Ladies, Ladies

 

While I was at The Next Wave, I figured I might as well fire up my laptop and check for email. There was a message from Sampson with a reminder about our meeting in Wahiawa at two, as well as a copy of the ballistics results.

 

Brad Jacobson and Tommy Singer had been killed with a rapid-fire pistol, probably a Beretta. Crime scene investigation had revealed that they had both been fully clothed when shot, though very close to each other, and both had been dispatched with multiple bullets to the brain. Quick, relatively painless deaths. The killer had then stripped them down, posed them, and quickly rinsed their clothes in the ocean.

 

It was definitely the work of an unstable mind, and it bothered me. The first three murders had been cold and efficient; the motivation here was a lot murkier. There was no clear connection between the murders I’d been sent to the North Shore to investigate and these two; virtually everything was different. The only links were the location—Brad’s and Tommy’s bodies had been found at Pipeline, and Mike had been shot there—and the fact that like the first three, Tommy was a surfer, although in an entirely different class.

 

But I had some gut feeling, similar to the one Sampson had, that these murders were related. It was possible that the first three killings had been steps in a process that unhinged the killer—with each death, he or she became progressively unstable, leading to the weirdness surrounding Brad’s and Tommy’s death.

 

That was very spooky, because it meant that a killer whose brain was increasingly deteriorating was loose on the North Shore with a wide selection of weapons at his or her disposal.

 

Along with the ballistics results, Sampson had included some basic information on Rich Sarkissian, including his address, which I had been unable to find myself—his phone was unlisted, and as a renter, he wasn’t listed in any of the property records I could search. I didn’t know how Sampson had found the address, but I was glad he had.

 

I went out to my truck and got my street map of the North Shore; Rich’s address seemed to be on a rise overlooking Kawailoa Beach, not far from Bishop Clark’s place. I decided I’d swing past on my way to Wahiawa. Maybe I could peek through the windows, see the murder weapon lying out on a table, and solve the whole case before lunch. Unlikely, but a boy can dream.

 

I figured that Rich would already be at Bishop’s, but I was careful as I cruised past his place. It was a cute little cottage, perched on a bluff with what I figured was a fabulous view of the ocean, and the few surfers who were already out on the waves, daring both the Pacific and the possibility of getting shot off their boards.

 

It was kind of ironic that, hating surfers as he did, Rich’s front windows had a perfect view of them. As I looked around, I wondered idly how Rich could afford to live in such a place. Sampson’s notes had indicated that Rich was a renter, and I knew from the signs up at Fujioka’s that a place like his was pretty expensive. It was possible, of course, that he had some kind of deal, the way I did at Cane Landing. Perhaps Bishop Clark owned the property and it was part of Rich’s salary.

 

But I remembered Terri saying that Bishop had pretty much run through his inheritance and sold off everything he owned except that beachfront property. So it was unlikely that he owned the cottage. I made a note to check the property records myself.

 

Where could Rich get the money to afford a place like that, I kept wondering, as I drove down to the beach. The first answer that sprung to my mind was the same place Lucie Zamora got the money to afford her designer clothing—crystal meth. I wondered if Rich knew Lucie.

 

Perhaps Rich had been killing off his competition. Maybe Mike, Lucie and Ronnie had all been crystal meth dealers, and Rich had killed them off to corner the market?

 

The flip side to that was that someone else had been doing the killings, and Rich himself might be a target.

 

But Tommy Singer didn’t connect to any of them—Mike, Lucie, Ronnie or Rich. How did he fit in? I felt sure that there was something I was still missing, and that was the one thing that would point me in the right direction.

 

I headed toward the Kam Highway for the trip south. I tried not to think about what was going to happen, but by the time I arrived at the station I couldn’t avoid it. Most likely, Ruiz and Kawamoto wouldn’t be happy about getting outside help. I know if I was in their position, I wouldn’t want anyone else butting in on my case.

 

It was one thing to get help from an outside source, an expert, say. And if I’d been undercover on this case from day one, the way you might be on a drug case, then no one would have any cause for resentment. But now it would be clear to Ruiz and Kawamoto that Sampson wasn’t happy with their progress, didn’t trust them, and felt they needed somebody else.

 

Me. That was the second part of the equation. I wasn’t every cop’s favorite person, because my sexuality and my notoriety combined to make me an outcast. Sampson would not have an easy time bringing me back inside; but that’s why he was the lieutenant.

 

The best thing would be for the detectives to accept me, and leave me on my own. I’d be happy to report in, pass along whatever I found out. I didn’t need to be on the inside, looking over their shoulders, questioning everything they did. I just had to make them understand that.

 

Though I knew it was the coward’s way out, I waited in the parking lot for Sampson, so we were able to go inside together and meet with Ruiz and Kawamoto immediately. He was wearing what I had come to realize was one of his trademark polo shirts, this one black, with gray slacks. He did not look happy.

 

“I don’t like to do this, Kimo,” he said to me in the parking lot, looking around to make sure no one could hear us. “But I’m going to ask you to keep an eye on these guys. If you pass on information, I want to know that they run with it as necessary. Any time you feel they’re ignoring you, I want to hear about it.”

 

“I need to know what I’m walking into, Lieutenant. Do you suspect something is going on?”

 

He frowned. “I just don’t know. But I looked at the evidence you came up with, and I don’t see why Kevin and Al didn’t find out at least some of it. I mean, you just looked the three surfers up on the Internet and found they’d all been in Mexico, right?”

 

I nodded.

 

“So why couldn’t they? Jesus, they’ve got computers, and they’ve both been to training classes. They aren’t stupid guys—they’ve got a damned good clearance rate. Which makes me think there’s something fishy going on.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be back at headquarters in an hour, so we’re going to have to make this quick. Come on.”

 

Sampson led me inside, and once we met with Kevin Ruiz and Al Kawamoto, he got right to the point. “When I took over this investigation, you guys told me you were having trouble getting information,” he said. “You thought that the surfers up here didn’t trust cops and wouldn’t tell you what you needed to know. Am I right?”

 

Kawamoto’s posture, slouched back in his chair, accentuated his fat belly and made him seem even more like dumb country boy. That was reinforced when he started to argue, and Sampson cut him off. “Am I right?”

 

“Yes,” Ruiz said. Ruiz, on the other hand, was still looking slick, as if he’d visited some fancy men’s clothing store on his way to work.

 

“So I brought somebody in who could talk to the surfers for you. Contrary to popular belief, Detective Kanapa’aka did not turn in his badge. Instead, he has been working undercover to supplement your efforts.”

 

Kawamoto started to speak, but Sampson held up his hand. “Notice I said supplement, not replace. Kanapa’aka has been reporting directly to me. He’s now prepared to share everything he has found with you, with the idea that you will remain the primaries on this case, and he will remain undercover. But from now on, he will pass his information directly to you. Are we understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Ruiz said. “I spoke to Detective Kanapa’aka yesterday and I was impressed at the information he had gathered. He emailed some materials to me yesterday evening that I think can help us move along our investigation. I’m sure we will all be able to work together.” He shot a look at his partner that I’m pretty sure Sampson missed, one that said, ‘keep your mouth shut.’

 

“Good. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He got up and walked out of the room.

 

“I’ve only worked for him for a couple of weeks,” I said. “He always like this?”

 

“He wants results,” Ruiz said. “We haven’t delivered. You have.”

 

I pulled out my notes, really just a rehash of what I had emailed the evening before. “Okay, I’m ready if you are.”

 

Kawamoto was largely silent the whole time Ruiz and I talked. I went over every step of my investigation with them, beginning with the lucky break of running into Brad Jacobson at the North Shore Marketplace.

 

“I thought there was something fishy about your story, but I figured it had to do with sex,” Ruiz said. “Like you met him in a chat room or an X-rated bookstore.”

 

“You were right, I was holding out. But not any more.” I walked them through Brad’s makeover one more time, then meeting up at the bar with all his friends.

 

“Like a gay grapevine,” Ruiz said, nodding. “We could never have tapped into that.”

 

“He tapped into it with his dick,” Kawamoto snorted.

 

I stood up. Though my heart was racing, I tried to keep my voice calm. “I’m only going to say this once. I know you don’t like me, and that’s okay. We aren’t going to come out of this as drinking buddies. But I earned my badge just like you did, and I expect you to respect me. If you can’t do that, I have nothing more to say.”

 

“I don’t have to like you or respect you,” Kawamoto said. “But I do have to work with your faggot ass, so sit back down and stop throwing a hissy fit.”

 

“I’ll throw your fat ass through that door if you call me a faggot one more time.” I paused. “And I won’t bother to open it first.”

 

“Ladies, ladies,” Ruiz said. “Let’s all be friends here, all right? Kimo, you work for HPD, Al, you do too. Let’s agree not to talk stink about each other, at least for as long as this investigation goes on? Please?”

 

He looked at Kawamoto, who didn’t say anything for a long beat. Finally he said, “All right.”

 

“Kimo?”

 

“Fine by me.” I sat down again, and laid out for them what I had learned from each one of Brad’s friends.

 

“Let’s talk about this guy you say hates surfers,” Ruiz said. “What’s his name?”

 

“Rich Sarkissian.” I showed them what Sampson had dug up on Rich. “I haven’t had a chance to go through it all, but I will. For now, he’s the only strong lead I have.”

 

“You have a connection to The Next Wave, too,” Ruiz said. “Lucie worked there, and your guy said that’s where he thought her drugs came from. Why don’t we see if we can do anything with that information.”

 

“We can cross-reference with Vice,” Kawamoto said, finally contributing something useful to the conversation. “See if any other known dealers have connections there.”

 

We agreed that they would continue the up-front investigation, as well as looking into The Next Wave. I would keep investigating Rich Sarkissian, and keep surfing, hoping somebody would swim along who had the clue we were looking for.