Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

“I’m going to describe a hypothetical, then ask you something,” Lô said. “You know what a hypothetical is?”

“I ain’t stupid.”

“We’ll see.” Lô paused, as though framing his thoughts. “We got a kid who knows nothing and we got a guy who’s been through the system. We offer both the same opportunity. The catch is, only the first taker gets the deal.”

Another bluff, implying Pukui was also in custody.

“Here’s the question. A two-parter. Can you handle that?”

Atoa said nothing.

“Who rolls over? Who takes the fall?”

Atoa squeezed his lids shut and shook his head.

Lô waited.

Opening his eyes, Atoa leaned forward. “What you’re asking can get me killed.”

“Bad news for the dog,” Lô said.

Atoa ran a hand across his face and threw back his head. His windpipe bulged like a corrugated tube.

Lô and Hung looked at each other, expressions tense. The kid’s first utterance would indicate if they’d won or lost.

At last Atoa sat forward. He looked at Hung a long moment, then, “I talk to you, not him.”

“No problem. But he stays here.”

“All I did was drive.”

“If true, that will work in your favor.” Hung kept her voice neutral.

“You’ll look out for my dog?”

“I’m going to read you your rights now, Pinky.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Hung read from a small card. When she’d finished, “Do you understand what I just told you?”

“Yeah,” Atoa said. “I’m fucked.”

“Do you still want to talk to us?”

“Like I got a choice?”

“Yes, Pinky. You do. And you have the right to counsel.”

“What the fuck. Let’s go.”

“Tell me about Kealoha and Faalogo,” Hung said.

“Guys were sleeved.” Atoa used the prison term for tattoo-covered arms.

“Why the hit?”

“All I know is shit I overheard.”

Hung gestured “give it to me” with one hand.

“L’il Bud told Ted he wanted to lay it on hard.”

“Ted Pukui.”

Atoa nodded.

“You’re saying T’eo was sending a message?”

“You deaf or something? Yeah, that’s what I’m saying I heard.”

“What message?”

“It ain’t healthy dealing in another man’s mix.”

“Who was this message for?”

“The guy sent Kealoha and Logo here.”

“And that would be?”

Atoa appeared as though he were undergoing a change of mind about cooperating. Hung repeated her question.

“Some guy in California.”

“Got a name?”

I was certain static distorted Atoa’s answer.

But Lô and Hung’s shock was obvious.

“Spell that, please,” Hung said.

Atoa did.

My face went hot as the room shrank around me.

I FELT A HAND ON MY SHOULDER.

Looked up.

Two blue eyes mirrored the confusion in mine.

“Did he say Al Lapasa?” Ryan asked.

“That’s what I heard.”

Voices continued buzzing through the speaker.

“Wasn’t the guy in the box at JPAC named Alexander Lapasa?”

I nodded glumly.

“The guy wearing Spider Lowery’s dog tag.”

“It has to be a coincidence.”

“A coincidence the size of Sierra Leone.”

“There must be dozens of Al Lapasas,” I said. “Besides, Atoa is talking about a Samoan from California. Lapasa was Italian, and from Honolulu.”

Ryan and I refocused on the interview. Hung was now asking about L’il Bud T’eo.

“L’il Bud’s one bad dog.” Atoa shifted in his seat. “People cross him, they pay.”

“People cross me they pay.” Even with poor transmission, Lô’s voice sounded cold. “But I don’t have them shot.”

“This is bullshit.” Atoa again rubbed his face.

“Talk about Al Lapasa,” Hung said.

“All I know is what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“Lapasa’s an OG. Owns a bar in Oakland.”

I felt my stomach clench. OG. Original gansta. Did that mean Lapasa was older than your average banger?

“SOS?” Hung asked.

Atoa nodded. Two vertical lines now burrowed up the bridge of his nose.

“Go on,” Hung said.

“Kealoha and Faalogo were tipped up with Lapasa.”

“And?”

“That’s all I heard.”

“You’ve got what I’d call selective hearing.”

Atoa’s gaze slid to Lô. Held. The detective stared back, face and body perfectly still.

Atoa’s mouth drew sideways in a half smile that suggested not a hint of humor. “I thought cops had height requirements.”

“I’m an exception.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m such a mean sonofabitch.”

Atoa slumped back and crossed his arms. “I got nothing more to say.”

“Here’s something to think about.” Lô leaned forward and laced his fingers on the tabletop. “Ever hear of Nickie Lapasa?”

Atoa pushed out his lips and looked at the ceiling.

“Nickie Lapasa’s connected, Pinky. I’m not talking Facebook or My fucking Space. I’m talking real mean men with real bad attitude. And you know what you did, you dumb shit? You messed with Nickie’s life.”

Atoa’s eyes stayed up, but the jittery feet belied his fear.

Lô cut a glance to his partner, then tipped his head toward the door.

Hung reached over and flicked a switch.

The screen went blank.

Ryan and I met Hung and Lô in the hall.

“Well played,” Ryan said.

Lô and Hung both smiled.

“You think there’s a link between Al Lapasa in Oakland and Nickie Lapasa in Honolulu?” Ryan asked.

Lô shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Can’t hurt to let Pinky think about it.”

“Is he aware who Nickie is?”

“Who knows?”

“Now what?” Ryan asked.

“Now we let the little bastard sweat for a while,” Lô said.

“Will it take long to background Al Lapasa?” I asked.

Hung checked her watch.

“You guys get coffee. I’ll call Oakland.”

When we got to her desk Hung was drawing stick figures and shoulder-cradling the phone, obviously on hold. Lô placed a Styrofoam cup on her blotter. She started to say thanks, instead spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Yeah, I’m here.” She readied her pen. “Shoot.”

Lô, Ryan, and I sat and removed the lids from our containers.

I sipped. The swill tasted like mud puddle runoff. Or at least how I imagined mud puddle runoff would taste.

Hung said “Uh-huh” and “OK,” asked a few questions. Finally, “That’s it?”

Pause.

Hung thanked the person on the other end and disconnected.

“This is what I got.” Clicking and reclicking the pen. “The guy’s full name is Alexander Emanuel Lapasa.”

Again, the world receded. This couldn’t be happening. First Spider. Now Lapasa.

“—U.S. citizen, born twelve fourteen forty-one right here in the lovely metropolis of Honolulu.”

I blinked. Blinked again.

“Lapasa’s got no sheet, but the Oakland cops have been watching him for several years. He owns a dive called the Savaii. An SOS hangout. They think he runs drugs out of the bar.”

“The locals can’t nail him?” Lô sounded disgusted.

“Lapasa maintains a low profile, keeps layers between himself and the street.”

“How long has he been in Oakland?” My voice sounded wrong, high and strained.

“Lapasa’s name started popping up in the midnineties, when he bought the bar. But they think by then he’d been in the area awhile.”

“Did you get a Social Security number?”

Hung looked at me oddly, but read from her notes. I jotted the digits.