Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

“I’ll transmit your request.”

Click.

“Do that,” I snapped to dead air.

Katy’s head came up. I flapped a hand. She resumed reading her book.

Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Sheriff Beasley.” High and a bit rubbery, like Barney Fife.

“Thanks for returning my call. I apologize for intruding on your Sunday evening.”

“Just watching the Braves get their sorry butts whupped.”

“I’m calling concerning the individual buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery under the name John Charles Lowery.”

“First that detective, now you. Spider’s sure stirring up a hornet’s nest of interest.”

“Yes, sir. Did you know him?” I asked. “Personally?”

“We run up against each other from time to time.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Spider was three grades behind me in school. After graduation, I went into law enforcement.” Yep. Deputy Fife. “My rookie years I had to deal with a couple of his antics.”

“Antics?”

“Actually, Spider wasn’t so bad. It was that cousin of his. That was one rambunctious juvenile.” A very long i in juvenile.

“And he was?”

“Reggie Cumbo. Boy had a sheet longer than my arm.”

“Why was that, sir?”

“Kid was a dick.”

I said nothing. Like many, Beasley felt compelled to fill the silence.

“Drunk and disorderly, mostly.”

“What happened to him?”

“Took off the day of his high school commencement. Course, Reggie wasn’t going to march with no tassel and cap.”

“He failed to graduate?”

“I recall talk to that effect.”

“Where is Reggie now?”

“Could be the mayor of Milwaukee for all I know. More likely he’s dead. Never heard another word of him.”

So much for querying Reggie about Spider’s sense of haute dentition.

“Did you ever notice gold decoration on Spider Lowery’s teeth?”

“You mean like crowns or something?”

I explained dental sparkles. “Maybe later, after Spider joined the army? Perhaps in snapshots he mailed home from Nam? Maybe Plato or Harriet showed some to you? Or sent one to the paper? Or posted some online?” I knew I was reaching.

“Nah. What’s so important about Spider’s teeth? I thought you were all set with Harriet’s DNA.”

“The sparkle may prove helpful in identifying the body I disinterred. Assuming it’s not Spider. Besides, Harriet’s hospital slides are five years old. I’m exploring backup options, in case the samples are too degraded for sequencing.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, miss. Spider was”—Beasley hesitated—“different. But I doubt he’d a done something foolish like ornamenting his teeth with gold.”

“What do you remember about Spider?”

Beasley blew air through his lips. “I recall back in high school he offered to give his mama a kidney. Harriet was born with bad ones, guess it’s what finally killed her. Have to admit, I thought that was mighty generous. Spider wasn’t a proper match, wrong blood type or something. His brother, Tom, offered too. Course that was many years later. That didn’t work out either. Not sure I’d have done that.”

“Spider?”

Beasley didn’t answer right away. Then, “I remember he did a science project on spiders. Filled fifteen or twenty of those big white boards with pictures and diagrams and little note cards. Had all kinds of jars lined up with labels and spiders inside. The thing won first prize. Got displayed at the library. They still pull the posters out now and again. Spiders are long gone, of course.”

“Anything else?”

“I recall him going off to war. I recall him coming home dead. Sorry.”

I could think of nothing further to ask. Thanking Beasley, I disconnected.

Danny’s call came while Katy and I were underwater eyeballing butterflies, tangs, and one particularly doleful-looking trumpet fish.

While digging a towel from my bag, I noticed my BlackBerry’s message light blinking.

Danny’s message was short. Call me.

I did.

“What’s up?”

“Thought you’d want to know. I researched Xander Lapasa’s family. His parents, Alexander senior and Theresa-Sophia, are both dead.”

I heard paper rustle.

“Alexander Emanuel, Xander, was the firstborn of six kids, four boys, two girls. One sister, Mamie Waite, lives in Maui, is divorced, and has one daughter. The other sister, Hesta Grogan, lives in Nevada, is widowed, and has two sons.

“One of the brothers Marvin, was mentally handicapped and died young, in the seventies. The other two, Nicholas and Kenneth still live in the Honolulu area. Each is married, Kenneth to his first wife, Nicholas to his fourth. Between them, they have eleven kids and eighteen grandkids.”

I did some quick math. If Xander Lapasa was twenty-nine when he disappeared in 1968, that meant he was born in 1939.

Danny must have read my thoughts.

“The surviving siblings are all in their sixties.”

“Tell me about Daddy.” I wasn’t sure why all this family history was relevant, but Danny seemed eager to share what he’d learned.

“Alex Lapasa made his way to Oahu in nineteen fifty-six and got a job at an East Honolulu gas station. Two years later, the station owner died. A hit-and-run. A handwritten will transferred ownership of the station to Lapasa.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“The cops found nothing linking Lapasa to the accident. The victim had no family screaming for justice, so who knows how thorough the investigation was.”

I made no comment.

“A hurricane blew the station off the map nine months after Lapasa took possession. Having no source of income and, apparently, no enduring love of petrol, Lapasa turned to selling real estate. And saw potential. Recognizing that a lot of baby-boomer parents would be needing a lot of cheap housing, Lapasa shifted into low-end home construction. He’d put up a bungalow, sell it, put up two more.

“When Hawaii gained statehood in nineteen fifty-nine, the building industry exploded. Lapasa leveraged everything, expanded, made millions. From the sixties to the nineties he diversified. Today the Lapasa empire has more tentacles than an anemone.”

“Sounds like old Alex was one smart cookie.”

“Yes.”

I noted a hitch in Danny’s breathing.

“What?” I asked.

“Lapasa was always, shall we say, controversial. Some said he had the Midas touch. Others said he was just lucky. All agreed he was ruthless as hell.”

“When did he die?”

“Two thousand two.”

“Who runs the business today?”

“Number two son, Nicholas.”

A big clapper went gong ! in my head. I’d seen the name in the Honolulu Advertiser many times, occasionally preceded by a descriptor such as Slick or Tricky. Yeah, like Nixon.

“ That Nickie Lapasa?”

“That Nickie Lapasa.”

I vaguely remembered Alex Lapasa’s passing from news coverage during one of my visits to the CIL. The funeral was a five-ring circus.

“Wasn’t Lapasa under investigation for RICO violations at the time of his death?” I referred to the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act passed by Congress in 1970.

“Yeah. And it wasn’t the first time. Rumor had it Alex had ties to the Mafia. Nothing ever stuck.”

I thought a moment.

“Isn’t Kenny Lapasa a member of the Honolulu City Council?”

“He is.”

Xander had vanished. Marvin had died. Nickie and Kenny were alive and thriving. I wondered about the sisters.

“Are Mamie and Hesta involved in the family business?”

Danny snorted. “Definitely not the Lapasa style.”

“Meaning?”

“No girls allowed.”