Trifecta (77 page)

"Then maybe he is bad news, like I said," Heather
said.

"Maybe.  And maybe I'll find out today, because I
think we're going to lunch."

"I don't like him," Heather said.  "I think
he's slime."

Michelle smiled.  "I know.  And I trust your judgement."

U
ncomfortable in his stuffy suit and vest in the
tropical Hawaiian heat, Professor Middleton needed something cooler.  He strolled
to the expensive and exclusive clothing shop in lobby of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. 
There he bought several garish Aloha shirts covered with pink and orange hibiscus
flowers.  Since he had short, chubby and tanless legs, which looked absurd in shorts,
he compromised with ankle length white cotton gauze pants, the kind that were supposed
to wrinkle.  He also purchased a white straw hat to keep the sun off his face, wrap
around sunglasses, and a pair of white leather thongs.

When he changed into his new attire back in his hotel room
and peered in the mirror he laughed, then groaned and shook his head.  In place
of the dignified professor persona he had developed over the years, Vincent now
gazed at the Mad Tourist Nightmare from the Midwest. 

He frowned at his paunchy stomach straining the Aloha shirt-front
and at his pathetic white hairy ankles showing under the light pants.  Still, it
was exactly the innocuous, innocent touristy appearance he sought.  He couldn't
underestimate the man he was hunting.

When Vincent walked into the hotel dining room he felt
cool breezes on body parts which had not been uncovered for at least twenty years. 
For a moment he felt exhilarated and a little out of control.

Suzanne's look, when she joined him for breakfast, was
one of startled and carefully controlled hilarity.  She was trying not to hurt his
feelings with her scrupulous lack in mentioning his new attire. 

Vincent thought of the outfit as a necessary disguise,
but was glad only one of his students could see him in the ludicrous getup.  Suzanne
was obviously embarrassed for him, and also to be with him.  She ate quickly and
left abruptly, saying she wanted to work on her tan.  Young people tended to be
snobs.  He pulled her unfinished breakfast in front of him.  He noticed he felt
a little less guilt about the part she would play in uncovering the 'Warlock.'

Vincent walked out of the frigid, air-conditioned lobby
of the Royal Hawaiian into moist heat and blinding sunshine.  He put on the concealing
sunglasses.  It was still early morning but the humidity hit him like a steaming
sauna.  He could feel his face turn beet red and he was sprouting perspiration on
his forehead and upper lip in a matter of seconds, whether from embarrassment to
be seen on a public street in his disguise, or from the hellish temperature, he
couldn't tell. 

He saw many chubby people loading up a bright red tourist
bus in front of the hotel.  They were dressed exactly like he was and probably thought
they were at the height of the fashion style trend for the Islands.  Many of the
couples wore matching Aloha shirts and most of them were middle-aged and overweight
too.

He hailed a taxi on Kalakaua, in the heart of Waikiki,
with high hopes for his search for the Warlock.  He had his itinerary of the downtown
Honolulu area with him.  Today he would hit the House of Hermetic and the Sorcerer's
Shop.  So far he had been lucky and had received two accounts of a man who fit the
correct general description.  First, at the Psychic Eye, he had heard tell of a
tall, dark haired man who had bought seven Black Candles of Death.  The description
at The Magical Marketplace had been even better.  A man of dark complexion, distinctively
handsome and very tall had been searching for exotic herbs.  The man had left brochures
for classes in beginner's witchcraft.  He would have Suzanne call for more information
this afternoon.

Vincent wiped the perspiration off his upper lip, hailed
a yellow cab, and told the young Hawaiian driver his destination.

When Vincent reached the downtown area of Honolulu he could
have been in any large city, except for the heat and the number of Oriental people
scurrying around the busy streets.  There were tall, glitteringly modern buildings
and the citizens were dressed formally for business.  The cab driver took him down
a side street and deposited him at a rather grungy shop between a Woolworth's and
an 'authentic' Hawaiian restaurant.

When Vincent walked inside The House of Hermetic he noticed
the occult store was much larger than its entrance had indicated, as it was narrow
but quite deep.  He could hardly see the back of the place because it was poorly
lighted, mainly with real wax candles, he guessed for an exotic, authentic feel. 
The bright sunlight from outside did not reach the back interior of the store. 
He was almost knocked over by the smell of excessive incense. 

Vincent saw the usual books on witchcraft.  There were
rows of shelves along one wall with jars of herbs and supposedly magic oils.  There
were religious talismans, Ouija boards, tarot cards and a selection of clothing
for various religious rituals, with robes and vestments.  There was a wonderful
array of wooden and plaster replicas of Hawaiian deities, most with ugly gargoyle-like
faces.

The owner of the House of Hermetic was an old woman who
looked like a classical witch herself.  She had dead black hair, undoubtedly died
that unnatural color, was about sixty years old and skinny as a witch's broom. 
She wore a billowing black satin caftan.  When she led Vincent toward the back of
the store to see various occult talismans the dress went straight down to her ankles,
as though she didn't have a normal pair of buttocks to move under the loose fabric
of her outfit.  The dress fell directly from her prominent wings, or scapula bones,
to the floor. 

Vincent was fascinated and would have followed her anywhere. 
He had noticed right away, from the front, that she did not appear to have breasts. 
But it was her enormous hooded eyes, hooked nose and a natural black mole on the
left side of her chin which captivated Vincent.  The more he tried not to look at
the major chin mole, the bigger it appeared to get, until it seemed to comprise
her entire face.  He had to keep his eyes lowered on the crystal ball she was showing
him.

This was by far the largest shop of its kind on the island
of Oahu, the old woman was saying with evident pride as he gazed into the crystal
ball.  Vincent turned the ball with fascination because it seemed to have figures
inside which appeared magically, emerging briefly when he turned the sphere in his
hands, and then disappeared.  He decided that there was a hologram implanted into
the crystal.  A clever idea.  It would probably convince gullible believers that
they were gazing at beloved and long dead relatives.  Vincent had to have it for
his collection.  He loved crystal balls and had every size and shape imaginable
in his library at home.

As the woman wrapped his crystal ball and a few wooden
statues of Hawaiian Gods, Vincent said, "I have a friend who wants to become
a witch.  To study the religion, you know?  She heard tell of a tall dark man here
in the islands who holds classes?"

The woman gave him a piercing look and continued wrapping.

"Actually, I'm looking for him too," he added.

"Usually I don't sell herbs to people who traffic
in black magic," the woman said.  She looked him over contemptuously,  "You
think you're smart, coming in and acting ignorant, trying to pump me for information. 
But stay away from the dark man.  And your friend, too."

"All I said was tall and dark."

"You know we're talking about the same man.  I run
a clean shop here.  Don't traffic in no black magic voodoo cult shit."

Vincent looked at her.  She was dying to gossip.  He nodded
and kept silent.

"I keep my eyes open."

"I'm sure you do," Vincent said.

"Death and mutilation follow him like a plague.  Don't
believe me?  Just look in today's paper.  See the wonders he has wrought."

"I don't understand," Vincent said.

"I believe you do," she said, with another piercing
look.  "See, I'm psychic.  Don't happen too darn often for me, neither.  Not
like those famous ones, like Sylvia Brown or Jeanne Dixon.  Nothing like that. 
But I have feelings."

Vincent nodded.  Everyone who worked in an occult store
was a self-proclaimed psychic.

"He came in, I knew blackness and evil surrounded
him.  Course, he knew I knew.  All I could do was sell him what he wanted and act
stupid.  Like I didn't know his black shadow.  But I perceived the presence of pure
evil, of dark minions of the underworld.  I didn't dare deny him.  He's very powerful. 
And dangerous."  She shook her head and clicked her tongue.  "You get
him angry only if you're totally bent on self destruction."

Vincent nodded and smiled, thinking the old bat was completely
out of her mind, believing in black magic and voodoo cults and hell's dark minions. 
Of course, many witches were uncanny with medicinal herbs and Western medical science
had not caught up to them and their healing practices.  There was the opposite,
too, of course.  Some witches had knowledge of herbs and plants which could induce
sickness or death.  Still, to believe in Black Magic was a little farfetched.  Vincent
meant to debunk a man who had become a dark and frightening legend in the annals
of witchcraft.

The old woman sighed.  "You don't believe me.  But
protect the young innocent girl.  She believes she's getting something for nothing. 
But nothing is free."

Vincent felt a twist of guilt when his mind flashed on
a picture of Suzanne toasting herself on the beach.  She thought she was getting
a free vacation to Hawaii.  The guilt turned itself into sudden queasiness and then
a violent cramp.  He interpreted the stomach cramp as hunger.  He would not condone
an old woman's fantasies.  He could be trusted.  He would make sure Suzanne was
safe.

As the queasiness turned into downright nausea Vincent
thought suddenly that he could be wrong.  Maybe there was some validity in the old
woman's blathering.  How many times had he heard of the evil that followed the dark
man?

Naw, that feeling in his stomach, it was just hunger. 
But how could the old woman know about his student, Suzanne?

The cramp in his gut came again.  Suddenly, the thought
of authentic Hawaiian food next door sounded yummy.

M
ichelle's boss, Tom Mitsuto, was extremely polite
to his employees, but the politeness was a facade.  It hid an attitude of thoughtless
arrogance.  This morning though, in meetings, he had deferred to Michelle several
times, and asked for her opinion on various business topics.  When he left her office
he had given an unmistakable head nod, like an abbreviated traditional bow the Japanese
occasionally use out of deference for others in high regard.  It was totally out
of character.  It was puzzling in light of the problems her department had been
having. 

She had expected to be blamed for all of the disasters. 
Floods.  Bank robbery.  Accidents to employees.  Mechanical failures.  She also
thought it possible she would be fired.  Now Tom Mitsuto was behaving obsequiously.

Nakamura popped his head into her office for a second,
winked and left.

Another puzzle.

When Nakamura came back to confer about the new building
Heroshi Corporation was buying, later in the afternoon, he talked about business
for a few minutes.  Then he turned the radio she normally kept tuned to light classical
music up, so that the volume was excessively loud.

He pulled a chair from the front of her desk around to
the side, close to her, so he could lean toward her.

"The offices are bugged," Nakamura said softly. 
She almost had to read his lips in order to hear him.

Michelle grinned in surprise and nodded.  She wondered
how he knew.

"Common practice in Japan," Nakamura whispered. 
"Now you have to start acting like you're Tom Mitsuto's boss.  I thought you
understood what was happening, but evidently you don't.  There's a very strict pecking
order in Japan.  Tom Mitsuto has been told that you outrank him.  He's the president
of Heroshi Hawaii.  You're Assistant Controller of the whole damn corporation. 
He has to defer to you, and if you look surprised he'll lose respect."

Michelle gazed at Nakamura, stunned.

"You've been promoted through your own efforts, on
behalf of our corporation," Nakamura said kindly, patting her softly on the
shoulder for emphasis.  "Don't forget that.  Your face is totally transparent
when you're surprised."

Nakamura turned down the radio dial and left.

I didn't even say yes to the promotion, Michelle thought. 
But it did make clear what was happening.  And she couldn't turn down such an offer. 
It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Nakamura came back into the office, bent over and whispered
in her ear.  "I had to tell him about the promotion, whether you  decide to
take it or not.  He would have fired you."

He walked out again.

Now that did make sense.  She was the convenient scapegoat
to report back to Japan.  If Nakamura had not happened to be here, she would be
unemployed today.  It was scary.  The unfairness made her angry for a second because
she worked so hard.  But it told her something else.  Nakamura didn't want to lose
her, even if she turned down the promotion.

When Omar called to ask her to lunch, Michelle thought
would appear as though her personal life was intruding on the job if he showed up
at the office with his debonair good looks and escorted her out.  She made an excuse
that she couldn't get away.  They made a dinner date for later that evening.

Michelle had to deal with the aftermath of disaster and
it took until six that evening.  She was almost ready to go home when she remembered
she needed a file from the credenza behind her desk.  When she looked inside the
drawer, she noticed an old bag which looked like it had been thrown in there by
mistake.  She kept pending leases in that particular place.  It was odd.  No one
went into her files without her permission.  Everyone knew how persnickety she was
about how things were arranged in her office.  Some fellow employees had learned
the hard way because she instantly noticed when anything had been moved, and screamed
bloody murder.  She would tolerate anything but people messing in her office.  Especially
within her files.

Michelle pulled the bag out.  It looked like a large wrinkled,
brown grocery bag.  She opened it and looked inside.  Then she closed it quickly,
threw it back into the drawer and slammed it shut, almost like the bag was on fire.

Either she was going crazy, or that bag held an enormous
amount of cash, in packets that looked like the money came from a bank.  She had
to look again. 

Michelle swivelled her large chair around so that what
she did would be hidden by the broad back of the chair.  She opened the file cabinet
and took out the innocent looking paper bag with shaking fingers.  She had not been
hallucinating.  There were five packets of hundred dollar bills held together with
the white paper strips that banks use.  She swiftly shuffled through one packet
and used her calculator.  There was about a hundred thousand in cash.

She heard someone enter the office and threw the bag in
the back of the file and slammed it shut.  Someone was setting her up for bank robbery. 
She heard a man behind her clear his throat.  Then her intercom rang.

Michelle took a deep breath and swiveled around in the
chair.

Two policemen in blue uniforms were in her office.  She
felt immediate guilt and fear.  Her first thought was, How did they know before
I did?  A tip of some kind?  Someone out to get revenge?  She tried to think of
enemies and couldn't. 

Michelle made an effort to smile calmly and motioned the
two officers inside as she answered her ringing phone.  She remembered Nakamura
saying that she looked transparent when she was surprised.  And surprise was not
adequate for this situation.

There were uniformed police in her office!

Stolen cash in her own file.

On the telephone Susan was saying there were policemen
who wanted to speak to her.  Evidently they had brushed past the front desk reception
area.

Michelle stood up and shook hands with Lieutenant Nunos
and Sergeant Rivers.  They were not smiling as she offered them seats and coffee. 
Their grim demeanor was ominous.  She had visions of being escorted out in handcuffs.

"How can I help you?" Michelle began, after calling
Susan and requesting coffee for her guests.

"We have a rather sensitive issue to discuss with
you, Ms. Montgomery," Lieutenant Nunos said.  He was dark and beefy, about
forty years old, with greying temples.

Michelle smiled politely.  Right.  How did I get thousands
in cash in my office?  "I read your report yesterday."

"Beg pardon?" 

Sergeant Rivers, who was young and blond interjected, "We
would have brought a woman to talk to you, but we just got the information and were
unable to get anyone.  A woman I mean."

Both men looked nervous.  They smiled and looked relieved
when Susan interrupted with a tray and poured coffee.  Both were silent and didn't
seem to notice Susan's provocative smiles.  Another ominous signal.  Most men were
panting by the time Susan  minced out. 

Did they want a woman to arrest her?  Both men sipped daintily
at their coffee and were silent until Susan left the office.  Michelle wondered
if her boss was listening in on this conversation and suspected he was.  Policemen
did not often request private conferences with his employees.  She smiled back at
them and nervously sipped her own coffee.  There was an almost overwhelming urge
to just pull out the bag, throw it on the desk, and proclaim her innocence.

"We were gathering information on attacks that fit
a particular description.  From all over the United States," Lieutenant Nunos
said.  "I'm sorry to have to bring up what is probably a distasteful and painful
memory for you.  But what happened to you in Las Vegas fits this particular situation
so well that we wanted to ask you about the incident."

Michelle took a gigantic sip of coffee.  She almost choked. 
It burned her tongue and her eyes watered.

"I'm sorry to have to go into what is obviously extremely
unpleasant for you, but the attacks here in Honolulu have so much in common with
the event you personally experienced in Las Vegas that we need to go over the facts. 
We read the police reports, but since you are now in Honolulu and similar attacks
have happened here..."

"I don't understand," Michelle said.  "I
thought you came about the bank robbery."

The lieutenant shook his head.  "Perhaps you haven't
heard.  We've had several violent rapes in Honolulu.  One ended in a death.  The
assailant used a knife to cut the woman's clothes off."

Michelle gulped the burning coffee and listened with growing
horror and dread.  There had been four rapes.  The police explained that the newspaper
had described only two, so there wouldn't be a panic.

Michelle thought cynically that the news had been hushed
up so it would not ruin the tourist industry, like they had tried to do in Las Vegas. 
Honolulu itself is one of the safest cities in the United States.  The city is meticulously
policed so that visitors will feel safe in the reputed tropical island paradise.

Michelle didn't have any trouble telling the officers what
had happened in Las Vegas.  She had described the attack so many times, to so many
policemen, that it was just another recitation.  She studied the two uniformed men
in front of her as she talked, but they were stoic, as though they had heard such
stories numberless times.  Perhaps they expected tears or hysterics.  The men listened
in respectful silence as she described the incident in detail, from the time she
had awakened to strange sounds in her hotel room until the assailant had fled. 
At their polite urging she also described her injuries.

Michelle didn't expect them to believe her.  The police
in Las Vegas had not believed her about the locked hotel room, or that she was innocent
of perhaps having led a stranger into her room.  That had been the horrible, humiliating
part of the situation.  If Michelle was emotional at all, there was residual anger
that she had not been believed.  The impression she had received from the police
previously was that she was just another ditsy woman who had invited a sexual adventure
that had gotten out of hand.

After her recital both men thanked her and rose from their
chairs.  Their demeanor gave nothing away.

"Wait," Michelle said, standing up to escort
them out.  "I need to know how my experience matches the ones here in Hawaii."

The beefy lieutenant nodded.  "There are several similarities. 
The knife.  The clothes cut off.  The violence and internal injuries suffered by
each woman.  The fact that there were no forced entries that we could ascertain."

Michelle nodded.  She was frightened but didn't want to
show it.  "Is there a description of the man?"

"Superficial.  In each case it happened in rooms that
were dark.  A large male.  Very strong.  One woman described large hands.  The weapon
was a sharp knife with a thick blade, almost like a butcher's knife."

The description of the hands scared Michelle most.  And
the knife.  The kind used to carve turkeys.

"As for your personal safety, Ms. Montgomery, I'm
going to request that your apartment building be watched closely.  I know it's a
security building, but two other attacks happened in buildings that had security
guards."

The rapist/murderer gets into security buildings, undetected,
and into locked apartments, like my hotel room was, Michelle was thinking.  And
each time he gets away unscathed with the most minimal description.

"I can't promise twenty-four hour surveillance, but
we'll be watching closely.  I would advise you to stay with friends or relatives
if possible for the next few weeks.  It's unfortunate that you told the man your
name."

Michelle had a strange feeling that it wouldn't have mattered
if she had or not.  She had a dreadful sensation that the attacks were a personal
warning, that the man would have found her anyway.

When the police left her office, Michelle buzzed Susan
and asked her to see if Tom Mitsuto was in his office.  Susan buzzed her back and
whispered that Tom had left for the day.  Nakamura was in Tom's office.

Michelle wondered if Nakamura had availed himself of Tom's
auditory spying device.  She knew that generally the Japanese regarded rapes as
the woman's fault.

Nakamura had his head resting propped on his fists. 
He knew the significant details about Michelle's previous work experience.  Heroshi
Corporation routinely did a background check on each of its corporate officers at
the time they were employed.  He had read her file before leaving Tokyo.  There,
within the report, it was noted in one abrupt sentence that Michelle had been assaulted
while working for her former employer.  One sentence could not tell about the incident
in any significant detail.  Hearing the horror of the attack in Michelle's own voice
made him grit his teeth. 

He knew he should shut off the listening device, and his
hand had hovered over the button, but he didn't move until the policemen had left
her office.  He had been compelled to listen to the whole conversation.  He felt
guilty that he had succumbed to one of the corporate tricks of power routinely employed
at Heroshi.

He pushed the button compulsively to stop the noises which
had been broadcast through the phone on Tom Mitsuto's desk.  He felt sick.  A sudden
blinding headache was attacking his eyes, like fiery steel drilling through each
eye socket.

His mind repeated the clinical details; the knife bisecting
her flesh from the chest down to the pubic bone.  Internal lacerations and protracted
bleeding.  Unable to bear children.  Michelle had used clinical medical terms when
she had described her injuries.

Nakamura got up and started pacing.  He would have to 
apologize to Michelle for listening to a private conversation.  He believed he would
never be able to hide what he had heard.  He should clear the air.