Writ of Execution (20 page)

“Listen. Kemp’s dead. He was murdered three days after the jackpot.”

“That’s weird.” Her shoulders slumped and she got a sad and hurt look, and he got an idea how hard it was for her to keep that cheerful expression all the time.

“Amanda? She’s not rich. She’s had a rough time. She hasn’t seen a dime of the jackpot. It’s all tied up. She may never get it. I’m afraid. Someone tried to hurt us too. I thought it might be Kemp, but now I don’t know. Do you know a man named Atchison Potter?”

“Never heard of him. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She put on that look of gaiety, flushed, smiled, gathered herself to herself. Kenny tried to go with her mood.

A three-person band climbed up onto a small stage next to the bar and began setting up. Amanda studied them. “The token thin blonde,” she said. “The token tall hunk. The token hairy brown man. Same old thing. No doubt they’re talented, too, and destined to shoot beyond this lowly start into superstardom. I’d like to see a band with some hideous people.”

“With blue skin,” Kenny said, getting into it. “Tokens of nothing. No possibility of being stereotyped.”

“Exactly.”

“Then, to completely shatter our expectations, they need to play like shit.”

She laughed hard.

Kenny thought, Well, a long trip for nothing. “Could I talk to your friend?” he said, not hoping for much.

“He’s not from around here. He was just visiting.”

“From where?”

“Transylvania, I think he said. Just kidding. Pennsylvania.”

“You know how to tell a liar?” Kenny said. “They get this wavering in the eyes. It’s called nystagmus.”

“I’ve heard of that. Cops look in your eyes to see if you’re drunk.”

“Amanda, I am no good at this. I’m doing this all wrong. I think you’re lying about your friend. So I’m just going to ask. Are you?”

She had nice eyes, large, not much mascara. “No.”

“Nystagmus city,” Kenny said, and she laughed again.

“I like you. You were nice to me that night. You wanted to talk to me, didn’t you? But I was with someone, I had to go. You know, when we heard the commotion and came back—I was watching your wife, and there was something bothering her a lot. And she hardly seemed to know you existed. I don’t know—I picture you with a different type.” Just then, the band broke into a rowdy, bottleneck blues version of Fred MacDowell’s “You Got to Move.” Amanda stopped what she was saying and clapped her hand against the table, keeping the beat. “I just love that song!” she shouted. “I take back every rude thing I said about this band.”

“What type is my type?” Kenny asked her. “Who in this world is my type?”

But Amanda was singing along with the band. She had a nice voice, too. Kenny found himself relaxing along with her.

When the band left the stage, Amanda said, “I have to get home.”

“Does your friend live with you?” Kenny said, feeling, to heck with politeness. I mean, there were all kinds of friends, and he was running out of time.

“Don’t you wish you knew,” the little flirt said. She patted his cheek and rolled off into the night, her long skirt melting into the blackness. Kenny escorted her out the door. She waved and said good night to several people on the way out. Outside, in front of the Horizon, she motioned to him to bend in closer to her, then gave him a peck on the cheek.

She smelled like lemongrass and honey.

Not that he let the innocent aura stop him from sneaking over to his car and following her progress across the parking lot to her special van.

She scooted up to the side of the van, pulled the handle on the door, and slid it back. Mechanical sounds inside were followed by a lift lowering itself slowly to the ground. She rolled on, up, and into the van. After the lift rose up, disappearing behind her, the sliding door closed.

She drove herself, Kenny thought, then kicked himself for being surprised. She held a job, she gambled, she drove with hand controls. He knew people could do that, he just hadn’t given it any thought before. She was like anyone else, and like anyone else, she lied. She had deflected every question about her friend, and he just didn’t believe her.

Watching her maneuver the van out onto the street, he considered what she had said. Not enough.

He followed close on the tail of the red van, wondering if her friend the biker was really a friend. He imagined a scenario: he probably was a real biker, and she had been riding on the back of his motorcycle when she had had this accident that cost her the use of her legs. She was the type with a good heart, who would forgive the stinker for doing something so horrendous to her, but the friend, eaten up with guilt, spent all his time off from the repair shop trying to make it up to her, even though he never could.

Kenny did wonder what had caused Amanda’s paralysis, but after that crack suggesting he might be some kind of wheelchair freak, he had permanently lost the nerve to ask.

She cut off Lake Tahoe Boulevard at Al Tahoe, swinging into a right turn onto Pioneer Trail. Up here in the mountains, there were no streetlights. A soft summer drizzle made the headlights of oncoming cars shimmer in Kenny’s windshield, but the night was his cover. She drove at a cautious speed, so he had no trouble following her. After Elks Club Drive, she made a left, then he followed her through a few dizzying turns until she parked in the driveway of a dark cabin on a street called Chippewa. She ended up close to the house. When she stopped, the lights went on in the van. He watched her work the lift again and roll slowly toward a back porch that had been equipped with a temporary-looking wooden ramp.

She went inside the cabin.

Kenny parked nearby, watching as the lights went on, room by room, and she moved through, presumably making herself at home. The ramp did not look permanent, but then nothing old did in Tahoe. The wood cabins rotted, burned, and fell just like the trees eventually. They were never built with posterity in mind, and lay lightly upon the land. They were simple abodes of the forest, as Kenny’s family house was.

He started thinking about his family, and what Jessie had said. He couldn’t hide forever. If he waited the full ten days before getting in touch, they would have the police out looking for him. What on earth would he say to them? He had landed in a situation that was complicated and frightening, and he wanted them kept out of it. If only he had the money right now. He would go over to the Five Happinesses—he checked his watch—they would still be there, mopping floors and washing pans— and hand over the check to his father with a promise to make up the interest and small losses.

Some of Amanda’s windows did not have curtains or blinds, Kenny noticed disapprovingly. Here was another feature of proud old Tahoe cabins. With nothing but the animals and forest to witness them, people felt private. Pulling his jacket off the back seat and putting it on, Kenny got out of the car, feeling bad and good at the same time. He didn’t want to peep. He just wanted to see, he told himself.

But before he could get closer to the house, another car drove up, parking directly in front of the cabin. This car looked out of place in rustic, windswept Tahoe. This car rated an immaculate, air-filtered garage with only the odd genteel Sunday outing to sully its low mileage. A warm gold color, the car was small, pointed and dynamic as an arrow, and low to the ground. It irradiated the small street with its glow. A Porsche Boxster. Whew.

A man with a goatee and baseball cap got out, slamming the door, without a care in the world, his ponytail flying. The boyfriend. What should he do? Wait and watch, he decided.

That car was far from the world of Harley. Odd. Kenny waited until Amanda’s friend had knocked and been admitted into Amanda’s cabin. He then moved as slowly as he could across the side yard until he could see directly into the living room. And oh, joy. The window was open. He could hear them inside.

The friend had his back to Kenny, however, so he could only see the accusation on Amanda’s face.

“You did say something to him,” Amanda said hotly. “I remember. And now he’s dead. Why did you bring me to Prize’s that night? You were so nice, so sweet. I really thought it was for me. But it wasn’t for me, was it?”

Repeat what you just said, Kenny said in his mind. Speak up! But his thoughts fell on deaf ears or else Amanda’s friend had decided his leather jacket was not enough to cut the chill in her voice, because the next thing that happened was that the window slammed down right next to him. Kenny nearly fell over in fright.

Their voices lowered to a murmur. Kenny wished he had a glass so he could press it to the window and hear what they were saying, but, thwarted in that, he followed the action on Amanda’s face.

She got madder and madder. Shouts emerged along with the tramping of boots moving around the room. Then the man walked right up to Amanda. Standing in front of her, he shouted directly into her face.

Well, most people would be able to get up and get out of his way, but how could she, trapped like that in her wheelchair? Should he interfere? Kenny worried, watching her, but the next thing she did answered his question. Picking up an orange glass-shaded Tiffany-style lamp, she leaned back, took aim, and hurled it.

“Get out!” Kenny heard the words, as loud as the shattering glass shade.

The man had managed to sidestep the lamp, but no doubt she had finally convinced him that it was time to go after all. He moved toward the front door.

Kenny crouched down lower, suddenly aware of the light pouring through the living room window directly on him. He would get out of the way, but there wasn’t time, so he cowered low and hoped for the best. He could see the porch clearly from where he was, which wasn’t good. That meant the man could see him, too.

But he appeared too angry for reconnaissance. He stood glowering, facing the living-room door until it slammed shut in his face.

As soon as he left, Kenny knocked on Amanda’s door. He was furious with himself. Once again, he had forgotten to read the license plate on the car. Too interested in the man. He wasn’t a professional. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here, except that he felt drawn to Amanda.

“I told you to take off!”

“It’s me, Kenny.”

Silence. The door opened a crack. “Kenny?”

“I followed you here.”

“I guess you did.”

“Everything okay?”

She looked rattled, and giggled. “There’s glass all over in here, which I now realize is going to be a pain in the butt to sweep up without help.”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Okay.” She let him inside. “I really liked that lamp.”

He found a broom in a closet in the kitchen and set right to work.

“Is that guy really your friend?”

“You already asked me that.”

“How about an answer?”

“I don’t owe you anything. Unless you want that measly buck tip back from earlier or to collect on the bourbon.”

“Come on, Amanda . . .”

“Put the glass in a brown paper bag before you dump it in the plastic, will you? There are some under the kitchen sink.”

“Amanda . . .”

“Then I think you better go.”

He finished cleaning up. He looked at her to see if she seemed more mellow now that the floor was clean, and decided from the expression on her face that she was not. He walked toward the door.

“It’s really too bad,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“You were after something. You wouldn’t believe how people treat me now that I’m in this chair. Men. I don’t think I’ve been asked out for so much as a glass of wine in months. And then if they do somehow breach the weirdness barrier, after the novelty wears off, after they figure out my limitations really do mean I can’t ski or dance or run marathons, or whatever the hell they absolutely have to do on weekends, they ditch. I’m alone again, with my cat to pet and only my friend to check up on me.” She laughed painfully. “I’m hanging with the wrong crowd.”

As if hearing itself mentioned, a white cat jumped on her lap, settling in. She petted it. “People are no damn good.” Then she smiled. “You’ve just messed up my life, Kenny.”

“He wouldn’t hurt you?”

“Him? He’s the one who crashed the car. He owes me. He’ll always owe me.”

“I do like you, Amanda. It’s just that I love somebody.”

“That’s a strange way to put it. You mean your wife?”

“My wife.”

“Well, I’m not alone either. My friend—he needs me, and I need him. It’ll be okay.”

“What did he say to Kemp that night?”

“I don’t remember.” Her face sagged into fatigue. “Go away, will you?”

“I’m afraid for you.”

“Just go away.”

16

PAUL WAS SICK and tired of her shenanigans. She was acting up. She was running wild. She was damn confusing.

To say nothing about her lawyering.

He wasn’t sure he’d sleep with her if she begged him at this point. She had no idea what she was doing to his head, pouring so many conflicting flavors into his mental cocktail.

He brought himself back to the feminine face in front of him. This elegant controlled face with a plumeria blossom tucked behind her ear belonged to the clerk of the Honolulu District Circuit Court, the Honorable Philip Otaru presiding. A flowered umbrella and Korean wall art in the back office beyond betrayed no hint of Judge Otaru’s whereabouts.

“I was just in your courtroom,” Paul said. “Through for the day, right?” The clerk’s name was Betty Watanabe. Betty Watanabe, he thought, be nice to me.

“Oh? When were you there?”

“Two hours ago. But the judge was busy.”

“Of course he is busy. He doesn’t talk about his cases, either. So maybe you should rethink waiting around. It won’t do you any good.”

“But I only have one question.” That got her. She had to ask, and Paul thought for a moment before he said anything. “I have to ask him, Why did he grant a default judgment for eight million dollars against a girl who never even knew she was being sued?”

“Who are you?” Philip Otaru came around the door, behind which he had evidently been listening. He said again in a more polite tone, “Who are you?”

Paul gave him a card, but not right away. First he pulled out his Italian wallet. Out of that he pulled a silver card case. A card came out of that to be inspected first by Paul for crinkles and dirt, before being handed ceremoniously to the judge. Otaru examined it carefully, holding it back from his face.

He needed bifocals, Paul thought. Vanity, thy name is man.

Small droplets of sweat had beaded up on Otaru’s nose, but the pattern was so neat and even, it looked like he had sprayed it with water. He was Asian-American, Japanese-American from his name, tall and aloha-shirted like everybody else, and sweating even in these air-conditioned environs. The Honolulu humidity suddenly rolled through Paul, sending sweat trickling down his back, his armpits, and his forehead.

Otaru was watching him. “It’s good to sweat,” he said. “It’s an adaptation to heat, a cooling mechanism.” Paul wanted to ask Otaru if it was hot hiding behind his door, but there appeared to be a chance, however minuscule, that he would get along with him, so he kept his mouth shut. Otaru beckoned Paul in. Before he went inside Paul said to Betty, “Thanks for your time.”

She kept her head and her eyelashes down. She wasn’t available. No ring, so . . . he indulged his imagination, inventing the usual banal fling with the married boss but then discarding the thought. She acted too intelligent for that.

As soon as the door closed, Otaru said, “I’m waiting.” He didn’t sit down or offer Paul a chair. Although the office wasn’t sumptuous, a couple of bright upholstered chairs and a small antique table in the corner added character. A large window framed lush coconut palms and floating cumuli in a stupendous view.

Paul went to one of the chairs and stretched out. “Tired feet,” he said, smiling.

“I am still waiting.”

Paul explained what was going on in the Tahoe court. When he was finished, Otaru just said, “So?”

“Why did you grant this judgment here in Hawaii after eighteen minutes of testimony and no appearance by Jessie Potter?”

“You’d be surprised how much justice can be dispensed in eighteen minutes,” Otaru said.

“How can anyone prove a negligent homicide in eighteen minutes? I’m curious.”

“Prepared attorneys, and the defendant doesn’t come to court.”

“She wasn’t in the state and didn’t know about the lawsuit.”

“She waited too long to protest that. She sat on her rights.”

“What would you do if I could show you that the plaintiff knew she wasn’t in the state when he published notice of the lawsuit in the Hawaii papers?”

Otaru drummed his fingers on the desk. “Nothing,” he said. “I am a judge. I react, I do not initiate. The cases come to me. There is no motion to reopen before me in this case. There can be no such motion, because the judgment so far as this state is concerned is final. Ms. Reilly should talk to a Hawaii lawyer about this, not me. Mr. Potter’s lawyer, as I recall, was Ruth Anzai. Well respected here.”

“I appreciate your taking the time,” Paul said. “I really do. Ms. Reilly is a funny one. She tells me to go to the source. To the main man. It’s not proper sometimes, but she gets frustrated.”

“She shouldn’t be a lawyer, then. Patience is the biggest virtue of a lawyer.”

“Maybe here in Hawaii. In California, it’s the ability to cut through the b.s.,” Paul said. “On that note, do you mind telling me if you knew Mr. Potter socially before you heard this case?”

“Yes. I mind.”

The judge came to rest in front of Paul, his arms folded across the cotton of his shirt. He appeared annoyed, but Paul was uncertain. There might be some cultural difference in play. Or possibly the humidity was affecting Paul’s ability to read thoughts.

“Judge Otaru,” he asked. “Did you and Mr. Potter share any business interests?”

“So that’s it.”

He was definitely annoyed.

“Not all it,” Paul said. “Just some of it.”

“Kindly inform your boss, Ms. Reilly, that attacking me isn’t going to do her or you any good. I find you extremely discourteous and I have no comment on any case which has come before me. That is my policy.”

“And it’s usually my policy not to quibble, but it seems to me you already broke rule number one by making comments about the case.”

“I do not comment on cases! Now, do you leave peacefully or do I call the bailiff?”

“Tell me more about you and Potter. Golfers? The Honolulu Club? The Academy of Arts Board of Directors? I understand you have a lot in common.”

Otaru picked up his phone and hit a single button.

“We’re about the same age,” Paul said. “Remember Rosemary Woods? The eighteen minutes of silence on the tape? Long time ago, I know.”

“So?” Otaru looked toward the door.

“She was loyal to Nixon, but look what it got her: public infamy. She became a laughingstock.” He folded his arms to match Otaru. “No one respected her.”

“I am not Potter’s lackey. I resent that comparison, and Ms. Reilly would do well to stay out of my courtroom.” The bailiff came in, saw Paul, put his hand to his holster.

“Get him out of here,” Otaru said.

For the next few minutes a happy Paul enjoyed a brisk walk with the bailiff that ended outside the front doors of the building. Otaru had many connections to Potter. Otaru hadn’t wanted to lie, so he had simply had him thrown out on general grounds that Paul was a jerk. He hadn’t said yes, he hadn’t said no. Paul didn’t need telepathy to hear a rousing yes behind the wish-wash. Nina would like that.

In addition, Paul had scored a complete copy of the
Potter v. Potter
file on the way out, heavy in a white and blue cardboard box. He had ordered it and was told it was ready just as the bailiff was encouraging a speedier pace past the clerk’s office. “I already paid for that,” Paul protested, and got his file.

Paul walked until he got to a place called Thomas Square, shaded by a many-ribbed banyan tree. By now, rush hour had its grip on the street leading up to the freeway. But this Hawaiian scene did not resemble any traffic jam in his recent memory, spent squandering precious minutes of his life locked between homicidal commuters. Here, the drivers sat patiently, and the sounds of slack-key guitar drifted past from somebody’s radio station. Quite a few of the men didn’t seem to be wearing shirts. Maybe they ripped them off as soon as they left work. People were smiling. Even rush hour had a happy-go-lucky flavor here. Paul found a bench, pulled out his cell phone, and tapped in a number.

“Leeward Investigations.”

“Lenny? It’s Paul. Are you ready to write this down?”

“Ready.”

“I need a thorough background check on Judge Philip Otaru. Business dealings primarily. There are probably some corporations with no assets and highly fictitious names involved. Does he need money? Any connections with a Honolulu man named Atchison Potter?”

“Oh, everybody knows Mr. Potter. Okay, by when?”

“Day after tomorrow? That’s when I fly out.”

“I’ll tell you on the way to the airport. That’s all you want?”

“Could you find me a Hawaii lawyer who is good on state court civil procedure to look at some case files for me? Have him or her call me tonight at the Outrigger? A day’s work, but time is of the essence. The day is tomorrow. A thousand bucks is all I’ve got to work with.”

“No problem. My wife will be perfect. She works for one of the big firms here, Carlsmith Ball, in the litigation department, but she’s currently out on maternity leave with our first. She’d love to call in her mother to baby-sit and get out of the house for a day.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Lenny.”

“You want to get a drink after work at Duke’s?”

“Sure. Where’s that?”

“On the beach, man. Diamondhead side of the Shorebird. Go out on the beach by your hotel and walk left. Ask anybody. Look for the happy people.”

Paul went back to the Outrigger, took a cool shower, combed his hair, and put on a fresh aloha shirt. He was in Rome, but besides that he’d always liked aloha shirts. This one was decorated with a subtle combination of ochre, chartreuse, hot pink, and orange surfboards.

Then he went out to the beach past the rock jetty where a couple of dozen rapt tourists faced a sun sinking like a tangerine-hued hibiscus bloom into the green ocean. Two catamarans were putting in, their colored sails surrounded by flaming sky. The hotels had lit their tiki torches, and here came the moon from behind a fluffy pink cloud.

It was too much, this profligate beauty, the warm smell of flowers, the velvet sky, and the laughing girls still in their swim gear parading past him. Too seductive. One must not submit, or one would not return with one’s heart all in one piece.

Duke’s was so jammed Paul was amazed to see that Lenny had managed to save him a place at a tiny table. Lenny even had a frosty beer waiting for him. Duke’s was part pickup bar, part safe-for-the-tourists beachfront bar, open to whatever breezes might enter. Lenny had been talking to the girl at the next table, but he winked and turned away as Paul came up.

“I talked to my wife,” Lenny said. “She’s calling you later.” He sucked through a straw a margarita with an umbrella in it. Paul put his head up close to Lenny to hear over the riot of festive patrons. “I started checking on Otaru’s clubs and business affairs. He and Atchison Potter go way back, but it’s all social, not business, so I don’t have anything hard to give you there. I don’t think you can knock the case out with a fraud charge against Otaru. He’s straight-up.”

“Potter’s his buddy, you say,” Paul said. “In California, they watch the social dealings.”

“I’m not saying Otaru didn’t give Potter all the courtesies. But the justice system is more Asian-style here. Courtesy, handshakes, golf, dinner, gets things done.”

“That’s all okay-fine,” Paul said. “Except that the little guy isn’t part of that loop.”

“True, but I hear California has gone so far the other way that it’s a war zone in the courts. You ready for another?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll have one more. Bring it on.”

“You don’t have to drive tonight,” Lenny said, spreading a smile over a broad face that wore smiles easily. “You can just lurch back to the hotel.”

“I’ll try to stay coherent so I can talk to your wife later.”

“Here’s to Duke’s.” They drank, ruminatively. All around Paul exquisite-looking girls partied in outrageous getups that showed their navels. Paul felt exhilarated, like he was Steve McGarrett, a big hero of his youth.

“Was this place here in the early seventies?” he asked Lenny.

“This place has been here since I was a kid. I spent my adolescence here and I’ll probably die here.”

“I can see Steve McGarrett sitting here relaxing after a hard day being a TV cop on
Hawaii Five-0,
” Paul said.

“Oh, yeah, he used to come here. He died not too long ago. Jack Lord. Lived in Kahala.”

“Book ’em, Danno,” Paul said, or shouted, because it was getting louder and he could barely hear Lenny.

Lenny drank some more, then said, “You remember at the opening, first there’s the Wave—”

“I have a theory about the Wave. Did you ever notice that Steve McGarrett’s famous lock of hair that fell down on his forehead—that it was an exact replica of the Wave?”

“Huh. It
is
like a wave, and it’s falling down over his forehead.”

“And it never crashes.”

“It blows in the breeze, though.”

“So why the Wave and the Wave?” Paul asked again.

“To show his connection with the ocean,” Lenny said.

Paul was struck with this. “That’s pretty good,” he said.

“He’s a child of the islands. He’s part of it, see, so he has the support of the gods—you know, Lono and Pele and them. He has spiritual and moral authority.”

“You’re good, Lenny.”

“Thanks.” Lenny took a swig.

They went on to argue about whether Martina Hingis was good-looking or not, and after a while they went over to the Shorebird and cooked their own meat on a grill big enough for a couple of dozen customers. Paul got pretty loaded. He felt as if he had dropped twenty years and reverted to a college kid in flip-flops, it was great, and he finally left Lenny and staggered a few long feet to the Outrigger elevators. It was four A.M. Hawaii time, which made it seven A.M. in California, an official all-nighter.

He tossed in the too-firm hotel bed, wondering whether attacking this judge so frontally had been the wise choice. He pictured Miss Watanabe’s glistening eyes and thick shining black hair, and he wondered again if the judge was getting any. And then he thought some more about that opening sequence on
Hawaii Five-0,
with the lithe hula dancer in a grass skirt and a lei encircling her long sleek hair, dancing, shaking it, then stopped suddenly by the camera, stopped in an erotic pose, with her hips cocked and her brown waist creased—how that soft crease in the smooth flesh had riveted him to his set when he was twelve or thirteen.