Forever Poi

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-s***h-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.