Orchids and Sand

By Robert Reynolds

Set in the beautiful Hawaiian Islands, this romantic mystery takes you from pristine beaches and homeless beach camps to homes of the wealthy and glittering Waikiki. A young woman's body is found along a secluded beach. It's up to HPD Detective Manny Piccolo to find out how and why she was there, all the while balancing his personal life with the lovely, but flawed, Daniela Puzon. Explore the island in Manny's quest for justice in the exhilarating Orchids and Sand!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365195532

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

Orchids and Sand

ORCHIDS and SAND

Robert F. Reynolds

Copyright: 2016.  This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, events are products of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

ISBN:   978-1-365-19553-2

Prologue

Waves rolled in relentlessly, crashing violently against the lava outcropping at the mouth of the inlet.   A white spray of foam, sea and surf smashed against the jagged black rocks, shooting several feet into the gray morning air.  The wild surf crashed and roared along the jagged shore, forcing itself up the beach and then it sucked back into the sea.  Something had riled the sea during the night and now it punished the shoreline, slapping the coast with wave after wave like advancing soldiers.   A storm beyond the horizon had caused the western skyline to remain dark and menacing. Somewhere far out there the Pacific was taking a vicious pounding. 

The day’s ominous beginning did not prevent sinewy Angel Kim from taking her morning jog along the beach.  With long, purposeful strides, she loped along the boundary of the wet sand where the waves had reached farthest inland and caused the sand to be firm.  A surprised black-necked stilt hurriedly took flight as the agile woman emerged without warning from the fog.  The bird’s flutter of wings disappeared in the rush of the waves. With the tide now coming in, Angel’s footprint trail did not last long until it washed away leaving no evidence of her passing.  Rusty, her equally lean Irish Setter, raced along, darting in and out as the waterline rose and fell along the shore. The animal bounded freely along the damp sand and splashed through the inrushing seawater as the woman jogged several yards behind. 

Angry whitecaps dotted the ocean’s surface and breakers rose and fell causing the sea to undulate as if alive.  It was gray and menacing.  Lightning shuddered somewhere above the black horizon. The woman kept her eyes out to sea, ready to make for home if the storm turned toward the island. 

The surf rolled in and brushed up the shore curling across the sand and then receded, leaving small, shiny patches of pebbles. Tumbled smooth and round from the constant motion of the sea, the wet stones made colorful mosaics along edge of the earth.  Angel thought how pretty they would be bathed in sunlight, but in the haze they were as dull as the morning.  Except for the red dog that snooped along the shore, the muted reds, violets, greens and blues of the pebbles gave the only color to this dreary morning.  

A shower had pushed through during the night and now a heavy, but patchy mist lingered along the coast.  The fog was dense in places, rolling in off the ocean’s surface and up the beach.  Angel Kim could faintly make out the image of someone standing in the sea several yards down.

Rusty!  Here boy, she called, not wanting to venture too close to the tattered canvas and nylon hovels and the makeshift shelters of the homeless encampment farther down the shore.  Many such places existed on this side of the island, stretching for miles along the leeward beaches.  Both good people and bad inhabited the camps, but all were in need and it could prove risky to venture too far into the domain of the destitute.  This camp was beginning to come alive and she could see movement and smell charcoal fires. 

Rusty!

The red dog heard her from within the roar of the waves, turned and came to heel waiting for its master to catch up. 

The first bus of the day came up the highway, picking up morning workers who waited in the mist.  The dog paused as the vehicle squeaked to a halt.  Then it turned to look back her way, making sure its master had not wandered off.  Satisfied that all was well, it bounded off again to investigate smoldering ashes from a recent fire someone had made along the beach. 

As Angela Kim closed upon the homeless encampment, she turned and began her jog back up the beach.  This was not a good place, a safe place to be on one’s own.  Some in this camp knew her by sight and she recognized some of them, but she did not know them by name and she did not want to.  In fact, the big guy, the hapa kamoa, downright scared her. She was Korean by birth and she knew the Asians and Polynesians.  He was Samoan.  She could tell by his size. The big man had come upon her one evening when she had stayed too long and twilight fallen.  She was frightened at the way he had looked at her and his suggestive speech.  After that she had become more careful about where she allowed her workouts to take her.  As she made her way back across the sand, the indistinct grayish image of the bus pulled away and rapidly disappeared in the thick, foggy haze. 

Rusty had run on, sniffing now along the sand, bounding forth, and then turning to run back her way.   He enjoyed his daily romps along the beach when he could run wild and play free.   Some days, others brought pets to cavort along the beach.  However, today, with the threat of storm lingering and the beach damp from the last night’s rain, the coastline was all but deserted.   On this drab morning Rusty was the sole canine on the beach.

Lightning rippled to the west, but it was still a long way out.

One thing Angel could tell for certain was the sea was becoming more agitated. 

Something in the air caught the dog’s attention and it padded warily toward the rocky shore along the inlet.   A wave rolled in and crashed, splattering the animal with salty spray, dampening its glossy coat. Cautiously, the dog backed away.  Its master lagged several yards behind and now Angel Kim slowed to a leisurely stroll, letting her sleek muscles cool after her strenuous run. 

Above and across the ragged top of the Kamaileunu Ridge, the sun appeared to be breaking through thick clouds and heavy mist.  A faint silvery outline of the sun’s light rippled along the top of the ridge, then disappeared again as the fog line thickened and the morning again turned a muted gray.   There was hope for a brighter day, but it would not come soon.

As Angel neared the narrow opening in the coast, she saw gulls swooping in and dropping below sight at the mouth of the inlet.   They had caught Rusty’s attention, too.  The red-coated canine raced over, barking excitedly and causing the feathered beach scavengers to take flight in a flurry of feather and wing.   The dog padded along atop the opening where the seawater rushed in.  The sea came in hard; shooting up the narrow inlet in a rush of force, smashing against the lava rocks, swirling and roiling. Rusty paused along the edge, gazing curiously on the rocks below.

Come here, you mangy old dog, Angel said, finally catching up. Gulls circled above, squawking, coming low along the opening then rising as they neared the human and her four-legged companion.  Angel ruffled the dog’s floppy ears and coat and pulled him back.  I’m too old to have to keep up with you.

Rusty nuzzled against his master’s leg, padded back to the edge of the drop to peer with interest at the rock ledge below.  He let out a small whimper.

Another wave crashed and rushed into the inlet, filling it with wild, swirling waters, causing the animal to retreat a few feet.  Rusty was several feet above the rushing waters, but the gentle animal was uneasy from the wicked rush of water and its savage roar.

Come away from there, the woman scolded softly, coming closer and reaching to take hold of the dog’s collar.  I don’t need you falling into that turmoil. 

The treacherous water churned and roiled against the rocky walls of the inlet, then began to recede, washing back into the sea and taking with it tangled masses of seaweed, silt and debris.  As the water level in the inlet washed past Angel Kim clearly saw it lying sprawled and broken on the jagged black ledge half a dozen feet below.   The rush of seawater twisted and moved it, lapping along its contours, but the force was such that it did not yet dislodge it.   Then the roiling seawater drained from around the small clump of fabric and flesh.

Oh, my! Angel Kim muttered, placing one hand to her mouth and pulling the dog away from the ledge with the other.  Oh, my!


Chapter I   

Pako Kamalani sat patiently in the moonlight as the waves rolled in beneath him.  He paddled just enough to let the small waves slide under as they washed toward shore.   The local boy was patient, knowing a grand wave would come in time and he would catch that one.  A hint of moonlight outlined the clouds casting a faint, silvery pall over the ocean.  A hundred yards beyond where he rocked on the small waves, something large jumped, caught in the silver moonlight and splashed back into the sea.  Most likely from its apparent size at that distance it was dolphin.   If it were as he suspected there would be more than one of the creatures.  Pako studied the ocean watching the surface undulate, watching it rise and drop as if it were breathing.

For all that anyone knew the sun-bronzed lad was himself a creature of the sea.  He had learned to swim and to read the sea at a very young age. He did not fear the ocean, even at night.   Besides, at this time of night, he enjoyed the solitary peacefulness when he rested alone on his board, rocking gently with the lazy action of the waves and having no one present to disturb his thoughts.  He watched the ebb and flow of the waters.  Even now in the thin starlight, he knew what the sea held in store.

A handful of campfires dotted the shore, mostly coming from along the homeless camps that ran for some distance along the Waianae Coast. The firelights flickered down the shore like safety beacons lighting the way for wayward souls.  Closer in, a single fire burned and he could see someone there, perhaps another, basked in the orange glow of the dancing flames.

The fish, the mammal, swam closer, rising near the surface, curious, then dropped deeper and swam off.  If there were others Pako did not see them.  He cupped his hand and splashed salt water first over one shoulder, then the other.  He enjoyed its refreshing coolness on this warm night.  A small wave swelled beneath his board and he rocked gently on the surface of the sea. 

A soft cumulous moved in obscuring the moon, turning the ocean dark.  It was not a large cloud and a silver thread from the moon’s backlighting laced its edges.  The night’s clouds scattered sparingly. Far out to sea lightning shivered, casting a faint glow above the horizon.   It was too far away to know which direction the storm was heading and he had heard nothing on the radio warning of inclement weather. 

The moon moved from behind the cloud and its light burst forth bathing Pako in white light.  Some ways over he saw the silhouette of another surfer waiting for his wave, too, but for now nothing of substance was forthcoming.

In the firelight that danced on shore, Pako watched the figures; there were two, now he was sure.  Others had been there earlier; several, in fact. But they had drifted away.  At least, they seemed to have left.  Earlier Pako had seen the headlights of their vehicles starkly break the night as they drove off.  He was glad they’d left and now he dangled his feet in the warm water of the sea and felt its tranquility.  He watched along the shore.

The couple moved about the fire as if dancing, darting quickly here and there like orange sparks that arose from the fire’s embers. The silhouettes moved like apparitions.  He was too far out to see them clearly, but see them he could.   A light flashed.  Perhaps a cigarette had been lit or a bottle thrown and a burst of fire caught in its reflection.  The couple appeared to dance and twirl, but at that distance, and in the ever-changing shadows and flickering light he could not be sure.  They played in the firelight arms akimbo, then ran into the darkness and disappeared into the night.

A short distance away he saw the ocean’s surface swell.  It was the wave he’d been waiting for and he turned to lie on his belly and await its arrival. 

He felt the wave’s power pushing its way along, coming under him, beginning to swell and lift the board.  Pako pushed off, paddling quickly to get ahead of the wave.   He paddled with long, quick strokes of his powerful arms and the board skimmed along the surface like a skater on slick ice.  The board gathered speed as the wave grew.  Pako raised his upper body readying himself.  As he caught the wave, he shifted his weight, did a little hop and sprang upright on the board, steadying himself with knees bent and arms outstretched for balance. The board shot forward, rocketing ahead of the wave’s crest as he shifted his weight for balance.  He raced along atop the water, a free spirit of the sand and the sea.  The wind cooled across the dampness of his body.  The board cut sharply across the swell, firing over the surface, gathering speed.  The moon’s light caught his silhouette as he carried over the water, rushing toward shore.  It was not a big wave, but it was fast and it took his full attention to remain upright.  The board skimmed across the ocean’s surface barreling him toward shore. Exhilarating!  And then the surf rolled into the shallows and curled against the sandy beach, washing against the shore—the waves, the wash, the turmoil of the frantic undercurrent’s return to the sea.

Pako’s board shot from under him, dumping him a few dozen feet from shore.   The undertow caught his feet and threw him off balance. He regained his footing, laughing now at the thrill of the ride and his unexpected spill.  A wave rolled in and he bounced on his toes to bring himself above its pull.  It curled on the shore and rushed back, but this time he was ready for it.  It sucked at his feet, but he kept his balance as it drew back into the sea.  He retrieved the board and paddled back into the sea to await his next ride.  Headlights in the parking lot flashed on casting their white light across the surface of the sea.  The vehicle backed out and sped off down the highway.

*****

During the night the squall had blown along Oahu’s west coast dumping half an inch of rain as it moved in on the leeward beaches.   A second round of storm passed the island twenty miles out to sea and did not peter out until it reached Lanai.  Pako Kamalani slept well that night as the rain beat upon the roof of the old Buick that he called home and in the salt-air breeze that came in off the ocean.

By morning the rain had subsided, although the ocean was still roiled. Four and five footers rolled in one after the other, white and fierce.

Pako made his way through the damp sand to the water’s edge, squatted in a few inches of water and splashed his face awake.  He did not care for the saltiness of the water at this time of the day, but it was refreshing and he did not want to use up the remainder of the fresh water in his blue plastic water can.   It was a long walk from the shower house across the highway where he got fresh water.  At least it was a long way to tote the five-gallon container when it was full.  He rinsed his face and already the breeze had begun to dry his skin.  The early morning shadows were only now receding up the mountain’s steep side, but below the green hills a thick morning mist enshrouded the beach.  It was still early and the sun had yet to clear the mountains behind Kole Kole Pass to burn away the lingering fog and mist.  So far the damp gray morning did not hold much promise.

Pako enjoyed the sound of rain and wind, and when the storm blew in he had lain awake listening and watching the flutter of the night when lightning flashed at sea.  The previous evening had begun warm, but the storm had cooled the night and sometime much later he had pulled an old army blanket across his shoulders.  The storm was more bluster than substance and mostly only a brief shower rained down, but lightning had flickered for a long time.

Now, he stretched, bent neatly at the waist to touch his toes, initiated a few squats, ran in place, then dove into the water, knifing through the breakers and coming up chest deep.  The ocean was cool from the storm. Already he could see haze softened silhouettes of tour boats skimming a few miles out looking for whales.  The boats were far enough from the high mountains that sunlight had already broken through and burned away the ocean mist.  The sun at sea caught a camera lens and fired a glint of sunlight his way.  Beyond the boat, a jet of water sprayed into the air.  He could not see the whale, but he knew it was there.

After refreshing himself, Pako trudged back up the beach to the stand of mimosa where the old, broken Buick rested on the white sand beneath the scrub trees.  He had sold the wheels, the tires, stripped the carburetor and radiator, sold or pawned everything off it that he could, but he had kept the cushioned seats for his bed.  It was his only home, but it was beachfront and he had chosen this place because it was near to where he could surf.  He had chosen this life and for now at least, he was content to live frugally in exchange for leisure. 

He raised his arm beneath the tarp to ease away rainwater that pooled where the cover sagged.  The water rushed to the side and cascaded like Waimea Falls, pooling for a moment, and then disappeared in the white sand.

Junked vehicles, tattered tents, worn tarps, a hodgepodge of wood, sheet metal, plastic and cardboard made up the shelters that stretched for a mile along this part of the coast.  Several of the makeshift squatter’s villages adorned the west coast of Oahu along Waianae Beach toward Makaha and beyond. 

Pako rummaged around inside the old Buick’s trunk, coming up with a blue and yellow can of Spam, the last of his purchases from Mariano’s Market, just up Farrington Highway.   He worked the opener around the rim until it popped open, then flicked the top onto a small pile of nearby trash, scattered now from a mongoose’s late night visit. He had heard the animal rummaging during the night before the rain moved in, but he did not arise to chase it off.  He’d police the trash shortly.

Nearby, the Davila family was awake and the boys making a racket as they tried to get their old motorcycle running. 

It’s the carburetor fuel mixture, Jet Davila insisted.  His nickname was a misnomer as Jet was half-Samoan, one-quarter Hawaiian, and one-quarter Filipino, a good six feet seven, three hundred twenty-five pounds and moved at the lumbering pace of a honu, green sea turtle.  The young Samoan with the pencil-thin moustache dwarfed most everyone, but regardless of his advantage in size and strength, he recognized his brother’s authority.  It’s the fuel mixture, bro.

I’ve checked that, Oscar Davila said to his younger brother. Smaller than Jet, but darker in complexion and clearly the thinker of the two Davila boys, Oscar searched through the toolbox for the correct wrench. It’s the spark, bro.  He began disassembling to clean and lube the advancer. After that he’d reinstall the point plate and set the gap and timing again.

Gap those points at .014 to .016, Jet said.  He knew it, but he didn’t care to do it.  He’d rather spend his mornings sleeping. 

Well don’t just stand there, hand me that gap setter, Oscar said, annoyed.

What you looking at, old man? Jet shouted to Roman Pacheco who was smoking a cigar and minding his business, but he had glanced their way when one of them had spoken loudly.

Leave him alone, Oscar said.   He ain’t doing nothing to you.

I don’t like that old man, Jet’s lips turned downward into a pout. He’s always spying, like he’s some cop’s snitch.

He don’t like you much, neither.  Don’t do anything wrong and it won’t matter, Oscar Davila said.  Oscar got along good with most anyone, as long as they did not try to cross him.

Does he offer you one of his Coronas? Jet frowned.  The aroma of the cigar had wafted his way.  He’d not had a good smoke in ages. Cheap old coot.

That old man don’t have much as it is, bro.  Quit trying to mooch off everyone.  Hey, Roman, what’s shakin’?  Oscar flashed a wide grin their neighbor’s way.  He had no beef with the old man and one never knew when a friend might come in handy.

Displeased that his brother would not side with him, Jet lumbered off to sleep away the gray morning.  He’d been out late the night before smoking marijuana, pakalolo, to the locals, drinking cheap homemade wine that his friends had conceived by fermenting pineapples and raisins.  They had acquired the overripe pineapples at the Dole Plantation on Kamehameha Highway and filched the raisins from Mariano’s Supermarket.  The potent concoction had fermented in the sun over the past several weeks in Kiko Apono’s backyard.  Jet Davila and his friends had bought two jugs of it in one-gallon milk containers and partied on the beach late into the night.  The marijuana had made his head spin, the cheap wine made his massive head ache.   Later, they had left for somewhere, leaving Jet alone on the beach. Alone that is until he found the party with those surfer dudes and that haole couple. They had good liquor. He had partied with them until that punk made him angry.  

Claire Davila, bronzed, lean and sinewy with the