The dark little street responded with a few lights going on here and there, but no one came outdoors to claim any victory. Parry scanned the windows, Tony tugging at him.
“ Forget it, Jim. Come on.”
“ Don't take it so personal, huh, Tony? Well, fuck that!”
“ Jim, these people're frustrated. They struck out at what we stand for, not who we are.”
Parry paced around the hulk of his destroyed vehicle, gritting his teeth over the sight of its stripped interior and slashed seats, mutilated with machetes and knives. He realized it was just over a century ago that native sovereignty had been wrested from Queen Liliuokalani in a bloodless takeover backed by 162 sailors and Marines from the U.S. Boston, then docked in Honolulu Harbor. It was on January 17, 1893 that a group of powerful white businessmen and plantation owners took up arms, calling themselves the Hawaiian Rifle Militia. They forced the queen to abdicate, and soon after Hawaii became a U.S. Territory, and in 1959 the fiftieth state in the Union. To a sizeable number of Hawaiians this was not ancient history, and although the white mind could not conceive of ever rending the intricate tapestry of economic, industrial, technological and cultural fabric woven out of this tortured paradise by returning Hawaii to its sovereign status, as Hong Kong was slated to be returned to China, there were many prominent Hawaiians actively seeking just that, along with ten billion dollars in reparations, an apology and a return of their lands used as U.S. government holdings, including Pearl Harbor.
Now the grand and long-standing debate between the U.S. and Hawaiian nationals, coupled with the recent spate of disappearances and probable murders of Hawaiian women, seemed to have all congealed here on this street tonight and the frustrations of several generations had come down heavily on Parry's unfortunate vehicle.
“ The unit's ruined.”
“ It can be repaired.”
“ I've had that car since I became bureau chief.”
“ I know… I know…”
Tony managed to dance him back to his own car and Parry got inside. “Where the hell you suppose the police were?”
“ Probably no one called it in, Jim.”
“ We heard a disturbance call, remember? Christ, should have responded ourselves.”
“ The disturbance call was a 10-6, remember? No big deal, but this-this had to've happened after the cops came and went, is all I can figure, unless-”
“ Isn't this sector routinely patrolled by Hawaiian cops? Right, and all they saw was a block party, right?”
Tony, who had pulled from the curb only to hit the opposite curb with his wide U-tum, drove away now. He was trying on a smile when he said, “Hey, Chief, it could've been worse.”
“ Oh, how so?”
“ You could've been in the frigging car when it happened… or worse…”
“ Or worse?”
“ It could've been my unit.”
Parry shook his head and held back a laugh. “It's just a machine, I know, but you do get attached to what's yours. Even if it does actually belong to the bureau, you know.”
“ We aren't talking horses here, Sheriff. At least the machine didn't feel any pain.”
“ So what, Tony? Does that mean I shouldn't? It pisses me off, all right?”
“ Let's just get out of this area before someone takes a shot at us. Feel like a sitting duck here.”
He put his foot to the floor, the engine roaring. Tony nervously glanced in the rearview where he saw a crowd of dark-skinned youths gathering like corporeal shadows behind them, thankful that Chief Jim Parry didn't look back or hear them.
“ Lot of anger building up out here, Jim.”
“ The damned police aren't cooperating, Tony. They had George Oniiwah two days before us, and yet they chose to say nothing about him.”
“ Wrote him off as a suspect, I'd say, so why bother you with him, Jim. You're overreacting.”
“ God dammit, Tony, do you know how long I've tried to get an island-wide task force put together on the Trade Winds Killer?”
“ I know… I know…”
“ I was told by the commissioner of police of Honolulu- guaranteed, mind you-that whatever they know, we know.”
Tony sat up at this. “And we'd extend the same courtesy?”
“ Which I've been damned careful to do.”
“ Oh, like you've told Scanlon every single result of the two autopsies on his cops?”
“ Fully informed Scanlon, yes.”
Tony nodded approvingly. “And the girl's arm?”
“ They've got it, as does the military, thanks to Marshal, and the county, and the state.” Parry's voice began to drag along with the list of need-to-knows. 'This case is turning into a political soccer game.”
“ So you've held nothing back?”
Parry thought of the bloodstains found on Kaniola's hands, the blood belonging to Linda Kahala. It was the one item of information he had withheld. “Nothing,” he lied.
“ Then I guess those bastards are shafting us, Chief.”
“ Wouldn't be surprised if they didn't have a hand with the sledgehammers.”
“ Only an off-duty cop on a drunk would be that reckless to risk his job, Chief.”
“ Yeah, maybe.”
They were at Parry's house, where they exchanged their good nights, Tony assuring him that he'd pick him up at eight sharp. Parry trundled off to his door, a small ranch home, well manicured and out of the mainstream of Honolulu life in an area between Fort Shafter Military Reservation and the Likelike Highway on a dead-end street named Kiloni. It was quiet and serene here, no bustle or distractions, attractions or madness. He had had opportunities to move into a condo fronting Honolulu Harbor, but he'd never taken the step.
Inside the house there was a friendly emptiness, a solitude and stillness that were both warm and needed for his frayed nerves. The walls were lined with photos and paintings, primarily of mountain scenes he'd collected over the years, which shared space with a few citations.
He tore away his shirt and wandered through the well-furnished living room to the refrigerator in the kitchen, searching for something to quench his thirst and to nibble on. He couldn't decide which was more pressing, his hunger, his fatigue or his need for a shower to wash off the filth of a day that seemed steeped in grime. He gave a thought to Claxton, to George Oniiwah, to the pair of eyes that belonged to the cowboy proprietor of the drug-fronting bar and grill, and then he recalled the slinking rats who'd destroyed his car.
He opted for the shower when he saw that his refrigerator needed re-stocking.
Prices in Oahu for such items as cereal, $6.99 for a twelve- ounce box, $4.00 for a gallon of milk, had become routine for him, acceptable, but keeping his place well stocked had always been a problem. Still, the beer was cold and chilled. He took one into the shower with him and drank as he lathered up.
Once he began to relax, the tension draining from his aching muscles and limbs, he thought of Jessica Coran, thought how wonderful it would be to step out of the shower and find her somehow magically transported here, waiting for him, her arms open, her lips inviting.
“ Crazy fantasizing bastard,” he admonished himself, stepped from the shower and halfheartedly toweled off, the muscles of his chest heaving with the effort. It was past midnight. Honolulu was wide awake and Honolulu cops were on the prowl for the Trade Winds Killer, on the lookout for young women who matched the description of those already brutalized by the killer. FBI agents, too, were posted at strategic locations along the strip. Every disturbance call was being taken seriously, at least everyone but those involving an FBI vehicle demolition.
Tomorrow, he'd shift to nights, to help out in the street surveillance operation. Tony would join him, spelling other agents he'd sent out.
The phone rang; he didn't want to pick it up; didn't want to hear any more bad news today; wasn't sure he could take any more. No one but Tony knew for certain that he was home. He let it ring. On the fourth ring, he gripped the receiver, started to pick it up, but cursed instead. When he did pick it up there was only a dial tone.