Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

Lô pulled them back. “Keep in touch?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lô extended his hand.

Fitch snatched the money and skittered out of sight.

“Weird dude,” Ryan said.

“Guy’s a tweaker.”

“It’s all about the intel.”

“Yeah.” Lô bounced a glance off me. “SOS. Sons of Samoa.” The faintest smile played his mouth. “You’re right. The little lady’s not bad.”

“She has her moments,” Ryan said.

No way the little lady was getting sucked into that. I said nothing.

“A gang tat.” Lô slowly wagged his head. “I missed it.”

“Honolulu having problems?” Ryan asked.

“Until recently I’d have said no. We’ve got gangs, sure. The Samoans run together, sure. Everyone acts bad-ass, sure. But mostly the violence is Jets and Sharks type of crap.” Lô slid the John Lennons onto his nose. “Lately things have escalated.”

“How?” I asked.

“Not long ago a street tough named Lingo got capped in Chinatown. A week later, there’s a stabbing.”

“Retaliation?”

Lô nodded. “Both vics were Samoan. A witness to the stabbing claimed one of the doers shouted ‘KPT SOS.’ ”

“Kuhio Park Terrace. Sons of Samoa,” I translated for Ryan.

“Could be a turf war,” Ryan said.

“Two punks from Oakland are going down for the shooting,” Lô said. “We suspect West Coast traffickers are heading this way.”

“And the locals are opposed,” Ryan said.

“And not rolling over.”

“If that’s the case, Fitch’s intel skews pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Lô said. “It does.”

At six, Ryan and I were still threading through traffic. Slogging, really.

I’d used Ryan’s phone to call Katy, explained about the accident, and told her that we were on our way home.

She’d demanded details. Sidestepping most questions, I’d assured her that I was fine. She’d offered to throw something together for dinner.

I’d then given Ryan an overview of Lô’s conversation with Gloria Kealoha.

“But, until Fitch, you never made the Samoa connection,” he said.

“No.”

“What pulled the trigger?”

“Hamo. Tafuna. Waipahu,” I said.

“Klaatu. Barada. Nikto,” he said.

“What?”

“ The Day the Earth Stood Still ?”

I was lost.

“Buttercup.” Feigned disappointment. “Nineteen fifty-one? Michael Rennie and Patricia Neal? Neal said those three words to Gort and the Earth was saved. Never mind. You’re probably distracted by my good looks and charm. How’d you get Sons of Samoa out of Fitch’s account?”

“Three things. First, he used the term Hamo. That’s slang for Samoan.”

“I thought it was a lunch meat that paired well with cheese.”

I ignored that.

“Samoan is a member of the Polynesian language family. Some of the other dialects substitute the letter h for the Samoan s. So Samoa becomes Hamoa.”

“Thus Hamo. I didn’t know that.”

“Second, Tafuna is a city in American Samoa. Fitch said that’s where the Kealohas came from.”

“Except back home they weren’t the Kealohas.” Ryan was quiet a moment. “How was a woman with two minor dependents and no job or job skills allowed to immigrate to the U.S.?”

“Though not citizens, people born in American Samoa are American nationals, free to travel throughout the United States and its territories.”

“OK. Third?”

“Waipahu. There are a couple of fairly good-sized Samoan communities on Oahu, one near Kalihi Valley, another up at Waipahu.”

“Kealoha lived at Waipahu.”

“VoilÁ.”

“But how’d you make the leap to Sons of Samoa?”

“Remember that kid I ID’ed about a year and a half back? The one with the full-body tattoos?”

“The Latin King stabbed outside the bar in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue?”

“Yes. I spent hours researching gang tattoos for that case.”

“Gold star, Brennan.”

Before I could say thanks, Ryan executed one of his head-spinning topic swaps.

“Tell me about the crash.”

“I did that.”

“Do it again.”

“A car pulled to my bumper, tapped me once, tapped me a second time, went to pass, and swerved into my left rear. I cut the wheel—”

“What kind of car?”

“A black SUV.”

“Year? Make?”

“It happened too fast.”

“How many occupants?”

“Two. I think. The glass was tinted. I couldn’t really see.”

“Male or female?”

“Yes.”

Ryan gave me a look that said he wasn’t amused.

“The passenger was definitely male,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“He waved.”

Ryan let a few beats pass. Then, “Lô doesn’t think it was an accident.”

Nor did I. But I hadn’t wanted to consider the implications.

“What’s his thinking?” I asked.

“That it was done on purpose.” Sarcastic.

“Fine,” I said. “Devil’s advocate. Who would want to hurt me or at least frighten me?”

“Let’s start with the improbable and work our way in.”

Ryan drummed agitated fingers on the wheel.

“Here’s one. You angered a local mafioso by insisting he submit a sample of his DNA.”

“Nickie Lapasa? That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? How did Lapasa’s old man kick-start his career?”

“No one ever proved the hit-and-run—”

“OK. How about this one? A wacko anthropologist thinks you cost him his job.”

“Dimitriadus may be nuts but I doubt he’s violent.”

“He threw an elbow at you.”

Remembering the scene at JPAC, I had to admit, Dimitriadus was upset.

“And, call me crazy, but you’re about to ID two people murdered in a drug war.”

“Allegedly murdered.”

Again, Ryan’s look was withering.

“Besides, no one knows that,” I added.

“Right. Street gangs are notorious for their lousy communication networks.”

“Here’s one.” It came out more snappish than I’d intended. Or not. “I crossed paths with a couple of drunks.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan said.

I expected the usual snarkfest from our daughters. To my surprise, Katy and Lily were together in the kitchen. Tool was blasting from the sound system and both were singing “Vicarious” into wooden spoon mikes.

On seeing us, Katy rushed me.

“Oh my God!”

Lily stared, mouth open, spoon frozen before it.

“You should see the other guy,” I said, disengaging from my daughter’s embrace.

No one laughed.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, perky as Gidget.

“You said it was a glorified fender bender.” Katy’s tone was stern. “A fluke that the car got wrecked.”

“I’m fine,” I said. For the umpteenth time that day.

“If you were fine you wouldn’t be wearing that shirt.”

“I like birds.”

“Your hair is wet. Your face is a train wreck.”

“What’s that fabulous smell?”

“We made marinara sauce,” Lily said. “And shrimp.”

“Allow me to change, feed me pasta, and I’ll tell you anything.” I raised both hands like a spy ready to crack.

Katy watched with suspicion as I climbed the stairs.

Minutes later I was back in a clean shirt and shorts.

I provided the bare essentials. Sans mention of Lô’s theory. Swerve. Bump. Plunge. Rescue. In this version the water was two feet deep.

When I finished, Katy commenced one of her typical cross-examinations.

“I thought you were going to JPAC.”

“I did. Happily, everything’s wrapped up there. What did you do today?”

“What were you doing on the southern end of the island?”

“After JPAC I met with the medical examiner.”

“About the guys eaten by sharks?”