He plugged a little USB drive into my computer and started printing, while Aunt Mei-Mei sat at the big table, her hands resting on the wood in front of her, like a little blue bird.
“Arrest records from New Jersey, Illinois, and Nevada,” Harry said, as the aged printer started spitting out paper. “A couple for arson, a couple for petty theft, one for indecent exposure.”
“Stan’s been a busy guy,” I said, pulling the first pages off. Ray and I started reading. I didn’t ask how Harry got hold of some of this stuff, but after all, he was a police consultant. For all I knew he’d found a legal way to access the documents based on that. Or at least I hoped so.
Back in Jersey, Stan had been a breeder of Siberian Huskies. He worked in maintenance, security, and as a motorcycle mechanic. Harry found the incorporation papers for Mahalo Manpower, which indicated that Stan owned a 25 percent share in the business; the rest was owned by Wah Shing.
Unfortunately, there was nothing in Stan’s record that we could take to a judge. Yes, there was a connection between him and the management of the acupuncture clinic, and yes, he had a record for arson. But a judge would see that as purely circumstantial. We still needed Sergei to get Stan on tape.
INCIDENT AT THE ROD AND REEL
I spoke to Mike during the afternoon, telling him our plans. “You need anything from me?” he asked.
“Nope. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Walking back into the federal building, Ray and I saw the debris from the demonstration everywhere-crumpled flyers, crushed leis, and a lot of empty plastic water bottles. The wind had picked up, stirring the trash along the street and adding to my nerves. I was worried about the evening; Sergei was a certified fuckup, and I didn’t trust Stan LoCicero.
I was relieved to see that Sergei was there and ready to go. He’d had a serious conversation with his sister, and he recognized that he didn’t have any other options beyond cooperation. He was also pretty familiar with the process of getting wired up. I guess he’d been in trouble enough in Alaska to know the drill.
He and Ray went over their story a few times, getting the details straight. “Remember, we need something on the wire that shows that LoCicero knows these guys are illegal,” Frank said. “You’ve got to pin him down.”
“Leave that to me,” Ray said.
Sergei rode with Ray in the Highlander, and I drove the Wrangler home, then walked over to the club to join Frank in a surveillance van. Darkness was falling, but Kuhio Avenue hummed with traffic, and a young guy in a straw hat strummed a ukulele for the tourists, who dropped tips in a cup. A group of Japanese sightseers, led by a middle-aged woman waving a small rising sun flag, passed us, eagerly pointing and snapping pictures of an old Hawaiian woman in a yellow muumuu.
A few minutes before six, Ray and Sergei came into sight, walking down Kuhio Avenue toward the Rod and Reel Club. Frank had just made a note in his record when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle in the background.
“That’s gotta be Stan,” I said.
The motorcycle came out of the alley alongside the club and turned onto Kuhio Avenue. The driver was a husky guy in full leather and a black helmet, but I couldn’t see anything beyond that in the dark. I couldn’t tell if he was black, white, or some shade in between. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I might not have seen the flare from the gun the motorcyclist pointed at Sergei and Ray. The bike was loud, but I thought I heard at least three shots.
Sergei fell to the ground, and tourists scattered. A woman screamed and a Cadillac SUV blasted its horn as the biker pulled in front of him on Kuhio. Ray pulled his gun but didn’t fire. I jumped out of the van. As I slammed the door behind me, I said, “Go after him!”
Frank’s driver pulled out onto Kuhio, nearly sideswiping a tourist couple in an open convertible, and took off after the biker.
I dialed 911 on my cell phone and gave our information to the dispatcher as I ran to Sergei, who was lying on the sidewalk clutching his side. Ray was already leaning over him. “Too many tourists and cars to get a clean shot,” he said to me.
“Where were you shot?” I asked Sergei, leaning down next to Ray.
“My side. It hurts.”
“I called an ambulance, brah,” I said. “You’ll be okay.”
“You said you’d look out for me, Kimo.” He winced from the pain.
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I will.” I stood up and stepped away, dialing Haoa’s house, and when my niece Ashley answered I said, “I need to talk to your mom. Right away.”
“I’m on a call, Uncle Kimo.”
“Get off it, then. This is an emergency, and I need your Mom.”
My ear reverberated as she slammed the phone down onto some hard surface, and then I heard her call for Tatiana. “What is it?” Tatiana said, when she answered. “Is everything okay?”
Ray pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips, trying to staunch the bleeding from Sergei’s stomach.
“Sergei’s been shot.” I handed him the phone.
“I’m sorry, sis,” he panted. “I screwed up.”
Squatting there on the sidewalk next to Sergei, I could hear Tatiana through the phone. “Don’t you dare die on me, Sergei. Don’t you dare.”
People clustered around us, and I motioned to them to back away. “Police. Everything’s under control.”
The ambulance siren grew. Ray was sweating as he leaned over Sergei, shirtless, applying pressure to the gunshot wound. “Don’t hate me, sis,” Sergei rasped. “I didn’t meant to hurt you or Howie.”
Tatiana was crying when I took the phone from Sergei. The ambulance pulled up and a couple of EMTs jumped out. A patrol car arrived, sirens blasting, and a uniform from the Waikiki station started cordoning off the area.
“The ambulance is here, Tatiana,” I said. “I’ll go with Sergei to Queen’s.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said.
The EMTs leaned down to where Sergei lay. One took his vital signs while the other took over from Ray, who leaned back, breathing heavily.
My cell rang and I learned that Frank O’Connor’s driver had lost the motorcyclist in the crowded streets, unable to get a license plate number. Though I thought the assailant was Stan LoCicero, we couldn’t be certain of anything. It could have been either a man or a woman under all that leather, and the bike could have been anything from a Kawasaki to a Triumph.
“Had to be LoCicero, though,” Frank said. “He’s the only one who knew about the meeting.”
“Unless he told somebody else, or hired somebody,” I said.
We promised to compare notes in the morning.
Within a couple of minutes, the EMTs had Sergei bandaged up and loaded into the ambulance. “I’ll go with him,” I said to Ray. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Just shook up.”
“Go home and let Julie pamper you. I’ll call you from the hospital.”
The ambulance ride was bumpy, and the driver had to swerve a couple of times to get around clueless drivers who didn’t get out of the way.
“It hurts, Kimo,” Sergei moaned.
I looked at the female EMT.
She shook her head. “Can’t give him anything for the pain till we get him into a bed and stabilized.”
“Hold on, Sergei.” I squeezed his hand. “It’s gonna get better. I promise.”
When the ambulance pulled in at Queen’s, the crew loaded Sergei onto a gurney and wheeled him away. I went into the waiting room.
Only a few minutes later, Mike burst in. “I was monitoring the police band. I heard somebody got shot and I was worried it was you.”
“I’m okay.” We hugged in the waiting room and I explained about Sergei. As I was finishing, Haoa and Tatiana arrived and I had to through the whole thing again.
“I shouldn’t have pressured him to go to that meeting,” Tatiana said. “He said he was scared.”
“He’s a tough guy,” I said, wrapping my arm around her. “I’m sure he’s going to pull through.”