Forever Poi

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Book excerpt

Prologue

“That’s one mother of a fire,” Cousin Reynalda exclaimed, wrinkling a Hollywood [perfect] nose as an acrid burned-toast smell pervaded thick, humid-heavy air. “Weird, but I’ve got a real hankering for s’mores.”

            “I’m thinking roasted tofu myself,” Linda stated, breathing down my neck. “You, JJ?”

            “…Corn on the cob, maybe.”

            Rey snorted. “Get real.”

On the opposite side, eight and nine doors down respectively, tendrils of amber and silvery flames interwoven with raven-black smoke twirled heavenward from two art galleries. The two kitschy salons seemed out-of-place in Honolulu’s Chinatown, like wagyu beef amid flank steak. In homage to art-washing, the owners had chosen the unconventional location to bring culture to a district that saw life’s cast-offs struggling with liquid addictions and monetary woes.

A wailing ambulance braked to a stop behind a recently arrived mate. When paramedics sprang from the vehicle, urgent commands and questions fused with frantic action.

Four fire trucks and a half dozen cruisers were positioned near a narrow lane that ran between the galleries. Their bright emergency lights, flashing like dance-club strobes, bounced off concrete and people. Like flies and ants at a church picnic, reporters and journalists scrambled from remote trucks and live-eye vans situated sporadically along the street. Cameras and mikes were zealously poised to capture the smoldering excitement for viewers and readers.

As ominous yellow tapes flapped like long-forgotten prom ribbons in the breezy night, law and fire enforcement personnel briskly attempted to piece together what had transpired. Patiently but firmly, police officers held the curious at bay while firefighters darted like baseball players racing for home plate.

Rey, her best friend Linda, and I peered back out a second-floor window of our corner office, the Triple Threat Investigation Agency. Our heads and shoulders were all but super-glued together as we gazed repeatedly from one end of a smoke-dense, water-logged street to the other.

            It was 10:20 in the evening, early January, and warm as Hades. We’d popped home to our Ala Moana condos to tend to pets, then grabbed a quick bite at a favorite Korean barbecue joint before returning. The plan: update the company website and complete two final reports and invoices for a couple of wayward spouse cases. We were getting pretty good at them, which wasn’t a bad thing, but we really wanted to engage in more challenging detective work than shadowing cheating partners.

In addition to the aforementioned, there’d been two formidable cases since setting up shop a few months ago. We’d done pretty decently, considering the only experience prior to becoming private eyes was neophyte involvement in multiple murders back at Aunt Mat’s haunted Connecticut mansion. Talk about [shaky] hands-on training.

            “Isn’t that Ald by the restaurant?” Linda asked.

            I watched the ruggedly handsome detective (reminiscent of Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises) tuck a Smartphone into the breast pocket of a short-sleeved polo shirt, leap over a pumping hose, and sidle up to a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man of Polynesian descent.

            “If he’s here, there must have been a murder,” Rey stated excitedly.

            “If that’s the case, that fire’s a result of arson.” Linda stepped back and snatched a half-eaten bowl of poi sprinkled with raw sugar and cinnamon.

While she liked it sweet, Rey preferred taro in the form of chips, and me as soft-serve ice-cream or mooncakes. Maybe we worked together, lived in the same building, and pretty much did everything as a threesome, but we had distinctive likes, dislikes, and personalities. Rey was melodramatic and tended to run on overdrive (think “locomotive”) while Linda was serenely confident and easy-going. I leaned toward the practical and stubborn.

            “What’s say we check it out?”

            “Right, Cous,” I stated wryly. “The homicide detective would welcome us sticking our noses where they don’t belong.”

            “He’d probably yell at us to get off his turf and have officers drag us home.” Linda spooned a mouthful of the sweetened paste past unusual button-shaped lips. “He’s really not your favorite fan, JJ—not since he learned you were under the covers with renowned local drug dealer, Richie J.”

             Ald and I had had an odd warm-cool-lukewarm relationship since the agency’s second key case involving the deaths of Jimmy Picolo, an infamous entrepreneur, and his nutty employee nicknamed Coco (in fact, these had been two of a few). Drawing a sharp breath, I recalled the night Ald had learned of Richie J.

I’d shot a traitorous government agent to death when I’d aimed for the shoulder, but caught him in the heart (meeting a bullseye had always proven challenging). That tense scene had transpired in the main cabin berth of a sleek Alerion 41. To not blow his cover, undercover agent Richie J—real name Cash Layton Jones—had hastily devised a story to explain my presence in a drug dealer’s nautical bed. The arrogant, audacious man (yeah, I could pick them) and I had had a short-term, tempestuous on-off relationship which, at the moment, was non-existent.

As far as Ald was concerned, Richie J was scum, someone he was determined to put behind bars for life. Fortunately, Richie/Cash now resided in Miami, far out of the detective’s jurisdiction … and my life.

The detective must have sensed someone watching for he gazed vigilantly around before zeroing in on us. At the same second our eyes connected, a small explosion rocked the street with the velocity of a low-magnitude earthquake.

Instinctively, Rey and I jumped back, and almost instantly, like over-cranked Jack-in-the-Box toys, the three of us poked out our heads to see the blaze surge and spiral like a meteor shower. Those working the scene rushed around as if they’d ingested mega doses of caffeine and media folks scrabbled like crabs crossing a wave-washed pier.

Two firefighters speedily yet diligently escorted one of their own from the smoke-filled laneway to an ambulance as two men transported a wrapped body.

“I’ve Gotta be Me” by Sammy Davis Jr. announced a call. I didn’t recognize the number or name, but answered my cell phone regardless.

“Fonne, you’d better have a damn good reason for you and your colleagues being up there.”

“It’s our office. No one advised us—”

“Save it,” Ald snapped. “I can’t find Shillingford’s contact info. You’re on quasi-business terms with him. Get him to call me.”

I gazed around and sighted the detective on the sidewalk immediately below. “What’s up?”

“None of your business.”

“It will be, if Xavier’s involved,” I affirmed, fighting a juvenile urge to stick out my tongue.

Insurance adjuster Francis Xavier Shillingford (he preferred being called by his middle name) had arrived on Oahu last November. Not long after, he’d approached the agency to see if we could collaborate on insurance cases when additional investigation proved necessary. While we’d not yet worked together, the four of us had remained in contact and had occasionally gone out for drinks. Oddly enough, the person who’d put Xavier in touch with us was none other than Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives (his unconventional pathologist mom and chemist dad named their twins Gerald One and Gerald Two, or Ger and Ald for short).

I put the man on speaker. “Did someone torch the galleries? Are Carlos and James-Henri okay?”

Rey and Linda sidled close, concerned and curious.

“You know the gallery owners?”

“We’d met them over the holidays, courtesy of Xavier, who knows both from Mainland days. In fact, I brought my mom and nephew to the galleries while they were visiting … Are they okay?” I asked again.

“I don’t know.” He sighed loudly. “But we have a body crunchier than a KFC drumstick that a newbie cook left in a fryer too long.”

“How do we know it’s not one of them?” Linda asked anxiously.

“We don’t. Mr. Charcoal-Broiled was found in Carlos Kawena’s rear studio-office seconds before the explosion. The fire appeared to be under control, but suddenly accelerated.”

“We’re talking homicide, aren’t we?” Linda prodded. “Why else would you be on the scene?”

“I was at Carlos’ private ‘6-tu-8’ earlier,” he replied slowly, as if it were an effort.

“You said ‘too’ like ‘tu’, as in French for ‘you’.” Linda eyed him curiously.

“That was the name of the little art-show-slash-birthday ‘do’.” He smiled dryly.

“You attended a ‘do’?” I had to sound as stunned as I surely appeared.

“Listen, Fonne, I can appreciate art—and the fussy crowd associated with it—like any highbrow, even with thick swirls of vivid color and distorted human-like forms, and abstract objects jammed together on one canvas, carving, or sculpture,” he groused. “Now, are you going to call Shillingford or give me his number?”

“Are you going to let us come down there?”

He cursed softly. “I’m coming up, and you’re going to have him on the phone when I get there, or else. Is the downstairs door open?”

“It will be,” I replied tersely with a nod to Linda.

Our fit and nimble-footed fellow P.I. raced from the room as he disconnected.

“He sure is p’o’d,” Rey commented as we took seats on one of two rattan sofas.

“That may be an understatement,” I said dryly.

Slipping on Hello Kitty faces, we turned to the office door and waited.

Chapter One

Ald marched into the main office with Linda immediately behind, a thin layer of sweat veiling his handsome, peevish face and flecking a cream-colored polo shirt.

            “Welcome.” With a scornful smile, I brandished an arm like a gentleman usher might someone of lesser rank.

            Glowering, he cast an eye over the room. “I don’t see you on the phone.”

            “We decided to wait until you officially brought those flat feet inside, Detective Hives—er—Ives,” Rey purred, getting up and grabbing the mobile phone from a custom-made black sideboard.

            He flipped her the bird and eyed a stylish, contemporary black desk, one of two my friends had finally agreed upon, after a small [over-the-top] free-for-all at a furniture shop. Sitting on a corner, he murmured, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

            “We like it,” I said as Linda dropped onto the sofa beside me. We’d taken possession of the Chinatown office last November, just before completing our second key case: The Coco’s Nuts Affair. The first one had been named The Gruesome Twosome Case, thanks to the two central (f’g demented) players. There’d also been a bad guy nicknamed Mr. Gruesome, due to an ugly visage only a mother could love, but we’d opted to keep it at Twosome.

The Coco’s Nuts Affair had involved multiple murders, all tied to the death of Jimmy Silone Picolo III, a diversified local entrepreneur also allegedly into racketeering and loansharking. This time, there’d been three killers, two in cahoots, and one we’d not in a million years have believed capable of serving as assassin. It went to show that you truly couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

            “Xavier’s on speaker,” Rey announced, smacking Ald’s shoulder as she slipped past and dropped onto a second, smaller sofa.

            “Hey A,” Ald said.

            “A?” Rey mouthed.

            My response was a you-got-me shrug.

            “Have you heard the news?” the detective asked.

            “I’ve been on the road with meetings and missions since noon. I just finished up in Mililani. What’s shaking?” Traffic hummed in the background as Xavier’s baritone voice boomed over the speaker.

            Ald adjusted the volume. “Two galleries are pretty close to being cinders, specifically the ones belonging to Carlos Kawena and James-Henri Ossature. Weren’t you supposed to be here for Carlos’ 6-tu-8 do?”

            “I had to be somewhere. But I had drinks with Carlos last night to celebrate his forty-sixth and he provided a sneak-peak of the exhibit.” Xavier’s voice had taken on a serious, business-like tone. “What happened? Is he okay?”

            “We found a body that wasn’t recognizable. All I know at this stage is that it’s pretty certain the fire was no accident. The only thing I can confirm is the little intimate soirée ended at eight on the nose. He’d planned to leave the gallery no later than 8:20 to be at a snooty function at nine. The fire was called in at 8:35 p.m.”

            “Did he show up at that affair?”

            “He didn’t tell me much about it. And I haven’t been able to reach James-Henri.”

            Rey, Linda and I gazed solemnly at one another.

            “Where can I meet you?”

            “I’m at the Triple Threat Investigation Agency.” Ald snickered and rolled intense Maya-blue eyes. He’d always found the name of the agency comical, but hadn’t mentioned that until a few weeks ago. In truth, I’d never liked it much either, but my theatrical over-the-top cousin, also a part-time actress (commercials primarily these days), had insisted upon it. Arguing with her was rarely worth the effort, so the Triple Threat Investigation Agency it was.

            “Be there as quick as I can.”

            “We need serious caffeine, A, not the watered-down crap I see sitting in a pot across this office.”

            “You got it.”

            Ald replaced the mobile and exhaled at length. Facial lines were beginning to deepen and a thick, notched scar along the right temple was pulsing, sure signs he was growing both fatigued and irritated.

            “A?” Linda asked, getting up and stretching.

            “A for adjuster,” he replied with a pert smile. “That’s what he does for a living.”

            “Does that mean we call you D for dick?” Rey asked breezily.

            “That’s dick as in detective, of course,” Linda said sassily.

            With a sneer, Ald moved to the window and peered onto the street.

            We did the same.

            Under an assortment of multi-colored lights and flames, the slightly less frenetic scene looked more like a cerebral fringe-theater production. Although the fire now appeared pretty much under control, everyone kept performing tasks with tenacity and focus. Reporters and photographers were clustered to the far right, some chatting to cameras and some conversing among themselves, while the dwindling crowd of curious onlookers now seemed more interested in rambling media personnel.

Two loners stood behind a barrier a few yards away. A cylindrical-shaped grizzled gent in his forties, wearing an askew Yankees cap, black T-shirt and denim vest, was taking photos with an action camera while a tall slim woman sporting a jaunty peanut-colored straw fedora hat, slim black ankle pants and floral off-the-shoulder blouse scrutinized the area. Full, dark-red glossy lips spoke into a cell phone held by long slender fingers; a large ring glimmered under stage-set lighting. Only the bottom of her angular face was visible, but I suspected it was pretty.

            “It’s going to be a long night,” the detective murmured and sighed.

é é

            Francis Xavier Shillingford arrived twenty minutes later, carrying a tray of extra-large coffees and box of donuts. “It took me a while to get through, but I’m here—with liquid energy and sustenance.”

Rey hastened forward, grabbed both, and placed them on a long, narrow counter in what we called “the sort-of kitchen”, a niche that housed a small fridge, coffee machine, kettle, and toaster oven. Her appraising gaze swept down a Tommy Bahama short-sleeved chambray sport shirt and slim-fit chinos as she pulled out plates and napkins. “Would you prefer we call you ‘A’?”

At 6’2”, the muscular insurance adjuster was easy on the eyes, a cross between Shemar Moore and Boris Kodjoe. Cousin Reynalda liked her eye candy and this was one sweet piece.

“Whatever my lady prefers.” He bowed regally and stepped to the window. “Is my boss around?”

“Isn’t he always?” Ald smirked. “How does he do it, arrive so quickly on the scene, no matter where or when? Do you know? He won’t tell me.”

“He won’t tell me, either,” Xavier grinned. “Must be the insomnia. It keeps him anxious and shuffling.”

“So, what had you so busy today besides ‘meetings and missions’? That dishy redhead I saw you with at La Mer last month?”

“She’s history.” He feigned sadness. “Some women don’t appreciate the complicated life of an insurance adjuster.”

“If there was no ‘she’ tonight, you must have been out doing good deeds, huh, Mr. Do-Gooder?”

Rey, Linda and I eyed Xavier curiously.

“Do-gooder? Me?”

“That’s the scuttlebutt,” Ald said. “I hear you keep certain Oahu neighborhoods and parks safe. Coach youth and adults with drug and alcohol issues. Help little old ladies. You’re rumored to be a mix of Superman, Sir Galahad, and Great Kahuna. Any truth to that?”

“I’m just a humble insurance adjuster. I save Conwind Assurance and its subsidiary CON Hawaii Security Systems crap-loads of money. And, occasionally, I help find the police super bad-ass bad guys.”

Leaning into a wall, he pulled out a slim Davidoff carrying case from his shirt pocket. Within were two Short Coronas.

“No smoking,” Linda said cheerily as she grabbed two coffees and brought him one.

He eyed the brown cylinders longingly, sighed wistfully, and put the case away. Accepting the coffee with a resigned smile, he was about to take a sip when the snap of a whip announced a call. He yanked out a Smartphone from a pants pocket. “Yeah?”

Linda nibbled a glazed cruller as Ald marched to a corner and made a call. Grabbing cups, Rey and I gazed back out the window.

Several seconds later, Ald cursed softly. “They found another one tucked under turned-over trash cans at back exit of James-Henri’s gallery—and this one’s crisper than our pal Lou’s kalbi ribs after he’s sucked back too many brews.”

é é

While the detective hurried back to the crime scene to view the body before it was transported to the morgue, the four of us stood before the window and chewed.

“Looks like the curious are finally going home,” Rey murmured through a mouthful of chocolatey sweetness.

“Even the reporters are dispersing,” Linda concurred and gulped coffee.

“I wonder who the two victims are,” I wondered aloud as I watched Ald converse with an officer and a paramedic.

“Hopefully not Carlos or James-Henri,” Xavier stated broodily. “Not that anyone should have died.”

“How well did you know them?” Rey asked.

“Fairly well. I met James-Henri at an NYC exhibit when I was studying business there in 2005 and Carlos—through James-Henri—in 2008. Since we’d gotten along from the onset, we remained casual friends.”

“What’re their stories?” Rey prodded.

“James-Henri and Carlos had met in the late 90s and ended up in Paris with an art consultancy business, advising collectors, the au fait and the neophyte. Most of the time, James-Henri told friends what not to buy rather than buy while Carlos tracked down promising new artists. Eventually, the two became lovers. They lasted two tumultuous years, split up, but got back together again.” Staring into the past, he chuckled.

“Do you know a lot about their early years?” I asked. “I got the impression—those few times we’d chatted with them—that those were happy days.”

Xavier nodded as he drank coffee. “After the consultancy biz started to show promise, and they’d developed a loyal client base, James-Henri bought his first gallery—a derelict warehouse.” He chuckled again and drank more coffee. “While he was getting the gallery going, Carlos was serving as a curatorial aide to a couple of small museums. Those guys worked 24/7 and absorbed knowledge like sponges.

“Anyway, very long story short, Carlos managed to acquire the financial support of an established dealer, and invested in James-Henri’s warehouse gallery. With their own exhibition space, they were able to graduate from middlemen—negotiating among artists and dealers and collectors—to representing artists on their own terms.”

“It sounds like Lady Luck was on their side,” Rey said.

“Lady Luck certainly favored them to a degree, but the guys had serious smarts, and a select group of up-and-coming and established artists.”

“So they’ve been together all these years? That’s got to be true love,” Linda said.

“Those two have had an unusual on-off-on relationship for eons but, at some point, one always ends up following the other.”

“Tell us about you and James-Henri and Carlos,” Rey requested.

“In 2007, I’d moved to Chicago and started working at Conwind. James-Henri ended up there not long after. We had a mutual friend in the entertainment business, so we’d bump into each other at exhibits and screenings. I first met Carlos when he visited James-Henri in 2008. He settled in Chicago in 2009 and stayed two years before returning to Cali, and then Hawaii.”

“Did James-Henri move to Oahu to start up the relationship again?” I asked.

“Yes. You know, Carlos hails from Maui originally, but lived here with his cousin for a few years when his parents split. He eventually moved to the Mainland to pursue art and photography. He still has a lot of friends and contacts there.”

Rey sighed softly. “It’s a shame they’ve lost the galleries—and so soon, too. They only opened—what?—three months ago?”

The insurance adjuster nodded solemnly. “Nine weeks ago today, to be exact.”

“Why two galleries?” Linda asked.

“Besides the fact that Carlos has always been into studio galleries—that is, having a single artist work there and exhibit—and James-Henri more interested in art boutiques—small, temporary exhibits—they’re too aware of their volatile history. It’s as inevitable as lava spewing from Kilauea they’ll break up at some point. That means they won’t talk to—or stand—each other for weeks, even months.” He smiled wryly. “But they’ll make up and all will be good again.”

            “Here’s hoping all is good,” Rey said somberly.

            “God willing,” Xavier said quietly, scanning the street.

“They’ll rebuild,” Linda affirmed.