Last Night Page 3

  He did a quick mental calculation. How old could Dana have been twenty years ago? Fourteen? Fifteen? He saw acute pain and the kind of fear he often noticed in his clients' eyes. Uh-oh.

  "I'm afraid I'm being blackmailed."

  That simple statement sent a shock wave through Garth. Blackmail implied the person had something on Dana. What? She was straighter than Cochise's arrow. More ethical than St. Peter. Still, something had happened to her twenty years ago. Now it was back to haunt her.

  "I may need you to represent me… in court. I want to retain you."

  Garth splayed his hands across his knees, touching the legs that felt nothing, experiencing a squeezing sensation in his chest. How could she be worried about being tried for something that happened twenty years ago? The statute of limitations had run its course, unless… His anxiety kicked up another notch; his chest felt so tight now that it was hard to breathe. Dana had to be involved in something that had an extended statute.

  Murder. It could only be murder.

  It took a second for his breathing to become normal and for his usual self-control to return. He struggled to keep his tone level, shaken by what she'd told him. "I'll represent you, Dana, but do you really think this will go to trial?"

  Dana didn't respond, and Garth wasn't surprised that she'd stopped without telling him everything. She had retained him, professionally assuring his silence, yet she couldn't quite bring herself to trust him.

  "I need to find out who is blackmailing me," she said quietly. "Then I'll know what to do. But I haven't any idea who to call."

  "Well, the two PI's in the islands who do most of the investigations aren't worth a damn. When I'm stuck on a case—and I have been several times—I use Rob Tagett."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Rob used to be a homicide detective, remember?"

  "I was away at law school then."

  "He was a damn good detective until…" Garth lifted his shoulders. "Rape charges were never filed against him. It was all some sort of… mix-up."

  "Then why did he leave the police force?"

  Garth didn't have an answer to the question so many people asked about Rob Tagett. His unexpected departure in the wake of the scandal still fueled the rumor mill even though years had passed. "I'm positive that Rob had a good reason for leaving the force."

  "I can't call him. He crucified me for dismissing the Tenaka case. I couldn't possibly work with him."

  "The presiding judge, Binkley, is the one you should blame. That case should have been heard in superior court, but they kicked it down to the muni bench because it was a political hot potato. Binkley would be damned before he'd put any of his buddies on the court on the spot, so he dumped it on you, hoping to ruin your career."

  "True, but what choice did I have? I had to dismiss."

  "What do you think Gwen Sihida would have done?"

  "Gwen would have tried the case so that it would have been appealed and let the appeals court get the blame. Her father's pressing her hard to move up the judicial ladder. She wouldn't risk angering the public."

  "Exactly. Justice is influenced by politics. Do you suppose the Fowl Flasher would have been tried in New York? No way. But Hawaii isn't going to become another Miami—an urban basket case. Mess with a tourist and you're in court. It's politics."

  "True," she agreed with a weary sigh.

  "You're not perfect. No judge is. Expect criticism." Garth took a deep breath. "Forget what Rob said in his column. Remember, he gets paid to assassinate people in print. Call Rob. I'd trust him with my life."

  3

  Rob Tagett sat on his sofa, his long legs propped up on the glass coffee table, the receiver cradled against his shoulder as he listened to his son. He could almost see the defiant thrust of Zach's chin. How similar he'd been at fifteen. Rebellious as hell. You were either hungry or horny. Usually both.

  "Listen to me." He gestured with both hands as if Zach were in the room with him instead of a thousand miles away.

  "Yeah?"

  How could you discuss something like this over the telephone? "Your mother says she found you and your girlfriend naked in the hot tub." Two beats of dead silence. "If you're having sex with a girl you need protection."

  "Puh-leeze."

  How in hell was he supposed to supervise a son who lived in L.A.? For the millionth time he cursed Ellen. If she'd believed in him, in their marriage… but she hadn't. He didn't miss Ellen so much anymore, but he missed Zach terribly. He hated having these intimate father-son discussions via Ma Bell, but Ellen made it impossible for Zach to visit him very often.

  Yet Ellen expected him to be the one to administer discipline, to control a teenager whose hormones had staged a coup. It was really just a way of getting back at Rob, torturing him for what Ellen saw as his betrayal. Didn't she care that he was the one who'd suffered? He'd been the one accused, his name, his career ruined—not Ellen's.

  "Da-ad," Zach said, his tone insolent as usual, "I can't just pull out a life jacket. The babe will think I planned to screw her. That would be, like, totally nerd city."

  Life jacket? Jesus, was that what kids were calling condoms these days? Fitting, but depressing as hell. "Here's how you handle it. Explain that you really care for her and want to protect her."

  Silence, then, "Awesome. Totally awesome. That's it. Dad… thanks. Gotta go."

  "Put your mother on, Zach. I'll call you next week." Rob waited while Ellen came on the line. "I expect Zach this summer. I don't want any bullshit about parties, ball camps—anything. I want to see my son."

  Ellen reluctantly agreed and he hung up but stayed on the sofa, too upset to trek into the kitchen to see if there were any egg burritos in the freezer. The only light in the room came from the aquarium, where dozens of tropical fish as colorful as a Hawaiian sunrise swam in slow circles. His life was like this aquarium, he realized, moving in endless circles and going nowhere.

  "Oh, crap. What's the matter with you?" He vaulted to his feet and strode out onto the deck overlooking Sunset Beach. "You don't have a damn thing to complain about."

  It was true; his private security company earned a bundle without him spending much time at it. His weekly column, "Exposed," made him a local celebrity. He was doing all right for a kid from Galveston's back bay who'd come to Hawaii almost twenty years ago.

  He gazed out at the sea, heeding the call of the ocean as the surf broke on the shore. A hunter's moon rode across a cloudless sky, spilling blue-white light on the waves. The menehune claimed their spirits became the wind on the north shore, their presence creating the pipeline waves that marched in from the sea like an invading army.

  Not that he believed in the legendary dwarfs the way the natives did. Even on a night like tonight, when the wind was nothing more than a fickle breeze, the waves formed perfect tubes. Still, the ocean had an almost hypnotic effect on him, as if something magical was at work. At dawn the surfers would be back—not as many here as farther down the beach at the Banzai Pipeline—and the quiet beauty of the night would be lost. For now, though, he let the sea mesmerize him, his thoughts drifting along with the waves.

  He remembered his run-in with Dana Hamilton at lunch. Aw, hell, what had he expected? She avoided him all the time. Why did he think she'd want to go out with him? Why did he ask her out anyway? There were plenty of women around.

  What a crock. He was lying to himself. Since he'd been accused of rape he didn't quite trust any woman. He doubted that he ever would again. He was always aware of the damage to a career—to a marriage—that even an unfounded accusation could do.

  Women could be such treacherous liars.

  To protect himself he dated women with no more morals than an alley cat in heat, or the opposite, saints who'd never lie. Trouble was, the saints, like Gwen Sihida, tended to be boring. He suspected Dana was different, but he'd never have the chance to find out.

  Of course, the article he'd written hadn't helped win him any points with her. Not that he regret
ted it. Too often justice was a four-letter word. A pervert walked because the DA blew the case. Too bad Dana had to catch the flak.

  "Let it go, Rob," he said out loud. "Forget her."

  He knew his pent-up anger, which he tried to disguise with offbeat jokes, was making him bitter. He'd thought that as time passed and that fateful night became a distant memory that his old personality would return. It hadn't. If anything he was getting worse and he hadn't a clue why.

  The telephone rang and he rushed to answer it, hoping it was Zach, yet knowing better. "Garth? Hey, this is a surprise."

  The image of Garth wheeling himself into the courtroom made Rob ashamed for moping around. Garth never felt sorry for himself, nor had he allowed himself to become bitter.

  What in hell is wrong with you?

  "I have a client who needs help—tonight," Garth said. "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing. Send him over."

  "Great. Hold on a second." He heard Garth give his client the address, then cover the phone with his hand.

  Rob checked his watch. Almost eleven. What couldn't wait until the morning? There were a few seconds of silence and Rob imagined the guy leaving Garth's spectacular home.

  He'd been there once for a trial lawyers' cocktail reception. Not his favorite group. If he found himself with more than two lawyers at once, he reached critical mass and wanted to run. But he liked Garth, even if he did have some crazy parrot that kept spitting birdseed and threatening to "sue your ass."

  "Rob, this case is important to me. I don't think my client can afford you. I'm willing to pay whatever it takes to straighten this out. Keep that between the two of us."

  "Okay. What am I supposed to straighten out?"

  "Blackmail." There was a long pause. "Maybe something more. I'm not sure. That's what I want you to find out."

  "You got it." Rob hung up, then stood there a moment, realizing Garth had forgotten to tell him the client's name. He almost called Garth back, but decided it didn't matter. He would find out soon enough.

  He should shower before the guy arrived. On his way to the bathroom he stopped by the refrigerator, his rumbling stomach getting the better of him. Nothing. Not even a frozen egg burrito.

  He rarely ate at home. What fun was eating unless you had someone to eat with you? The best he could do was take a handful of crack seed from the jar on the counter. The sweet-and-sour taste of the bits of dried plum, assorted nuts, and lemon peel did little to fill his stomach.

  He was supposed to meet one of his sources later at Coconut Willie's. He could get something there if he was still hungry.

  He showered and toweled his hair dry. He was overdue for a haircut, he decided, checking his reflection in the mirror. S'okay. Tomorrow he'd hit the grocery store and the Clip Joint. Should he shave? Nah. Why bother?

  He pulled on cutoffs that weren't too raunchy and found a clean T-shirt in the dryer, along with a load of underwear he'd forgotten. The shirt had more wrinkles than crepe paper and it was a little tight. He'd probably used water that was too hot again.

  The doorbell rang and he flicked on the porch light as he opened the door. For a moment he stood there like a cigar-store Indian. "Well, I'll be damned."

  "Hello." Dana's voice was low, uncertain.

  "Garth sent you?" he asked, half-hoping she'd come on her own and she wasn't Garth's client.

  She nodded and he took one step back to let her in, wishing he'd shaved. Look at her! The black robes that made her look like Mother Superior were gone. She was wearing a slinky blue number that fit her cute ass like shrink wrap. Those God-awful glasses were history. Her eyes shone a luminous green. And serious as hell.

  Okay, Garth said she was in trouble, but come on. This was Dana Hamilton. Blackmail? Over what? Making personal calls on the court's phone? Better yet, she'd fudged on her taxes and the IRS would be on her cute tail if the informant turned her in to get the government reward.

  "Garth explained?" she asked.

  Not nearly enough. "A little."

  "I have some reservations about our being able to work together."

  That got him. He stabbed at the air between them with his finger. "Don't be such a tight ass, Dana." Honest to God, why couldn't he control his temper? More and more he lashed out and was disgusted with himself later. "Go ahead, say what you mean. You must be desperate to be knocking on my door."

  She glared at him, her eyes telegraphing what she couldn't bring herself to say. Finally, she looked at the toes of her pumps. "Garth said you were the best, or I wouldn't be here. I'd like to hire you."

  "I don't know if I want to work for you." He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. "I don't like being treated like shit."

  There was a moment of total silence, punctuated by the sound of the surf breaking on the beach and the wind rustling through the palms. The night was balmy, slightly warmer than usual, and filled with the scent of the tropical flowers that grew along his terrace, separating his home from his neighbors.

  "I'm… sorry. I was rude to you today at lunch."

  All right. He'd gotten to her. She'd apologized, but only because he'd forced her. And she was pissed—big time—about it. That meant she'd had no choice. She really did need him. His stomach chose that moment to rumble like distant thunder.

  He grabbed her arm and steered her back outside. "I'm starving. Let's run down to Coconut Willie's and talk. I'm supposed to meet someone there in an hour anyway."

  Dana held on, her hands gripping the Porsche's seat as Rob drove down the highway. Really, this was more terrifying than bungee jumping. If she didn't need help so desperately she'd tell the creep to drop dead. But she needed Rob Tagett.

  Hard as that was to believe. He looked nothing like a detective in his grubby cutoffs and a T-shirt that was two sizes too small. She would have to work with him. That's what happened when you made a bargain with the devil the way she had two decades ago.

  Now she had to rely on a man who'd already proven how much damage he could do to her career. Was she crazy? Probably, but Garth had convinced her. She had the queasy feeling that she was going to regret this.

  They drove along the blacktop road into the outskirts of the old sugar mill village of Kahuku. Wooden homes with rusted tin roofs, roadside vegetable stands with hand-painted signs, boarded-up company stores. Somehow the twentieth century had bypassed Kahuku, leaving a vestige of the island's plantation days.

  They pulled into a roadside tavern. Tourists never stopped at grass shacks like Coconut Willie's, Dana thought. It was on the water, but the battered vehicles in the parking lot and the toilet seats haphazardly nailed to the exterior discouraged tourists who happened to venture beyond their territory to this stretch of the north shore.

  The landscaping consisted of old tires sprouting weeds and a lone palm, a dusky silhouette against the night sky. A scuttling noise announced a rat in the dried fronds that hung like a hula skirt from the tree. They followed the well-worn path around the tires and passed by a rusted-out engine partially covered with tropical vines.

  Inside, the lights were nothing more than candles planted in bottles of island beer, Primo, leaving petticoats of wax. The scent of mildew and beer was almost eclipsed by the cigarette smoke. Willie's had been there since the war, and it had been that long since anyone swept the floor or sponged off a wooden table. Its saving grace was its location on a tranquil cove where waves tumbled across silver-white sand.

  Dana followed Rob into the bar, whose back wall was a roll of woven bamboo that had been pulled aside so the patrons could stroll out onto the beach or sit at one of the tables outside. The neon PRIMO sign over the bar flickered spasmodically, threatening to die any second. The behemoth bartender, definitely a descendant of King Kamehameha, greeted Rob as if he were his brother.

  "Two S.O.B.s," Rob said, "and four orders of saimin."

  "No saimin for me," she spoke up, thinking of Garth's delicious veal. Saimin was such an island staple that even McDonald's served the noodles
, but she'd never cared for them.

  "They're all for me." He patted a tummy as flat as Kansas. "I'm a growing boy." He pointed to a vacant table on the sand. "We'll be outside, Willie."

  Dana let Rob take her arm, not missing the crowded room full of mokes, island toughs. There wasn't a designated driver present. Not that anyone in Willie's cared. She'd probably prosecuted half these mokes on DUIs when she'd been a deputy DA. Being in court with them was one thing; being here, another. Women who strayed into dives like this were inviting trouble. Not that she was straying. She was with Rob on his home turf.

  "What's in an S.O.B.?" she asked as they sat at a table a few feet from the breaking waves. The candle in the Primo bottle was dying an agonizing death, its wick casting nothing more than a dim glow and leaving a smoky mist that drifted into the night air.

  "S.O.B.—sex on the beach." He had the audacity to wink and roll his eyes toward the water. "Okolehao."

  "Moonshine," Dana snapped, just to show him she knew the score. "They're brewing ti roots in a tub nearby. Drink it and you'll be declared a vegetable by the court on Monday."

  Rob smiled, that narcotic smile backlit by the impish twinkle in his blue eyes. "That's it, Dana. Let your temper show."

  The waitress, a tita, a tough girl who'd be more at home wrestling gorillas, slammed the drinks on the table with a "sex on the beach"—or anywhere— smile for Rob.

  "Okole maluna," Rob said. Bottoms up. He tossed back his drink.

  Dana picked up her glass, but didn't drink for fear her brain would be pickled in an instant. The stuff smelled vile. How could anyone drink it? "Let's talk about my problem."

  "Sure." Rob leaned back, stretching the T-shirt even tighter, revealing a powerful torso. Obviously he took his workouts seriously. "Fill me in."

  "Does this mean we can work together?" she asked, all her doubts returning full force.

  He studied her for a moment, his hands clasped across his broad chest. "If the price is right."