Restless Waters Page 6

  Damn! Wouldn’t you know? The dog didn’t budge. Instead, he chose to remain with those of his own gender.

  Five

  I turned on my heels and stormed down the beach, cursing the male mentality and all things macho. I was so pissed that I jumped in my Ford and drove straight to the nearest cafe.

  It took a burger topped with a slice of grilled Maui onion and a hunk of avocado to help me calm down. What the heck? Why stop there? I also ordered a side of French fries, knowing it would make me feel better. Kevin may have won this round, but the battle had just begun. He didn’t know what I was capable of doing when it came to the man I loved.

  By now it was late enough to start my search for invasive species. I put all thoughts of today’s surfing incident aside, and climbed back into my SUV. Then I drove along the water’s edge, following the Kam Highway, past stands piled high with pineapples and coconuts. The sun was just beginning to set as I reached Shark’s Cove.

  Pupukea Road rose steeply as it wound along the mountain. I turned inland, and slowly followed its trail. The foliage grew increasingly dense and lush all around me, as if overgrown vines were about to swallow my vehicle. Equally strong was the distinct sense of dusk that hung in the air. Fiddlehead ferns drowsily nodded their noggins, while willowy leaves drooped around the reddish trunks of eucalyptus trees for the night.

  I was once again leaving civilization to enter the world of the rain forest. Only this time, there was no accompanying sound of gunfire—just an overwhelming sense of silence.

  A small dirt road branched off to the right, and I automatically took it. The only thing in sight were two Java sparrows perched in a tree. The markings on their black caps, white cheeks, and bright orange beaks were absolutely perfect. It was as if someone had painstakingly painted each bird, careful not to go outside the lines. The pair looked at me and then, spreading their wings, flew away.

  Oahu’s oldest heiau, or temple, came into view a few yards farther on. Parking my Ford, I got out and walked toward its black volcanic walls. The stones surrounded an upper and lower terrace the size of two football fields. Next to it stood a double-tiered wooden platform on which native Hawaiians still left various offerings.

  Human sacrifice had been performed in the past at this site, in order to appease the war god Ku. The only things left these days were bananas, mangoes, and oranges. I hoped those would be enough to please him.

  I was thinking about that as I walked to the edge of the bluff, and looked out over Waimea Bay. The last vestige of sun had disappeared, and the moon now cast a silvery path that shimmered like a trail of coins on the water. The breakers rhythmically crashed against the shore, rippling in a succession of deeper and darker blacks as they traveled back out to sea.

  I sat on a rock, only to quickly jump up as two doves abruptly shot out of the grass. I laughed nervously and told myself that it was nothing. Then my leg brushed against a sensitiva plant and its leaves closed, exposing their prickly thorns. Part of me took it as a bad omen, while my logical side said I was merely being silly. Maybe so, but something didn’t feel quite right.

  The air grew cool as night wrapped its cloak around the mountains, and the stones came to life, vibrating with a mystical force. I scarcely breathed, not daring to move, afraid of what might happen, not wanting to take a chance of breaking the spell.

  Tap, tap, tap!

  The staccato sound echoed in the dark, bringing the mountains, sea, and sky converging in on me. My nerves sprang into action, my pulse raced, and chicken skin ran down my arms. I’d heard that in Hawaii, tapping stones was a way of communicating with the dead.

  I swiftly looked around, terrified of what I might find, yet knowing it would be far worse to be caught off guard.

  Waimea Valley stretched like a gloved hand behind me, an impenetrable curtain of darkness falling on either side. It was only upon glancing at the ridge to my right that I caught a pinprick of light snaking through the thick jumble of forest.

  It’s believed that menehune, the magical little people, built these temples, forced to complete their task in a single night. Either they were hard at work on a construction project, or someone was sneaking around jacklighting critters. I moved stealthily toward the area, determined to find out.

  Roots grabbed at my feet, and vines clutched my legs in an attempt to steer me off course. But I’d have none of it, ready to kick ass after butting heads with Pryor and Kevin, both on the same day. I continued on, pushing my way past banana trees with leaves the size of small motor boats. I was grateful this wasn’t the South American jungle. Otherwise, I might have been stuck dealing with tarantulas.

  I made headway, one belabored step at a time, until I finally drew close enough to see what I was up against.

  Well, whadda ya know? It was Rasta Boy sitting in a tree, with his jeans sliding precariously low down his rear end.

  I waited patiently as he caught a veiled chameleon, much the same way as he had the night before. It confirmed exactly what I most feared. There was more than one colony of the lizards here on Oahu.

  I remained concealed in the bushes, as Rasta Boy dumped the chameleon in a sack and made his way down the tree. Then I sprang out of my lair and pounced on him.

  “What the hell?” he sputtered and began to frantically flail about, having been grabbed unawares.

  I managed to hang on as he spun around like a deranged stallion. It was only when he slammed against a tree that I finally fell.

  “For chrissakes, it’s you again?” he angrily exclaimed, glaring down at me.

  He turned to run off, but I quickly reached out and grabbed on to his pants. My reward was to catch a glimpse of a pimply full moon that I would have preferred not to have seen. Rasta Boy solved that predicament by pulling them up and irately shaking me loose. However, he wasn’t fast enough. I scrambled to my feet and lunged, my fingers clamping on to his braids. If the kid had any brains, he’d eventually figure out the dilemma and get a haircut.

  “What’s your problem, bitch?” he growled, twisting this way and that.

  “You are,” I said and smacked him across the head, as he tried to break my hold. “That’s not a nice way to begin a conversation.”

  “Ouch! What’s wrong with you? What the hell did you do that for?” he grumbled.

  “It’s this condition I have that’s known as ‘don’t piss me off.’ I tend to act like a bitch when I’m called one. So what have you got inside the bag tonight, Timmy?” I asked, curling my fingers tighter around his braids.

  “What’s with the Timmy crap? That’s a pussy name,” my tattooed friend complained.

  “All right, then. If you don’t like Timmy, what should I call you?” I inquired, keeping a strong grip on him.

  “Why the hell should I tell you?” he spat.

  “Okay. Be that way. See what I care,” I replied, and slipped my hand into his front pants pocket.

  “Hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing? Diving in for a free feel?”

  That’s the thing about some men. They truly believe themselves to be the proprietors of extra special goodies.

  “I hate to break it to you, but it doesn’t feel like there’s much down there in the way of bells and whistles,” I remarked, and pulled out a wallet.

  It was an expensive red leather clutch with decorative white piping and a fancy steel buckle. Either this belonged to a woman, or Timmy had a feminine side to him.

  I opened the wallet and found a driver’s license that identified Ms. Cynthia Corcoran as its true owner.

  “Hmm. It looks like you’ve been a busy boy tonight, Timmy. Or would you prefer that I call you Cynthia?”

  “Cynthia? Oh yeah. She’s a friend of mine,” he languidly replied.

  “Really? Then why don’t you tell me her last name?”

  “She never mentioned it. We like to communicate in nonverbal ways, if you know what I mean,” he said, with a smack of his lips.

  “I’ll bet. My guess is this wallet has
been reported as stolen by now. Which means, the police will know where she’s staying on the island.”

  This time he kept his mouth shut, and held my gaze.

  “All right, then. Here’s the deal. I’m going to give you a choice. I can either get this wallet back to Ms. Corcoran, myself. Or you can accompany me, and we’ll let her decide what to do with you.

  Rasta Boy mulled over both options as the moonlight danced on his gold hoop earrings, as it had the other night.

  “What do you want from me?” he finally inquired.

  I was seriously tempted to ask for his jeweler.

  “First, tell me your name.”

  He choked, as if a hairball were stuck in his throat. Then he looked me up and down in disdain, and slowly smacked his lips again.

  “Dwayne Brewer.”

  “There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? I’m Rachel Porter.”

  “Rachel Porter the bitch, you mean,” he snarled.

  I smacked him across the head once again. If nothing else, he’d learn some manners by the time we were through.

  “Just so you know, it sucks meeting you,” Dwayne said in a sulk.

  “And here I thought we were becoming fast friends,” I pleasantly countered. “Do you have any ID to prove you’re who you say you are?”

  He began to reach into his other front pocket, and I quickly latched on to his hand.

  “I’ll do the honors,” I informed him.

  “Sure. Anything to get another squeeze of the family jewels.” He smirked. “You know, I could bring you up on sexual harassment charges.”

  I took a good look at the scraggly kid standing next to me. Not only was he dirty, but Dwayne had enough body odor to knock out an entire courtroom.

  “Trust me. That would be a hard sell,” I said, and pulled out a billfold.

  Inside was a photo ID badge for “Special Agent I. M. Kuhl.” It showed Rasta Boy looking suave as ever, with his braids rolled and pinned to each side of his head like a deranged version of Heidi. Behind the badge was a driver’s license for one Dwayne Brewer. I noted his address. How convenient. Brewer lived next door, in the town of Waialua. Other than that, there was ten dollars in cash in his wallet.

  “Okay. Now what say we have a little chat?”

  “What about?” he asked suspiciously.

  I didn’t respond, but pulled the sack from his hands, turned on my flashlight, and took a peek inside. Whoa! Tonight’s catch was Madagascar geckos, along with the veiled chameleon. These little beauties could fetch up to two thousand bucks apiece on the mainland. Dwayne should have been better dressed with the kind of money he was apparently raking in.

  “About how I’m going to throw your ass in jail,” I responded, placing the bag on the ground.

  Dwayne broke into a hack and spit out a lugie. “That’s total bullshit. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You mean, other than steal people’s wallets and pass yourself off as a federal agent?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Impersonation is the highest form of flattery,” he smarmily retorted.

  Oy veh. The kid was a wiseass on top of everything.

  “That’s just for starters,” I informed him. “The real topper is something that’s going to send you to prison for years. You might have heard of it—a little crime known as interstate trafficking. I have proof that you’re smuggling illegal reptiles to pet stores on the mainland and, in return, getting big bucks.”

  In this case, I had no problem with stretching the truth.

  “Yeah? So what?” Dwayne responded, sounding totally unfazed. “The way I see it, I’m helping everyone out. The state wants all these alien critters off the island, right? Well, I’m doing my part by catching the little suckers. So what, if I make a few bucks in the bargain? I deserve it for my time and expertise. Besides, do you know what a pain in the ass it is to deal with shipping companies these days? And what do I get in return? A little thanks from anyone for my trouble? No. Instead you threaten to arrest me. Well, you know what? Go ahead. Make my day.”

  Dwayne swung his braids about as though he were the Hawaiian version of Clint Eastwood.

  “I can hardly wait to get into court and give my defense,” he continued, building up a head of steam. “By the time I’m through, you’ll be lucky if you still have a job. The judge will think you’re a certified idiot for having ever bothered me in the first place.”

  The kid was smarter than I’d originally given him credit for—but not smart enough.

  “There’s only one problem with your scenario,” I informed the little weasel.

  “What’s that?” he gloated, looking mighty pleased with himself.

  “You’re also responsible for the illegal importation of reptiles into the state, with the intent of setting up colonies to breed and sell them. That’s a big no-no.”

  “Uh-uh! No way are you pinning that shit on me. My job is just to catch these things,” Dwayne blurted out.

  I silently thanked him for verifying my hunch. I no longer had a doubt that some mainland dealer was in cahoots with a couple of locals here on the island. I had to admit, it was a clever plan to save big bucks. Captive breeding could be an expensive and frustrating experience, with possibly little to show for it. This way, freight was the major cost.

  “It makes no difference to me whether you’re the one that’s bringing the reptiles in, or shipping them out,” I informed him. “I guess that also means you haven’t yet heard about the new state law that was passed.”

  Dwayne warily looked at me.

  “Legislators have made breeding and trafficking in reptiles a federal offense. That means prison time in the state of Hawaii.”

  Dwayne’s legs began to buckle under my little white lie. I roughly jerked him back up.

  “Face it. Your friends set you up to take the rap and be their patsy. They must be real good buddies of yours, huh? After all, you’re the schmuck who’s out here at night doing all the legwork, dodging property owner’s potshots, and taking the risk of getting caught. It’s a pretty sweet deal from their angle. They make the big bucks and you do the time. In a sense, you’re pretty much their little slave boy,” I needled, hoping to soften him up. “It’s good for you that I understand how these things work. Who knows? Maybe I can arrange it so that you don’t end up in too much trouble.”

  “Oh yeah? And how would you do that?” he asked, his voice suddenly sounding a good octave higher.

  “Well, there’s no getting around the fact that somebody will be going to prison. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be you. Do you follow?” I questioned, keeping my tone nonchalant.

  I could feel Dwayne’s legs quiver like two jelly rolls as I continued to hold him up.

  “I think I need a beer,” he weakly suggested.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I responded, with a laugh. “What do you expect me to do? Take you to a bar?”

  “There’s a six-pack in that sack over there,” Dwayne said, nodding toward a paper bag that I hadn’t noticed before.

  I took no chances, but pulled out my handcuffs and manacled my new best friend to a tree branch.

  “I bet you have some fun with these things, huh?” he feebly joked.

  But I could tell he was beginning to fold.

  “Yeah. In fact, I’m having fun with them right now.”

  Then walking over, I picked up the bag, and pulled out a carton of Tsing Tao beer. A fancy red ribbon was attached to its handle, along with a handwritten note.

  Lau, We miss you. Here’s a little something for you to enjoy in the afterlife. Much love, your Ginger.

  What a guy, what a guy. The creep had obviously stolen the six-pack from off of some poor man’s grave in a Chinese cemetery.

  I handed him a warm bottle and he pried the cap off, using his gold front tooth as an opener. Dwayne wasted no time but downed half of the beer in a single slug.

  “You know what would hit the spot with this? How about some moo shu pork and a couple
of eggrolls?” he bantered, apparently feeling much better.

  “I have another idea. Let’s cut the crap and get down to business,” I proposed, as he lifted the bottle and took another gulp. A trickle of beer ran down his chin and onto his throat. “Why don’t you tell me who’s running this operation?”

  “Yeah, right,” Dwayne said with a snort, sending a stream of liquid shooting out his nose. “One lousy brewski and you expect me to get on my back and spread my legs like some kind of whore? What do you think I am? Stupid or something?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, unable to get the image of Dwayne on his back out of my head. “Tell me this. What are you being paid for your efforts? It’s obviously not enough. For chrissakes, you can’t even afford to buy your own beer.”

  Dwayne dropped the empty bottle on the ground and let loose a burp. “Bullshit. It just so happens I make out pretty damn good. Not only that, but I also work on my own schedule. How many people do you know who would kill for something like that? But since you’re being so damn nosy, I’ll tell you what I get paid. Five dollars a pop for each lizard. Add those puppies up and it’s not bad for a night’s work, huh?”

  I didn’t know which amazed me more. The fact that he’d said it with a straight face, or that he was so damn stupid.

  “You’re putting me on, right?” I asked in astonishment.

  “No. I told you the money was good,” the kid boasted.

  “For God’s sakes, that’s pathetic! You’re being totally ripped off,” I revealed.

  Jeez, I didn’t even like the guy and I felt sorry for him.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, and angrily rattled the handcuffs.

  “You’re out here putting your butt on the line and for what? Do you have any idea what your boss is getting for just one of those geckos in that bag?”

  “He told me they go for about twenty bucks,” Dwayne retorted, stubbornly jutting out his chin.

  “And I suppose you never checked it out, just to make certain he was telling the truth?” I quizzed.