Murder Pro Bono: Family Matters in Hawaii

By Don Porter

The Family is a group of homeless people living under a bridge in Honolulu. When they discover a murder victim, Dick and George of the Payne and Clark Detective Agency reluctantly agree to take on the case pro bono and clear them of suspicion. But, where is the money belt and the hundred thousand dollars the corpse was wearing? Who are the men in long black Cadillacs suddenly following Dick and George? When the family disappears, Lt. Cochran of the Honolulu police wants to arrest Dick and George for hiding them. Maggie the receptionist is on the trail of the family when another horribly brutal murder is discovered, this one apparently committed by the family, so Maggie is in danger. Then Family takes on a whole new meaning when the Mafia gets involved and threatens Dick and George with slow painful deaths. They chase bad guys, and now six million dollars, from Las Vegas to Guam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Nov 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9781594331862

Don Porter

Don spent more than 30 years in Alaska covering the state as an electronic engineer for Midnight Sun Broadcasting Company and pilot for Bushmaster Air Alaska. His time in Hawaii was spent doing warranty house calls for Sony, exploring the Pacific: Saipan, Yap, Pohnpei, Truck, and Guam. Don settled in Hawaii and spent 15 years traveling the state as an engineer for the ABC television network. When word processors made it possible for people, who can neither spell nor punctuate, to write books, it was time to share some remarkable experiences both in Alaska and the Pacific. To make the stories palatable the obvious format seemed to be murder mysteries. The first step was to ensure authenticity by enrolling in Continuing Adult Education and earning a handsome diploma in the Private Investigator curriculum. Don has retired in Bisbee, Arizona, a former copper mining town now taken over by artists and writers. In Bisbee he writes without distraction because there isn't much else to do.

Book preview

Marsik

Chapter One

"Dick, maybe he's a murderer, maybe not, but that's beside the point. Do you have any idea what pro bono means?" George was storming around the office, doing his raging-bull act: six strides from his desk to the windows, a contemptuous sniff at Honolulu below, a stomp to the filing cabinets. He jerked a steel drawer open and slammed it shut for a sound effect. His linebacker shoulders would have made the raging-bull act impressive, if he hadn't been wearing an outrageous orange-and-yellow aloha shirt. He was in a mood to throw things, but too cheap to risk breakage.

George is Hawaiian, six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds, but he's the youngest in his family and the runt of the litter. His seven brothers and sisters, back on the taro farm in the Waipio Valley on the big island, average six-four and three hundred pounds. George wasn't much use on the farm, so maybe that's why they sent him to college. His Hawaiian genes make it difficult for him to look fierce, although the reality is far from the appearance. In the ancient culture, which some Hawaiian activists inexplicably wish to revive, if a commoner stepped on the shadow of an Alii his head would be instantly split with a club. George has the instincts, just not the demeanor.

We had hooked up at the University of Washington where the football team threw us together. On those occasions when both of us were academically eligible to play, my job as quarterback was to hand the ball to George. He would run through the line and half way to the goal, dragging as many members of the opposing team as tried the tackle.

We were still in the same mode, so I usually got to call the plays, but once a play is in motion, look out for George. I'd been developing webbed feet and growing mold in Seattle. George lured me to Hawaii with the promise of perpetual sunshine. He delivered on that. His other promise, of a partnership in a lucrative and worry-free detective agency, is more problematic.

I used an oil-on-troubled-waters tone. "Sure, George, pro bono is Latin for …"

"Not the Latin meaning, we're dealing with English here. In English, pro bono means bankrupt." On his next pass, he continued stomping, right through the receptionist's office and out the door. He slammed the outer door, but not hard enough to break the glass. It had cost us fifty dollars for the classy lettering: Payne and Clark, Detective Agency.

His exit wasn't as traumatic as it might have been because it was three minutes before five, and since we weren't working on a case at the moment, it was quitting time, or pau hana—end work—as we say in Hawaii. Maggie, our receptionist, had already deserted her post, closed her romance novel—as usual, the only paper on the reception desk—and was putting on her jacket. She risked staying one minute on her own time to come in and park her cute little teenage tush on the edge of my desk.

George didn't like the idea much, huh? She continued buttoning the jacket, but stopped short of covering her new figure enhancement device. When I was Maggie's age, twenty years ago, we called them falsies, but most things have politically correct names now. I don't recall falsies having nipples on them, but figure enhancement devices do.

I pontificated. He'll come around. This just takes a little getting used to.

I hope so. Our new client is awful cute. Shall I start a file on O'Malley? She extracted a miniature brush from her purse and ran it though her newly blonde bob.

Maggie, O'Malley is not our client. Our clients wear clean clothes and bathe. This bum hasn't seen a razor or a barber in years.

Well, sure, he was a little scruffy, but didn't you notice his eyes? They were just too gorgeous.

If he comes back, I'll be sure to notice. If his eyes were so gorgeous, why did you open the window while he was here?

Well, it was a little hard to breathe after he came in, but heck, you didn't smell so good yourself after we climbed that mudslide.

The clock made the final tick to five, and Maggie was out the door, pulled by an invisible magnet. The mudslide she referred to was on the Big Island, outside Hilo, when we were working on the case of the murdered car dealers and the missing Daewoo. I may be just a little cynical, but I suspect that she didn't mention that by accident. She was reminding me that she was a heroine on that case, and also that the fee we collected would sustain us for a couple of months. I wouldn't like to admit that there is anything sexist about my cynicism, but I do credit women with a subtlety in thinking of nuances that would elude most men.

I shut down my computer and the copier, changed George's screensaver to read cheapskate and shut it down. I left the fax machine on. Because of the time zones, stateside people sometimes fax us in the middle of the night, and one of them might be a client. The twenty-cup coffeepot was still half full, so I removed the grounds and unplugged it. The first few cups in the morning might be a little stale, but free. I was just locking the outside door when the phone rang. I made it to Maggie's phone on the third ring, in case it was a prospective client.

Payne and Clark, Detective Agency. Richard Payne speaking.

Payne, Lieutenant Cochran here. I have a hairball in custody who claims to be a client of yours. He also claims that you're going to bail him out, and you'd better do it fast, before somebody gets hurt.

Mind if I ask why you have him in custody?

So far, it's assaulting police officers, disturbing the peace, and resisting arrest, but if he breaks up that cell, I'll add felony destruction of government property.

He assaulted police officers, plural? As in, he was walking down the street and your guys attacked him?

No, plural as in, two of my guys stopped for coffee in the Fort Street Mall. Your protégé jumped out from behind a building and started beating them with his fists. He tried to use a bench, but fortunately the benches are bolted down.

He didn't give a reason?

He was screaming that he didn't murder anybody, and you're going to prove it. Does that sound like a reason?

Sounds to me like illegal racial profiling, harassment, and police brutality.

Racial profiling, my kiester. Under the hair and dirt lurks an Irishman; name's O'Malley. Will you get down here?

"Oh, that hairball. I'm on the way." I hung up the phone and went out again to lock up. I guess you could say the call was a client, but not quite what I had in mind.

Cochran was looming, all six-feet-five of him leaning over the counter and scowling. You're too late. I told you to hurry.

Sorry you shouldn't arrest people during rush hour. Did you kill him? Cochran was looking a little rough, like he'd been in a fight. The amazing thing about that was that Cochran is six foot five, and weighs around two fifty. As I remembered O'Malley he was closer to five foot six and, including the hair, weighs maybe one fifty. Cochran was leaning on the desk. The desk sergeant, who was seated, was missing several buttons from his uniform jacket, and an officer who was holding up the water cooler wasn't drinking. He was bathing a fresh black eye with the cold water. I was noticing broken chairs, some books on the floor, a general aura of disarray.

You were hit by a terrorist bombing? I asked.

No, this is called resisting arrest. The other two guys are in the infirmary.

So, you just decided to save the bother and let him go?

No, he was bailed out, all nice and legal, by Pendergast; so now you can leave, too. Next time I call you, be on time. Cochran turned around and stomped to his office, not unlike the way that George had stomped out of ours. He didn't have to tell me who Pendergast was.

Pendergast is the sort of lawyer who wears diamond rings and gold chains. When the newspaper says that he's representing someone, that someone is apt to have a familiar name. His clients are usually charged with fraud, racketeering, maybe even murder, and they usually get off on a technicality. I was having trouble with picturing O'Malley as a client of ours, but his being a client of Pendergast's boggled my mind.

I needed to sort things out. The best way to do that is over a rum and Coke. The best place to do it is 8 Fat Fat 8, a neighborhood bar on Beretania Street. I wasn't in a hurry to get home because Betty, my intended, had gone back to Des Moines for a visit with her parents.

Beretania Street is No Parking-Tow Away during rush hour, but the Midas muffler, brake, and lube center next door to Fat Fat was closed for the night, so I stuck the Jag in a customers-only spot. I opened the bar door and sneaked a peek around it because the dartboard range is right inside. No darts flashed past my nose, so I figured it was safe to enter. Beyond the dart range are twenty booths, lit for atmosphere, and the bar is an island of light at the back.

Normally, Cy, the Chinese bartender, would see George and me come in. He'd be mixing our drinks while we tested stools for stability. Cy saw me come in and waved, but didn't start mixing. George was sitting in his usual spot, had saved a stool for me, one with all four legs the same length for a change, and my drink was on the counter with the ice cubes almost melted.

What kept you? Apparently George had forgotten that we were fighting.

I'm going to tell you, but I hope that is at least your second drink.

"Fourth. Pro bono cases absorb alcohol. Tell me the worst."

I sampled the rum and Coke. It was on the watery side, but still cold. I accepted it as a peace offering. I'm glad you put it that way, because the worst is exactly what I have to tell. Apparently, O'Malley left our office, went down to the Fort Street Mall, and beat up a couple of police officers.

Good. George finished his drink. Cy had been watching, and had a fresh gin and tonic mixed. George sampled it and approved. Then O'Malley is in jail, and we can forget about him?

Not quite. He was bailed out by Pendergast.

Pendergast? George almost choked on his drink, but recovered. "You do mean the Pendergast?"

"None other. Seems like I heard somewhere that his rate is five hundred dollars per hour. Do you suppose that Pendergast goes in for pro bono?"

"No. I believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy, but I do not believe that Pendergast does pro bono."

Well, I'm with you, although I have some doubts about the Tooth Fairy; so how do you suppose O'Malley paid the fee?

George was thinking. I could tell by his wrinkled brow, but he was also sipping steadily. "I don't think the question is how, I think the question is who. Maybe O'Malley really did kill someone, on a contract basis, and this is part of his payoff."

Or, maybe he really didn't kill anyone, but someone doesn't want him talking to the police. I finished the watered-down drink and Cy was right on cue.

George was finally nodding. Maybe, just maybe, we ought to get involved with this O'Malley character. He finished his drink. His fifth? Anyhow, the tone of the evening was set. We were going to do very little thinking, quite a lot of drinking, and go home in taxicabs.

Chapter Two

In the morning, I called a cab and held my head on with my hands while he drove me back to Midas. They had given the Jag a grease job and an oil change. Fair enough; they were running a special, and thirty-five dollars is cheap parking by Honolulu standards. Their other option was to have it impounded, which would have cost me a hundred-fifty or more. I tooled down Beretania, left on Bishop, and into the underground garage. I got lucky. An elevator came when I pushed the button, and it whisked me up to our office on the thirty-sixth floor. Catch one of those elevators during a shift change, and the commute from the basement to the top can take longer than the commute from Scarsdale to Manhattan.

Maggie already had her nose buried in a romance novel, but she had plugged in the coffeepot. George was, uncharacteristically, in our office ahead of me, the only thing on his desk a cup of the coffee. I drizzled a cup for myself, sat at my desk, and contemplated the evils of hangovers. When the phone rang, it had the piercing quality of an air-raid siren.

Maggie fielded the call, made some notes on a message pad, and condescended to bring the news into our office. She was wearing heels, but no hose. Secretaries can get away with that in Hawaii, particularly if they're young. Maggie's employment application claimed that she was 23, but I didn't believe that, any more than I believed the prior employment history she had made up. When we hired her, she was a mousy little introvert, with the dark hair suitable for her last name, Capriccio. All of that changed when she did an assignment for us. That job involved her impersonating, in her words, a rich bitch. That was also the origin of the blonde bob, and, in her words again, her bazooms. The physical changes weren't so remarkable. It was the change those accoutrements made in her personality that was astounding.

Maggie handed me the note. That was O'Malley on the phone. He says that since you are working for him now, you should come to his office. Here's the address. She gave me an I-told-you-so smirk, set the note on my desk, and went back to the world of Harlequin.

O'Malley has an office? George was wrinkling his brow again, either at the improbability of that news, or at the stale coffee.

That's what the note says: Three hundred Nimitz Highway.

Dick, there aren't any office buildings in that block. That would be the block between River Street and Iwilei Road. The only thing in that block is the Nuuanu Stream. George has an amazing stock of information in his head, not the least of which is a complete street map of Oahu.

I left the coffee and walked over to our window. Directly below me the Fort Street pedestrian mall shimmered in sunshine, then Bethel Street, Nuuanu Avenue, a couple more streets that encompass Chinatown, and a gap in the buildings. I could see the morning traffic still jammed up crossing the bridge over Nuuanu Stream. George was right. That's one of his many irritating qualities, he's always right.

Maybe he wants to meet us on the bridge? Shall we walk over, or drive?

We'll drive, George decided, but we're taking your car. I'm not parking the convertible on River Street.

I didn't park the Jag on River Street because there were no vacant meters within six blocks of Nimitz. We drove back to the highway, crossed the bridge, and found a hundred vacant meters on Iwilei Road. Iwilei Road was there, and named, before Honolulu had streets. In whaling days, its accessibility from the waterfront resulted in a sub-class of prostitutes known as Iwilei girls. One time I was researching the newspaper morgue for a property ownership case we were on and I ran across a headline from December second, nineteen sixteen. A hundred and three Iwilei girls were arrested, pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct, and were given thirteen-month suspended sentences. That must have been quite a party. They have since been replaced, for better or worse, by the Dole Pineapple Cannery.

We walked back to the bridge and George was right, of