Page 33 of Talk Story

I set down a handful of mail as a chill swept over me. “He’s going for Pearl Yamamoto. Keone talked with her and Edith yesterday; they were ready to file the injunction to stop his development. Maybe he thinks he can keep that from happening.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, too.” Lei’s voice was steady, but I heard tension beneath it. “How fast can you get to Pearl’s house?”

I was already reaching for my keys. “Can you call for backup?”

“Not without a reason,” Lei said. “Go. See what’s happening. I’ll alert Malia Peahi.”

Now I hurried for my weapon and holster, stashed in my locked desk drawer. I strapped on the rig as I headed for the exit, hollering to Pua that I’d be back soon—there was an emergency at Pearl’s.

Pearl Yamamoto lived at the end of a lane near Hana’s famous Hamoa Beach, in a house that had been in her family for three generations. Japanese in its bones—low-roofed, timber-framed, with slight curves upward on the corners, the spacious but simple home was surrounded by a lava rock fence and featured a huge collection of potted orchids, a well-tended plumeria tree beside the lanai, and a raked sand and rock garden with a small cement temple structure. Next to the Heritage Garden her family had created and now ran as a nonprofit, the grounds were maintained with help from a rotating cast of high school students to whom Pearl had been teaching Japanese botany and garden design.

Pearl’s house and its adjoining Heritage Garden were normally some of the most peaceful places I knew in East Maui—but not today. This time, a large black SUV was parked in the driveway that didn’t belong there.

“Why do bad guys always drive ugly black oversized vehicles?” I asked Tiki, who’d leapt into Sharkey at the last minute and now sat bolt upright on the passenger seat as we rolled quietly toward Pearl’s. I pulled under a sheltering guava tree overhanging the lane, hoping not to attract attention. “For once I’d like to meet a gangster who drove a lime green Prius. Or even a silver Honda.”

I killed Sharkey’s engine and texted Lei the plate number, though I was pretty sure it was the rental she was already tracking. I told her I was beginning my approach, and got out quietly, easing Sharkey’s door shut.

Tiki was already ahead of me, moving along the lichen-covered lava wall with the low, swift demeanor of a cat on the hunt. She disappeared through a gap in the wall before I’d taken three steps.

Keeping down and behind cover, I drew my weapon and made my way around the fence and across the yard to the side entrance, a door Pearl used for deliveries. Still hearing nothing from inside, I tried the handle.

Unlocked.

I let myself in.

The kitchen smelled of green tea and almond biscuits. Pearl’s tray was on the counter: one cup that had been used, a spoon, the clay teapot still warm. Through the sliding shoji-style door to the sitting room came voices—but the words weren’t clear enough to make out. Pearl’s tone was measured and precise. Victor Chang’s was in a practiced, reasonable register, the same persuasive modulation he’d used at the community center meeting. Then a third voice spoke—lighter, feminine—but with an edge to it that the others didn’t have.

I knew that edge; someone had decided violence was an option and was waiting to determine when it should be deployed.

Chang’s daughter Madison. I’d been wondering when the ‘Hawaiian Cultural Liaison’ would pop up again.

I moved out of the kitchen and through the dining area, approaching the open slider into the sitting room. I peeked around the jamb, hopefully out of view while I did a threat assessment.

The sitting room was bright with the light off the water on the other side of the house. Pearl sat in her wheelchair on the far side of the room facing me; she held herself with the composed authority she brought to everything: Red Hat Society meetings, court proceedings, and apparently, home invasions. She held an origami crane between her fingers, and though she saw me, she gave no sign but the slight lift of one arched brow.

Victor Chang stood near the window wearing his white linen suit (grubby and wrinkled now) and Rolex. No weapon visible. The lauhala Panama hat rested beside him on the sideboard. He seemed frazzled; days of considerable stress were written in the set of his jaw and the shadow of beard on his cheeks. He appeared to be a man whose operation was fraying, along with his personal grooming.

Madison Chang sat in a chair to the right, but somewhat facing Pearl. She wore a floral-patterned sheath dress; her legs were crossed, and a metallic sandal swung from her foot. Her eyes were fixed on Pearl with the attention of someone waiting for the right moment—and in her hand was a pearl-handled derringer.

In the animal kingdom, it was often the small and colorful creatures who were the deadliest.

I stepped into the room fully so both Changs could see me; I cocked a hip and rested my weapon on it, aimed at Madison Chang’s head. At this distance, with my academy scores, I couldn’t miss. “Isn’t this a cozy gathering. Pearl, you didn’t tell me you were having company.”

“Ms. Smith.” Victor Chang’s voice was smooth as oil on water. “We didn’t expect you.”

“Nobody expects the postmaster,” I said. “It’s our greatest advantage. I came to see Pearl for lunch. But I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Chang, Ms. Chang, because I have questions.”

Victor Chang had stolen my attention for a moment; in that time, Madison had slipped her gun back into the shiny clutch purse resting on her lap—mine was clearly bigger than hers.

“We’re having a private conversation with Pearl.” She pinched her overly pouty mouth into a shape currently known as “duck face”—but wait. I narrowed my eyes—Madison’s face always appeared that way.

“The Changs were just leaving,” Pearl said in her definitive manner. She set the crane down, reached over to the side table, and picked up a square of golden paper. “I don’t have what they came for.” She began folding it into a new origami, completely imperturbable.

“And what did they come for?” I asked.

“The journal. Hannah Chang’s journal. It belongs to us,” Victor said.

There was a scuffle behind me. I whirled, bringing my weapon up—and Pua Chang stepped into the doorway beside me. Her tiny, cool, perfectly manicured hand drifted down to rest on my arm like a butterfly landing on a fence post.