“Any more ideas on tracking the dead kid?” he asked late in the day. “I was thinking maybe homeless shelters. This might not be the first time he ran away.”
“Good idea. There’s a gay teen center on Waikiki, too. A lot of those kids live on the street. Maybe one of them has seen him.”
I’d volunteered at the center myself, leading a group of kids once a week through workouts and some self-empowerment stuff. I stopped going after I broke up with Mike, when I started thinking that I didn’t have anything good I could say. But maybe it was time to go back.
Just before the end of our shift, the radio crackled with the news that the gangbanger had been nabbed in Waikiki, and I dropped Ray off on my way home. I was feeling at loose ends, so I walked through the humid evening, tiki torches being lit on the street around me, to the Gay Teen Center.
Cathy Selkirk, the tiny, half-Japanese lesbian who ran the center, was in her office, and I settled into the big comfy chair across from her desk to pour out some of my troubles. But first I had to apologize.
“I’m sorry I blew off the group. I was going through some stuff and I didn’t feel much like a role model.”
“Any time you want to come back, the door’s open.”
“I was thinking about it.”
“How about a week from tonight?” Cathy asked. “That’ll give us time to get some posters up, see if we can draw a crowd.”
I agreed, and then I showed her Jingtao’s picture. She didn’t recognize him, but she promised to get it passed around among the kids.
I kissed Cathy good-bye, sent my regards to her partner Sandra, and walked down Kalakaua Boulevard for a while, showing the hookers and the street vendors Jingtao’s picture and not getting any response.
There was a steady stream of traffic down Kalakaua-buses and rental cars and delivery trucks, the occasional horn or screeching brakes blending in with the hawkers selling heritage jewelry and the sound of slack key guitar music coming out of a T-shirt shop. It was just after six, and the sun was setting over the ocean. Tiny white lights wrapped around the trunks of the palm trees, and car headlights bounced off the elegant storefronts and the homeless oddballs equally.
It’s a strange thing, living in a tourist paradise. Every day, you go to work, live your life, and all around you are people who’ve saved all year to spend just a few days in this beautiful place you sometimes take for granted. Every now and then I like to see it through their eyes, and I always end up surprising myself with its beauty and hidden danger.
Thursday morning, Ray and I caught another case, a vehicular homicide near the Aloha Tower. We spent most of the day interviewing witnesses and tracking the suspect car. Just before the end of our shift, the driver turned himself in, accompanied by his attorney. Since I had to go out to the STD clinic that evening, Ray agreed to stick around and walk the guy through the system. “Hell, I can use the overtime,” he said. “Maybe someday Julie and I can afford a second car.”
I felt sorry for him. He was already pulling temporary duty whenever he could: security gigs at the Aloha Bowl flea market, Hawaiian nationalism rallies, special events at the Blaisdell Center. I was lucky that my living needs were simple, and my parents had announced a week before that they were going to start giving each of us an advance on our inheritance, so if I needed anything I’d have that money to fall back on.
On the other hand, I knew I’d rather be sitting around a courtroom waiting for our errant driver to be arraigned than going out to the STD clinic near Tripler to tell Mike’s parents that their son was a drunk. But if I stalled, I’d have to wait another few weeks for them to be on duty, or attempt to corral them somewhere else.
At the clinic, I showed my badge to the receptionist and asked to speak with Dr. Riccardi. “He’s with a patient now,” she said.
“I’ll wait.”
Once again, the reception area was filled with an interesting cross-section of locals who wanted discretion. I avoided eye contact with anyone, and sat in a corner-the location expressing something about how I felt being there. The People magazines I’d read the last time I was there were gone, replaced with newer yet still out-of-date editions. I was skimming one when the receptionist called.
I was struck again by how much Mike resembled his father. Mike had a slight epicanthic fold to his eyes, and a mustache, but the shape of the face, the cheekbones, the curve of his lips-they were all the same.
“What can I do for you?” Dr. Riccardi asked, escorting me to a run-down office that was clearly shared by a bunch of different doctors, since there was nothing personal there-just a collection of posters and pamphlets about STDs. “I hope you know I can’t reveal any information about patients without a warrant.”
“I’m not here on an official basis,” I said. “My name is Kimo Kanapa’aka, and I’m a detective with the Honolulu police department.”
“I know who you are, detective,” Dr. Riccardi said, turning to face me. “You’re the man who broke my son’s heart.”
Every now and then, in the homicide business, you run across someone who says something so totally unexpected that you don’t know how to respond. Sometimes it’s a confession, from someone who wasn’t even a suspect. Sometimes it’s the revelation of a life behind the facade we all present to the world.
Dr. Riccardi’s statement was one of those. I’d been so concerned about not outing Mike to his father that I’d never considered his father might already know.
“I may not have been the greatest father, detective, but I know my son. I’m sure Michael has had a few choice words to say about me, and my expectations of him, but I love him, no matter what.” He motioned me to a hard chair across from the desk, and he sat down behind it in a worn armchair.
“Michael’s mother and I always wondered why he never brought any young women home to meet us,” he said. “Was he embarrassed of us? Living in New York, we knew he was uncomfortable that his mother was Korean, and maybe that was why he didn’t bring friends home, but we thought that moving to Hawai’i had helped him get over that.”
He steepled his fingers and stared at me. It wasn’t a comfortable stare at all. I’m accustomed to being the interrogator and I didn’t like the role reversal. From the glare in Dr. Riccardi’s eyes it was clear he didn’t like me, and I didn’t know how I was going to tell him about the vodka in the water bottle without seeming like a tattletale as well as a heartbreaker.
“About a year ago, Mike stopped joining us for dinner, and he didn’t do anything except go to work and then lock himself up in his side of the house. One day, I got fed up.”
I could see from Dr. Riccardi’s eyes that it wasn’t a happy memory. But he worked in an STD clinic; he was accustomed to tough conversations.
“I found him passed out on the sofa, an empty six-pack of beer next to him. I woke him, and had some harsh words for him.” He sighed. “Not one of my finest moments as a father, I know. I demanded to know what was wrong with him. I said that I’d put up with a lot-his poor academic performance, which was far below what I knew he was capable of. His choice of a dangerous career. His Peter Pan complex-trying to remain a boy forever.”
“That must have been difficult for both of you,” I said.
“I suppose I should thank you for prompting the conversation, but I’m afraid I can’t.” Man, if looks could have killed, I’d have been dead in my chair. “He told me about you then.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I still think of him as my little boy, you know. I want to fight his battles for him, though I know I can’t. When he told me how much you had hurt him, I wanted to hurt you in return.”
“Mike hurt me plenty on his own,” I said.
“But you were the one who broke up with him,” Riccardi said. “Because he wouldn’t become the kind of poster child you’ve made yourself for gay rights.”