Finders Keepers, page 13
By the third day, Haysmith was a changed man. He understood the facts of life according to the criminal underworld, the real world, as his captors kept reminding him. Bruised and broken, he was returned to his apartment, thrown down on the living room carpet, given one last round of kicks, and left there to consider his options in life—life in the real world. He took a week’s sick leave, then resumed his duties at Lloyds. A month later, he quietly settled the claim for the policy’s full amount plus a penalty.
Haysmith, the reconstituted Haysmith, quit Lloyds and began a new career as a special projects consultant, a fixer, an information gatherer, a dirty-tricks administrator for the criminal underworld. He realized he had been working for the wrong people all along. The underworld needed people like him, respectable people, who could accomplish tasks on both sides of the law.
His first client was the successor to the deceased crime boss. As it turned out, a lot of dirty work was to be done, with plenty of money in it for him. Malcolm Haysmith was well on his way to wealth, with an expanding client list.
After several years of special projects, building a robust practice, Haysmith was introduced to Michel Planc. He knew this was the opportunity of a lifetime. The price for working with Planc, however, was exclusivity, a hard pill to swallow. But the payoff potential was enormous.
Haysmith dropped his other clients, accepted a seven-figure signing bonus, a retainer agreement, a fee and bonus schedule, and a salary with perks galore.
Yet when Haysmith met with Planc the previous night, he wasn’t prepared for the force of the old man’s fury.
“Do you understand?” Planc shouted at him.
“Some of it,” agreed Haysmith. “But where am I going to find the ten-million dollars?”
Planc shook his head. “Oh, goddamnit, that’s no problem. I’ll have it queued up for you in the morning. But be very careful. You need to move it so no one can ever trace it back to us—to me. Understand? And you need to hand the money to him by day after tomorrow, no later than that.”
Haysmith said, “Okay, tell me when the money is ready, and I’ll send it on its way. What else?”
“Dietrich. He knows too much. I don’t want him to be spilling his guts to anyone. Ever.”
Haysmith waited, expecting something specific. When nothing came, he asked, “Are we talking about a permanent solution—or what?”
Planc said, “Yes, permanent, and soon.”
“How soon?” Haysmith probed.
“Forty-eight hours or less.” The old man seemed to settle down.
“Sounds like a job for someone like Erebus,” Haysmith observed.
Planc grunted. “Like Erebus, maybe, but not Erebus. He’s joined at the hip with Dietrich. Oh, and be careful around Erebus, Haysmith, he’d shoot your balls off for fun.”
Planc laughed, a rasping laugh that ended in a bout of coughing. He produced a gold cigarette case, extracted an English Oval, and lit it with the lighter from the coffee table between the two men. He inhaled deeply and blew out smoke, then started coughing again.
When the coughing stopped, Planc said, “So not Erebus, but someone reliable. Also, I need to know as soon as it’s done. A lot is riding on this. I don’t want to hear any details, just that it’s done. Oh, and tomorrow, get in touch with that Touma Allen character and tell him you’re offering a chance his deal can be resurrected, but he’s not to tell anybody until we can draw up a revised partnership plan. Above all, he’s not to talk to Dietrich. Tell him that. And tell him that if he doesn’t follow our instructions to the letter, the deal will die.”
Haysmith was making notes on the back of a utility bill he happened to have in his pocket. He said, “Okay, I need to return to my apartment and go to work. So, let’s see, the money transfer, Dietrich, and call Allen. Anything else?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. Haysmith …”
“Yes, Herr Planc?”
“Note carefully. You have two days, and the sequence of events is critical. This all needs to happen without a hitch!”
That was how the meeting had gone the night before. In the morning, Haysmith had boiled his instructions down to six bright-yellow post-its. He liked post-its; he could move them around, change the order, make patterns, move the pieces—and a lot of moving pieces were needed to execute Planc’s instructions.
He arrayed the six papers on his desktop, creating a kind of post-it outline.
1. Heinrich Dietrich
(48 hour window with 40 hours left.)
2. Le Havre
(Pay in two days max. Shipment due one week.)
3. Touma Allen
(Get LM money in play, with handcuffs.)
4. Erebus
(What to do about him?)
5. John Horan
(The Seattle cop. Anything on him?)
6. Finnegan Michael
(Ex-cop. Missing. Anything on him?)
Haysmith picked up the phone and called Touma Allen’s cellphone. The time was 8 p.m. in Honolulu.
“Touma here.” The voice was gruff, and Haysmith pegged him as either a former dock worker or a man with a large gut who drank and maybe smoked.
“Mr. Allen, you haven’t met me, but I represent the group originally financing your Honolulu project. My name is Haysmith.”
“Yes, hold for a moment. I’m with someone,” said Touma.
“Actually, I’m going to text you an access code for my encrypted office line. When you’re alone and can talk, just hit the link, and we’ll be connected.”
“I said I’m with someone. I can’t talk now.” The fat former dockworker, or whatever, was annoyingly grumpy.
“Fine, Mr. Allen. Only you might want to talk to me within the next few minutes because I may be able to help you resurrect your project. You know the one I mean. The one that just died.”
“Sorry? Who are you again?”
“My name is Haysmith. I represent some gentlemen who might be willing to fully finance your project, the one you had going with Banc Schaffhausen. You know what I am talking about?”
“Yes—yes.”
“I’ll send you the link. Call in ten minutes. You need to be alone. This is very important, Mr. Allen. Important for you, I mean.” Manipulating people was fun for Haysmith. He felt as if he himself had the five-hundred million to offer or withhold.
“Yes, of course, ten minutes,”
The call came through, and five minutes after that, post-it number three was in play. Allen responded to the news like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver, gasping audibly when he heard that the project could actually be funded within a week. When Haysmith told him not to talk to Dietrich about this deal, the banker’s name elicited a string of obscenities. Touma was definitely on Haysmith’s side, for now. They would meet by video and begin hammering out the details the day after next.
Allen ended the call with, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Haysmith smiled to himself. That was easy. He took a deep breath, then put a finger on post-it number one, the uppermost post on his desktop.
1. Heinrich Dietrich
(48 hour window with 40 hours left.)
CHAPTER 18
Flash saw three parked police cruisers, lights flashing, just off Poipu road in front of an old, white clapboard house tucked in behind the mortuary. Crime-scene tape was strung post-to-post around the screened-in porch. The cruisers were parked on the lawn, one blocking the path leading to the front door.
The cops hadn’t been there when Flash had run past just an hour earlier. Curious, he stopped and mopped the sweat from around his eyes.
Kellie and an older guy, both in uniform, were walking down the front steps from the porch toward the cop car.
“Good morning, officers.”
Kellie looked up and waved. “Hey, Flash. Flash, come here for a sec.”
Flash walked toward them across the lawn.
“Flash, I’d like you to meet Bob Murphy. Bob, this is Flash Thorsten Tucker, Mia Mahoe’s renter in Koloa Town, above the surf shop.”
Flash nodded his head in a mini bow. “Officer Murphy, nice to meet you.”
Murphy smiled.
“Flash is here on a midlife crisis crusade, Bob. You know the drill: Haole escapes the mainland to live the island life.”
Bob Murphy was a couple of inches shorter than Kellie and quite a bit older. He was overweight, with weathered skin; wrinkles well-established on his face; a fleshy nose; and bushy black eyebrows. Like so many other cops Flash knew, Murphy had heavily starched his shirt in an attempt to avoid it bunching up over his ever-developing paunch. Murphy smiled and extended a big, suntanned hand in greeting. He had a solid, warm grip. Flash liked him immediately.
“Why do they call you Flash?” asked Murphy.
“Because I am a blazingly fast runner. Didn’t you notice?”
“Well, no, that wasn’t my first impression.”
They laughed. Guessing that he wouldn’t get an answer, Flash asked the question anyway. “How’s the investigation going?”
Murphy’s smile turned to a grimace. He looked down at the ground, as if searching for the right words. “Well, we’ve done the house. Found some pretty interesting stuff,” he said. He looked up at Flash and said, “We have to look at the forensics back at the shop and see what story that tells us. It’s a hell of a mess in there. Someone was searching for something.”
Kellie grinned and said, “So, Bob, does he look like a cop to you?”
“Jesus, Kellie!” Flash glared at her.
“See, Bob,” Kellie continued, hands on her hips, “we think Flash here is or was a cop before undertaking his midlife crisis, just so you know.”
Flash shook his head.
Murphy grinned. “How the hell can you have a midlife crisis in Hawaii on a cop’s salary? Sounds fishy to me.”
“You know, Bob, I couldn’t agree with you more. Kellie here has a super-active imagination, that’s all.”
Murphy rocked back on his heels slightly, still smiling, and said, “Oh, I’d be careful with that one, young fella. Kellie and me, we’ve been partners for, well, five years?” He paused as if summing up the passage of time. “This old Kellie girl, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. I’d be inclined to go with her instincts over anything you might want to push my way—just to say it. But hey—either way, Kellie, we need to get going.”
Flash said quickly, in a quieter voice, “Any surprises in the house? Just curious.”
“Well you’ll be reading about it soon enough, so I guess I can tell you, and besides, if you were a cop and all—”
“Bob, please don’t encourage her!”
“Anyway, whoever trashed this place missed finding a shitload of cash, like forty-thousand or so, and also missed a pretty good drug stash too,” Bob continued, taking off his hat and running his hand through his thinning black hair. “Not a professional thief, that’s for darn sure. In fact, probably just a dopehead or a drunk. Although we don’t see this type of crime around here very often. The real news, anyway, is our Mr. P. is looking a lot like a serious dealer. Don’t know how the perp missed the treasure, but there you go—perps, not the best and brightest.”
Flash grunted, then asked, “Any news about the boys?”
Kellie said, “The boys. Yeah, well, Paul’s out on bail as of this morning. Keanu is still in the lockup, though, for the time being. On the face of it, he looks a lot like a dealer, too, or maybe Mr. P.’s runner. Anyway, he’s got priors for possession, two actually, and an assault charge. Even though they both have alibis for the night of the murder. So we’re charging Keanu with trafficking. Gotta go, Flash.”
Flash thanked them, turned, and began jogging, loping really, back to Poipu Road and up toward Old Koloa Town.
By the time he reached Koloa Roasters, he was walking, cooling down. He spotted Mia, Emma, and Janet Nakamura at Mia’s regular table, heads close together, bobbing and animated. Mia looked over at Flash, raised her arm, and made a hand gesture that Flash interpreted as an invitation to join them.
Good, he thought. A lot was going on in his developing social circle, and he wanted to hear the news.
Flash collected his order, a mango scone and large cappuccino, then walked toward the group. As always, Mia stood out, wearing a pink muumuu arrayed with giant, red bird-of-paradise block prints—very Hawaiian and very Japanese. Emma was dressed for work in a blue pants suit, and Janet was looking lawyerly as usual, in a gray skirt with a long-sleeve white dress shirt, her blue blazer hung over the back of her chair. All the chatter stopped as the ladies watched Flash sit down.
Janet broke the silence. “Flash! Hi. We were just talking about you.”
Mia shook her finger at Janet. “Don’t tell him that. He’s very thin-skinned about his reputation, in case you didn’t know it. Very sensitive. We all agreed to handle him with kid gloves, him being in a midlife whatever-you-call-it.”
“Crisis,” prompted Emma and giggled.
Flash looked over at Emma, who was radiant in the early morning sun. He realized that he had come to like all three of these women, even Mia, for God’s sake.
“Any news? As if I have to ask,” he said.
Mia’s hoop earrings swung as she answered with enthusiasm. “Paul is out on bail, thanks to Janet here. That’s the big news. Oh wait, and that Mr. P. guy, he’s some sort of drug kingpin, something like that. They found lots of money and drugs in his house, that’s news too.”
Flash smiled and shook his head. “Mia, how do you know? I was just down at Peterson’s house where Kellie and what’s-his-name—”
“Bob, it’s Bob Murphy, Kellie’s partner,” said Mia.
“Yeah, Bob. Anyway, how do you know about the money and stash? They just found the stuff.”
Mia simply smiled at him and continued. “Keanu is not a good boy. We think he’s trouble. We agreed that Paul should be made to move back home as a condition for bail. Of course the judge, a friend of Emma’s father, agreed. So Paul has moved back into his old room. You know, he is really a sensitive boy, an artist.”
Emma added, “Well, he should be home. He’s in a lot of trouble. We’ll have to wait and see if this whole situation really changes him, though. One thing I’ve got to say is that he’s been a lot more pleasant to me lately.”
“Of course he has been. You’re a wonderful mother,” said Mia.
Janet said, “I think we might be able to get through this without him having a record—I do. He’s a good kid, no priors. They found some drugs in Keanu’s place, and it was Keanu’s pack, not Paul’s. I’m guessing.” She took a sip of her coffee. “We can have Paul out from under the shadow of the law if he cooperates. If he cooperates and behaves himself.”
Mia sat up straight, looking around the table. “I mostly wonder where these darn drugs come from in the first place. How do they wind up in Kauai? Who’s poisoning our island?”
“Good question,” said Flash.
Janet nodded. “I don’t know where they come from—well, I mean, of course most of them come from one of the other islands, probably Oahu—but they’re plentiful. I see a lot of telltale signs. Kids strung out. I wonder if someone at the hospital or in the medical community could be a source.”
“Is it the tourists,” asked Flash.
Janet shook her head. “No, tourists buy drugs, certainly, and an available supply is always around for that group—but the real trouble on this island is among the residents. We have what seems to be a growing drug culture. People who live here are increasingly using meth and crack, and now a growing presence of heroin too. Bad news for all of us. We should ask Kellie. She’d know.”
Mia said, “Well, Flash, you’d know all about this, wouldn’t you? Yeah, you would. I can tell.”
Mia was looking hard at Flash, and Flash, not to be outstared by anyone, accepted the challenge and locked his eyes with hers. “Jesus, Mia.”
“Oh, stop with your whining. We’re just talking. But this is our problem, and we should talk about it, and do what we can to help the people we can help.” She paused, then said, “It’s our island, after all.”
She continued to look at Flash. “And since you have nothing better to do but be self-absorbed, what with your midlife crisis and all, well, you should think of others, and help us out here. Helping others is good for the soul.”
Now that he was bailed out of jail, Paul was back in his room in his mother’s house—his old house, his old life. A condition of bail was that he move back home until his case was adjudicated, settled, or whatever. He was relieved to be out of jail, for sure, the place was creepy, really creepy, and smelled funny, with really bad dudes hanging around. The food sucked, too. What a horrible spot.
Paul felt as if he had taken five steps back in life. Just like when he was a kid, he was being told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. His mom was hovering and worrying. In a way, he was sad about her. This was a mess, and it was his doing, but she was taking it personally, as though he had done terrible things to her. That made his stomach ache.
She’d made him promise to talk to this old geezer, Flash something or other. He couldn’t remember the last name. Flash, Jesus, what a stupid-sounding name for an old guy. His mom said she and Auntie Mia thought he’d been a cop in another life and could help Paul, talk to him. What could some old haole possibly know about his life? And why exactly would he want to speak to an ex-cop anyway?
He heard a knock at his door. “Paul, can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
The door opened, and his mom was standing there as if she were waiting for permission to enter. Behind her, a head taller than her, stood the old geezer himself.
“Paul?”
“Yeah, yeah. What, Mom?”
“Paul, Auntie Mia’s friend Flash has come by to talk to you. Can we come in?”
“Yeah, might as well.”
The old guy came out from behind his mom and walked into the room. An old beach bum. Sort of tall, with long, black hair, his nose a little crooked, he was smiling an old-geezer smile. He wore a t-shirt that said, “Hug Me I’m Hawaiian,” for God’s sake, and hiking shorts. And the icing on the beachcomber cake—he had on Birkenstocks, bent back, broken down by saltwater. The geezer extended his hand, so Paul stood up from the bed and shook.
