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HE WAS TWO INCHES, or three, taller than my six feet, and muscular. He advanced straight at me, shoulders squared, head forward. His gaze was fixed on me from beneath the visor of a chauffeur's cap. I stood beside the carousel in the baggage claim area of Honolulu International waiting for my suitcase to appear. I had the client's story, after a fashion. But as generally happens in such cases, the story would turn out to be different than the one told.
"Ms. O'Sullivan?" the man in the chauffeur's cap said.
"Yes, I'm T. J. O'Sullivan," I said. As I spoke to him, my suitcase came along, and I grabbed it from the rotating carousel.
"Come with me," the man said, "Mr. Shaw wishes to see you at once."
"Yeah, nah, mate," I said. "I want to check into my hotel first. I'm meant to meet Mr. Shaw at Duke's Waikiki at five."
"Things have changed," the man said. He pushed aside the front of the navy windbreaker he was wearing. I could see the butt of the large frame semi-automatic tucked into his waistband. "I must insist. Mr. Shaw isn't a patient man. He wants you at the house right away."
"All right," I said, "you can be quite persuasive."
The man reached out to take me by the upper arm. I took a step back and held my hand straight out in the universal stop sign position.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stop right now," I said. "If the circumstances have changed, fair enough, I'll go with you. But, if you put your hands on me, I'm going to become something of a mad bitch. I reckon you aren't going to enjoy that."
"I don't need some mainland lady PI causing me grief," the man said.
"Then don't bugger me around, and you won't get any grief," I said. "Lead the way to your car and let's go see Shaw."
Without another word the man turned. He walked toward the glass doors leading out of the terminal. He hadn't offered to take my bag. I reckoned chivalry must be dead. I hoped he wasn't expecting a tip.
I picked up my suitcase and followed him outside. He led me across the roadway in front of the terminal into the carpark beyond. He stopped beside a long, black limo that wasn't new but well cared for. He opened the rear passenger door and motioned with his head for me to get in. Too late, you're still not getting a tip. I tossed my suitcase onto the back seat and climbed in behind it. The man closed the door and got in the front seat, behind the wheel.
It had been a dramatic start to the case. I hadn't expected to arrive at gunpoint to meet the client. I also didn't appreciate it. I intended to have a word with Shaw about that.
After exiting the airport, we drove northeast on a wide motorway until we merged onto another. We then headed straight north along the windward coast. The sign said Kamehameha Highway. I'd looked up Shaw's address on the web. I knew the house was north of Honolulu on the eastern side of Oahu in the Ka'a'awa Valley. Satisfied the man was actually taking me to Shaw's home, I relaxed. I soaked up the stunning views outside the car window.
It was nice being on an island again, even if it wasn't home. I reckoned you could take the girl off the island, but you could never quite take the island out of the girl.
Once outside the urban sprawl and out in the wop-wops I could see the turquoise water of the Pacific. Waves were breaking along the sandy beaches. I couldn't wait to enjoy Waikiki Beach when I finally got to my hotel. I was in Hawaii on business, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to enjoy myself a bit. I had only been to Hawaii once before when my parents had taken me to Maui on holiday when I was a little girl.
The driver hadn't said a word since we'd left the airport terminal. After we had been driving for almost an hour, he turned the limo off the highway. We entered a long paved driveway lined with palm trees. We arrived at a pair of closed gates. A man dressed in black military-like fatigue pants and a black polo shirt approached the car. He was wearing sunglasses. He had an earpiece like those worn by Secret Service agents. There was a black semi-automatic pistol in a low-slung tactical holster on his right thigh. The driver stopped the limo at the gates. He lowered my window from the front seat.
"Ms. O'Sullivan?" the guard said.
"Yes, I'm T. J. O'Sullivan," I said.
"Do you have identification?" the guard said.
"Yes," I said. I fished my California PI license out of my handbag and handed it to the guard.
"You don't sound like you're from Los Angeles," the guard said, as he studied my license.
"That's because I'm not from LA," I said. "I mean to say I live there now, but I'm from New Zealand."
The man nodded. "We were expecting an American," he said.
"You've got one," I said. "I'm a New Zealand citizen by birth. But, I'm a naturalized American citizen and hold passports from both countries."
"I see," the man said. Satisfied with my explanation, he handed back my license. "You can proceed," the guard said to the driver. He pressed a button on a remote he was holding and the black iron gates swung open.
The driver closed my window and drove through the gates. We rounded a long curve in the driveway. A rather palatial looking two-story house sitting on lush green lawns came into view. The house was of sturdy frame construction painted a light shade of tan with a metal painted roof. It had a wide covered wrap around porch. It was the kind of house you might expect to see on a cattle station in the Australian outback. Or on a plantation on some African savanna.
The driveway ended in a large paved carpark in front of the house. Another man dressed the same as the guard at the gate stepped off the porch. He strode toward the car. He stopped at my window. The driver once again lowered the glass.
"Ms. O'Sullivan?" he said.
"That's right," I said.
"Do you have identification?" he said.
My PI license was still in my hand. I held it out to him. We repeated the scene from a minute or two earlier at the gates. He also asked about my Kiwi accent. Once satisfied, the guard handed back my license.
"Are you armed, Ms. O'Sullivan?" the guard said.
"Not at the moment," I said. "I have a handgun in my baggage, but I don't have a weapon on my person."
"Very well," the guard said. "You can exit the vehicle, but leave your baggage inside. It will be safe until you return." He opened the door. I got out.
"Follow me please," he said.
I followed him up the steps onto the porch. We stopped at the front door. He pushed the button on an intercom and spoke into it. "Ms. O'Sullivan to see Mr. Shaw," he said.
The front door opened and a petite, middle-aged, Filipino woman appeared in the doorway. She had large brown eyes and wore a proper black and white maid's uniform. "This way please," she said.
The maid led me down a long wood-paneled corridor to a pair of closed French doors. She knocked and then turned the handle and opened the doors.
"Ms. O'Sullivan to see you, Mr. Shaw," she announced.
The maid stood aside so that I could enter the room. She then stepped back through the doorway, closing the doors behind her.
