Final Answers (15 page)

“She your secretary?” I ask the sergeant.

He shakes his head no. “Only he has a secretary,” he whispers, nodding in Webster’s direction. “Carla’s sort of our jack-of-all-trades. Answers the phone, keeps track of the paperwork, makes sure the files are up to snuff.”

The colonel returns from the bulletin board with a snapshot and hands it to me. “Last year’s Christmas party.”

I easily spot Sullivan in the group gathered around a tinsel-laden tree. “That’s him.”

“Carla’s the one right in front of him,” the colonel says, indicating an attractive Asian woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties. Her jet black hair is pulled back severely, accentuating her pronounced cheekbones.

“Is she Filipino?”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“As I said, something about Sullivan bothered me, so I checked him out. The woman who answered the phone confirmed he worked here. She had a Filipino accent.”

Webster’s brows go up.

“He’s Filipino too,” the sergeant chimes in. “Half. His name isn’t Sullivan. It’s Surigao.”

“Suriyago?” I say, unsure of the pronunciation.

“Soor-eh-gah-oh,” he corrects. “Sean Surigao. My wife and I went out to dinner with them a couple of times. Nice people.”

“He in the military?”

“No. He’s an actor,” the sergeant answers.

I feel my jaw drop. That sure as hell explains a few things.

“Works as a stuntman most of the time. Does local theater, bit parts. A lot of movies and TV shows are made on the islands. Saw him at the Improv once. He was pretty good.”

“He deserves an academy award for his performance in my office.”

“He had good coaching,” the colonel says bitterly. “Carla’s been with us since we moved here from Bangkok in ‘76. Knows this operation as well as anyone. Went to Washington with us.”

“Her husband wasn’t acting when he tried to kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“That’s right. Twice. He—” I pause with calculated intent, and emotion that I don’t have to manufacture. I need their support, and am about to play my trump card, the one I’m counting on to insure they’re with me. “He murdered my wife by mistake.”

The impact is powerful, visible. They exchange troubled looks. The colonel is stunned. In contrast to the gutsy zeal of National League of Families personnel, I sense a patient intelligence and reverence for his mission, which lead me to believe his reaction is genuine.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan,” he finally offers, letting out a long breath. “You have to understand, this comes out of nowhere. I can’t imagine there isn’t some explanation.”

“Me neither. I need your help to find it.”

“Before I take sides here,” the colonel says, an edge creeping into his voice, “I’d like to hear what Carla has to say.”

“So would I.”

The colonel reaches across the desk and scoops up the phone. “Mrs. O? You have Carla’s number handy?”

“I don’t think it’d be very wise to call her,” I caution as he jots it down.

“You may have a point there.”

“You know where they live?”

“Over at the Theater Arts Complex,” the sergeant replies. “I remember Carla mentioning her husband teaches in one of the acting workshops.”

“It’s about fifteen minutes from here,” Webster explains. “Used to be an abandoned cannery. Now it’s all theaters, dance studios, boutiques, condos.”

“Why don’t we hear what Carla has to say in person?” I suggest.

Webster thinks it over for a moment, glances to his watch, and lifts the phone again. Mrs. O? Cancel the two-thirty at Shafter for me, will you? Yes, make up an excuse. Thanks.” He hangs up, then turns to the sergeant and hands him my folder. “All yours, Top, go to work. I’d like something by the end of day, if possible.” He scoops his hat from a clothes tree and heads for the door.

“Colonel?” I say sharply, stopping him. I wait a few seconds for the sergeant to leave, then take my hand from my pocket and reveal the pistol that I’ve palmed. “We’re dealing with a killer.”

He responds with a troubled frown. “If you’re right about all this.”

“I think we ought to assume it for now, don’t you?”

He nods grudgingly and crosses to a file cabinet. After several turns of the dial on the combination lock, he rolls open one of the drawers and removes a handgun. It’s a standard military issue 9mm Beretta— much bigger than mine.

I
’m in an Army van with the colonel driving east along the waterfront on the Nimitz Highway. While he skillfully maneuvers through the afternoon traffic, I slip the Beretta from my pocket to check the action.

“They die hard, don’t they,” Webster says.

He means what I’m doing with the pistol. It’s an old in-country habit, every smart GI did it before every fire fight, and the really smart ones, especially the ones who came back, did it between fire fights too. The fact that I’m doing it instinctively surprises and pleases me. Under the circumstances a combat-level mentality might come in handy.

We’re entering Chinatown where the Nimitz turns into Ala Moana Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares between Honolulu and Waikiki.

“So, how long have you known Kate?” the colonel asks casually.

“Not very long. Couple of months,” I reply as I remove the clip and eject the round from the chamber. “Actually I’ve only met her once.”

“I thought so.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, she sort of gave me the impression you were old friends, but I had a feeling it was part of her sales pitch.”

I cock the Beretta’s hammer and pull the trigger. The action is smooth and silent. I thumb the round back into the chamber. The colonel doesn’t strike me as a man who spends much time on idle
chitchat. This is the second time he’s initiated a conversation about Kate Ackerman, and I sense there’s more.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no special reason,” he replies evasively. “Good person to have in your corner.”

It sounds like Kate Ackerman really went to bat for me and, for some reason, the colonel wants to make sure I know it. My mind is elsewhere and I decide not to pursue it further now. “Guess I owe her one.”

“You and me both. It’s been tough holding her off like this. I mean, sometimes it gets real tempting to just give in and tell these people what they want to hear. It’s important to keep some distance, so we’ve developed—”

“A system of safeguards,” I interject, finishing his sentence.

“ ‘Captain Sullivan’ told me all about them. As I said, he was very articulate about all your policies and procedures.”

“Carla—” he snarls, his expression darkening. “I still can’t believe she’d be involved in anything like this.”

“I have a feeling they were counting on that.” I align the clip and slap it up into the pistol’s handgrip.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. Shortly after crossing the Ala Wai Canal at the east end of Ala Moana Park, we pass the Hawaii Yacht Club, where sixty-foot sailing yachts bob in the surf, then turn into the Theater Arts Complex. It’s a
tour de force
of prewar industrial architecture. Stalwart brick and sheet-metal buildings with saw-toothed rooftops and long rows of skylights are clustered on a large pier that juts into the harbor. They’ve all been sandblasted and meticulously restored.

The colonel finds a spot in the parking area and we make our way through the main entrance to a central courtyard lined with shopping arcades. An information kiosk displays a block diagram identifying the various structures and activities. He locates the housing units and leads the way across the court and between the maze of buildings to a section of condominiums.

My stomach tightens as we approach. My mind starts racing, calculating the various possibilities: Will Surigao alias Sullivan be here? If so, how will he react? Deny—that’s what I’d do. Play it straight, friendly and ignorant, and deny, deny, deny. Just in case he doesn’t, the element of surprise is mine and I want to keep it that way. I stay back, my hand in my pocket gripping the pistol, as the colonel climbs
the steps to the entrance. Once he’s in position, I follow and slip past him, working my way around to one of the windows. He waits as I lean forward cautiously and glance inside. There’s no sign of the occupants or any activity. I signal Webster with a shrug and wait to see who’ll respond when he rings the bell.

No one answers.

“Carla? Carla it’s Colonel Webster. You in there?” He knocks on the door, then tries the bell several more times with the same result.

We’re about to leave when a woman calls out, “You looking for Sean and Carla?”

The voice comes from above.

We descend the steps and crane our necks to see a lithesome, deeply tanned woman in a bikini leaning over the balcony of the adjacent unit.

“Yes, we are,” the colonel replies.

“I haven’t seen them in about a week. I have a feeling they moved out.”

“Shit,” I mutter to myself.

“Are you sure?” the colonel asks.

“No. But I remember Sean saying something about going on location.”

“He say where?” I ask.

“ ‘Fraid not,” she replies, turning her attention to me. “You in the business?”

“Sorry, we’re all cast,” I reply automatically. Several of my clients are in the entertainment field. I’ve been asked this question countless times, and have amassed an arsenal of glib replies in self-defense.

“Sure sounds like they’ve flown the coop,” the colonel says in a dismayed drawl as we leave.

I nod gravely.

I’m still thinking film business.

The phrase THE END—set in various type styles—is racing through my mind over and over.

It’s unacceptable.

We retrace our steps through the courtyard and take an elevator to the manager’s office on the top floor of the main theater building, overlooking the harbor. The man behind the desk—a Hawaiian in an expensive linen suit, black silk shirt, and heavily scented cologne—confirms the Surigaos have moved.

“You know where?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m afraid they didn’t say.”

“They didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

“Not with me. You might check with the post office.”

“Can we see the place?”

“Why? Are you interested in renting it?”

“I might be,” I reply, catching the colonel’s eye. “That’s why I was looking for the Surigaos.”

“They’re friends of mine,” the colonel chimes in. “Sean mentioned they might be away for a while and I suggested Mr. Morgan talk to them about it.”

“There must be some misunderstanding,” the manager says with a trace of effeminate haughtiness that suddenly surfaces. “You see, the Surigaos were just tenants here.”

“Oh. Who’s the owner?” I ask.

“A Mr. Ajacier. I believe his company was one of the original investors in the complex. He retained a number of units and leases them.”

“Does this Mr. Ajacier live here?”

“Oh, no, he’s a citizen of the world, so to speak. Mr. Ajacier has many residences. I believe he maintains one somewhere on the mainland.” He pauses, his brow furrowed in thought. “San Francisco? It’s been a while. I’m afraid I’m a little hazy on that.”

San Francisco? I suppress my reaction and file the name Ajacier away, noting he pronounced it Ah-jah-see-yea, like Olivier. “Well, it sounded like the perfect
pied-à-terre,”
I say, handing the manager one of my cards. “Is it still available?”

“Management consulting,” he muses, giving it the once-over. “I thought perhaps you were a producer like Mr. Surigao.”

The colonel winces.

I sense he’s been clinging to the idea that this is all some sort of misunderstanding. I don’t blame him, but his hopes are fading fast. “I hope a career in theater arts isn’t a prerequisite,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Only an appreciation for them,” the manager replies with an amused chuckle, using a magician’s flair to present me with one of his business cards. “I’ll be happy to show the unit to you, Mr. Morgan.”

He steps smartly to an ornately framed mirror that swings aside revealing a cabinet filled with keys hanging from labeled hooks. He finds the set he wants and leads the way out of the office. In minutes we’re down the elevator, out of the theater building, and crossing
the courtyard, where a group of young women in dance tights and leg warmers hurry past.

“I’m sure you’ll agree, if s quite beautiful,” the manager says as we arrive back at the condominium and he opens the door, gesturing we enter first.

He’s right. High-tech furnishings, three levels, and right on the water, which comes as a surprise since the units ring the pier and the sea isn’t visible from the courtyard. It has a lanai, hinged window walls that roll back into recessed pockets, an open kitchen, and a sunken living room with fireplace. The flue is a stainless steel shaft that pierces the roof, where skylights abound. Every room has a view of the harbor and the aquamarine Pacific beyond.

“If you’re looking for paradise, Mr. Morgan, I daresay you’ve found it.”

“I’d say so.”

“I’m not sure what he’ll be asking. It was twenty-five hundred a month but it might be more than that now.”

The colonel winces again.

“I’d like to look around for a while if you don’t mind. My wife’s going to ask a million questions and I’d better have the answers.”

“Why, of course,” the manager says genially. “Take your time. These are decisions of the heart, not the mind or the checkbook. Just pull the door dosed when you’re finished. You know where to find me.”

“Waste of time,” the colonal drawls after the manager leaves.

“Maybe not. Maybe the Surigaos left their forwarding address here.”

The colonel’s eyes widen.

We split up and start searching the place; every room, closet, drawer, and cabinet. A short time later, I’m in the den going through a writing desk when the colonel comes bounding down the circular staircase from the bedrooms.

“Like I said . . .” He lets the words tail off in disgust and splays his hands.

“Ditto.” I shrug resignedly and slam one of the drawers dosed.

The place has been swept clean. There isn’t a hanger in a closet or scrap of paper in a wastebasket, nothing. In fact, there’s no evidence that Carla and Sean Surigao were ever here, let alone the slightest clue as to where they went. Equally baffling is why they split. Maybe Sergeant Daniels was wrong? Maybe Surigao does think I’m dead?
Why else would he have returned to Hawaii? Come on, Morgan, I say to myself, this is no time to lower your guard. Just because he isn’t here, doesn’t mean he’s not on the island, doesn’t mean he isn’t across the street watching.

“I didn’t know bit actors did this well,” I say as my hand goes into my pocket in search of reassurance and cradles the pistol.

“I can tell you they sure as hell weren’t covering their nut on the five-sixty-five a week we’re paying Carla,” the colonel says, matching my sarcastic tone. “Where’d they get money for a place like this?”

I have the answer, and I’ve no doubt this is the time to use it, to strike boldly, powerfully, in a quick, decisive blitzkrieg. “Drugs.”

The colonel reacts as if he’s heard a gunshot. “Where’d the hell that come from?”

His eyes never leave mine as I go on to brief him on Bartlett. He flinches noticeably when I mention the rumors of a DEA investigation at the Ton Son Nhut mortuary. “It may have started twenty years ago in Vietnam,” I conclude, “but I’m willing to bet, one way or another, something’s still going on.”

His eyes narrow in thought. For a long moment he is silent and still. I’m not sure if I’ve insulted or threatened him. Maybe he’s been playing my game better than me and is involved himself. Either way, assuming he doesn’t try to shoot me, I expect he’ll react as if I’ve offended him, and ask—no, demand angrily—that I explain what it could possibly have to do with the CIL, and berate me for even daring to suggest it. Instead, he surprises me, and says, “There’s somebody on my staff you should talk to.”