Another Day In Paradise

“You’re steaming up that window,” Hardcastle said.

United Airlines Flight 2, 747 Friendship Service from Los Angeles to Honolulu, was early. Lighter than forecast headwinds put the flight 15 minutes ahead of schedule, and the aircraft transitioned from cruise to approach, passing between the south side of Oahu and the north shore of Molokai and descending gradually as it did so. In the first-class cabin, immediately ahead of the bulkhead dividing it from coach class, Mark McCormick pressed his nose to the plastic inner window lens and stared greedily at the jungle-draped mountains, the waterfalls streaming down their impossibly steep flanks, and the turbulent, turquoise water crashing against their feet, where it was shattered into white foam. He had been certain that Hawaii would astound him, but this first glimpse of the place surpassed his most fervent imaginings. He was delighted, amazed, enchanted.

His mouth was open, Hardcastle noted disapprovingly. He applied some elbow. “I said you’re getting nose grease all over the window.”

McCormick didn’t spare him a glance. “Judge, look at this: Look at this place. It’s amazing. Look at it!”

“I’d like to look at it, McCormick, but all that curly hair’s in my way.”

“What? Oh.” McCormick pressed himself back against his seat but never took his eyes from the view.

“Ah, forget it. Go ahead and look. I’ve seen it before, you know. The judges’ convention was here in ’84.”

“Yeah. And you left early. How could you leave a place this amazing?”

Hardcastle snorted. “It’s just palm trees.”

“That’s like saying the Golden Gate Bridge is just wires.”

*

After the usual post-flight process of collecting their suitcases from baggage claim and a rental car from the lot, they got on their way to the hotel. To preclude gaper’s delays, Hardcastle drove. As they traveled, the brilliantly clear sky, swept clean by the trade winds, and pleasantly mild air were a welcome contrast to the blazing dry August oven of Los Angeles and lifted even Hardcastle’s mood, in spite of his aversion to the prospect of spending two weeks being herded from one tourist attraction to another. Yet as they turned into their hotel’s driveway his scowl returned.

“All the great hotels on this beach and you had to put us in the pink one?” he growled.

“Come on, Judge,” McCormick said. “It’s the Pink Palace. The Royal Hawaiian. It’s the one of the most famous hotels in the whole country. A lot of famous people have stayed here, you know. Douglas Fairbanks…Joe DiMaggio…Franklin Roosevelt…”

“Get the bags.”

“…Milton C. Hardcastle…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The Judge headed for the front desk. He wasn’t too concerned about undermining McCormick’s enthusiasm for this vacation: even now the kid was staring in open-mouthed wonder at the luxurious lobby as though he’d been raised by wolves, and Hardcastle knew that nothing he could say would dampen McCormick’s boundless delight with the place. And in fact he didn’t really want to. It was a habit of long standing to nurture a spirit of contradiction, but in fact he both approved of his friend’s ebullience and enjoyed it.

Once in their room McCormick spent some time appreciating the complimentary toiletries before the view, which included both Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head crater, caught his attention. When he could finally be induced to peel himself away from the window he helped the Judge unpack, and each changed into his idea of resort wear: cargo shorts and a polo shirt for McCormick, trousers and a t-shirt for the Judge; and then they stopped by the concierge desk to ask after the best local place for lunch. This turned out to be Duke’s, just a few doors east of the hotel and an easy walk along the famous beach.

“Man, I’m starved,” McCormick announced as they set out. “I hope the guy’s right about this place.”

“Hm. As long as it has the kind of menus you don’t have to color, we’ll probably be fine.”

“Can you believe this place?” McCormick waved his hand at the hotel’s grounds, which made merely manicured landscaping look shabby. “They must have a hundred guys working on this place night and day.”

“Or maybe just one guy who pays attention to what he’s doing.”

McCormick shot him a reproachful glance. “Anyway. It’s great, don’t you think?”

“Great.”

“Come on, Judge. You gotta admit: the palm trees, the sandy beaches, the ocean…Hawaii is amazing.”

“Yeah, too bad we don’t have any of those things in California.”

“This is different.”

“It’s expensive.”

“Oh, hey, about that,” McCormick said, suddenly serious. “Thanks again. Really. For the hotel, for upgrading the room, the whole thing.”

“Hey, a deal’s a deal. I told you last year we could go to Hawaii.”

“Yeah, but first class tickets, a room with a view of something besides the laundry chute…you’re really splurging, here.”

“Think of it as a reward for acing the spring semester.”

McCormick grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought lunch at Barney’s covered that. What happens if I graduate top of my class?”

“You get a job.”

McCormick smiled and returned his attention to their surroundings. They emerged from the hotel’s sculptured grounds onto the beach, turned left, and paralleled the water. To their left rose the neighboring hotels with their expensive boutiques and restaurants; to their right lay a broad expanse of warm, sugar-fine sand, liberally speckled with sun-worshipping tourists, and beyond the beach the glittering Pacific Ocean, at this mid-afternoon hour showing every shade of blue from aqua-marine to cobalt and itself dotted with surfers, snorkelers, and swimmers close to shore, and sport-fishing and pleasure boats beyond the reef.

As they strolled they overtook the straggling members of a large tour group moving in the same direction: a dozen white- and blue-haired women, mostly wearing muu-muus and carrying huge straw totes, and their far more sketchily-clad husbands.

“Whoa,” McCormick muttered. “Black socks, loafers, and swim trunks up to their armpits. Those guys dress worse than you.”

“Into every paradise a little rain must fall, McCormick. Just be glad they aren’t wearing Speedos.”

“Hey! Lunch, Judge. You’re gonna kill my appetite.”

“Good. Save me some money.”

They both noticed it at the same time: Hardcastle because he wasn’t interested in the scenery; McCormick because he was happily drinking everything in. Independently their gazes flicked over the man, then returned to him. A thin young guy in cutoff denim shorts, a dirty yellow t-shirt, and tattered grey, formerly-white Keds lounged on a park bench between the boardwalk and parking lot, beyond the tour group that was slowly approaching him. He was watching the tourists with a predatory intent that both the Judge and McCormick recognized at once. Neither spoke, but each was aware that the other had spotted the man. Nor were either of them surprised when, as the last of the group passed his bench, the young man pushed himself away from it, strode boldly into the middle of the stragglers, yanked the purse from the hand of the woman closest to him, and sprinted away.

“Dammit,” McCormick said. “Not here, too.”

Hardcastle sighed. “Get after him.”

“Yeah, yeah…” McCormick broke into a run.

When he saw McCormick charging toward him the thief made a sweeping u-turn and fled in the opposite direction, bulling his way through the pack of elderly tourists and knocking several of them into the sand. McCormick’s progress was hampered by the sand, the fallen tourists, and the ones who, still on their feet, were milling about in alarm and confusion, and he made poor progress.

Had the thief veered into the parking lot when he saw McCormick charging toward him he might have succeeded in his escape. But he kept to the sand and he never saw the young woman until it was too late.

She had been walking up from the beach, her long black hair still slicked back from the salt water, her bare feet coated with hot sand, approaching the parking lot at an oblique angle. Under her left arm she carried an ocean kayak; the other held a paddle. Her movements were unhurried, and it was this that kept the thief’s attention from her until it was too late. As he approached she almost casually chucked the paddle toward his churning feet, bringing him down hard. The purse flew from his grip, scattering its contents. She dropped the kayak, stepped in front of the man, and stood calmly waiting.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried. He scrambled to his feet, glanced at his prize, now hopelessly mired in the sand, then shifted his wild gaze to the young woman.

She met his glance. “That bag doesn’t go with your shoes,” she said coolly.

“You bitch!” he cried, and swung at her in a wide arc. She had been waiting for this. Her left hand snapped up and deftly blocked the blow and simultaneously, using the torque of her twisting hips to add power, she drove the heel of her right hand into his nose. As her counterstrike landed she flicked her right foot forward, hooked his right leg behind the calf and swept his feet from under him. She stood over him, her bare left foot pressing against his face and her hands trapping his wrist, keeping his arm straight and his wrist bent. Each time he struggled she pressed almost imperceptibly down with her foot while pulling up on his wrist, until very soon he stopped resisting and lay there panting and swearing. And bleeding.

“Enough?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s enough. Ow! Let me up, damnit!”

She took her foot off his face but kept her grip on his hand. “Get up,” she said, and encouraged by the excruciating pain in his wrist and forearm the man was induced to stand. Keeping his wrist trapped and his arm pinned behind him, she steered him toward the park bench on which he’d been lurking moments earlier.

McCormick had seen most of this as he plowed awkwardly through the sand, and now he skidded to a stop, scattering sand and gasping. He was standing between the young woman and her goal of the park bench, though, and she fixed him with an imperious glare. “Move it or lose it,” she growled.

“What? Oh!” McCormick backed hurriedly, his hands up in a “don’t hurt me” gesture of submission. To cover his confusion he knelt and picked up the purse, stuffing the contents as well as a liberal amount of sand back inside. The sand was an unintentional byproduct of being unable to stop staring at the young woman. Besides her obvious ability to deck him, the first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, almond shaped and intelligent. Her black, glossy hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hit between her shoulder blades. She wore a sky-blue, short-sleeved rash guard shirt over a flame-colored bikini bottom, an ensemble which emphasized her tall, athletic figure and strong, toned limbs. Her refined, vaguely exotic features suggested a mingled Asian and Polynesian heritage. The overall effect as she stood guarding her catch was one of grace, athleticism, and beauty. McCormick was speechless.

Farther down the boardwalk Hardcastle had helped the purse-snatching victim to her feet and now he guided her toward the bench. McCormick handed her the purse. “He didn’t have time to take anything, ma’am,” he said. “I think I got all your things back in there.” He glanced at the Judge. “She okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing physical. Just shaken up some. You know.”

“You didn’t lay a lecture on her, did you?”

Hardcastle ignored the dig and addressed the young woman. “Uh, miss? Would you like to borrow these?” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and held them out to her.

Her eyes flicked from the cuffs to Hardcastle’s face as she considered. Then her fierce expression softened somewhat and she said, “Thank you.” She accepted the handcuffs, secured the man’s wrists behind his back, and shoved him toward the bench. “Sit.”

McCormick whispered a fierce aside in Hardcastle’s ear. “I don’t believe you. Are you crazy? You brought those on vacation? To Hawaii?!”

Hardcastle snorted. “What’s the matter with you? Look at this: if I hadn’t brought them, how else would we keep this guy around until the cops get here? Not that you weren’t doing just fine on your own,” he added, and flashed the young woman a winning smile. “You can make a citizen’s arrest now,” he added.

She hiked an eyebrow at him, and he explained. “Just say that you’re placing him under citizen’s arrest and that he can’t leave until the cops get here.”

“You’re under arrest,” she told the thief. “I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest and you’re going to sit there until the cops show up.” She glanced at the Judge. “Does he have to say anything?”

“It’s better if he doesn’t,” Hardcastle said.

By now someone had called the police, and two uniformed officers, one a tall carroty-haired middle-aged man, and the other blond and somewhat younger, stopped their marked cruiser in the parking lot. The taller one scowled as he approached the little group. “What’re you doing here, Noelani? You know you’re not supposed to be in this neighborhood.”

“It’s a public beach, Wilks,” she replied coolly.

“You’ve got your own beach. What are you doing down here?”

“Your job,” she snapped. “Again.”

Wilks squared his shoulders, puffed himself up, and took a step toward her.

Hardcastle stepped between them. “Officer,” he said in what for him was a conciliating tone. “I’m Milt Hardcastle. Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. LA Superior Court, retired. I was a witness to what happened here, and this young lady stopped an assault and robbery in progress.”

Wilks stared at Noelani for a few seconds longer, then moved his gaze to the Judge: clearly unimpressed and with no apparent recognition.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Hardcastle. Milt Hardcastle. My friend and I were walking on the beach here and saw this guy—” pointing to the thief bleeding on the bench “—knock this woman down and steal her purse. This young lady here stopped him.”

“I guess that explains why he’s the one doing the bleeding,” the cop sneered.

The thief spoke up. “The crazy bitch hit me,” he whined. “I was just jogging.”

“Yeah, he was jogging away with that lady’s purse,” McCormick said, irritated into putting his oar in. “He swung at her first. I saw it. We all saw it. Ask any of these people.” He gestured toward the tour group that had gathered. “She acted in self-defense and in defense of another. We’re witnesses, and we want to give statements about what we saw.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Mark McCormick.”

“You guys friends of hers?” the cop asked, jerking his thumb at Noelani.

“We’ve never seen her before,” Hardcastle said. “We’re here on vacation. We just got here an hour ago, and we were walking down to Duke’s and this guy knocked an old lady down and stole her purse. I told you. Now what the hell are you gonna do about that?”

Wilks opened his mouth to reply, but his partner tugged his sleeve and muttered something in his ear. Wilks shut his mouth. He stared at the three of them a while longer, then said, “If you want to give a statement you’ll have to do it at the station.” He turned to his partner and motioned toward the thief. “Put this guy in the car. Noelani, you’re lucky your friends are here. If it was up to me I’d put you in the back with this guy, and you could spend the night in the can and let your lawyer sort it out in the morning. If you can find one.”

She ignored the cop and turned to the Judge and McCormick. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m Noelani. Noelani Alemana.” Her handshake was warm, confident.

Once the introductions had been made McCormick, still smiling, said, “So. Cop shop. Where is it?”

She pointed. “Just there. It’s the white building on the other side of that hotel.”

“Well, how convenient is that?” McCormick said to Hardcastle. “Walking distance from the hotel. Hey, if we’d known Hawaii was such a handy hotbed of crime I’m sure we’d have come a long time ago, right Judge?”

Hardcastle just sighed.

Noelani stowed her kayak in a gleaming red Jeep that was parked nearby, then reached under the front seat, withdrew a pair of shorts and flip flop sandals, and slipped them on. As the kayak obviated the possibility of passengers, the Judge and McCormick walked to the nearby police station.

It soon became clear that Wilks’ attitude wasn’t an anomaly. Although none of the officers they met were as openly rude as Wilks, none regarded Noelani with much approval, either. If she noticed their coolness she gave no sign of it as she provided an orderly, coherent, accurate account of the thief’s actions and her own. The Judge and McCormick signed their own statements, and as they rose to leave the squad room doors opened and a middle-aged woman in a navy blue suit strode purposefully into the room. She stopped when she saw Noelani and her broad face reddened: another cop who wasn’t happy to see her. Her staff ID tag read “Capt. Karen Rossi.”

“What are you doing here, Noelani? I told you: the investigation is finished.”

Noelani scowled. “I’m not here about that,” she said with an irritated lift of her chin. “I’m here about another one of your oversights. That spitbag Wilks is booking stole a lady’s purse on the beach. Don’t you know that crime’s bad for tourism?”

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Rossi said. “What the hell were you doing on Waikiki?

Noelani smiled serenely. “Well, I’ll tell you, what, comrade: I don’t have to answer that, but I’m in a good mood, so: I was kayaking on a public beach.”

“You got your own beach,” Rossi snapped. “Start using it. I’ve told you before about harassing Carson. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Who said anything about Carson?” Noelani said calmly. “I was kayaking. On a public beach. When I was done kayaking I did Wilks’ job by cleaning up the trash. Right in your own back yard, too.”

It was clear to Hardcastle that there was nowhere for this conversation to go but south. He stepped forward with a broad smile and his hand extended. “Hi,” he said and peered at her ID badge. “Captain…Rossi, is it? I’m Milt Hardcastle. Tourist. My friend and I saw this young lady stop an assault and robbery. We were helping out with witness statements.”

Rossi turned her glare from Noelani to Hardcastle. “Hardcastle.” she said. “Milt Hardcastle? Judge Milton C. Hardcastle?”

“That’s right. Nice to meet you.”

Rossi ignored the Judge’s proffered hand. “I’ve heard of you, Judge,” she said. “I know you like to shove into other people’s business. I don’t know what Noelani here has told you, but if you’re really here as a tourist then she’s the last person on this island that you ought to be mixed up with. That’s a closed case, and that’s all you need to know.”

Hardcastle’s veneer of pleasantry slipped somewhat, but he was for once innocent of the charge of snooping around, and as a former cop himself he tended to give the police the benefit of the doubt. “I’ve never met this young lady before today,” he said evenly. “We witnessed a crime and witnessed her stopping it. That’s it. We’re not here to step on anybody’s investigation.”

“There’s no investigation,” Rossi growled. “It’s a closed case.”

“We’re tourists,” Hardcastle insisted. “That’s it.”

Rossi appeared not to have heard. She glanced at McCormick. “Who’s this? Your latest project? I know you like to rehabilitate strays. In fact, I know all about you, Judge. Word gets around, you know, even in the middle of the ocean. I know you like to make the cops look like we can’t do our jobs. But I’m telling you: Stay away from Noelani. She’s barking up the wrong tree, and if you hang around with her you’re going to wish you never left L.A.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into her office before the Judge could indulge himself in a parting shot.

McCormick gave a low whistle. “Whoa,” he said. “What’s her problem? Somebody put salt sprinkles on the doughnuts?”

“Let’s go,” Hardcastle said.

Outside, though, standing on the steps of the police station, he turned to Noelani with more than casual interest. “What’s going on with you and the cops?” he asked.

Noelani hesitated. She didn’t know these guys, although she instinctively approved of them both as people who were willing to get involved. They’d proved that much. Rossi’s hostility toward Hardcastle impressed her favorably, too. She didn’t answer his question, though, instead posing one of her own. “You’re a judge?”

“LA Superior Court.”

“Retired,” McCormick put in.

Noelani was still looking at Hardcastle. “What did she mean about making the cops look incompetent?”

“Well–” McCormick began.

“Shut up, McCormick,” Hardcastle snapped. “We don’t make the cops look incompetent.”

“No, they usually do that on their own,” McCormick said.

“I used to be a cop,” Hardcastle said, ignoring him, “before I was a judge. Now I’m retired, and there have been a couple of times when we’ve been able to help out the police with different things. Some of their cases. That’s all.”

“Criminal cases?”

“Sure.”

“And you really want to know what’s bugging Rossi.”

“Yeah.”

Noelani considered. “You said you were on your way to lunch at Duke’s. Still hungry?”

“Starving,” McCormick said.

*

It was the slow hour between the lunch and evening crowds at Duke’s, and they easily secured an isolated table on the broad patio overlooking the beach. Towering royal palms fringed the dining area, providing welcome shade and a steady background clatter of fronds in the warm breeze.

When the waiter had returned with their orders the Judge and McCormick, seated opposite Noelani, looked at her expectantly.

“Alright,” she said. “You wanted to know what’s Rossi’s problem.” They waited, but instead of beginning she regarded them almost warily. “You’re a retired judge, but you’re here as a tourist,” she said, as though recapping to herself. Hardcastle nodded. “What about you?” She looked at McCormick. “Are you a judge?”

McCormick smiled. “Not exactly. But I’m in law school, and maybe someday I’ll have my sense of humor surgically removed, and then I can be a judge, too.”

“I see. Are you guys together?”

“Yes,” Hardcastle said.

“No,” McCormick said, kicking him under the table. “We’re not together.”

Hardcastle made a face. “What the hell are you talking about? We came on the same plane, we’re in the same hotel, of course we came here together.”

“Well, yeah, we came here together, but we’re not together.”

Hardcastle curled his lip. “What’re you, oxygen-deprived from the flight?”

Noelani shrugged: she attached no moral importance to the question. “Whatever. Why Hawaii?”

“Because Hardcastle picked where we went last year. This year it was my turn, and I thought if we went to Hawaii we’d be less likely to spend our entire vacation eating bear meat and acorns.”

“Wait’ll you try poi,” Hardcastle said.

“Acorns?” Noelani repeated.

“Yeah,” McCormick said. “See, when Hardcastle picks where we go, we drive twelve hours to Fanbelt, Oregon, fly an airplane into the side of a mountain, get chased by psychotic nut job survivalists who want to kill us, and then spend the next two weeks hiking back to civilization. Wearing pelts.”

“Get over that,” Hardcastle snapped.

“Eating acorns,” Noelani said.

“Actually,” McCormick went on, somewhat carried away by the fact that she was making extended eye contact with him, “they’re fantastic if you make ’em right. What you do is, you sauté them in butter and white wine, and just before they’re al dente you add the cilantro. Of course, if you don’t have any cilantro you can use moss, that’s what we did, but moss has a smokier flavor that can be a little overpowering…” Somewhere around his introduction of the moss it became clear to McCormick that if Noelani thought he was funny she was doing a remarkable job of hiding it, while Hardcastle was staring at him as though he was impaired. His patter limped to a halt.

“Ignore him,” Hardcastle said. “What’s the deal with you and the cops around here?”

“My sister,” Noelani said. “My younger sister. Kanai. She died last year. Almost a year ago next month, in fact. The cops investigated it for a couple of months, but then they dropped it. They said it was an accident and they closed the case, but I know it was murder.”

“How do you know that?” Hardcastle asked.

“Because her boss is an opportunistic creep who had a fourteen million dollar life insurance policy on her.”

McCormick stared. “Fourteen million? Fourteen million dollars? Why would a boss have an insurance policy on an employee for so much? Why would a boss have an insurance policy on an employee for anything?”

“Because he’s an opportunistic creep,” Noelani said again. “Because that’s how much money he wanted to end up with for himself. Because he’s the kind who aims big. Pick one. If you’re going to kill someone for insurance money, you might as well make it a lot of money.”

“So the cops closed the investigation,” Hardcastle said. “And they got a problem with you because…?”

“Because I know my sister’s death wasn’t an accident and I’m trying to prove it.”

“Wait a minute,” McCormick said. “When you say you ‘know’ it wasn’t, are you saying you have some kind of evidence and the cops won’t act on it?”

She looked away. “No. I don’t ‘know’ in the sense of having hard evidence. They probably would do something if I did,” she admitted. “But if you put the pieces together they all point to a really tempting motive.”

“Tell us,” Hardcastle said.

“You’ve heard of InvestTech?” Blank looks from both men. “It’s a hedge fund. Our father co-founded it. It made him very, very rich. After our mother died, our father set up trusts for my sister and me, but Kanai was always kind of wild, and he set hers up so that she couldn’t touch it until she turned 40. Well, she was always desperate for money. She liked to party and buy expensive things, and she ended up with a bad crowd, because that’s where the money and excitement were. She used to tend bar at a club near here. It’s popular with tourists—well, with single male tourists, anyway. She was pretty and outgoing and popular, and she got involved with this guy Carson—J.B. Carson—and ended up working for him.”

Hardcastle blinked. “The real estate guy? Carson Real Estate Group? That Carson?”

Noelani stared at him in surprise, but McCormick made a “here we go again” gesture and said, “He knows everybody. It’s his thing.”

“I read about it in the papers, that’s all,” Hardcastle said. “I don’t remember a lot of the details except that it was a classic STOLI case.”

“STOLI?” McCormick repeated.

“Stranger-originated life insurance,” Hardcastle said, and off McCormick’s blank look he elaborated, “It’s insurance law. You’re not there yet. You get a guy, he gets a group of outside investors together, and they get someone to take out a multi-million dollar life insurance policy on themselves. The investors buy the policy and pay the premiums, and they make themselves the beneficiaries of the policy. They’re basically betting on when an insured person’s gonna die.”

“That cannot possibly be legal,” McCormick said. “Isn’t that a really good motive for murder?”

Hardcastle looked at Noelani. “He’s smarter than he looks. Yeah: Most insurance companies won’t go for it if they know that’s what the policy is intended for, and a lot of states are making it illegal. And it is a great motive for murder. I’m surprised the DA didn’t push that a little harder. It’s classic. You get people—usually some old codger—to take out big policies on themselves, then you buy the policies, pay the premiums, and collect when the person dies. The insurance companies won’t issue those kinds of policies because it violates ‘insurable interest’ laws that say a buyer has to be someone who’d rather have the insured person alive than dead: a relative, usually.” He drew himself up and recited from long memory: “’A contract of insurance upon a life in which the insured has no interest is a pure wager that gives the insured a sinister counter-interest in having the life come to an end.’ Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1911. I’m surprised the insurance company issued the policy in the first place.”

“They didn’t know,” Noelani said. “They thought it was legitimate, that Kanai was taking it out. Carson helped her set up some bogus trust: the ‘Kanai Eperona Insurance Trust,’ they called it.”

“‘Kanai Eperona?’” McCormick repeated. “You and she didn’t have the same last name?”

“Kanai was furious when our father put the trust out of her reach. She had her last name legally changed to our mother’s maiden name,” Noelani said. “Anyway, this trust was supposed to be the beneficiary. The insurance company says Carson never told them that Kanai signed a document making Carson Real Estate Group the beneficiary and owner of the trust. Kanai told them that she just wanted the policy for personal estate planning when she applied, or they never would have issued it.”

“That’s probably true,” Hardcastle said. “Rich people to set up trusts for tax reasons all the time, but most places won’t issue a STOLI to the trust if they know that’s what it’s for: It’s damned near guaranteed they’re going to have to pay out on it.”

“Well, they filed suit to get out of paying,” Noelani said. “Carson denies that he gave the insurance company false information and he’s countersuing because he says he made the premium payments in good faith. He says he believed that Kanai was an important employee in his company and that the policy was legitimate because he bought it in good faith.” Noelani shook her head. “The cops looked into it for a while, but when the ME came up with accidental drowning as the cause of death, that was the end of it. He said it was ‘asphyxia by drowning with acute ethanol intoxication as a contributing cause.’ That was enough to make the DA back off. He said it was too iffy, too hard to prove that she didn’t drown accidentally because she was drunk.”

“Tell us what happened,” McCormick said.

Noelani took a deep breath and began. Kanai tended bar at a club called Blue Hawaii. The club was popular with tourists, especially middle-aged and older men who had some money. Carson liked to hang out at the club, too, because these same middle-aged and older men with some money were interested in, or could be brought to be interested in, investing in Hawaiian real estate either singly or in partnerships. In spending so much time at the club Carson naturally came into contact with Kanai. She was pretty and outgoing and vivacious, and she was wildly popular with the male tourists who frequented the place. Carson realized how valuable she could be to his real estate business if she became the face of Carson Real Estate Group. They began dating, and within two months he had made her vice chairwoman and a director of his company, although she knew nothing of real estate. Kanai started attending the board meetings of Carson Real Estate Group in November, 1983. Kanai being a top executive was a real stretch, since she never graduated college, but she far exceeded Carson’s expectations when it came to bringing the company new investors. In exchange for her work Kanai got paid a lot of money which kept her in nicer clothes and faster cars than a bartender and Ivy League drop-out would otherwise have been able to afford.

In spite of the extra business she brought in, however, Carson Real Estate Group was having money problems. Part of Noelani’s independent investigation into the case had involved doing due diligence on the company, and in poring through court filings and other public documents she learned that Carson and his various subsidiary companies were having debt problems, including pending claims for non-payment of credit card bills totaling more than $40,000. Carson Real Estate Group was not only on the hook for the loan to pay for Kanai’s insurance premiums, they were being dunned by creditors. In March of 1984, Carson took out the insurance policy on Kanai.

“Well,” McCormick said, “I can see why a $14 million payday looked good to him, but I still don’t get why he took out an insurance policy on her in the first place.”

“It’s called ‘key man’ insurance,” Hardcastle explained. “She was helping him pull in these saps from the mainland into these real estate deals of his. They might have been legitimate deals; probably were. That made her valuable to the company, gave him a pretext for making that key man designation on the policy. Only once he has the policy she becomes expendable, because now she’s worth more to him dead than alive.”

“Okay,” McCormick said. “I see what’s in it for him, if he’s the beneficiary, but you said these…STOLI schemes usually target old people, right? So why would you take out a policy on someone so young? How old was she?”

“Twenty-seven when she died,” Noelani said.

“Twenty-seven.” McCormick shook his head. “Man. But that doesn’t make sense, Judge. If they’re betting on when she dies, don’t they have a really long wait?”

“Yeah, unless they give a little assist. That’s why a STOLI is a motive for murder. Usually the insured person is much older, but either way, the sooner they die, the less the out-of-pocket for the investors, and the better their return.”

“Investors,” Noelani snorted derisively. “They’re murderers.”

“Did Carson get the money when your sister died?” the Judge asked.

“No. That’s the only good thing about this whole mess. The insurance company won’t pay out. He’s suing them, of course, but they sued too, to have the policy invalidated because it was stranger-originated. The insurance company figured out it’s a crock, but the cops haven’t,” she added bitterly.

“Well,” Hardcastle said, “to be fair to the cops, they can’t do much if the DA won’t do much. The DA won’t do much if the ME hands him an ambiguous cause of death. He’s not going to put his winning percentage on the line for something that the defense can shred in front of a jury. You said they listed alcohol as a contributing cause?”

“She was drunk,” Noelani said bluntly. “I know that. She was partying with Carson the night she died. She still worked at the Blue Hawaii so she’d have access to new ‘clients.’ They were celebrating something, I don’t know what. Maybe her one year anniversary being a corporate vice president,” she said sarcastically. “He says she started to get a little too rowdy, even for that place, really drunk, and decided to take her home. They left about 2 a.m.—the other employees backed that up, and the owner of the bar remembered walking them both to the car—and he drove her home; she still kept her own condo, even while she was seeing him. He says he took her inside and left her on the living room sofa and told her to go to bed. He says that’s the last time he saw her: alive in her living room. The next day, when she didn’t show up to go shopping with some of her girlfriends…they found her face down in the bathtub, drowned. She was still wearing her outfit from the party,” she added, “so that was one more reason the ME listed it as an accident.”

McCormick shook his head. “I still don’t get the insurance thing, Judge. What did Kanai get out of it?”

“Money,” said Noelani. “Cash. She never had any money. She acted like she was rich; she would have been, if she’d lived. But spent she like she had already inherited, so she was broke.”

Hardcastle said, “The insured person in a STOLI gets an upfront cut of the eventual death payout.”

“Morbid,” McCormick said with an exaggerated shudder.

Hardcastle nodded. “That’s probably how Carson convinced her to go along with his little arrangement.”

“That’s what I think,” Noelani agreed. “Kanai was always short of money but she liked to live the high life.”

“So let me get this straight,” McCormick said. “Carson hires your sister because she can convince rich guys from the mainland to invest in his real estate business. He makes her part of the company and takes out a life insurance policy on her–”

“No,” Hardcastle said. “He has her take out the policy on herself, using a trust she set up in her name. If he’d tried to take the policy out in his name the insurance company wouldn’t have signed off on it.”

“But you said she didn’t have any money,” McCormick said, looking at Noelani, “so how’d she buy the policy?”

“They lied to the insurance company. They said that she had $14 million in assets and that she’d liquidate some to pay the annual premiums, but the premiums were something like $380,000 a year. She didn’t have forty thousand in assets, much less $14 million. The trust Carson had her set up took out a 30-month loan to pay for the premiums. Well, the interest rate on that loan was 17% a year. It was costing him a fortune to make the payments on the premiums.”

“So we’re right back to a great motive for murder,” Hardcastle said.

“Yeah. And here’s the other thing: Carson tried to sell the policy while Kanai was still alive, but when he couldn’t, he started trying to refinance it, instead. He was going to lose the policy to the lender, otherwise. The loan’s due date was September 30, 1985. Kanai died on September 27, just before the deadline.”

McCormick: “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“More like criminaler and criminaler,” Hardcastle said.

McCormick was still somewhat behind the power curve. “Okay,” he said, “so Carson has Kanai set up a trust in her name, the trust takes out this insurance policy plus a loan to pay for it. Carson not only can’t refinance the loan, giving him a motive to kill her and cash in on the policy, but he’s going to win anyway if your sister dies as soon as possible. Have I got this straight?”

“You got it,” Noelani said.

McCormick gave a low whistle. “You know something?” he said, turning to Hardcastle. “I should have an answer to this, but I don’t. I never have. Don’t you wonder why bad guys work so hard to avoid honest work? Seriously: if the guy was just an honest businessman, he wouldn’t have to work half this hard, and now he’s under suspicion of murder, too.”

“He’s not under suspicion of murder,” Noelani said, “except by me and my father.”

McCormick shook his head. “And us.”

“You guys believe me?”

They nodded. “We not only believe you,” McCormick said, “But we can help you get this guy, because what you don’t realize is that this is your lucky day.” He glanced at Hardcastle. “These STOLI things work best with rich old guys, right?” Hardcastle nodded. “Well, then,” McCormick said to Noelani, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. R. Codger, from Malibu, California. The ‘R’ stands for ‘Rich.’”

“And his chauffeur,” Hardcastle said.

“Chauffeur?” McCormick cried. “How come I always end up being your minion?”

“Because you’re neither rich nor old,” Hardcastle said serenely. “Besides, if you’re not the minion, exactly what would you be doing? You think I’m going to do all the leg work while you sit on the beach sipping umbrella drinks?”

“Fine. But if I have to be the chauffeur, I want to be the chauffeur who’s cutting in on your action.”

“Fair enough. It would be a little hard to explain if you weren’t.”

Noelani was staring at them both. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

McCormick grinned. “We’re talking about putting Carson in the cooler for your sister’s murder.”

Hardcastle held up his hand. “Don’t get too ambitious,” he said. “We might get lucky with that, or we might not. It’s going to be damned hard to prove that without a confession. But we can put some new bait in front of him and see whether he bites.”

“Well,” McCormick said confidently, “As a friend of mine once told me, ‘Bad guys keep committing the same crimes over and over. They find something they like to do and they keep on doing it until they get caught.’ If this Carson guy killed your sister,” he said to Noelani, “he’s probably willing to do commit murder again, especially since he thinks he got away with it.”

“Hasn’t he?”

“Not yet,” Hardcastle said. “Maybe not ever.”

McCormick said, “Can you act, Noelani?”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Act like what?”

“Like arm candy. For an old rich guy.”

She glanced at Hardcastle and considered. “It’s not really my style,” she said finally, “but if you guys think it will help put Carson away, I can act like arm candy.”

“Good,” Hardcastle said. “But you’re also going to have to act like arm candy that’s having a fling with the rich old guy’s driver.”

She hiked an imperious eyebrow at McCormick, who grinned placatingly at her. “What’s in it for me, exactly?”

“An Oscar,” Hardcastle said, “if you can pull that off without gagging.”

“Hey!” McCormick protested, and Noelani laughed for the first time that day. “You guys really think you can get Carson to try this on Mr. Hardcastle?” she asked.

McCormick considered. “You said the insurance company is suing him, and he’s suing them back?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the Judge. “We can get him to try it on Mister Hardcastle. You know how lawyers are: they cost a fortune. Carson will be even more desperate for cash now than he was before.”

“What I think we should do,” McCormick went on, “is get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning get together and decide exactly how we’re going to attack this.” He glanced at the Judge, who nodded. “Can you meet us at the hotel tomorrow morning? Or—you probably have to work, right?”

Noelani shook her head. “I took a leave of absence so I could look into this full time. I’ve been keeping track of Carson: what he does, where he goes, how long he’s there, who he talks to…That’s why Wilks and Rossi are think I’m stalking him.”

“What does Carson think?”

“He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know Kanai had a sister. For one thing, we have different last names, and for another, I was out of the country when she died. In Chile.”

“Chile?” McCormick was surprised into indiscretion. “What were you doing in Chile?”

“I’m so sorry,” Hardcastle said. “He has no manners. You don’t have to answer that.”

She smiled. “It’s fine. I was in the Atacama—the desert in Chile. I’m an astronomer.” They both looked a little blank at that, and McCormick’s expression, at least, suggested that he was trying to sort out whether that implied looking at stars or telling horoscopes. “An astrophysicist, actually,” she added. “We study the physical and chemical properties of celestial objects: Stars, planets…you know? I was in Chile doing an optical survey of galaxies in the Fornax Cluster and—but you don’t want to know about all that.”

“No,” McCormick said, “it sounds really interesting. Just use really small words, okay? All I know about stars is the ‘cusp of Libra’ and ‘Jupiter rising.’”

“In that case, maybe we should call it a day and meet up in the morning. Is nine okay?”

Hardcastle nodded. “That’s perfect.”

*

Promptly at nine the next morning Noelani arrived at the hotel in a gleaming, midnight blue Mercedes Benz 560 SEL, the keys for which she handed to the valet. McCormick, standing with the Judge at the top of the stairs leading to the lobby, gave a low whistle at the sight of it. “Nice ride,” he said. He was tempted to add something complimentary about her appearance—white shorts, a body-skimming pale blue t-shirt with an MIT logo on the front, and sandals—but her all-business demeanor told him that gallantry would be at the very least unwelcome, if not openly resented. He kept his mouth shut.

“Thanks. It’ll work for this, won’t it? It’s the only one I have with a back seat.”

“It’s just right,” Hardcastle said. “Come on: Breakfast is served.” He led the way to the hotel’s beachside patio, where he and McCormick filled their plates with items from the buffet table. Noelani chose a few pieces of fruit, but only picked at them: it was clear that her focus was elsewhere.
“Those your notes?” Hardcastle asked, indicating the black three-ring binder she put on the table.

“Yes. From the last six months.”

The loose-leaf pages inside were covered front and back with neat, closely-written observations of J.B. Carson’s movements: when he left his house, when he returned, where he worked, when he arrived there each day, who he saw and for how long—every possible detail of the man’s daily movements.

Hardcastle looked up from the binder. “You put all this together yourself?”

She nodded. “I wanted to see if there was a pattern there, something that would make me think, ‘Ah-hah: that’s something I can take to the cops.’ But nothing ever did. Maybe it only works in science, and not with scumbags. Or maybe you can see something that I missed.”

McCormick inched his chair closer to peer at the notes. “It looks like this guy spends most of his day at his office, like a legitimate businessman,” he said. He looked up at Hardcastle. “What if I take a look at that, and you see if you can get anything out of the notes?”

Hardcastle seemed agreeable. “Sure,” he said. “And I’ll see if I can’t find something that will make me look like a rich, mainland tourist. Maybe a Rolex on each arm.”

“I want to help,” Noelani said.

McCormick considered. “You said Carson doesn’t know you, right? And he doesn’t suspect you of tracking him the last few months?”

“No way.”

“He wouldn’t recognize your car?”

“No. I was usually on foot. His office is downtown and there’s always a lot of pedestrians around, so it was never hard to blend in. And besides, it’s not like I was sitting outside his office with a telescope and a Thermos, you know.”

McCormick grinned. “Great. Then we’ll go together. Judge: meet you back here after lunch? We’ll call if it’s going to take longer.”

“Sounds good.”

McCormick stood to leave, but Noelani stopped him, laying her hand on his arm and sending an electric jolt through him. “Hey,” she said. “Listen. I want to thank you guys, both of you, for this. You’re here on vacation, and instead you’re helping me spy on a creep.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised how many times creeps figure into our plans,” McCormick said. “Besides, Hardcase didn’t want to see the Polynesian Cultural Center again, anyway.”

Hardcastle grinned. “Now you’re cookin’.”

*

Carson kept an office near Honolulu’s Historic District on Cooke Street in a mid-rise building shared by dentists, doctors, lawyers, and other white collar professionals. A five-story glass and steel structure, the building was laid out in a U-shape with the open end of the U facing the street. The interior of the U was a broad plaza with an elaborate, noisy fountain in the center which did a creditable job of masking the noise from the surrounding city. Concrete benches and a virtual rainforest of tropical plants and trees surrounded the fountain. Each wing of the office complex was accessed by its own set of huge double glass doors leading to a bright, modern lobby. Noelani drove past the building, parked a block away, and they walked back to the complex. On the way McCormick bought two coffees from a sidewalk vendor. They found a shaded bench near the street with a clear view of the three wings.

With a discreet nod Noelani indicated the left-hand building. “His office is in there,” she said. “On the first floor. If he’s in there, which he should be this time of day, he ought to be going to lunch any time now.”

McCormick checked his watch. Eleven-fifteen. “Kind of early, isn’t it?”

“He takes long lunches. Besides being a criminal he’s a lazy—well, he’s lazy.”

“Where does he usually go for lunch?” McCormick asked.

“The same place he goes after work: the Blue Hawaii. He’s usually there until at least one, unless he has a live one and they come back here to his office or he takes some sucker to see a property.”

After some five minutes passed in silence McCormick reached his limit of restraint. “Hey, uh…it’s okay if you don’t want to answer, but…I was wondering: what did you do to that guy on the beach?”

“I punched him.”

“No, I mean, what was that? Was that karate?”

“Kung fu. Mostly kung fu.”

“Get outa here. Like ‘Kung Fu Fighting’? Like that song?”

“Not that lame. My parents thought we should be able to protect ourselves, at least a little–”

“A little?”

“—so they made my sister and me take at least a year of lessons. Kanai quit as soon as she could, but I liked it. I got my fifth degree black belt two years ago. It was really my mother’s idea. She knew chin na, which she learned from her mother, who was Chinese.”

“Chinnah?”

“Chin na. It means ‘trap break.’”

“Ow.”

“Yeah. It uses leverage, not brute strength. It was developed a long time ago by a Chinese woman. That’s what I was doing to the guy’s wrist to keep him under control. It only hurts if you fight against it.”

“Wow.”

“I’ve never used it in real life before. I mean, outside of testing for belts. I don’t usually go around punching pickpockets.”

“It was fast. One second the guy took a swing at you, and the next second he was on the ground.”

“I’ve had a lot of training,” she said, but she seemed reluctant to talk about herself and to forestall any more questions she said, “So…your friend’s a famous judge.”

“You say famous…bad guys say notorious.”

“And you’re a law student.”

“This fall will be my first year full-time.”

“So…you’re what, like his intern, or something?”

McCormick grinned at that. “More like, ‘or something.’”

“What did Rossi mean when she said the Judge likes to ‘rehabilitate strays’?”

“Oh, you caught that, did you?”

“Detailed observations are my job.”

“Yeah, I guess they would be.” McCormick hesitated. He had no concrete reason to expect that his liking and admiration for Noelani would ever result in any kind of payoff for him. He was reluctant to reveal to her, as he was to most people, his checkered past, but he also felt obscurely that it was important for her to know.

He sighed. “I had a car. I had a girlfriend. I had a lot of speeding tickets. I put the car in her name, and when we broke up I took the car back. She called the cops. Hardcastle was the judge presiding over the case.”

“So your friend sent you to jail?”

“Two years. He wasn’t my friend then. He was doing his job. Doing the law’s job, I guess. I was sore about it for a long time. But now…It would be too Stockholm Syndrome to say it was a good thing, but I don’t know if anything less would have gotten my attention. Maybe he knew that before I did. Anyway, once I got out things were going really good until I ‘repossessed’ another car for a friend—long story—and I’d have spent a lot longer than two years in the can that time, if Hardcastle hadn’t offered me a deal: help him take down some of his old cases, guys who beat the rap on technicalities, and get a get-out-of-jail-almost-free card. Plus my own personal set of hedge trimmers.”

“Well, you seem to have kissed and made up. Metaphorically,” she added, seeing his consternation.

“Very metaphorically. Extremely metaphorically.”

“You must have a very forgiving nature.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. There never was, but I wasted a long time being too stupid to figure that out.”

“Why law school?”

“Well, I’ve spent a lot of time involved with the wrong side of the legal system. So…karmic balance?” He smiled. “Okay, how about this: once I got over the idea that Hardcase and I were on different teams, I started to notice that it felt…I don’t know…good, I guess, or right, to see the bad guys take a fall.”

Noelani was studying his face intently. Finally she seemed to reach a conclusion and said, “You wanted to be like your friend.”

“I wanted to do good, like him. There’s a difference. I mean, did you see that shirt he was wearing?”

Noelani smiled. She sipped her coffee but as she glanced toward the office building her expression changed abruptly. “That’s him,” she said grimly.

Two men were exiting the building together: One a tall, grey-haired man of nearly sixty, tanned and slim, wearing an expensive-looking charcoal-colored suit and a fat gold watch. The other was shorter, somewhat younger, and much more muscular. He wearing navy slacks, a button-down shirt, and a loosely-knotted tie, but he looked like he’d be more comfortable in gym clothes.

“Who’s the muscle?” McCormick asked.

“That’s Brian Toller.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Bodyguard, driver, gofer…whatever. He’s got a criminal record as long as your arm: assaults, that kind of thing. He did a couple of years back in the ’70’s for stabbing a guy in a fight. The guy lived,” she added, “or he’d probably still be in prison.”

“And this Toller sticks with Carson a lot?”

“Like gum on a shoe.”

Carson and Toller turned the corner and disappear around the building, toward the parking garage next door.

“Come on,” McCormick said. He tossed the coffee cup in a bin and headed for the building entrance.

“Aren’t we going to follow him?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t want him to see either of us yet, or the car. For another, unless we catch him red-handed murdering someone, just watching him eat lunch isn’t going to tell us very much. And third, I want to see what kind of security arrangements he makes.” He stopped at the directory inside and scanned the list of names.

“You don’t need that. His office is 107,” Noelani said.

“Okay,” McCormick said, but he didn’t move away. Although he was facing the board and appeared to be reading it, he was carefully scanning the lobby.

“Well?”

“We have to look like visitors,” McCormick explained, “not prowlers. But that should do it.” He reached into his pocket for the coffee receipt. “Do you have a pen?” He scribbled something on the receipt and returned the pen. Noelani was looking at him like he was simple.

“It’s 107,” she said again. “You don’t have to write it down.”

He showed her the receipt. On it he had written the name of the doctor in suite 105, not Carson’s office number. “That’s what we call in the trade a prop,” he said, and winked. He led the way toward Carson’s office, moving slowly and indecisively and glancing now and then at the scrap of paper as though he was confused about his bearings. Wide corridors led left and right off the lobby, lined on each side with offices. He didn’t seem very interested in Carson’s office itself once they reached it and just gave the closed door a glance as they went by.

“That was it,” Noelani whispered. “You just passed his office.”

“I know,” McCormick said in an undertone. “Come on: keep walking.” He was much more interested in the next office they passed, the door of which was propped open. He looked at the door handle from both sides—just a quick glance, one any observer would have put down as someone looking for signage.

“Have you been inside his office?” he asked as they continued slowly down the hall.

“No. I didn’t want him to see me. Why?”

“I was wondering whether all these suites are the same. Same configuration, I mean. Do they all have a reception desk like that dentist’s office?”

“I think so, but I don’t know for sure.” Noelani said nothing else until they were out of the complex and walking back to the car. Then she said, “What the hell was that all about? What were you doing back there?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I wanted to see what kind of guy we’re dealing with, here. What kind of security measures he takes, how his office is protected, how careful is he, how paranoid, that kind of thing.”

“Why? Are you going to break in?”

He looked surprised. “No.”

“But you could look for evidence. Or I could,” she added, seeing his expression.

“No,” McCormick said emphatically. “No, you can’t. I can’t.”

“I thought you said you stole a car. Now you don’t know how to pick a lock?”

“It’s a single cylinder deadbolt with a one-inch throw. Of course I can pick the lock. I mean I can’t legally. If you want to get this guy and make the fallout come down on him, you have to keep your hands clean. Besides, if you break the law you make yourself like him.”

“Like a murderer? For breaking into an office?”

McCormick stopped and faced her, even taking the risky step of putting his hands on her shoulders. Her expression suggested that she was considering resenting it, but ultimately she allowed it. “Noelani: I’m sorry. I really am. I know how hard this is for you, how frustrating it is to have to spend so much time trying to get at this guy. I really do. And this is kind of hard to explain, but…I’ve done that. I’ve…‘procured’ evidence for Hardcastle that way. He didn’t know I was going to do it,” he added quickly, “or he’d have arrested me himself. But I did it a couple of times. A few. Several. But it wasn’t right.” He sighed. “Look: I used to think that he and I were on opposite sides. He was ‘The Law’ and I was the home team. When I thought the law was stupid I’d break it right the hell in half. We weren’t always on the same page about that, but we are now.”

Again she looked searchingly at him, studying his face as though she was trying see what he’d left unspoken. “You don’t want to disappoint your friend,” she said at last.

“Not to save my life.”

She considered a moment longer, then turned and continued toward the car, making him hurry to keep pace with her long strides. “You’re like a reformed smoker,” she said.

He glanced sharply at her and realized with delight that she was teasing him. “Hey,” he said. “We got some good intel today: We know the guy’s not a raving paranoid with world-class security. And contrary to popular belief, most bad guys aren’t criminal geniuses, you know. They’re morons. They do a crime they like, or that’s easy for them, or both, and they keep doing the same thing over and over until they get caught. If this guy got away with one insurance scam and murder, it’s probably because he’s done it before, and he’ll probably do it again. All he needs is the right incentive, and we’re going to give it to him.”

*

Hardcastle was waiting for them in the hotel lobby. McCormick groaned when he saw him. “Okay, I know you didn’t leave the house with that. I checked your suitcase before we left.”

Hardcastle looked down at his blue and yellow aloha shirt. “Nah, I found this at the drugstore down the block.”

“You left the tag on,” McCormick said, plucking it off. “Eight dollars? You paid eight dollars for that?

“Nah. They were having a sale: three shirts for eight bucks. Nice, huh?”

“I’ll give you eight bucks if you get rid of it.”

“Don’t worry, I got something for you, too.” The Judge tossed a small paper bag at McCormick, who caught it and peered suspiciously inside.

“It’s a tie.”

“I see that. I wasn’t planning to wear a tie on vacation.”

“Come on. You can’t drive us around looking like that. Noelani,” he said, turning to her, “Do you have something to wear that has ‘golddigger’ written all over it?”

She frowned. “I kind of try to stay away from that look. But I know where I can find something.”

The Judge glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one now. While you find something to wear, McCormick here can fill me in on your little reconnaissance mission. Meet us back here at seven? Then we’ll get the show on the road.”

*

Noelani arrived two minutes early. She emerged from the Mercedes wearing a white Oscar de La Renta sleeveless, scoopneck silk sheath dress that flattered her tall, lithe form; metallic silver 5 inch d’Orsay pumps; and one-carat diamond stud earrings that flashed fire but paled in comparison to the ring she wore on her left hand.

“What do you think?” she asked them, glancing down at her shoes and frowning. “I thought black was kind of cliché so I went with white. I hate these shoes,” she added in an aside.

“I think that will do just fine,” Hardcastle said.

“This is the wedding ring you bought me,” she said, holding out her hand. “I hope you approve.”

“Is that real?” McCormick asked, goggling at it.

Hardcastle made a face. “I told you he has no manners.”

“It’s too big for a ring,” she said, scowling at it. “I should have it reset for a necklace or something. My father gave it to my mother years ago, and she passed it on to me. Here,” she said to McCormick, and tossed him the keys.

She and Hardcastle climbed into the back of the car. “Nervous?” Hardcastle asked her as they drove away.

“Yes.”

He patted her hand. “Don’t be. Just follow our lead. Act like you’re trying to pretend to like me, act like you really like him—” pointing to McCormick “—and it probably wouldn’t hurt to make eyes at this guy Carson if you think neither of us is looking.”

“I thought I was supposed to be your wife.”

“His disloyal wife,” McCormick said over his shoulder.

“Actually, that’s not what I meant when I said I was nervous.”

“No?”

“No. I meant I’m afraid that when I finally meet him I’m going to break this guy’s face.”

The Blue Hawaii club occupied most of a small man-made peninsula at the Kewalo Basin Harbor, off Ala Moana Boulevard. Three charter boat services that specialized in serving the tourism industry shared space on the basin side of the marina, while the club’s outdoor seating area overlooked the ocean. Inside the place was a jumble of kitschy touches like white Christmas lights wrapped around the trunks of potted palms, a thatched roof over the bar, and blue neon lighting shaped like waves. Other than the neon and holiday lights, candles at each table provided most of the relief from the black carpeting and black-painted ceiling and walls. The overall effect suggested that a truck carrying blue neon lights had collided with one carrying black velvet Elvis paintings.

McCormick stopped the car under the canopy. “Show time,” he said. He jogged around the car and opened the door for Noelani, taking her hand as she slipped out and murmuring in her ear, “Don’t hit me, now: from here on out I’m acting.”

“I’ll try to control myself,” she said. Hardcastle joined her, offered her his arm, and she slipped her hand over it. McCormick held the club’s door open for them, making a point of staring at Noelani just a little longer than necessary. Once they were safely inside he gave the valet the keys, pocked the ticket, and rejoined them.

Hardcastle had found a place at the bar, which with its canopy of thatch occupied the center of the big room. The left side of the club was taken up by tables and booths set for dinner. Beyond the bar in the back of the building patio doors opened to the al fresco dining area that overlooked the water, and to the right was the nightclub section with a stage for live entertainment, empty on this weeknight except for a drum set and microphone stands in one corner. In lieu of live performers the sound system blared music from The B-52s, Run-DMC, Nu Shooz, and Stacey Q, among others, and it gave Hardcastle a headache within ten minutes.

Hardcastle had already ordered drinks for himself and Noelani. McCormick took a spot at the bar a few places away, and in response to the bartender’s question said, “Club soda. I’m driving.”

The bartender served up the drinks and Hardcastle slid Noelani’s toward her. “Here you go, sweetheart,” he said. “I think we deserve a little refreshment after that horrible flight.”

“You folks just get into town?” the bartender asked. With so few other patrons in the place he could afford to be nosey.

“Yeah, we’re visiting,” Hardcastle said. “Milt Hardcastle, and this here’s my wife, Noelani. We’re visiting,” he said again, “but we might end up staying, if I fire our pilots like my bride here wants me to. They found every patch of turbulence between here and Tokyo.”

“Tokyo? That’s gotta be a long flight.”

“Nine hours, wasn’t it, sweetie?”

“And you have your own plane?”

“Ah, it’s just a G-4. Just a little thing; you know. I’m thinking of upgrading.”

“So,” the bartender said, “if you don’t mind my asking, were you on vacation in Japan?”

“Yeah, you could say that. We were on our honeymoon. Just married last week. Show him the ring, honey.”

Noelani held out her hand so the bartender could see; the diamond flashed blue fire as she moved her hand, admiring it.

“Wow. That’s some rock,” the bartender said, staring.

“It’s a DeBeers,” Noelani offered.

“Yeah,” Hardcastle went on, “we did a little honeymooning—but it never hurts to combine business with pleasure, you know? I picked up a couple of properties while we were out there. Not in Japan. We made a side trip to Borneo and Bali for a week. I bought her a house on the beach,” he said, putting his arm around Noelani and giving her a squeeze. She nuzzled his shoulder. “Nothing’s too good for my little angel, here,” the Judge concluded.

“You’re into real estate, huh?”

“Commercial real estate, mostly,” Hardcastle said. “Resort developments, condominiums, that kind of thing. Bali’s the place for that.”

“Are you going to buy property here in the islands?”

Noelani broke in before the Judge could answer. “Oh, honey, if you’re going to buy a boring condo here, why can’t we get a little place of our own, too? Something right on the beach, so we can sit on the sand and go swimming together.”

Hardcastle patted her hand indulgently. “Now, sugar, you know I don’t have time for that kind of lollygagging around.” Noelani stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “But if it’ll make you happy, of course I’ll get you something.”

“Say, listen,” the bartender said. “If you don’t already have anybody here, I know a guy who has a real estate business that does real big deals all over Hawaii. In fact, I think…yeah, you know what? You’re in luck. He’s here tonight.” He waved to a table in a dark corner of the restaurant section and caught the attention of Brian Toller, who was sitting with his boss.

“This is Brian Toller,” the bartender said. “Mr. Carson’s associate. Brian, this is Milt Hardcastle and his wife. They’re thinking of buying some property here, and I thought they might like to talk to Mr. Carson. What do you think? Does he have a minute?”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Toller said, shaking Hardcastle’s hand. “Well, we’re expecting clients here for dinner in a few minutes, but let me check with Mr. Carson. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Toller returned quickly, a broad smile on his face. “Mr. Carson said ‘of course.’ Can I carry your drinks for you?” He escorted the newlyweds to Carson’s table, made the introductions, and retired to the bar, where McCormick had remained.

“Yeah,” Hardcastle was saying to Carson, “the little gal and I decided to take a second honeymoon here; she didn’t like the sand in Bali, so I said we could stop here for a week or so before we headed home.”

“Where’s home?” Carson asked.

“The City of Angels,” Hardcastle said. “I think they named it after my wife here. That’s where we met.”

Carson smiled at Noelani, who smiled at him and licked her lips.

“Ah, L.A.’s beautiful,” Carson said, tearing his gaze away from her. “I’ve got a place near L.A., in Santa Barbara.”

“Well, hell,” Hardcastle said boisterously, “we’re practically neighbors, then. Hey, sugar, did you hear that? Mr. Carson here says he lives in Santa Barbara.”

“Oh, call me J.B., please. ‘Mr. Carson’ is my father.”

Hardcastle grinned. “Well, okay, then, J.B. Hey, J and B, like the whisky? Hah hah hah!” Carson laughed too, as though he had never heard that particular joke before. Noelani smiled too, managing to convey both boredom and tolerance that was already wearing thin.

At the bar, McCormick sipped his club soda and glowered at the trio. Toller took a beer from the bartender and sat down nearby. “Buy you a beer?” he asked.

McCormick dragged his gaze away from Hardcastle and Noelani and acknowledged Toller. “Thanks,” he said, grimly, “but I gotta drive.” He went back to staring at his employers, apparently forgetting about Toller completely. “She is too good for him,” he muttered.

“You know them?” Toller asked casually.

“Huh?”

“Do you know that couple?”

McCormick snorted. “‘Couple,’” he sneered. “Yeah, you could say I know them. I work for that guy.”

“Ah,” Toller said. “What do you do?”

“Driver, gofer, errand boy…you name it. If it was just her, it would be different. But him…”

“Kinda hard to work for?” Toller asked sympathetically.

“Kinda,” McCormick growled.

“But it’s gotta be something, huh, being around a woman like that? Even if her husband’s a jerk?”

McCormick’s expression softened. “Yeah. She’s something else. Beautiful and smart, too. I don’t know what she sees in that guy, though. She’s too good for him. A quality woman like that, with a jerk like him? It’s unbelievable.”

“Why, what’s his problem?”

“Look at him!” McCormick hissed. “Mr. Big Shot over there, throwing his money around like it’s never gonna stop pouring in. I’ll tell you what: if I had that kinda cash flow and a woman like that I’d be wining and dining her, you know? Paying some attention to her. Not always sniffing around for the ‘next big thing.’”

“What about her? She seems happy.”

McCormick rolled his eyes like Toller was an idiot. “How could she be happy?” he demanded. “Money only gets you so far in life, you know. What’s she supposed to do while he’s jetting around the world ‘investing’? Oh, yeah, big deal: she gets to hang around on his yacht. Pffft. After a while something like that gets to feel like an eighty-foot prison, you know what I mean?”

“Got a little place in Malibu,” Hardcastle was saying. “Nice view of the water. Just twelve acres, you know, but it’s got its own beach, and it’s nice for the winter.”

Carson looked impressed. “Twelve acres in Malibu. Very nice. Well, and what kind of property are you interested in buying in the islands?”

“Oh, I don’t see why we can’t cover all the bases,” Hardcastle says. “A little commercial or light industrial, if you can handle that kind of thing. Definitely interested in residential: condos, apartments…”

“What about something just for us?” Noelani whined, slipping her arm through Hardcastle’s and leaning against him. “You said we could. Something besides all that boring investment stuff. Something on the beach. A place just for us: we could come here on the weekends when the fires and mudslides make it so hard get to Rodeo.” She rested her head on his shoulder and winked at Carson, returning his admiring gaze with a boldness and directness that made him think he might actually get somewhere with her.

“Well,” Hardcastle replied, “I don’t see why not, since it’s for you.”

“No, honey: for us,” she corrected him.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Carson said. “I’m meeting clients here tonight—they should be here any minute—but why don’t you come by my office in the morning? I can show you what we’re working on, and if you like what you see I can personally show you the properties. I’m putting together an investment group right now for a condo development on the north shore that you might like, and it’s a great time to buy individual properties, too, if you’re looking for a second residence.”

Hardcastle roared with laughter. “Did you hear that, honey? A ‘second’ residence. Boy, if I only had ‘two residences’ there wouldn’t be ten pairs of the exact same kind of shoes waiting for me between here and Paris.”

Carson smiles warmly. “How much are you thinking of spending?

“Well, lemme see about that. I just sold a couple of resort developments in Fiji and Malaysia, so I’ve got a little over ten mil looking for a parking place. So why don’t we say ten to get us started?”

“Great. And for the residence?”

Hardcastle shrugs. “What do you think, darlin’?”

“Well,” Noelani said, “the house in Bali was just a little over two million. Can’t we afford someplace at least that nice here?”

“Oh, I don’t see why not,” Hardcastle said. “Let’s say two mil for the house. But we can talk about that tomorrow.”

Noelani looked pleased and gave the Judge a chaste peck on the cheek. “It’s so exciting to buy things,” she said.

*

From his place at the bar Toller watched the trio file out, saw McCormick’s hand linger on the small of Noelani’s back, and he smiled to himself. He rejoined his employer at the table.

“What do you think?” Carson said.

“I think you got a live one on the line.”

“I think you’re right.”

“I also think Mr. Moneybags is gonna have some trouble in paradise. That driver he’s got has a thing for his wife. If they’re not already screwing around on him, they will be.”

“Yeah, I got that impression, too. They’re coming to the office at eleven. I’m going to show him the stuff out on Pakila and Kahala first. If he’s as anxious to spend money as he says he is, he ought to like Koa Ridge, too.”

“Cool.”

Carson picked up his drink. “Here’s to new ventures.”

*

Carson was even more welcoming the next morning. He appeared in the doorway of his office just seconds after the secretary announced their arrival. “Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said graciously, “welcome. Please come in; sit down. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soda? No? Well, then, let me show you our opportunity portfolio.”

In the reception area, McCormick watched them until the door closed, then found a seat that gave him a view of Noelani through the office’s sidelight. He paged distractedly through a recent issue of Fine Homes, then tossed it aside and made a big deal about glancing at his watch and sighing. When he’d been waiting there for 15 minutes Toller walked in, glanced at him, did a creditable job of pretending to be surprised to see him, and strolled over.

“Hey, bud,” he said. “Still on the clock, huh?”

“I’m always on the clock,” McCormick groused.

“Hey, I never caught your name yesterday. I’m Mr. Carson’s associate. I’m Brian. Brian Toller.”

“Huh? Oh—yeah.” McCormick wrenched his gaze away from Noelani and remembered his manners. “Mark McCormick.” They shook.

Before either of them said anything else the office door opened and Noelani emerged. She shut the door behind her, glanced at McCormick, and rolled her eyes. He smiled conspiratorially, stood up, and took her hand. “What’s up, babe?” he asked.

“I need the ladies’ room,” she said.

“Oh, sure: Hey, Brian. Restrooms?”

“Out the door, turn left, and it’s the last door on the right at the end of the hall,” Toller said.

“Thank you,” Noelani smiled.

Toller shook his head when she’d gone. “Man, you are not kidding me: that is one fine woman. I can see why you think they’re not a match. Hey,” he added, lowering his voice, “you cutting the old guy out of the action, there?”

McCormick grinned. “Why not? He’s always busy buying crap, leaving her alone. There’s a certain kind of woman that’s like a Ferrari, or a Lambo, you know? You gotta rev the engine once in a while to keep ’em in tune.”

“I hear you,” Toller said. “Well, listen, I gotta split. The boss is gonna need the car. I’ll catch you later, huh?”

“Yeah, sure,” McCormick said as they shook hands again. “See you around.”

Noelani returned to the office and another twenty minutes passed before the office door opened again and Carson led them out.

“McCormick,” Hardcastle said brusquely.

McCormick stood up and made an evident effort to produce a civil reply. “Yes, sir.”

“J.B. and Noelani and I are going to go look at some properties. You wait here. Have the car ready out front when we get back.”

“Yes, sir,” McCormick said again. “Anything you want, sir.”

Carson ushered Hardcastle and Noelani to the front of the building where Toller waited with a stretch limosine. They visited three of Carsons’s proposals: two private residences, one on Farrington Highway, the other on Ewa Beach Road, each with achingly beautiful views of the ocean and mountains; an empty parcel northwest of the city on which Carson said he planned to build 3,500 homes plus an associated shopping center; and finally a remote location near the Schofield Barracks Forest Reserve about halfway between Honolulu and the island’s North Shore on which Carson intended to locate 242 luxury condos. By the time they returned to Carson’s office it was nearly four o’clock. With assurances that he would carefully consider all he’d seen, Hardcastle wrote Carson a $20,000 check as earnest money and they arranged to meet again the following morning.

“Well,” McCormick said when they were on their way again, “I was going to ask how everything went, but now all I want to know is why you’re writing personal checks to that guy.”

“What, you think all I did yesterday was shop for Hawaiian shirts?” Hardcastle said. “Try to remember who you’re talking to, kiddo.”

“What’d you do?” McCormick asked resignedly.

“I contacted my contacts, of course. Friend of mine moved to Maui a few years ago. He’s a banking guy, international investments, all that kind of thing. He knows people who know people, and pretty soon, voila: I’m the proud owner of offshore accounts in Singapore, Bahrain, and Panama.”

“Impressive,” Noelani said. “So in retrospect it’s not all that surprising that Rossi knew who you were. You really are some kind of legal big shot.”

“Nah,” Hardcastle said modestly. “Just a mild-mannered retiree from the mainland.”

*

“Milt,” Carson said as he ushered them into his office the next morning. “Good morning to you both. What do you think? Which one of those opportunities do you think you’d like to participate in?”

“Well, Noelani and I talked it over,” Hardcastle said, “and she thinks the first place we saw on Ewok Street—”

“The residence on Ewa Beach Road?”

“That’s the one. We think that’s going to work out for us just fine.”

“So you’d like to make an offer?”

“You betcha.”

“Great, I’ll have Beth get the paperwork ready. What did you think about the other developments? Did any of them interest you?”

“All of ’em,” the Judge said immediately. “That’s how I like to roll. The bigger the investment, the bigger the payoff.”

“But the bigger the risk, honey,” Noelani spoke up. “I hate to see you gamble like this.”

“Oh, it ain’t gambling, sweetheart,” the Judge said, patting her hand. “It’s only gambling if you don’t know what you’re doing, and I know what I’m doing. I can tell J.B. here does, too. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” Carson said, simpering. “But listen: your wife raises an excellent point about risk. Carson Real Estate Group offers a full line of financial services beyond our real estate selections, including estate planning and trusts. What we like to recommend—just recommend, mind you; you’re obviously a sophisticated investor who knows his own mind—is a way to mitigate the financial risks to your heirs. What we often find is that although the primary investor in a family is comfortable with his risk exposure, often other family members are somewhat less sanguine about it.”

Hardcastle looked thoughtful. “I can see that. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. Tell me a little about what we can do.”

“What we often recommend to clients like yourself,” Carson said, “is an insurance product that’s designed for sophisticated investors. You or a trust in your name purchase the insurance product—a life insurance policy.”

“I already got a life insurance policy,” Hardcastle said with a hint of impatience.

“Of course, of course,” Carson said hurriedly. “But it pays out only after your death, am I right?”

“Obviously,” Hardcastle said.

“What if you had a life insurance policy that paid you money now? Upfront. As well as taking care of your loved ones after your passing?”

“Keep talking.”

“Well,” Carson continued, “as I said, you or a trust in your name purchase the insurance. Once you’ve done that, the Carson Group buys it and pays the premiums. You get an up-front payout when the Group makes the purchase, and the beautiful Mrs. Hardcastle here is also taken care of in the event the unthinkable happens.”

Hardcastle looked very nearly won over. “How much of an up-front payout?”

“It depends on the size of the policy, of course, but let’s say you were to buy a $10 million policy. Your up-front portion would be approximately a quarter million.”

The Judge considered. “Can your group handle $20 million?”

“Of course.”

“Twenty million it is, then,” the Judge said cheerfully. “How’s that, honey? A little spending money for while we’re here, and peace of mind for both of us that you’ll be taken care of.”

“Excellent,” Carson smiled. “Let me just have Beth get those forms, too, and we’ll get started. By the way,” he said as they waited for the secretary to return. “I never did ask you: how long are you staying in the islands?”

“Oh, just another few days,” Hardcastle said airly. “I have business in the Med on the third, and Noelani here’s never been, so she’s really looking forward to it.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Carson said. “Ah, thank you Beth. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle, I’ll just walk you through these, you can sign on the dotted lines, Beth will make copies, and we’ll get you on your way.”

*

From his seat near the plaza’s fountain Toller watched Hardcastle and Noelani get into the waiting Mercedes and drive away. He returned to the office and found his boss shrugging into his jacket.

“How’d everything go?” he asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” Carson said. “The guy chomped on it like a bass. The only problem is we’re gonna have to pull the plug before Monday. They’re only staying through the weekend and then they’re leaving for a business trip to Greece or something.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. What do you want to use: Schofield or the shopping center?”

“Schofield,” Carson said without hesitation. “It’s got the canyon access. Any distraught husband who realized his wife’s been doing the chauffeur on their honeymoon would find that an ideal spot to pitch himself off a cliff. After leaving a note explaining everything, of course.”

*

“Now what?” Noelani asked. They were back at the outdoor patio at Duke’s. It was nearly three and the lunch crowd was long gone, while few people were thinking of dinner yet. The waitress had just left with their orders.

“Now,” Hardcastle said, “we wait. Probably won’t be long,” he added, when she looked disappointed. “Remember: the faster he kills me, the faster he gets the money, and he thinks we’re leaving on Monday.”

“Think of us as a Ronco pocket fisherman,” McCormick said. “We’re a limited time offer and he’s gotta act fast.”

“And you’re not available in stores?” she said dryly.

“Exactly. Meanwhile, there’s nothing that says we have to sit indoors by the phone. We’re on vacation, we’ve been here three days, and I still haven’t seen the Polynesian Cultural Center.”

“For crying out loud,” Hardcastle said.

“Why would you go there?” Noelani asked.

“Not you, too.”

“Listen to her, kid, she’s a local.”

“There’s way better things than the Cultural Center,” Noelani said. “Pearl Harbor, The Dole Plantation, Diamond Head, Waimea Canyon, the Pali Lookout…Do you scuba dive, or snorkel?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Well, even if you don’t, I can show you guys some amazing places on this island, if you want. Tell you what: if I show you around and you still think that only the Cultural Center can fill the emptiness in your soul, I’ll pay your way in there.”

McCormick would have agreed to push the car around the island if it would give him more time around Noelani. “You’re on,” he said. “When do we start?”

“Not today,” Hardcastle was adamant. “Spending $20 million of monopoly money is enough adventure for one day.”

“Tomorrow, then,” McCormick said.

“Deal,” said Noelani.

*

Carson called two days and eleven tourist attractions later. With Pearl Harbor, Waimea Canyon, Diamond Head, Pupukea Beach, the Waikiki Aquarium, the Kahuna Stones, and the Chinaman’s Hat, among other sights under their belts, they stopped for lunch at a casual seafood restaurant Noelani knew. The Judge used a payphone to call the hotel for their messages, of which there was only one: A Mr. J.B. Carson requested that Mr. Hardcastle contact him at the following number.

Carson was delighted that Mr. Hardcastle had deigned to return his call. “Listen,” he said, “I wanted to congratulate you again on your acquisitions while you were here in the islands. Now, I know you’re leaving in a couple of days and you’re probably a little pressed for time, but I just this morning had something kind of fall into my lap, and the minute I saw it I thought of you.”

“Well,” Hardcastle replied, “that’s awful nice of you. What kind of opportunity are we talking about?”

“It’s a property near the Schofield Forest Reserve; that’s the one with the luxury condo partnership? I know you bought a lot of different things and they kind of all run together.”

“No, I know which place you mean.”

“Great. Well, the Group had a project all set to break ground up there next month, a place adjoining the condo property and backing on to the reserve. But one of the investors had some financial difficulties and had to back out this morning. We’re short a partner now, and I thought of you and your lovely wife, because she seemed so pleased with that site. The parcel is going to be fifty single-family luxury homes on two acre lots. I think you can imagine the kind of buyers we’re going to be attracting with lots of that size and in that location. Is your wife’s birthday any time soon? It could be a present for her.”

“As a matter of fact we’re going to celebrate it in Italy next week,” the Judge said. “I’d love to see the place.”

“Terrific. Is this afternoon good for you?”

“I don’t see why not. She’s got a little shopping trip planned without me anyway, so why don’t we say at four?”

“Perfect,” Carson said. “Uh…There’s just one thing,” he added, “and I’m so embarrassed to mention it. Do you think we could take your car? The limousine developed a solenoid issue this morning.”

“No problem,” Hardcastle said. “But we’ll have to use your driver, if that’s alright with you. Noelani needs someone to carry her shopping bags, so McCormick’s going to be with her.”

“That will be no problem at all.”

Hardcastle rejoined McCormick and Noelani at the table. “Bingo,” he said in answer to their looks. “Four o’clock this afternoon and don’t bring the missus: he wants to show me a gift property I can surprise her with. He even wants to use my car.”

“Nice,” McCormick said.

Noelani looked baffled. “I don’t get it. Why is that good? How do you know this is where he’s going to try to kill you? And why are you happy about that? Shouldn’t you be worried?”

“We’re always happy when the bad guys try to kill us,” McCormick told her. “It means we’re making an impression. When they ignore you, then you have a problem.”

“Carson’s isolating me,” Hardcastle explained after a wry look at McCormick, “and making sure I don’t tell anyone where I’m going. That’s why it’s a secret gift for the ‘little lady’. No offense. It’s that place up on the mountain, where he was talking about putting condos. It was the most remote spot of all the places that we saw. Oh, and Toller’s driving.”

“What?”

“Toller’s driving.”

“I heard you the first time. Are you insane? No way, Judge. No. Way.”

“It’s a done deal, kiddo. You’re going to be busy carrying the wife’s purse while she’s shopping.”

“Forget it, Judge. Cancel the shopping trip. I’m going.”

“You’re not going.”

“Ju-udge, we talked about this, remember? About the…the whadda-ya-call-it, the unilateral thing.”

“McCormick, it won’t work if you’re in the car with me. What’s the matter with you? If you come with he’ll either call it off and try again later, or kill us both, and what good are you going to be then? Besides,” he added, “I already paid the registrar for the fall semester.”

McCormick could see the Judge’s logic, but that didn’t make him any less displeased. “We’ll have to follow you, then.”

“He’ll see us,” Noelani said. “You didn’t see that place, but it’s all winding canyon roads, very open up to the top of the mountain where the developments are supposed to be.”

McCormick was thinking feverishly. “What if we get into position before he gets there?”

“Now you’re getting it,” Hardcastle said. “But the guy’s got a lot of places to choose from, and just the two of you can’t cover them all.” He looked at Noelani. “This is where we call the cavalry.”

McCormick threw up his hands in relief. “Finally, he sees reason.”

Noelani looked skeptical. “I think that’s a great idea, but do you really think Rossi’s going to think so?”

“Probably not,” Hardcastle admitted. “But I have contacts with contacts, remember? Joe Hendrickson: he’s the retired chief of police around these parts. Used to be a cop in L.A. He’s got a lot of juice in Five-O, and his cousin’s the head honcho now. Rossi’s going to have her troops in position whether she likes it or not.”

McCormick shook his head: after all this time, Hardcastle could still surprise him, and he knew the Judge liked it that way. “Was this something else you arranged while you were Dumpster diving for shirts?”

“Yep. Come on: finish your poi, or whatever that is, and let’s go.”

*

It was a tight fit, getting from the restaurant to Noelani’s house for her Jeep and a pair of binoculars and then back to the city in time for Hardcastle to make his four o’clock appointment, but her exclusive Hawaii Kai neighborhood lay between the restaurant and downtown Honolulu, so they didn’t have to go out of the way for the second car. They kept to the main road, state route 72, which merged into the H1 near Diamond Head. Hardcastle drove the speed limit; McCormick, driving the Jeep, did not. He was anxious to get into position and when they reached the exit that Hardcastle would take to Carson’s office they were a good three minutes ahead of the Judge. Following Noelani’s directions, McCormick sent the Jeep up the H2, a route which would take them east around the canyons to the Schofield Reserve. Their expectation was that Carson would take the same route he had the day he first showed Hardcastle and Noelani the property, up Kolekole Road, a steep and convoluted mountain road that climbed the west flank of the island. The police, Hardcastle had assured them, would be positioned at several points between east end of the bluff near 8th Street and the bluff’s west end in the area where the developments were to be built. Noelani knew a point in the road on the west side of the crest from which virtually all of the road would be visible, and that’s where they were headed.

As they passed 8th Street McCormick glanced over and noted with a sense of relief the unmarked but obvious detective ride parked there. It was a little far away, but he thought he could see two people in the front seat.

“Well, there’s one cop car, anyway,” he said. “See that brown Ford? Cop car.”

“How can you tell?”

“Nobody buys a car that stripped down and boring except cops. It’s a dead giveaway.”

Two tenths of a mile later, just before the west edge of the bluff where the road sloped steeply down, they passed another unremarkable sedan that McCormick identified as a police car, this time on the right side of the road and much closer to it, so that he could see without a doubt that there were two people inside, and he was almost certain that the one in the passenger seat was Rossi.

“Should they be sitting in the open like that?” Noelani asked.

McCormick shook his head. “Not really. They either think they still have time to get into position, or that is their position and they figure Carson’s not coming up that far.”

That was the last comment he could spare attention for: the road sloped steeply just a few yards later, made two hairpin turns, wound its way south around a ridge, then turned abruptly north again as it skimmed the ridge’s west side. As he turned west again Noelani pointed ahead and to their right.

“See that little dirt road that branches off?” she said. “That’s it. Pull in there, turn around, and we should be able to see back the way we just came.”

McCormick stopped the Jeep on the dirt road—just a path, really, cut into the hillside—so that they were facing back up the mountain, but he didn’t turn the car off. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“What’s the matter? We can see great in both directions.”

“Yeah…” McCormick stared west, then back up the mountain.

“Mark?”

“There should be more cops. This isn’t right. Hardcastle said his friend was going to have four cars up here.”

“Maybe they’re already concealed. You know: maybe they left their cars back up the mountain and left a couple more guys down here in spots along the road. You said they were supposed to be hiding. Maybe that’s why we didn’t see them.”

“Maybe.” He came to a decision. “We can’t do anything about the cops now. Come on. We have to hide this thing and get ready.” He backed the Jeep along the road for about 200 feet before he stopped abeam a loose cluster of butterfly bushes, shifted into drive, and drove the car into the center of the little glade. “That’ll have to work,” he said. “Even if they notice the red, I don’t think they’ll realize it’s a car up here.”

They trotted back toward the Kolekole Road and jogged east along it until the point where it turned south to coil around the ridge. They continued straight ahead, off the road, and scrambled up a tall mound of rocks and low, scrubby plants. From the top of the mound they had a clear view of Kolekole as it ran west down the mountain and ended at the coast highway, on the other side of which the Pacific Ocean glittered silver and cobalt; and to the east as the road threaded around the ridge, made the two hairpin turns on the other side, and then ran north to the top of the mountain, where the police were waiting. The nearby ridge blocked a short section of the road on its far side, but otherwise the view was unobstructed.

McCormick shifted uneasily as they waited. “What time is it?”

“Two minutes later than the last time you asked. You know, you’re making me nervous. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I hate this, that’s all.”

“What, the waiting?”

“That, too. I don’t like it that we only saw two cop cars for this whole stretch of road. I hate not knowing what’s going on with Hardcastle. I should have gone with him no matter what he said. Now we’re just sitting here and we don’t know anything. Are they coming? Are they not coming? Did they already—? I just hate this part,” he concluded.

“Well, I can answer one question: They’re coming.” Noelani crouched lower behind the rock that concealed them.

McCormick reached for the binoculars. He didn’t need them to see the Mercedes, which he recognized now, three-quarters of a mile down the mountain to the west, exactly where they’d expected it to be, but he wanted to see inside the car. He wanted to see Hardcastle. In fact, even with the binoculars he had a hard time seeing much of anything at all inside the vehicle. He recognized Toller as the driver but couldn’t see into the back, and it was hard to keep the things focused with the car heading toward them as it was. The Mercedes passed the dirt track where they’d hidden the Jeep. At that point he could have lobbed a rock onto it as it passed just below their position. It turned south to start around the small ridge, and still he couldn’t get a clear view into the back seat. “Dammit,” he muttered.

The car emerged from behind the far side of the ridge, running northbound now, and the brakelights came on. This wasn’t unexpected: immediately in front of the car was the first hairpin switchback, followed almost immediately by the next. What he didn’t expect was to see the car stop there.

“What the hell…?” he muttered.

“What are they doing?” Noelani asked. “They’re stopping kind of early. The property’s up at the top of the mountain.”

McCormick raised the binoculars again…focused—and his heart stopped. “Oh, no, no, no, no!”

“What?” Noelani asked, alarmed. His face had gone white. “What’s the matter? Mark—”

But he was already gone, racing down the hill, running, falling, not caring, running again for the Jeep. She glanced back at the Mercedes, and saw why he had turned pale: Carson and Toller hadn’t waited until they reached the mountain to kill Hardcastle. They were struggling to pull his body from the back seat of the car now.

If she went straight ahead on foot over the back side of the ridge she’d have less than a quarter of the distance to travel that Mark did by road, but it was rocky, dangerous ground, and if she fell she would never get there in time. She reached the decision before she’d formed the question, and turned to go after McCormick.

As fast as she was, she wouldn’t have caught him if he hadn’t left the dirt road, but he had to climb the slope through the bushes to the Jeep, and she leapt into the passenger seat just as the Jeep rocketed forward and exploded through the bushes. It hit the dirt track with all four wheels at the same time, then fishtailed as McCormick stood on the brakes and cranked the wheel hard to the left. He sent the car down the road, didn’t ease off the throttle for a second as they approached the main road again, just hurtled forward, not looking to see whether anyone else was on the road, and not caring. The car lurched as it made the transition to the asphalt and the tires gripped. He was still muttering under his breath, not realizing that he was doing it: “No, no, no, no.”

They reached the southbound section of road that wound around the ridge, and for one sickening heartbeat she thought he was going to steer straight into the side of it. But he cranked the wheel to the right and stepped on the gas and the car’s back end slid to the left. As the rear tires lost their grip he turned the wheel the other way and the now Jeep was sliding sideways, broadside on to the ridge—but somehow facing south now, the direction they needed to go, and going almost as fast as they’d been before the turn. He did the same thing to negotiate the turn back northbound, driving hard and so deep into the turn that she was sure they would sail straight off the mountain.

The Jeep roared north toward the hairpin where the Mercedes was parked hugging the shoulder on the up-ridge side of the road. Noelani had thought that Mark’s efforts were hopeless, that it had taken far too long to run back to the car and make the drive, but Carson and Toller were just now managing to get Hardcastle clear of the car. McCormick kept going, straight for the Mercedes.

Carson and Toller heard him coming and looked up. McCormick saw them glance at each other, then drop the Judge in the road. He saw Hardcastle stir, try to push himself up, then fall back, and then he didn’t have time to see anything else—not in any kind of coherent order, anyway. He hit the brakes, turned the wheel to the right, yanked up on the hand brake, and as the car started to go sideways he instantly took out the steering input. The Jeep slid sideways, quickly lost momentum, and hit the back of the Mercedes with a crumping sound. McCormick was out of the car and over the trunk of the Mercedes before either car stopped rocking.

He headed for Carson, who was closest of the two men and who swung at him with a wide floating right hook that he easily ducked. He countered with a right of his own and Carson went down in a heap.

Noelani bent over the Judge, who was still struggling groggily to sit up. She didn’t see any blood or obvious injuries, and from the look of his eyes she suspected that he’d been drugged. She glanced up in time to see McCormick deal with Carson, and then she had to look away as she helped the Judge to the cars. When she thought he was safely propped against the side of the Mercedes she turned back to the fight and saw with a shock that McCormick wasn’t faring as well against Toller. He was backing away from the man now, and she could see that he was bleeding badly from a slash on his left hand. She glanced at Hardcastle, but he wasn’t going anywhere, and she knew she could safely leave him. Carson was barely conscious in the center of the road and no longer any kind of threat.

Toller’s back was to her, and she might very well have succeeded in disabling him from behind; she had no illusions whatsoever about fighting fair against a guy with a seven-inch buck knife. But McCormick saw her coming, and disoriented as he was by his injury he called out a warning to her. Toller turned, and the kick she had aimed at the back of his knee just missed its target. She didn’t try to stop and reverse course, but let her momentum carry her forward, toward McCormick and past Toller, who pivoted to follow her until he was facing back the way he’d started.

McCormick stood behind her, swaying, holding his wrist with his good hand. “Noelani, don’t,” he gasped. “Get out of the way.” He tried to push past her, but she caught his good hand, twisted it up and back toward him, and his knees buckled. She relaxed her grip and backed him up until he lost his balance and sat down in the dust on the side of the road, whiter than ever and bleeding all over himself.

“I’m sorry, Mark,” she said. “You’re out of this. Stay there.”

“You’re all done,” Toller said. “You stupid bitch.”

“Mark,” she called again without turning around. “Keep your hand up. Do you hear me? Keep pressure on your hand.”

“You know what I think?” Toller said, deftly tossing the knife from hand to hand. “I think you and your pretty boyfriend and your rich sugar daddy are going to end up together in the bottom of that ravine. A dangerous mountain road claims the lives of three tourists. Such a sad story. Shame to wreck such a nice car, though.”

“You know what I think?” she replied. “You talk too much.”

He lunged at her and the blade flashed out, but for all his size and strength and deftness with the knife he couldn’t match her fluid athleticism. She blocked his slashes and darted away, first to one side, then the other, but she didn’t want to keep it up indefinitely: Mark was going to bleed out if she didn’t end this. She could see him behind Toller, crawling on his hands and knees toward Hardcastle. Toller shifted the knife to his right hand and slashed backhanded at her, but she’d had enough: She blocked the strike with both hands and stomped the side of Toller’s knee. He screamed as the joint broke with a wet crunch. As his leg buckled she reached around the back of his head with her left hand, cupped his chin in her hand, and turned to her left in a wide arc, flinging him to the ground. He landed on his left side and his right arm flailed in a futile, automatic gesture to keep his balance. She caught his upstretched arm under her own right elbow and kept it pinned tight and straight against her body. This freed both her hands, and she easily stripped the knife away from him. She shifted it to her left hand and pressed the tip under his jaw.

“You know what else I think?” she hissed. “You shouldn’t have brought a knife to a gun fight.”

After Noelani pushed him out of the road, McCormick surprised himself by managing to get to his feet. He headed for Hardcastle, wondering why the ground was tilting so sharply, and in different directions. Volcano, maybe, he thought. Crawling seemed like a better plan. He could feel the gravel under his hands and knees, but it didn’t hurt; he wasn’t sure whether he should be more alarmed by that or by the fact that he didn’t care about it.

“Judge? Judge, you okay? What happened?”

“Hey, kid. Ah, I’m fine. Fine,” the Judge said. His head still felt a little thick, but it was clearing fast. “Mickey in my drink, is all. No big deal.” He frowned. “Hey, stop pawing at me, now. You’re making a mess on my shirt, with all that—what the hell, McCormick? You’re bleeding!”

McCormick glanced at his hand and realized that he’d forgotten to keep it up. “Oh,” he said, and decided abruptly to sit down again. Over the ringing in his ears he heard the sirens as the cavalry got under way. “Better late than never,” he said, or thought he said, and then everything went black.

*

“Can I have your attention, please? United Airlines Flight 3, 747 Friendship Service to Los Angeles International Airport, is now available for boarding at Gate E7. All passengers, Flight 3…”

“That’s our cue, kiddo,” Hardcastle said. He turned to smile at Noelani. “Thanks again for the lift,” he said. “And for pulling our feet out of the fire. I guess even the Lone Ranger and Tonto can use an assist from Wonder Woman once in a while.”

She shook her head. “You can’t be serious. After everything you guys did for me and my sister…I think I owe you a lot more than a ride to the airport.” She threw her arms around the Judge in a bear hug that he tolerated with a pleased expression for about two seconds before he realized what he was doing, and then he frowned. “Now, now, don’t slobber on me,” he groused, but she kissed his cheek anyway.

“Listen now,” Hardcastle said, “You have my phone number. You let us know if you need anything, anything at all, when this goes to trial.”

“I will,” she promised. “Oh, I talked to the DA this morning: Rossi’s got to explain to the commissioner in person why she only had two cars on the mountain when he told her to put four there. He says the rumor is she’s going to be going on a two week unpaid vacation. Oh, and Toller completely rolled over on Carson.”

“I thought he might.”

“He wants to testify that Carson killed Kanai. He says Carson murdered two other clients of theirs, too. Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

Hardcastle shrugged. “Some of it, anyway. He’s going to try to make himself look as blameless as possible. They were both in on it together. If Carson doesn’t say the same thing about Toller, I’ll be surprised. They’re both gonna be staring at barbed wire and eating potato flakes for a long time.”

Noelani turned to McCormick, who had been very uncharacteristically quiet ever since they left the hotel. “Mark,” she said. “Thank you. You know, you’re not just reformed. You’re evolved. That’s rare in a man.”

“Any time,” he managed, feeling unaccountably and very suddenly shy. He put out his hand to shake.

She glanced disdainfully at his proffered hand. “Get real,” she said, and then she had his face between her hands and her lips on his. His eyes went wide, and as they met hers she broke the contact and stepped back.

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re both blushing up to your eyeballs.”

McCormick cleared this throat; Noelani tossed her head and drew herself up. “Whatever,” she said, and except for the lingering redness in her cheeks she appeared to have forgotten that anything had happened. “By the way: I’m back on the clock at the observatory. I’m going to be reading a paper at Mount Wilson on October 25.”

McCormick looked blank.

“It’s in Pasadena?” she prompted.

“Oh. Oh! Pasadena, California?”

Hardcastle looked away.

“Yes,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve never been to L.A. before, and I’m going to go see Mulholland Drive.” When he didn’t react immediately she added, still in the tone of someone guiding a child through a puzzle, “You can come with, if you want.”

“Yes!” McCormick finally found his voice. “I want. I mean, absolutely. I’d love to.” He couldn’t stop grinning. “Yes, definitely. I can show you Mulholland. But—really? Mulholland? There’s a lot of other stuff to see in L.A., too, if you’d rather…” She had hiked an eyebrow at him in a now-familiar gesture. “Mulholland is good,” he said. “Mulholland it is.”

“Okay, then.” She pointed to his thickly-bandaged left hand. “Take care of that hand. I want you to show me how to do some of that fancy driving.”

“In exchange for a kung fu lesson?” he asked.

“Sold,” she said.

“Don’t encourage him,” Hardcastle growled. “Let’s go, McCormick. Hurry up, before we have to swim back.” He hefted his suitcase and headed for the jetway.

“I’m gonna float back,” McCormick announced.

* * * * *