Jailbird's Daughter: A Payane and Clark Hawaii Detective Novel

21

Chapter One

Our office door opened so slowly that I thought it must be a breeze from the hallway. George and I were at our desks in the inner office, each with a box of receipts and a worried frown for the upcoming tax deadline. I could see past the reception desk in the front office where Maggie was, no doubt, immersed in the curriculum from the detective course, and the reflection of her window in the opening door had caught my eye.

The frosted glass panel in the door that has our classy sign, Payne and Clark, Detective Agency, is normally shadowed when someone is outside, but I was seeing the hall lights through it, so no one was there. I thought Maggie would close the door the next time she came up for air, so I went back to wondering if we could deduct the bill for three aloha shirts George had bought. I was debating whether I dared to list them as uniforms; they are his usual attire at work.

Our two desks sit at right angles, computer and fax table behind George, a row of mostly empty steel filing cabinets across the back, and two wooden-but-padded clients’ chairs next to the picture window. Sun was streaming in, the Waianae Mountains in the distance were doing their heat shimmer, but George was oblivious. He had laced his sausage-sized fingers into his unruly black curls, elbows on the blotter, and a serious scowl for the papers in front of him.

I caught another movement, this one more definite, and a small head came around the door, the same height as the doorknob. The face was surrounded by chocolate brown ringlets and adorned with tearstains on crab-apple cheeks.

Hi, a tiny voice said, are you detectives?

That got Maggie's attention. She came around the end of her desk, pulling her short skirt down in the direction of her knees. She had kicked off her high heels and didn't bother replacing them for this occasion. We do get a little informal when there are no clients in the office.

Maggie knelt on the carpet to match the height of our visitor. We sure are, honey. Are you doing a report for school? She caught the hand that was clinging to the door and pulled the kid into the room.

No. I need to hire detectives to find my mama.

Oh sure, you came to the right place. We find mothers all the time. Don't you worry, come in and tell us all about it.

The kid was skinny; winsome came to mind. She wore a yellow jumper over a white blouse and patent leather shoes with white socks. I don't know much about kids, but I was guessing her age at around six. Maggie was still leading her by the hand.

What's your name, honey? I was seeing a whole new side of Maggie. She's alternately a tough scrapper and a teenaged enigma, but all at once she seemed positively maternal, if twenty-year-olds can be maternal. She led the little girl into our office and the two of them sat in our clients’ chairs. The kid's feet were sticking straight out in front of her, and she carefully arranged her skirt for modesty.

My name's Sydney, and I've lost my mama.

Well, my name is Maggie, the dorky guy there is Dick, and George isn't nearly as scary as he looks. I'm sure we can find your mama for you.

When did you get lost? I asked.

I'm not lost. Mama is lost. We were walking through that park downstairs. I stopped to look at a comic book, and when I looked up, Mama had wandered off. By park she meant the Fort Street Mall that passes our building.

She's probably back there looking for you right now. I stood and extended a hand; the kid slipped off her chair and let me lead her to our window. I picked her up gently, by her waist, and stood her on the windowsill. Her arms and legs looked fragile, like they might break if you touched one. We were looking down at the red brick pedestrian mall, thirty-six stories below us. Do you see her down there?

No. I looked all up and down the park, but she isn't anywhere. See, I was outside that shop right there. She pointed at the magazine stand directly across the mall from us. She was sniffing, and wiped her eyes with her fist, but no new tears.

What does your mama look like, Sydney? George had joined us at the window, and he did seem to be less frightening than usual. Part of his apparent menace comes from shoulders that are twice normal size; the rest comes from the outrageously loud aloha shirts he wears. I decided to deduct them from our taxes. No one would wear shirts like the ones George picks out unless they were forced.

Mama looks just like me, only taller.

What is she wearing? Maggie asked. Maggie had joined us at the window and rested her hand on Sydney's fragile appearing shoulder.

She's dressed like me. Mama says our taste in clothes is the same, but she hopes that my taste in men will be better.

Maybe you should take a walk through the mall? I asked Maggie.

Sure. Sydney, let's go through the mall one more time. Are you coming, Dick?

Anything to get away from George's shirts. George?

You kids go ahead, I'll watch the phone. I'm up to my eyebrows in Dick's bar bills; surely most of them were entertaining clients? George turned back to his desk. Maggie led Sydney down the hall to the washroom, and when they came out, the tearstains were gone. They marched toward the elevator and I tagged along. It struck me that the kid was no longer devastated. She trusted us to find her mother, and that was worrisome. If we betrayed a trust like that, we wouldn't be able to live with ourselves. She thought that her troubles were over; I thought that ours might be just beginning.

The Fort Street Mall is red brick, palm trees, flowers, and sunshine, bordered by an eclectic mix of small booths, most of them selling ethnic food. It's four blocks long, reaching from the Chinese Cultural Center on Beretania Street to the Aloha Tower Market Place on the waterfront. We're in the first block on the Beretania Street end, and that's a busy area. Fifty students from the Hawaii Pacific University were taking the sun on benches, or sitting on the grass. None were reading books.

Maggie and Sydney turned left and walked toward the waterfront. I turned right and checked out the Beretania Street entrance. The usual strollers and shoppers were milling around, but none looked like taller versions of Sydney, and no one seemed to be worried. City cops patrol the mall, about one per block. I started asking, but they weren't aware of any distraught mothers or missing daughters. I had worked my way down to King Street when I spotted Maggie and Sydney coming back, holding hands and looking worried, so I waited for them outside the Dairy Queen. There was no need to ask if they had found Mama.

Can I interest you ladies in a snack? I asked. That got an enthusiastic nod from Sydney. We turned to the booth and ordered sundaes. Sydney wanted strawberry, Maggie ordered pineapple, but I can never resist the hot fudge. We carried our loot to a vacant picnic table shaded by a plumeria tree that was loaded with scarlet blossoms.

The plumeria had a nice perfume that reminded me of my mother's face powder, and was just strong enough to neutralize the aroma of spring rolls, tacos, and kalbi that were competing. Tiny dots of sunlight that filtered through the blossoms made varicolored dancing Tinkerbells on our faces and the sundaes.

We looked everywhere, Sydney announced. She carefully spread her napkin in her lap and used the plastic spoon to circle her cup and snare the whipped cream that was threatening to drip. She was concerned, but no more tears seemed likely. Somehow she was striking me as a miniature adult rather than a helpless child. Then, too, the restorative powers of strawberry sundaes are remarkable.

We'll find her, I said. We've never lost a mama yet, but some things take a little time. What's your last name?

Henderson. Me and Daddy are both named Henderson, but now Mama is named Constantino.

Do you know where you live?

Sure, all first graders learn their addresses. Mine is 2552 Sahara Avenue. She chased and caught a large strawberry.

I don't pretend to know all of the streets on Oahu, but most are either named for WW II heroes or have nine-syllable Hawaiian names. Sahara Avenue wasn't ringing any bells. I glanced at Maggie and she was shaking her head.

Is that in Kaneohe? I asked.

Sydney almost smiled for the first time in our brief acquaintance. Big brown eyes, charming dimples, and teeth just a little too far apart. No, silly, that's in Las Vegas. She had a tiny smudge of strawberry syrup on one cheek. I had a terrible urge to wipe it off, but that might have been insulting or condescending. Maggie appeared to be fighting the same impulse

Oh, sure, now I remember Sahara Avenue. I pretended a little broader knowledge of the world than I have. I didn't want her catching on that Las Vegas is on another planet. Where are you staying now?

She used her napkin and wiped her own cheeks. We're in a hotel, a really big one right by the ocean.

That narrowed the field to fifty possibilities. Is your daddy here with you?

Daddy lives here. We just came to visit him. He's a detective, and that's how I knew that you would help me.

Does he work for an agency?

Not any more. He's a jailbird now, but Mama says maybe he didn't do it, and we should love him anyway.

One of our ubiquitous street people came by, wheeling her shopping cart. She'd been behind me since we got to the mall, and this time she gave me an imperious jerk of her head, demanding a conference.

Will you ladies excuse me, please? I need to check with one of my sources.

Sydney piped up, Oh sure. I know her. She's a real nice lady. She's the one who told me where to find detectives. Maybe she knows where my mama is. She went back to spearing strawberries. I scooped the puddle of hot fudge I'd been saving, reluctantly left the rest to get cold, and went to lean on Sugar's cart, our usual conference mode.

Sugar had been a good-looking woman, with something regal about her bearing and her chiseled features, but that was fading. A dirty brown petticoat sagged below a worn green housedress. She always wears a headscarf, and the wisps that peek out are still more red than gray. As a child in the 1940's, she frequented the MGM studios where her father was a cameraman. She does take on a nice glow when she reminisces about being dandled on the knees of all the big stars of those halcyon days. Today her mission in life is touring the TV stations on Oahu, advising the long-suffering but tolerant receptionists that they should be running more Humphrey Bogart movies.

Hi, Sugar, how are things?

Really bad today, Dick. They stole my kidneys last night, so I'm terribly tired. Sugar has patiently explained to me that the nurses at Straub Hospital have needles that can extract vital organs from sleeping victims, and she has donated many organs that way in the past. They take her kidneys every few weeks.

Boy, that is tough, Sugar. Did you need to talk to me?

Yes, I saw something that's worth twenty dollars.

Let's start with half, I suggested, and took out a ten-dollar bill.

Okay, you're looking for that little girl's mother, right? I nodded; Sugar snatched the ten from my fingers.

I saw a man stick a gun in her ribs. Two great big guys wearing slouch hats and capes, like Dracula in Phantom of the Opera, came swooping down the alley and grabbed her.

I offered another ten and she collected it. It was a really big gun, covered with blood. They whisked her down that alley and shoved her into the back seat of a black hearse. They both got in the back seat, right on top of her and they had a big fight, but then one man climbed in front and they drove away.

I pulled out another ten. License number?

Too far away, but I'll recognize that car if I see it again.

Okay, here's an advance payment for the license number. I handed over the third ten. You take care of yourself now. She nodded and bent to push her cart. I went back to our table.

Before you break your heart feeling sorry for Sugar, reflect that many of us may take our turns with shopping carts at the end, and if we do, Hawaii is a good place for it. Beats the heck out of sitting on a heat vent in New York with your shopping bags around you. Sugar has it rough and sleeps in doorways, but she doesn't realize how bad her life is. She lives in a parallel universe, like a science fiction character, where shopping carts and doorways are normal. When you think about it, she never has to worry about paying the bills or the taxes. She also doesn't have to worry about what the heck to do with a precocious little girl. If Sugar's report was the usual ten percent correct, the mama was probably not going to be found right away.

We stopped at the magazine stand, bought the fateful comic book that had distracted Sydney, and took the elevator back up to the office.

Would you mind watching the phone for a few minutes? Maggie asked. Sydney shrugged, but looked receptive to the idea. Maggie got her seated at the desk. Sydney propped her chin in hands, her elbows on the blotter, and concentrated on her book. She was swinging her matchstick legs, instantly absorbed in the page. We went into the inner office and closed the door.

Well? George looked up from his pile of receipts.

I think we're stuck with her. Sugar saw two men kidnap her mother.

So, call the police. George went back to writing numbers.

I tried to instill reality. Hey, being dumped on the street by your mother is bad enough, but nothing compared to an encounter with the Hawaii Child Protection people. They'll beat her into institutional meat, and if she protests, they'll call it hyperactive and shoot her full of drugs. It would be kinder to sew her in a sack and toss her off the pier.

Maggie was nodding in agreement. Maybe we really can find her mother. The police won't even list her as missing for forty-eight hours, and then only if they don't forget about it. We already have a lead. Dick's contact saw the kidnappers’ car.

How do you know that? I asked.

When Sugar whispers, you can hear her for two blocks. You did believe her, didn't you, Dick?

Always divide what Sugar says by ten. That still leaves us with two men, a gun, and a car. Yes, I believe the mother was kidnapped.

George gave up and pushed the papers aside. Maybe she did just abandon the kid. It does happen. Or, maybe she had an accident.

I know George pretty well. He had already caved; he just wanted me to convince him so that if things went wrong, they would be my fault. I took the plunge. "This kid was not abandoned. That goes with sordid tales of neglect and abuse. This kid has been so well cared for that she trusts adults, even us. There are potholes