Birds in Paradise (6 page)

“He not here,” the housekeeper rasped before anyone had a chance to demand anything.

“Are you sure he isn’t dead?” I asked her for a second time, feeling slightly alarmed.

“Not dead. Just not here,” she said, a sly smile pulling tight her wrinkled lips.

“Please don’t make me go through the trouble of getting a warrant, grandmother,” Pete said, his voice deceptively pleasant. His white teeth flashed in sharp contrast to his dark skin. And he suddenly looked like a beautiful savage, the idealized kind that might have fallen out of some fifty-year-old Hollywood movie set on the islands.

“A warrant, huh? Might as well come inside,” the housekeeper said. Her yellowed, watery eyes shifted to me. “She stay put out here.”

“No,” Pete said, his voice growing even softer, “she stays with me.”

The housekeeper mumbled something under her breath and moved away from the door. Pete took hold of my arm as we followed the old woman into the house’s dark interior. All the shades had been drawn, and the overhead lights were turned off. The housekeeper moved quickly down a narrow hallway. It was a good thing that we could hear the clapping of her sandals on the bamboo floor or she might have gotten away from us.

We followed her into a cramped room that was nearly as dark as the hallway. A dim light burned on a bedside table. It shed a little light on the crumpled lump of skin and red silk pajamas in the middle of a large hand-turned teak bed.

“We need to see Mr. Fu,” I told his housekeeper, thinking that this was another game she was playing.

“That him,” she said with a dismissive wave in the direction of the bed. She then plopped down in a chair beside the bed, practically disappearing into the shadows.

“Mr. Fu?” I couldn’t make sense of what my eyes were showing me. Sure, he was an old man. For all I knew, he’d lived in this house in the middle of what was now a bustling industrial area for as long as there had been an island. But old—heck, even ancient didn’t describe the man who was currently sinking into the mattress of the large bed. Wasting away, fading from life might be more appropriate for what I saw, but only if imagined in the most extreme condition.

Ashy gray skin hung loose on his bones. His healthy cheeks had completely disappeared into the deep shadows under his eyes. And his long, narrow Fu Manchu mustache was grizzled and tangled.

“Mr. Fu?” Could this be the same man who had hugged me so hard after I’d saved him that I had thought my ribs would snap?

“My angel.” He reached out a gnarly hand toward me. “You shouldn’t be seeing me like this.”

“I need to talk to you about the missing prostitutes,” I told him, trying to pretend that his appearance hadn’t shaken me. It was difficult, considering how my legs weren’t too steady to begin with. I
had
just checked out of the hospital a few hours earlier...and had been told by the doctor to spend the rest of the day in bed. And at that moment, I was on the verge of collapse.

It wasn’t just my weakened state. The air felt smoky and moist within the closed up room thanks to a humidifier and several incense pots. The room started to spin as I struggled to breathe in the thick atmosphere. Luckily Pete grabbed my arm before I fell on my face. He led me to a second chair near the bed and deposited me there. I fought the urge to put my head between my legs as my vision swam in and out of focus. Gradually, my body adjusted to the dim light and heavy incense clogging the air.

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” Mr. Fu said, his thready voice a weak echo of his former self. “In light of how you’ve helped me out in the past, I will talk to you and, I suppose, to your detective boyfriend.” The bed sheets rustled as he shifted in the bed. His housekeeper jumped to her feet and stuffed several pillows behind his thin back so he presented the illusion of sitting up.

“I will talk to you,” he said again, “and to Aloha Pete, but your dirty cops will have to wait outside.”

“Now see here—!” Blakely shouted.

“I assure you, they are as clean as I am,” Pete said, his jaw tightening. He’d stepped between Blakely and the bed. “I would like them to stay in the room with us. They are here for Kyra’s protection.”

“Believe what you will,” Mr. Fu said. “But I will not talk with those dirty cops around. Nothing good comes from letting dirty cops hang around. Send them away, Kyra.” Mr. Fu closed his eyes and fell silent, which was a very good thing. It was becoming clear that if he’d said “dirty cop” one more time, Blakely would have pulled out his gun and shot him.

Pete grimaced in the tense silence. There was nothing he could do but to send Blakely and Grant out of the room...and let me take the lead.

“There’s nothing wrong with Blakely and Grant,” Pete grumbled under his breath soon after the two men had left the room.

“Clean cops don’t wear thousand dollar shoes,” Mr. Fu said, his eyes still closed.

Pete glanced down at his own shoes and frowned. I knew they had to be expensive—he only wore the best—but a thousand dollars a pair? Sheesh.

“Those missing women,” Mr. Fu said, shaking his head, “a shame, really.”

“Do you know what might have happened to them?” I asked, while wondering if he’d been the one who was scooping the young prostitutes off the street.

“I’m dying,” Mr. Fu said, ignoring my question.

“Open a window,” I suggested. “It’s so stuffy in here, I feel like I’m dying, too.”

He chuckled and ended up coughing. “I wish it were that simple, my angel. I’m an old man. And there is no stopping this somber march to the grave.”

“Some light and fresh air wouldn’t hurt.”

“For you”—his eyes brightened as he lifted his head and turned toward me—“I will give the outside air a try.” With a wave of his hand, his housekeeper was in action, pulling back the heavy drapes and fighting with a window that looked as if it had never been pried from its sash. “I understand that someone tried to kill you,” he said.

The housekeeper swore as she continued to fight the window that remained firmly shut. Pete crossed the room to help her.

“I hope you haven’t suffered any permanent damage from your recent...um...mishaps,” Mr. Fu said.

“That’s why we’re here,” Pete said. He was now fighting with the window. There was a loud crack that made me jump, and then the window swung open.

“You don’t think that I—?” Mr. Fu’s voice grew strong with indignation.

“I was stabbed in the stomach. And poisoned,” I told him, though I was sure he already knew every detail. Admitting aloud how I’d suffered smothered all the warm feelings I was having toward Mr. Fu. “The man who stabbed me said—and I quote—‘keep out of Mr. Fu’s business.’ You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Mr. Fu started coughing, choking really. “I was—I was—hoping—that—my—”

“That your...
what
?” I asked, pushing up to my feet.

The housekeeper rushed to his side and handed him a cup. His hands were shaking as he took a long sip.

“I really am dying,” he said finally. He cleared his throat. “You can ask my doctor. He’ll be only too happy to give you the sordid details of my imminent demise, the ghoul.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, flashing me a sharp look. “And I’m sorry to be disturbing you at this time. However, I trust Kyra and what she was told by the man who stabbed her.”

“Dustin,” it sounded like Mr. Fu said, but then he was coughing at the time.

“What?” Pete asked.

“I had hoped it hadn’t happened that way. I did pay to have you followed, my angel. But only because your investigation was taking you dangerously close to my current project.”

He held up his bony hand when I started to ask him about it.

“I have a great deal of power and money and no children. I wasted my time building an empire and forgot to think about the future.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, though I had a feeling that if I’d taken a minute to think about it, I would have been able to figure things out. But why do the work when Mr. Fu could simply tell me?

“A man’s greatest wish is to have someone carry on after he is gone,” he said.

“Yes, but—?”

“You want a son,” Pete offered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Mr. Fu nodded.

“The women,” I said, as the pieces started to fall into place. “You were interviewing potential mothers?”

Mr. Fu nodded again. “I have chosen five. All of them beautiful birds of paradise. And they will all be handsomely reimbursed for their services. But one of my birds has disappeared. When you approached, Sally, my fifth, Dustin must have overreacted.” His gaze lingered on me for longer than was necessary. “I am in search a replacement, if you are willing, my angel.”

“Uh...uh...no. I mean...no. Really...no.”

Pete laughed and did nothing to help me out. Mr. Fu simply shrugged. Or perhaps he was shifting in the bed. There wasn’t enough light to be absolutely sure.

“What you’re doing isn’t illegal,”—I turned to check with Pete—“is it?”

Pete shook his head.

“My lawyer has drawn up all the paperwork. I assure you, it’s aboveboard. I’m not buying babies. I’m creating a family. The birds will be active participants in the raising of my sons. They will have to be.” He gazed wistfully at a painting of the Great Wall of China hanging on the wall across the room from him. “I won’t be around long enough to witness any of the babies’ births.”

“You don’t know that,” I said. “You might surprise your doctor, and outlive him.”

“
I know
,” he said, his voice fading. “Sadly, I know only too well.”

“You could be wrong.” I hated defeat. I hated to lose anything or anybody. “Hell, I’m telling you, you are wrong.”

My determination brought a smile to the old man’s lips. “My sweet angel,” he whispered and then reached for his glass of water.

“I understand why you want children.” Though starting a family at his age seemed somewhat...um...impossible. “But why the need for so much secrecy? Why would you be worried that I was questioning the same prostitutes you had interviewed?”

“There are many who would like to have my home, my money, my position. Many who would kill to have what I have. I needed to protect my future living in the wombs of those women. After one of my chosen mothers went missing, I had to become more vigilant.”

“That isn’t a good reason to pay someone to hurt Kyra,” Pete said, his humor gone. “She nearly died.”

“I assure you Dustin was acting without my permission. That’s the trouble with these young upstarts. They think they know what I want and never bother to ask.” He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Pete. “Throw the book at him. It’ll teach him a sadly overdue lesson.”

Pete seemed satisfied. He carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. I, on the other hand, was feeling much more suspicious. Mr. Fu was being too accommodating. Too friendly. Even for him. Especially considering how only a week and a half ago, he adamantly refused to see me. Which got me to wondering, if I had died, would he have handed over his henchmen so readily? Was that why this Dustin fellow had been so determined to poison me? To protect his position in Mr. Fu’s hierarchy?

And what about the missing women? If Mr. Fu hadn’t taken them, who had?

“Something doesn’t add up,” I said aloud.

“The stabbing was a mistake, my angel. Don’t take it personally.”

DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY?
How could I not? It was
my
life...and, despite what Pete thought, I
was
rather attached to it. But begrudgingly, I had to admit that Mr. Fu was right. I’d solved the puzzle of why someone wanted to plant me under the nearest palm tree, and I needed to move on. I needed to focus on finding those missing women again.

No matter how cleverly either Pete or I prodded, Mr. Fu refused to budge on his story. Apparently, he had no idea what had happened to the missing prostitutes. No one in his far-reaching hierarchy was involved...or so he said. And perhaps he truly didn’t know. His illness had taken a visible toll on him. It was possible to believe that, for once, things were happening in Honolulu that he knew nothing about.

Mr. Fu didn’t believe it, of course. He was convinced that a madman—a loner, an unknown—had to be killing the women. Otherwise, he would have heard about it. For Anna and Tina’s sake, I prayed he was wrong.

With that unhappy thought eating at my mind—I was still brimming with questions—I let Pete herd me out of Mr. Fu’s room. Blakely and Grant were waiting just outside the doorway. Naturally I checked out their shoes. Grant’s looked like the run-of-the-mill chunky black dress shoe nearly every cop on the HPD owned. Blakely’s shoes, on the other hand, were slender, fitted works of art. In fact, they were the exact kind of shoe Pete was wearing on his feet.

Pete came from money. Everyone who knew anything about the islands knew of his family. They owned a chain of hotels, some of them so posh that it would cost me a week’s worth of groceries just to stand in the lobby. I figured he could afford to waste his money on handmade shoes.

Blakely didn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. Perhaps he’d inherited from a rich uncle. Or maybe Pete had bought him that particular pair of shoes for Christmas. Or there was a chance that Mr. Fu was right...

Was Blakely a dirty cop?

I eyed him from head to toe. He was snarling at the time. He seemed to do that whenever I was within spitting distance. Pete had gone easy on me and had gotten me back on my law-abiding feet when Blakely had wanted to drag me downtown and toss my butt into jail. To Blakely, I was just another problem to be swept away. I was a criminal who had escaped justice.

Tell that to Mamma Jo. She’d made sure I’d worked my fingers until they were bloody, scrubbing every corner of her hotel in exchange for her paying back the four newlywed couples I had robbed. I considered my debt to society paid in full.

Blakely didn’t. He was one of those black and white, good and evil kind of guys. It made him an efficient cop, a cop immune to corruption. He wouldn’t cross that line. He wouldn’t bend the rules for anyone, not even if it meant a bunch of extra money for his pockets. I might not like the guy, but I couldn’t believe he’d sell his soul in order to get his hands on enough money to give him the freedom to purchase a pair of handmade shoes. Not Blakely. Not in a million years.