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  Lila Summers accepted the check for Keaka and brush-kissed Jake Lassiter, who handed it over, filling in for the missing commodore. Françoise Duvalier, the surprise women’s winner, gave Lassiter a better kiss than he deserved while Lila watched. He loved the look in Lila’s eyes, like she might have bashed Françoise with her daggerboard if she wasn’t so tired.

  For a race with a bizarre finish — a windsurfer and a chase boat that disappeared — the atmosphere on Bimini was strangely calm. Bimini can do that, mellow you out. The judges’ boats ferried the racers to the Big Game Club, where some serious drinking was under way in the Rum Keg Bar. Lila Summers squeaked across the lobby on bare feet, carrying the yellow backpack. Lassiter brought her sail bag with a change of clothes that he had stowed on the Big Daddy.

  “Give me twenty minutes,” she said, “then come to the room.” The mystery of the missing Hawaiian wasn’t so important now. Lila was supposed to be sharing a cottage with Keaka, but Lassiter was willing to pinch-hit. He stopped at the restaurant, got two bowls of conch chowder, four broiled Bahamian lobster tails, a loaf of Bimini bread, still warm, and a six-pack of Grolsch, ice-cold.

  Twenty minutes later — okay, so maybe it was fifteen — he knocked on her door. Room service, he said. Lila was just stepping out of the shower, white towel wrapped around her, its folds revealing full hips and flat stomach. She smiled at him, a tired but happy smile, kissed him gently on the forehead and grabbed one of the beers.

  They devoured the food and drank the Grolsch, and Lassiter stepped out of his shorts while Lila undraped the towel, and on a cool bed with a breeze rattling the latticed windows he held her, his face buried in her wet hair, her skin still faintly salty from the sea. He nibbled at her pouty lower hp and she responded, and he slipped down under the sheet, caressing her breasts, brushing her stomach with light kisses. She purred a sweet song and her breathing quickened and her body moved to a faster beat, but in a moment she stopped moving and her breathing became slow and regular, and in another moment he figured it out… Lila was fast asleep.

  0 for 2. No hits in two at-bats. At least the first time I got some wood on the ball, he thought. This time I whiffed. Couldn’t even keep her awake. Damn, maybe the beer was a bad idea.

  Jake Lassiter pulled the sheet over Lila, who lay on her side now, her silhouette of slopes and curves visible in the darkness. He crawled in beside her and fell asleep. He dreamed of a jungle covered with swampy mangrove roots that grabbed at his legs and snaked up to his neck, where they tied intricate knots and strangled him, and he yelled and kicked and woke up in a sweat with Lila Summers holding him and whispering that everything was all right. And soon it was, because she kissed him and aroused him and with Jake Lassiter on his back she straddled him and guided him into her. With strong legs she slowly eased up and down, telling him to He still and he obeyed, and she tightened herself onto him and rocked forward and back and when he finally gasped, she smiled, and he knew so he didn’t ask. He knew it had been for him, Lila’s way of saying not to worry about her, it didn’t matter. He thought about it and was happy and sad at the same time and then he slept again, this time without dreams.

  * * *

  When Jake Lassiter awoke, there was something wrong. The telephone jarring him awake was wrong. The space next to him was empty, the sheets cool, and that was all wrong. He could feel the emptiness in the room. The phone still clanged, an ugly sound.

  “I hope you’re with the girl,” the husky voice on the phone said.

  “What?” Lassiter asked, propping himself up on an elbow, clearing the cobwebs. “Who’s this?”

  “Tubby Tubberville here, at your service. I’m at the front desk.”

  “Tub, what the hell, didn’t know you could ride a chopper across the Straits. What’re you doing here?”

  “Cindy sent me over on the first Chalk’s puddle jumper this morning. She was worried about you, what with the commodore hijacked and you not answering your phone all night. Plus all hell’s broken loose at the firm. According to Cindy, your partners had some kind of emergency meeting to consider your future, or lack thereof. Some dude at the bank claims you nearly broke his neck. Gonna charge you with assault.”

  “Forget the firm and the bank. What do you mean about being with the girl?”

  “The cottage you’re in is registered to a Mr. Kealia and Ms. Summers. Your room’s been empty all night so I hope you’re in there with the girl, not the guy. Don’t want any of my notions about you going down the drain.”

  Lassiter struggled upright and swung his feet onto the cold tile floor. “What’s this about a hijacking?”

  “If you’re both decent I’ll drop in and tell you.”

  “Only seems to be one of us here. C’mon in, number four.”

  Lassiter looked around. The wet suit was still hanging in the bathroom but Lila’s sail bag with a change of clothes was gone. So was the yellow backpack. He had last seen it sticking out from under the bed last night. And there was a note on the dresser.

  A note the morning after.

  Oh shit. How did he know it wouldn’t say to bring home a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou?

  Dearest Jake,

  You don’t know how close I came to staying. Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be. You’re very special to me and you deserve the best. But I am not for you. Too much has happened. There are things you don’t know. When you learn them I pray you will not hate me. I know how you feel about me and hope I have not caused you pain. But please do not follow me. It is dangerous.

  Love,

  Lila

  Tubby came in, swung his bulk around, and looked at the empty beer bottles and the remains of the lobster tails. “Whoo-ee! Big-time lawyer buck nekkid, looks like you had yourself an orgy here.”

  Lassiter ignored the crack and handed Tubby the note. “Here, play Dear Abby for me.”

  Tubby scratched his beard, wrinkled his broad forehead, and moved his lips as he read. “Sorry, bro, a Dear Juan letter, as they say in our hometown. What’s this ‘dangerous’ shit? Got anything to do with yesterday?” “What happened yesterday?”

  “Boy, are you out of it, she must be some piece … sorryJake … but don’t you know about the Hawaiian dude cutting out, then some friend of yours makes like Miami Vice, shootin’ at him from this speedboat, goes back across the Stream, disappears at the Miami Beach marina? Meanwhile, nobody’s seen hide nor hair of the Hawaiian, who hops on a seaplane and takes off.”

  “What friend of mine?” Lassiter asked, straining to focus on one fact at a time.

  “Guy named Marlin, used your formerly good name to board the chase boat, then hijacks it. By the way, the Coast Guard wants to chat with you about it.”

  “Great. Tell them to stand in line behind Miami Beach burglary and Metro homicide. Also, tell them I don’t know any Marlin.”

  Tubby began eating the crust from last night’s dark Bimini bread. “Now what, bro?”

  “How long ago your flight get in?”

  “About an hour, and fifteen minutes later the plane headed for Nassau.” Tubby finished the bread and wiped a paw across his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, maybe she was on the plane outta here. Or maybe she took a boat going anywhere. You thinking of chasing her, proclaiming your devotion?”

  Jake Lassiter had been thinking just that. But could he catch her if he didn’t know where to start? He needed time to figure it out. His head was spinning. Marlin, who the hell was Marlin? And Keaka, where’d he go? And Lila, what did she mean, it is dangerous?

  Lassiter stood up and pulled on his undershorts. “What about this Marlin, the hijacker, what’d he look like?”

  “Short guy, balding, probably Latino, wearing an army jacket.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, one of those camouflage jackets.”

  “Holy shit,” Jake Lassiter said. He turned it over, the description the Rodriguez kid gave of the guy coming out of the theater, a short dark guy
in a camouflage jacket. He did the B and E. Could be a coincidence, lots of those jackets around, or could be the same guy, now dropping my name, taking the commodore’s boat, then hauling ass after Keaka Kealia, who leaves by seaplane. What’s Keaka got to do with it? It didn’t fit together, not yet. “Anything else? What’d the commodore say?”

  “Said you’re never to set foot in the hallowed halls of the yacht club again.”

  “Did Marlin say anything to him? Like what he was doing there?”

  “Said the Hawaiian kid double-crossed him, that’s all.”

  Keaka in on the theft, Lassiter thought, doesn’t make sense. The bonds were stolen before he even got here. Could be just transporting the coupons, but they’d be too heavy. You couldn’t sail like that and carry all that weight. Even Keaka Kealia couldn’t do that. Lassiter wished Charlie Riggs was there to think it through, but the sun was already high in the east, and he would have been off at dawn in pursuit of the wily wahoo.

  Tubby reached for another piece of the bread, dipped it into the remains of the conch chowder, then let it slip from his fingers. He bent down to grab the soggy bread from the floor and came up with a scrap of paper, which he crumpled and tossed into the wicker wastebasket. Jake Lassiter saw it out of the corner of his eye, a delayed reaction, the fine print in orange ink finally registering.

  “Tubby, what the hell was that?”

  “Hmmm. What?”

  Lassiter was in the basket now, unfolding the scrap of paper, barely an inch wide by three inches long. His heart raced. “City of Gary, Indiana Environmental Improvement Revenue Bond 6.85 percent,” a coupon worth $171.25.

  Oh no, it couldn’t be.

  His mind sought an explanation other than the only one that made any sense.

  There it was and had been all the time.

  Right under his nose, or rather, his bed.

  How stupid he had been.

  Keaka Kealia hadn’t transported the coupons. He had created a diversion, like some ancient warrior whose forces were outnumbered, King Cantaloupe, or whoever. He had lured the enemy into chasing shadows.

  Lila Summers carried the coupons.

  Lila Summers was weighted down by the contraband. That’s why she lost the race. Lila Summers was the mule. And Jake Lassiter, what were you? The horse’s ass, he told himself. Should have figured it out, instead of being swept away by her beauty. Don’t get farchadat by the women, Samuel Kazdoy always told him.

  Jake Lassiter sat back on the bed, paralyzed. His insides were empty, his guts scooped out. The pillow still carried her sweet scent. He thought about the note. He ached for her just as much as before, only it was a different kind of pain now.

  Tubby found a half-empty beer bottle and drained it. “Hey, bro, you look like somebody just stole your girl.”

  “No, Tub. My girl just stole my bonds.”

  “Huh?”

  “My client’s bonds, though I was starting to think of them as half mine. I was thinking of Lila as half mine, too. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “Don’t think I follow you,” Tubby said.

  “I’m going to need your help, Tub. What do you have t planned the next few days?”

  , “Workin’ on the Harley, some fishin’, the usual. I’m yours.”

  “What’s today, Tubby?”

  “You do need help. Sunday, bro.”

  “Call Cindy at home, have her get us connections tomorrow to Maui, first-class.”

  “Sure thing. You’re paying, I’m flying, but can I ask a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are we goin’ after the bonds or the blonde?”

  Jake Lassiter knew the answer. Lila had the bonds. And had him. Stole his heart and his client’s bonds. He wanted to bring them both back, but could he? And what about Keaka? Funny, that was what he asked Lila on the beach. What had she said — she loved Keaka because he was free. Would she still love him if he were doing five to seven at Raiford for BRC — buying, receiving, and concealing stolen property? Let him windsurf in the urinal trough. But she was guilty too. Sweet Lila, how could she?

  He could change her. He would talk her into turning over the bonds and leaving Keaka. Tubby would provide extra muscle in case things got ugly. Jake would use his connections to get her immunity. They’d come back to Miami. And live happily ever after.

  He thought about it.

  Dumb.

  Very dumb.

  It was the dumbest idea that ever worked its way into his consciousness. But he didn’t have any other ideas.

  “The bonds and the blonde, Tubby. We’re going to get them both.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Bottoms to the Noon

  When Captain James Cook, commander of the British ship Resolution, landed on the Big Island of Hawaii in January 1779, he was accorded the honors of a chieftain. Priests in feather capes sang chants in his honor, and local chiefs brought him pigs and fruits and native wines.

  The chiefs’ generosity caused a food shortage among the commoners, who soon grew weary of the visitors. Within weeks, the Hawaiians began stealing the British seamen’s supplies. Cook responded with a vengeance, burning houses in retaliation for a stolen goat, flogging those suspected of petty crimes. Still, the thievery continued — blacksmith’s tongs, nails, finally a small boat.

  Captain Cook himself led a small expedition of Marines that last day, hoping to take King Kalaniopuu hostage, to be held as ransom for the boat. As with later military disasters — Ponce de Leon and the Caloosas, General Custer and the Sioux — the white strangers woefully failed to comprehend the determination of the natives on whose land they had intruded. The Hawaiians attacked the British with rocks, fence posts, and wooden clubs. The British Marines fired one round from their muskets but were overwhelmed before they could reload. Though the entire battle took place on the lava rocks at the shore and Cook’s dinghy waited beyond the surf line, he did not attempt to make it to that haven. James Cook, the world’s greatest ship captain — conqueror of the Pacific, explorer of Tahiti, Hawaii, and Alaska — could not swim.

  One of Kalaniopuu’s chiefs stabbed Cook. Other warriors crushed his skull against the lava rocks. Then, with knives descended from the Stone Age, the Hawaiians stripped Cook’s flesh and returned it to the British ship, believing Cook’s men would want it. Instead, the British were horrified and returned to England having concluded that the Hawaiians had eaten portions of their captain and expected them to do the same.

  The haoles had discovered Hawaii.

  * * *

  Harry Marlin didn’t know Maui from Coney Island, but he booked the first flight. Five and a half hours Miami to L. A. on American, a three-hour layover and then five hours and twenty minutes to Honolulu, another layover, and finally a commuter flight ninety miles to the small city of Kahului on Maui, the Valley Isle of the Hawaiian chain. And so Harry Marlin emerged from the small plane … bleary-eyed, groggy, dehydrated, and constipated.

  Pausing on the top step of the stairway, Harry blinked against the harsh sunlight. Across the runway, through the trees, he could see colorful sails zipping by, windsurfers at Kanaha Beach park, less than a mile from the tarmac. Sons of bitches. He hated them as he hated Keaka Kealia, imagined them young and tanned and getting all the pussy they could handle.

  A strong trade wind from the northeast nearly toppled him from the stairs. A real tank town, Harry thought, not even a jetway for the big planes rolling up nearby. And that wind. Good thing he didn’t wear a toupee, it’d be in Samoa by now.

  “Aloha,” said the Asian woman at the foot of the stairs, placing a lei of fragrant white plumeria over his head. “Maui no ka oi. Maui is the best.” The day was warm and the sky cloudless and the woman stood smiling at him, her straight black hair blowing in the wind. Harry Marlin despised the place.

  He rented a four-door Chevrolet Celebrity and drove to the hotel in Kaanapali. He wasn’t thinking of the coupons, not yet, because at the moment he had only two things on his mind — taking a cra
p and getting some sleep. Tomorrow he could set out after the bastard who ripped him off.

  Harry passed through the central valley of the island, the towering peak of Haleakala to his left, lost in the clouds, the lower green mountains of west Maui to his right. On both sides of the road, fields of sugarcane swayed in the wind. He passed the smokestacks of the processing plant at Puunene, the aroma like sweet summer corn hot off the grill. But the air turned bittersweet, the sky blackened nearby, hundreds of acres being burned to strip away the cane’s useless leaves.

  The hotel was a jungle and a menagerie filled with plants and animals. Harry Marlin stood in the open-air lobby beneath a seven-story Japanese banyan tree. Flowers everywhere. Pink lokelanis, the Maui rose, were mixed with crimson bougainvilleas, the heart-shaped anthurium, and the exotic bird of paradise. Plumeria added fragrance as strong as burning incense.

  Then the animals. The fish, Japanese koi, orange and black, swimming in a stream, getting fat on pretzels as they swam by the bar in the lobby. There were parrots and macaws and cranes, and nearby, miniature penguins hopped into their little pool. The birds all tweeting and the flowers reeking and the walls all teak and glass. Makes the Fontainebleau look like a flophouse, Harry Marlin thought.

  In fact, the hotel was ersatz Hawaii, a jungle the way Walt Disney might have imagined it, where the palm trees were stripped of their coconuts so that mice were not attracted, and the birds, like the concierge, worked an eight-hour shift, nine to five, then back to the cages. An upscale tourist’s ideal, a touch of exotica but no mosquitoes for three hundred bucks a night.

  Harry shrugged off the bellman and carried his own bag, riding the elevator to the eighth floor. He took one look at the view — the Pacific Ocean, the island of Lanai — closed the curtains, and fell into bed. He slept soundly, the sleep of a man who does not know enough to be afraid of the dark.

  * * *

  The waitress chirped g’morning and said, “How hout starting with some papaya juice and all-bran cereal, great for the digestive tract?” She was young with a ponytail and eyes that had never seen trouble and was probably a health food nut, Harry figured. California written all over her. The type that wouldn’t dream of a cheeseburger sizzling in grease at the Lincoln Road Grill.