Sinister Paradise (10 page)

N
ANCY
'
S MIND GROPED
its way out of the dark. She was vaguely conscious of motion and of sounds fading in and out. The distant cry of a frigate bird. The
thrumming
of tires on asphalt. The muted
ka-thump
of a car's automatic transmission shifting to a lower gear.

Slowly her eyes opened. She was lying on the back seat of a luxury car. The driver's head loomed above her, round and bald. She started to sit up, then felt a nylon cord wound tight around her wrists.

Looking out into the twilight, Nancy just caught a glimpse of a darker peak through the
side window. We're heading into the mountains, she thought. I never should have gone to Apex by myself. Now the Malihini Corporation has me, too!

Minutes later the car slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Nancy heard the driver's door open and then close.

The rear door swung open. A shadowy hulk reached in. Nancy tensed, preparing to struggle, but the man lifted her as tenderly as he might a baby.

Outside, she got a good look at him. He was built like a pro wrestler, but his face had an innocent expression that didn't match his dangerous-looking bulk.

As the man strolled into the garden of a palatial estate, Nancy twisted and struggled. But she couldn't shake his iron grip at all. At last they came to a patio aglow with light from hidden lamps. Three people were sitting in white wrought-iron furniture, sipping tall drinks. Nancy recognized two of them.

Mitsuo Kaimonsaki and Amy Sorenson!

The third was a wizened, shrew-eyed old man whose Hawaiian shirt seemed one size too large for him.

Nancy's captor spoke. “I brung her like you wanted, boss.”

“You did well, Oscar boy. Now, set her down,” the old man said in a whispery voice. “Hello
there, Nancy. I'm Lester Jarman. I believe you already know my guests.”

Jarman! Nancy remembered at once. C. K. Faulkner's old business partner, the retired co-founder of Windward Fidelity Bank.

“Oscar, untie Ms. Drew.” Lester flashed a contrite smile. “I apologize for the melodramatic way you were brought here to Waikaloa, Nancy. But I think you can appreciate the need for secrecy.”

Nancy rubbed her sore wrists. “Did anyone ever tell you that kidnapping is a crime, Mr. Jarman?”

“Seems I might have read that someplace.” He sipped nonchalantly from his drink. “You know, you've got my people all stirred up, Nancy.”

Folding her arms, Nancy replied, “Why don't you drop the act? It's obvious that you three set up the Malihini Corporation.”

Lester Jarman winced. “I knew she'd say that.” He turned to Amy. “Well, this was your idea. Would you care to set Ms. Drew straight?”

Nancy blinked in surprise. So these people weren't the Malihini Corporation! Then why had they kidnapped her and brought her here to Lester Jarman's estate?

“Allow me.” Mitsuo put his empty glass on the table. “Nancy, some of us feel that you've been a little too . . . indiscreet in your investigation.”

“Don't sugarcoat it like that, Mitsuo,” Amy
interrupted. She glared at Nancy. “Look, you're upsetting far too many people these days!”

“You mean, like those in the Malihini Corporation?”

“That's exactly what I mean.” Amy stood up suddenly. “I want Lisa back as much as anybody. However, I am
not
willing to see the bank destroyed in the process! Ross and Alice told you that our bank is highly vulnerable. The last thing we need right now is you blaring the name “Malihini Corporation' all over the police teletypes!”

Nancy's eyebrows lifted at that. “And how do you know that I've been to the police, Ms. Sorenson?”

Amy Sorenson flushed slightly. “A pair of detectives came to see me this afternoon. DiPrizio and Giles. They were not very polite.”

Mitsuo Kaimonsaki said calmly, “I can assure you, we're not criminals. And never meant to hurt you.” His hands fluttered slightly. “We only wanted to have a private chat with you. Please! Can't we keep the police out of this?”

Lester Jarman cleared his throat. His subordinates turned to face him, obedient and expectant.

“Mitsuo, why don't you go in and fix yourself another drink? You too, Amy. I'd like to talk to Ms. Drew alone.”

Mr. Kaimonsaki rose immediately and headed
for the luxurious mansion, but Amy Sorenson loitered on the patio. “I wish you'd let me stay, Lester. I'm sure I could convince this girl—”

“Now, Amy, don't you fret. I can handle things.”

Beep-beep-beep-beep!
All eyes were drawn to the poolside table. The harsh sound was coming from Miss Sorenson's brushed leather handbag. Nancy glanced at the woman just in time to see an alarmed expression cross her lovely face.

No one moved. Lester said querulously, “Will you shut that beeper off?”

“Of course.” Rushing to the table, Amy Sorenson grabbed the handbag. The sound died, and she set off for the house, swinging the bag casually.

“I hate those fool things,” Lester muttered, shifting his position in the deck chair. He tilted his head toward the house. “Don't you mind them, Nancy. They're just worried about the Malihini Corporation.”

“Mrs. Faulkner has better reason to worry,” Nancy said, taking a seat. “They've got her granddaughter.”

“So I hear.”

“You don't sound too concerned about it, Mr. Jarman.”

Reaching for his drink again, Jarman said, “Don't get me wrong. I like Alice. I do. I just never could understand her maudlin preoccupation with her family. Kids!” He snorted and took
a sip. “Blamed nuisance. Worse than beepers. At least you can shut beepers off.

“Let's deal,” Jarman murmured, a fiery gleam in his eyes. “You want something. I want something. You want Alice's granddaughter. I want the Malihini Corporation. I want them real bad, Nancy.
Nobody
tries to steal my bank away from me!” He licked his thin lips wolfishly. “You tell me what you've found out, and I'll tell you what you want to know. Deal?”

Nancy nodded. Then, keeping her voice low, she described her talk with Jack Showalter. When she was through, Lester Jarman chuckled and slapped his skinny thigh. “Cayman Islands, eh? Very clever! I thought Malihini was bribing our employees. But it sure looks as if there's a rotten apple in the corporate barrel, doesn't it?”

“Who could it be?” asked Nancy.

“Someone who knows the kind of bind we're in,” he explained. “It all goes back a few years, Nancy. Ross Rafferty came over here from the mainland. Everybody said he was some kind of financial hotshot. He started lending money right and left to all those little countries in the Pacific. Then the world debt crisis caught up with them. The Pacific countries couldn't make their interest payments. We had no money coming in.”

“That's what Ross meant by a cash problem,” Nancy commented.

The old man nodded. “That's a fancy way of saying old Ross gambled on those Third World
loans and came up empty. So Alice and me, we took control of the bank away from Ross and put all our remaining money into the Konalani project. When it's finished, it'll pay off big. We'll have enough to cover our bad loans and have a tidy profit, to boot.”

“Then the Malihini Corporation mysteriously appeared,” added Nancy, “And they began sniping at your project.”

“That's right. What a coincidence, eh?” The old man tilted the brim of his Panama hat. “Ross is right, though. Whoever's behind Malihini wants our stockholders to dump their shares. Then they'll move in, buy them all up, and force me and Alice out.”

“They?” echoed Nancy. “How many people could it be?”

“It's hard to tell. Ten—twenty—why, it could even be
one
person.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Somebody who'd gone to the Caymans and chartered himself or herself as the Malihini Corporation.”

Nancy stood slowly. “One thing still doesn't fit, Mr. Jarman. How did Lisa Trumbull get involved with the Malihini Corporation?”

“Good question, Nancy. Wish I knew. And now—”

Suddenly the bushes parted and Oscar appeared on the garden path.

Mr. Jarman finished his drink. “I expect you'll
want to be getting back to town, Nancy. Oscar will drive you.” His lips crinkled in a wry smile. “I must say I've enjoyed our chat.” As Nancy started down the path, Lester's voice brought her up short. “But watch yourself, Nancy. There are
sharks
in the water. It could be
anybody
behind the Malihini Corporation.” His eerie laughter raised gooseflesh on Nancy's arms. “Why, it might even be me!”

Nancy said nothing during the long ride back to Honolulu. She was too busy thinking. Lester Jarman was right. Somebody at the bank was running the Malihini Corporation from behind the scenes. But who?

One by one, the suspects paraded through Nancy's mind.

Ross Rafferty? He was proud and ambitious. It must have really hurt his pride when Alice and Lester took control of the bank away from him. Not to mention Diana's divorce. Perhaps the Malihini Corporation was his bid to grab control of the bank and avenge himself on the Faulkner family all at the same time.

Then there was Mitsuo Kaimonsaki. What did he have to hide? She couldn't forget that it was Mitsuo who had originally let Lisa into the vault.

Amy Sorenson? As vice-president, Amy knew what kind of trouble the bank was in. She had the financial background necessary to set up a dummy corporation in the Cayman Islands. And
then there were those instances of odd behavior from time to time. That episode with the beeper, for example. Nancy frowned suddenly, remembering her first meeting with the woman. Why had Amy reacted so strangely when she'd introduced her to George?

Lester Jarman? Nancy shuddered as she recalled his eerie laugh. The Malihini Corporation had plenty of money to spend. Lester was the wealthiest of the suspects. And the most ruthless, too!

Nancy's mind drifted back through the case.

Alice Faulkner? Probably not. Alice might have wanted custody of Lisa, but she would never endanger her granddaughter's life. She wouldn't leave Lisa in the hands of the criminals Lance had seen at the beach. Alice loved her granddaughter too much to ever consider that.

Diana Faulkner? This might be an elaborate scheme on Diana's part to keep custody of Lisa. Nancy hoped that wasn't the case. She didn't want to rescue Lisa Trumbull—only to send Lisa's mother to prison!

Oscar steered the limo into the Ala Wai lot. He got out and opened the door for Nancy. She didn't thank him. He muttered, “Evenin'!” and then got behind the wheel and drove away.

Nancy heard running footsteps behind her. “There you are!” Ned called.

She saw Ned rushing toward her, his arms
outstretched. Then she slipped into the comforting circle of his embrace.

“It's okay, Ned,” she said in a small voice. “I'm all right.”

• • •

Morning sunshine glimmered on the storefront windows of Vineyard Boulevard. Nancy leaned against a mailbox. In her pale yellow knit top and white jeans, she looked like a high school student.

Ned ambled across the street, grinned at her, and looked at his wristwatch. “Almost time. Any sign of Tim and Martin?”

“Not yet.” Nancy glanced up the street. “Are Bess and George all set?”

“George is all ready, upstairs,” Ned replied. “She signaled me from the hallway window. Our friend is in his office.”

“And Bess is watching the alley, just in case he tries to leave that way.” Shading her eyes, Nancy peered down the boulevard. “Oh, here they come.”

A large sedan rolled up to the curb. Martin got out first. “Hi, Nancy. Is he upstairs?”

“Uh-huh. Are you all set?”

Tim got out of the car. “We'll go in first. Give us five minutes alone with him, then come on up. Having you walk in should really spook him.”

Nancy nodded. “Okay, guys. Good luck.”

Ned and Nancy waited breathlessly at the
front door. Long minutes passed. Ned kept glancing at his watch. Nancy breathed deeply.

Any minute now . . .

Suddenly Nancy heard a sharp, terrified scream. It was coming from the rear of the building—coming from Bess!

T
HIS WAY
! H
URRY
!” Nancy pointed to a narrow alleyway beside the building. She and Ned raced down it. Just ahead, they saw Bess grappling with the moon-faced man.

The man looked up and saw them coming. Shoving Bess aside, he ran to the high chain-link fence, jumped up, and frantically tried to pull himself up to it.

There was an aluminum trash can at the corner of the building. Grabbing the lid, Nancy cocked her arm and let fly. The lid sailed across the yard, hitting the man on the back of the head. Yowling, he tumbled to the ground.