The Green Room (23 page)

Chapter Forty-two

Miles Hamasaki, Storm's first legal mentor, had always warned that a guy who answered a question with a question was lying. And Uncle Miles had interrogated a lot of individuals in his long, successful career. For a moment, Storm wanted to give Ben the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Barstow hadn't been specific about where they were going for dinner. But Ben would have just said that, wouldn't he? And he wouldn't be acting so strangely.

There was an awkward moment, with Hamlin looking back and forth between the two of them. “Okay,” Storm said softly. “Thanks, Ben.”

She turned without saying another word and went back to the car, where she slumped into the passenger seat. Hamlin was a half-second behind her.

“What does it mean if he's lying?” He started the car. “He couldn't have put you in the cave. He was surfing.”

“He knows something he's not telling us.”

“Why would Ben cover up for O'Reilly?” Hamlin backed the car out of the drive and started down the street. “For that matter, why would Goober?”

“Goober was desperate to be in the contest.” She jutted her chin toward the Boxter. “And Ben's made a lot of money. He might try not to notice something squirrelly.” She sighed.

“But Ben and Nahoa were good friends, right? Goober, too. Who'd put up with that shit, even if it did get you a Porsche?”

“Not just a car, Ian.” Storm's voice was sad. “He's making thousands in endorsements and he's a top-ranked competitor on the world pro-surfing circuit. It's the big time.”

“I still can't see it.” Hamlin squinted into the rearview mirror, as if he could get a read on Ben by looking back at the house. “He's got his whole life to do that.”

“He's been on a roller coaster lately, with his parents' divorce in the works. They're playing emotional ping-pong with him.”

With that thought, Storm pulled out her phone and punched in a number. “Hello, Stephanie.”

“Storm, thank God you're all right.”

“I was lucky.”

Stephanie's voice trembled. “Did you hear about Goober? It's on the news.”

“I just saw Ben. He told me.”

“Ben? Where is he?”

“At O'Reilly's house.”

“Did you see Marty?” Stephanie was the only person who called him Marty.

“No, Ben was alone.”

“Oh.” Relief was apparent in Stephanie's voice.

“Just for curiosity, how did you know I was with Goober?”

“One of the EMTs in the medical tent is a friend of mine. She told me that you got picked up by a helicopter, and you were asking about a guy on a jet ski. Some people saw you with Goober earlier.” Stephanie paused. “I saw him this morning at Starbucks. Some guys were razzing him about bombing his first wave. Goober has a pretty good sense of humor, but he didn't laugh. Then he said something odd.”

“Like what?”

“He said things weren't what they thought. I'm not sure anyone knew what he meant. The rest of the guys got kind of quiet. Part of it was his attitude, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

Stephanie thought for a moment. “He looked sad. Goober's usually kind of happy-go-lucky, but he looked determined. The way he put his head down and shoved open the door to leave.”

“When was this?”

“About nine-thirty this morning.”

“Stephanie, do you have any idea where I might find O'Reilly and your ex at this hour? Ben said they'd gone to dinner.”

“They eat at Damien's sometimes.” Stephanie didn't sound happy about this fact. “They usually come in late, around eight-thirty. They have a few drinks somewhere first and hash out plans for the next day.”

“Where do they go for drinks?”

“Pipeline Pub & Grub. Or just to each others' houses.”

“Thanks, Stephanie. If you see either of them, call me back, okay?”

“Sure. I'm really glad you're all right.”

Storm hung up the phone and frowned. “The more I think about Ben, the stranger I find his behavior. I don't think Ben wished Goober harm, but they weren't that close. Do you think he'd be as upset as he appears to be?”

“You're right.” Hamlin kept his eyes on the traffic, which moved slowly but steadily along in a string of red taillights. “He'd be bummed, but drinking alone in the dark is a bit extreme.”

“Remember, they quarreled the first day we met them. The day Nahoa got the package with the
lei o manō
.”

“You're right. Still, they were peers. Ben might feel the accident could have happened to him.”

“Goober drowned because he came after me,” Storm whispered. She sank in the seat.

Hamlin reached over and took her hand. “You don't know what happened after he left you.”

Storm didn't answer.

“Storm, do you think Ben might have known where you'd been taken, too? And now he feels guilty because he didn't help rescue you?”

It made sense, but Storm didn't feel like it was the whole picture. “Maybe.” She still needed to talk to O'Reilly. “We've got to turn around.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Barstow lives out past Sunset Beach, doesn't he?”

“Yes, and O'Reilly might be there.”

She got out her phone and punched in the number to Sunny's mobile again. This time, Sunny answered. There was a lot of noise in the background, but Sunny shouted over it.

“Storm! Thank God! Dede, it's Storm.” Storm heard another shriek over the background noise.

“Where are you?” asked Sunny.

“I'm in the car with Hamlin. We're looking for Steve O'Reilly. Where are you?”

“Pipeline Pub & Grub. My God, we just heard about Goober. And Buster DeSilva told us how you'd gone after him. We were so worried.” Sunny's voice shrilled with distress. “Where did you go?”

“I'll tell you about it later. Is O'Reilly there?”

“Haven't seen him. Wait a sec.” Storm could hear her ask Dede, and Dede shouted to another person. After a minute or so, Sunny came back with a negative. “What are you doing?”

“I need to talk to him. I'll explain later.”

“If I see him, I'll call.” Sunny paused. “And Storm, be careful.”

“Right.” Storm hung up thoughtfully. She wished she'd asked Sunny if Goober had told her anything about O'Reilly. Storm pondered calling Sunny back, maybe even asking her to come with them, but the bar was so noisy they were having a hard time communicating. It could wait a few hours.

“At least we won't be talking to O'Reilly alone,” Hamlin said. “After this, can we relax and have dinner?”

Storm smiled at him. “You bet. By then, Leila, Brian, and Robbie will be here. They can join us.”

“Sounds good.”

Storm pushed the button she had programmed for Leila's cell, and Brian picked up. “Leila's driving,” he explained. “We just passed Schofield.”

“Perfect,” Storm said. “Meet us at Kimo's Pizzeria in about an hour.”

“Great. We're all starved.”

“We are, too. If you get there first, order a pitcher.”

They disconnected and Storm tucked the phone back into her sweatshirt pocket. She slouched in the seat and shivered. Her long ordeal in the ocean had thoroughly chilled her, and distress about Goober was nearly overwhelming. She trembled again.

“You all right?” Hamlin asked, and put his arm out. He drew her to him, like teenagers on a date.

She put her head on his shoulder. “I'll be a lot better when we get this over with.”

“I bet. You know what you want to ask him?”

“I'm going to start with why Goober broke into my house. I hope he reveals what he was trying to find.” She sat quietly for a moment. “I wonder if he found it.”

“Maybe he saw Goober talking to you on the beach,” Hamlin said.

“That's what I was thinking, too. And then he followed me when I ran after him.”

Storm directed Hamlin into the subdivision where Barstow rented his beach house.

When he caught sight of the place, Hamlin whistled. “And I thought O'Reilly's house was nice. There's some money to be made in this business.”

“It seems,” Storm said dryly. The same modern globes that she'd noted before lined the wide drive. Probably solar energy. Slick, she thought.

“Doesn't look like anyone's home.” Hamlin pulled in.

“He had the garage doors down when Stephanie and I were here, too. It's hard to tell if he's in or not.”

“So let's find out.” Hamlin set the parking brake. “What does a person do with a three-car garage in a vacation home?”

“I don't know. I'd settle for one.” Storm's cottage in Honolulu had an open carport, typical of many Hawai‛i homes.

They rang the doorbell. After a couple of minutes, when no one answered, Hamlin stepped back to peer through one of the tall windows. “Looks like a study,” he said. “The computer's running. It's not even in sleep mode.”

“Maybe they just left,” Storm said, but she rang again.

“They would have driven right by us.”

“You don't think we'd miss them? It's dark.”

“Streets are too narrow. Besides, I was watching.” Hamlin walked back to the door and rang, then banged loudly.

A moment later, Barstow threw open the door. He was a bit out of breath. “Hello, Storm. What a surprise. Sorry, I was working in the front of the house. Didn't hear you at first.”

“This is my associate, Ian Hamlin. Sorry to drop in on you like this—”

“No problem. Come on in.” Barstow gestured for them to enter and closed the door. He stuck out his hand to shake Hamlin's. “Nice to meet you.” He looked to Storm. “Is this the attorney you wanted me to talk to?”

“Have you had another threat?” It seemed like a week had passed since she'd talked to him about Buster DeSilva.

“He hung around the whole meet today. Whispering to people, cozying up to the media.” He turned to Hamlin. “I'd like to discuss this with you. I might need protection.”

“We're here about another matter, but I can give you my contact number,” Hamlin said.

“We wanted to talk to Steve O'Reilly. Is he around?” Storm asked.

“O'Reilly? He's on the way.” He waved for them to follow. “Come on in. I can at least offer you a cocktail. He's always late.”

Hamlin and Storm followed him to the front of the house. When they got to the front room, Hamlin's eyes lit up. The wall facing the ocean was entirely in glass, and shaped like a ship's prow. Outside the window, the ocean's dark expanse gave the impression the house was isolated, exclusive in its domain.

Hamlin let his gaze travel from the high cathedral ceiling to the natural bamboo flooring, on which lay a plush Chinese carpet in green and rose hues. He gestured to the natural stone fireplace. “Do you ever use that?”

“Sure, it got cool enough last night. Have a seat.” He indicated a cushy leather sofa and walked to a wet bar in the back corner of the room.

Storm thought she heard a thump, and wondered if the surf hit a sea wall out front. It was too dark to see beyond the rail of the lanai outside the huge window. She was about to ask, but Barstow spoke first.

“What would you like to drink? Wine, beer, whiskey… I just opened a nice cabernet.”

“That would be fine,” Hamlin said.

Storm heard the thump again. It didn't seem as regular as breaking surf, plus the noise seemed to come from the back of the house. “I'll have the same,” she said, and looked about for a clue as to where the noise came from. Maybe Barstow had a dog.

Hamlin had apparently noticed it, too. “Is that—”

Barstow held one glass of wine and took a step toward them. Hamlin rose to take it from him, but before Hamlin got to him, Barstow reached behind his back, pulled out a pistol and fired.

Chapter Forty-three

O'Reilly lay on top of a musty-smelling bed in a dark, unused guest room at the back of the house, trussed like a duck in a Chinatown market. At least he wasn't hanging from a hook, he told himself. Not yet, anyway. And he nearly choked on his fury. Who would fucking believe this?

What had Barstow said? It was hard to remember after that awful shock. The sonofabitch had tasered him. Knocked him down flat. Messed up his head, too—memories of the last hour or two were coming back in dribs and drabs. Like someone turning a film projector on and off.

This was unbelievable. Who would have thought the guy was wound so fucking tight? O'Reilly took a deep breath through his nose. But here he was, trying not to panic at the gag Barstow had stuffed in his mouth. His own sock, and some moldy old handkerchief.

Barstow had gone ballistic, then threatened to blackmail him. Blackmail him! O'Reilly snorted and flopped on the mattress, which squeaked with abuse, and banged the headboard against the wall. It gave him a sort of juvenile satisfaction, but shit, he could hardly breathe. Christ, he had to stay calm.

First, Barstow had told him he knew about the cocaine Goober had procured for him. Shit. Then he went on about how he had some local girl's father lined up to go to the local paper and accuse him of statutory rape. What girl, O'Reilly asked himself. The one you thought was a tourist? She wasn't fifteen, she was driving a car. But you didn't ask her age, did you, old buddy?

What had set Barstow off, anyway? More like
which
event had done it. Barstow had been getting more and more eccentric. He'd turned into a fanatic with those protein blender concoctions. Had to have one every morning, his special ritual, with
awa
and some other crazy Hawaiian remedies.

Jesus, maybe he should have seen this coming. They'd been arguing over everything the past few days, from the lineup to whether to call the meet early this afternoon.

O'Reilly sagged into the mattress. He had to think about this whole thing. His first real glimmer of Barstow's instability, though he hadn't seen it as such, was his reaction to Pua's appearance. It wasn't anything O'Reilly couldn't handle. In fact, she'd looked great and he'd found he wanted to talk to her. Apologize, even.

But Barstow had called security, then pelleted O'Reilly with questions. He couldn't let it go, wanted to know all about her, and what O'Reilly's relationship had been with her.

O'Reilly could see now where he'd fucked up, but he'd had no idea Barstow was as bad as this. He was just trying to needle him, show him that they both had faults, get him off his back. So he'd made a comment about how Barstow had manipulated the slate of contestants. Letting him know that he was aware two qualified surfers had been bumped from the contest so that Ben and Goober could compete.

O'Reilly remembered the flickering light behind Barstow's squinting stare and got very still. O'Reilly admitted to himself that in many ways, he'd been a self-involved fuck-wad. But he'd also been working his ass off trying to make the Intrepid a world-class event. He felt like a juggler keeping ten balls and a dozen spinning plates aloft, simultaneously trying to pull money from the air.

He'd done it, too. The contest was a booming success. But he'd lost track of things, too. People, that is.

Goober had tried to warn him, but he'd been too busy to listen. The kid had come back to the house this morning after Barstow left and started spouting some pretty wild stuff. Something about Barstow using a cave and stealing a warrior's
mana
through his teeth.

Teeth? O'Reilly still had no idea what he was talking about. Goober's timing, as usual, sucked. O'Reilly was already ten minutes late leaving the house for an interview with five—count 'em—TV networks. PR was the bedrock of this business.

But he should have paid attention. O'Reilly sucked air through his nose and struggled against the line around his wrists. The headboard banged the wall again. He'd make it up to the kid, send him to college or something. He should have listened.