab.

Late afternoon had faded into a moody plum-colored dusk, and I felt the cool breeze on my face as I neared the door while the jukebox screamed:

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine . . .”

It was that indistinct, in-between time of day, no longer sunset and not quite dark; that time of evening when the beaches have emptied, and the streets have filled. The lights inside the city park hadn’t yet come on, and the branches of plumeria and ohai spread their bent fingers and scratched at the darkening sky.

The walk back to the harbor wasn’t a long one, but I didn’t want to spend it shouldering my way through the dinner crowds. Instead, I took a route that led me down a concrete path that ran alongside the wide swath of beach, separating it from the manicured landscape of the park. Behind me, the lights of the hotels reflected wavy patterns on the surface of the receding tide and the postcard view of Diamond Head. Ahead of me I could hear the rhythmic plodding of joggers as they threaded their way through the park, working their way toward me, in the direction of the city lights.

There was a breeze coming in off the ocean, ruffling the palm fronds with a sound like rattling bones. My stop-off at the bar had left me feeling mellow as I listened to the city, and the last clatter of mynahs as they roosted for the night, which is probably why I didn’t hear the bicycle closing in on me from behind. And by the time I did hear it, it was too late.

My guess is that it was an old-fashioned sap, the kind the beat cops used to carry, with a spring in the handle and leather wrapped around a heavy cylinder made of lead. The guy on the bike had swung it with professional precision once he glided up beside me.

He hit me at the base of the skull, and shot a bolt of blinding white light through my brain as my knees buckled and dropped me like a sack of rocks. When I opened my eyes, I found myself on the ground wrapped up in a fetal position. The rider was already fifty yards away and making for the boulevard. I placed a hand on the walkway beneath me to steady myself, and tried to get to my knees. I felt my stomach lurch and I rolled onto my side instead. Instinctively, I reached for the Beretta that I wished had been there rather than lying in the nightstand beside my bed aboard the Kehau.

I got to my knees about the time the joggers reached me.

I started to wave them away. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

The first kick found my stomach and knocked the air out of my lungs. The second found my ribs. After that, it was a blur of footwear, grunting and the meaty thud of fists meeting flesh. My flesh. I tried to get to my feet, find my balance and land a few punches of my own, but the sap had done a number on my equilibrium and the world spun sickeningly around me. I couldn’t get myself off the ground, so the joggers’ job was swift and furious and complete.

“Stay the fuck out of it,” one said, then grabbed a hank of my hair and slammed my head, face first, into the concrete.

They finished me with a final vicious kick to the groin that sent me headlong into a tree, where I lay curled into a ball, retching my guts out even as my world went black.

When I came to it was dark, and my attackers were nowhere in sight. My chin was crusted with blood and dried vomit, and there was a pounding ache in my ribs that marked time with the throbbing inside my skull. I sat up slowly, leaned against the tree and waited for the world to right itself. I patted my back pocket and found that my wallet was still there, looked at my wrist and still had my TAG Heuer. A few minutes later I’d gathered the strength to stand. I pulled my shit together enough to limp my way to the boat harbor, stopping frequently to recover my balance, and once to wash the blood off my face in the cool water of a drinking fountain.

“Jesus Christ,” Snyder said. “You look like you went three rounds with a jackhammer and got dragged through a cactus patch.”

“Which is exactly how I feel,” I said. But the swelling and the split in my lip made it sound more like Whishiz ahzacka howa feeah.

“What the hell happened?”

“I got jumped in the park.”

“Robbed?”

I shook my head and was immediately sorry I had. My peripheral vision clouded with static and my knees felt unhinged. Snyder grabbed me under one arm and helped me down into the salon and sat me in a chair.

“Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so.” Uh doan thikso.

“That’s a nasty lump on your forehead, bud.” He leaned over, looked hard at my face, and studied my eyes one at a time. “You might have a concussion.”

I sat there, fought down a heaving stomach.

“You lose consciousness at all?”

“Yeah,” I said, careful not to move my head.

Snyder’s face was solemn, which concerned me. I knew those eyes had seen combat. “You’re gonna have to stay awake for a while. Can’t let you sleep if you’ve got a concussion. I need to keep an eye on the dilation of your pupils.”

“Shit,” I said.

“Yeah,” Snyder agreed.

An hour later I had washed myself up, changed into clean clothes, and surveyed the bruises and contusions all over my face and torso. My balls ached, my head pounded, and at least two of my ribs were probably bruised. But nothing felt like it had been broken. In the mirror, I saw a lump on my forehead that looked like I’d had half a golf ball implanted there, and my lip was swollen to twice its normal size.

“I can’t believe they didn’t break your nose.”

“Not for lack of trying,” I said.

Snyder shook his head. “And they didn’t steal anything?”

“No, they just sapped me on the skull and kicked the living crap out of me. One of them advised me to stay the fuck out of it.”

“Stay the fuck out of what?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You get a look at these ass clowns?”

“Had a close-up view of their shoes. Adidas.”

I went to the sofa and lay down on it, trying to find the least miserable position I could.

“Nice,” Snyder said. “That should be helpful.”

I arranged a pair of pillows behind me, and had just settled back when his cell phone rang. Snyder picked it up off the counter, checked caller ID, and brought it over to me.

“What the hell is going on, Mike?” It was Lani and she was pissed. In the background I heard the racket from the bar at Lola’s, and she didn’t wait for an answer. “There were people here asking for you. Cops.”

“Who were they?”

“Detective Moon and some other guy. I didn’t get his name.”

I was grateful it was Moon. I knew I could get some breathing room if I called him back and checked in. He was one of the good guys.

“What did he want?” Whaddiddee wan?

“He said he was looking for you. Needed to talk to you, and asked did I know where you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

There was boozy laughter in the background, and a blender cycled on.

“Are you drunk or something? You sound weird.”

“I’m okay,” I said, and tried to sound convincing. I’n hokay.

“Mike, you are freaking me out. What’s happening?”

“Nothing, Lani. Don’t worry about it. It’s just stuff from before.” I don’t like to talk about my cases, and she knew it. It was a cheap move on my part, but it got her to stop asking questions.

“Well, call him at least. He said he’ll be at the substation in the morning.”

“Okay, Lani,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

There was a long moment of silence before the blender rattled again and shook her out of it. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“I didn’t tell him where you are,” she said. “Of course, I don’t know where you are.”

“I know. Thank you.”

Her voice came out like a whisper. “Son of a bitch,” she said and the line went dead.