“Sure.” I knew that I would, too, once I’d learned a little more about Lucie Zamora and had more pointed questions to ask. The dossier on her hadn’t mentioned a taste for designer labels, though that, combined with limited legal income, is often an indicator that there’s something fishy going on.
I went back to the computer, and read a long email from Harry complaining about the crappy surf conditions at Kuhio Beach Park, our usual Waikiki surf spot. Then I waded through all the luau-related email. The kids were excited about seeing their dads on the surfboards, while my mother and sisters-in-law negotiated the menu. Who would bring the chicken long rice, the lomi lomi salmon, and the haupia, a coconut-milk pudding? Haoa had an imu, a Hawaiian style barbecue pit, in his backyard, so he would bring the kalua pig, a detail which could not help but annoy Lui. The two of them were only two years apart and had been battling for supremacy since infancy.
When I finished, I sent an email to Sampson requesting any info that might indicate Lucie had expensive tastes-labels in her clothes or handbag, for starters. I looked up the store Frank had mentioned. Butterfly was a boutique in the North Shore Marketplace that sold designer-label clothing and accessories. I wasn’t sure how to approach it, though, without a badge.
I didn’t want to try the same tactic I’d used on Maui. There was too much chance that the news I was investigating could get back to the wrong ears-either the killer, or the police. I didn’t want either to know what I was doing.
It was nearly nine o’clock. I picked up some Mexican food and took it back to Hibiscus House. I was falling asleep as I ate. By the next morning, though, I had a plan. I’d surf for a while at Pipeline, then head up to Butterfly to see what I could learn about Lucie Zamora.
Butterfly
I surfed all day, and drove up to Butterfly just before six. It was Halloween, and the streets were full of little kids in ghost and pirate costumes. The North Shore Marketplace was decorated with fake pumpkins and orange-and-black banners.
As soon as I arrived at the store, I realized I was in trouble. The dresses in the window were by Armani, Valentino, and Versace. A tiny purse studded with rhinestones had a price tag of $2400. The only recognizable label on my clothing was the Teva on my sandals; I wore a pair of board shorts whose pocket I had torn a few days before, and a T-shirt from Town and Country Surf Shop. Oh, and I’d forgotten to shave that morning in my hurry to get out on the water. In short, I looked like a moke, a native Hawaiian criminal more likely to smash the front window in and steal something than to walk in and shop for merchandise.
I didn’t know what I’d hoped to achieve by going to Butterfly, and I was kicking myself for rushing in without thinking through a plan, when the door popped open and a guy in a black t-shirt and black slacks stuck his head out. “I know you!” he said, smiling. “You’re the gay cop!”
“Busted.” I smiled and stuck my hand out. “Kimo Kanapa’aka.”
“You are such a hero!” He shook my hand. “I’m Brad. Jacobson. It is so awesome to meet you!”
“You work here?”
He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s a living. Were you looking for something?”
I decided to jump in. “Someone, more like. This girl I met at a surfing tournament. She told me she bought all her clothes here. I just moved up here, and she’s the only person I know in town. I thought-oh, it’s pretty dumb.”
“No, what?”
“I’ve been looking for her at the beach and I haven’t seen her. So I figured I might run into her around here.”
“Come on inside.” Brad was in his late twenties, I figured, as I followed him into the store, which had the kind of elegant hush that comes from recessed lighting, thick pile carpeting, and price tags in the stratosphere. He wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome; his nose was crooked and his blond hair thinning, but he put himself together well. “What’s her name?”
“Lucie,” I said. “Lucie Zamora.”
“Oh, my God.” Brad clutched his heart. “You don’t know? Well, of course, you’ve been busy with your own troubles.”
I tried to put surprise in my voice. “What?”
“You’d better sit down.” He motioned me to an armchair that would have looked quite at home in my mother’s living room. I sat, and he pulled a similar chair up next to me. “She was killed! Shot down like a dog on the street.” Brad looked like he was ready to cry. “Oh, it was just awful.”
I looked away from Brad, the way I’d observed the families of victims do when they heard the bad news, then when I looked back at him I rubbed my eyes and nose, body language that I knew conveyed disbelief. I let my voice get a little higher, and rushed the words out. “When did this happen?”
“About a month ago. She was coming out of Club Zinc late at night, and somebody shot her.” He shook his head. “The police, of course, are clueless.” He smiled at me and touched my hand. “I’ll bet if they had you on the case, you’d already have the creep behind bars.”
I took a deep breath, then put my hand up over my mouth, taking a moment to compose myself. I didn’t like faking emotions in front of someone as nice as Brad, but I had a role to play, and I knew that the better I played it, the more chance I would have of finding out information that could lead me to Lucie Zamora’s killer.
“I’m sure the local guys did their best,” I said, finally. “They probably just haven’t released any results yet.” I put my hand to my cheek, a thinking gesture. “They must have talked to you, didn’t they?”
He shook his head again. “Nope. And I mean, I wouldn’t say I was her closest friend, but, well, she was in here almost every week buying something. I knew her tastes almost as well as my own.”
“She liked her labels,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a weary smile.
“Absolutely. Armani was like her god. Manolo for shoes. Coach for purses and belts. I mean, I could go on and on.” He waved his arm around the store, encompassing all the expensive labels around us. Each designer had a niche, I noted, with just a few examples of each style. Soft lighting highlighted the three-way mirrors in the corners.
“I’m surprised. I never saw her name in the money at tournaments,” I said. “I didn’t realize she had the money for such expensive clothes. She have a sugar daddy somewhere?”
Brad shook his head. “I don’t think so. Most of our customers-the ones with the rich husbands or daddies-use plastic. But our Lucie was a cash basis customer, even though sometimes she’d spend a thousand dollars on a dress. She said she’d gotten in trouble with credit cards once, so she didn’t buy anything she didn’t have the cash for.” He smiled. “But there wasn’t much she couldn’t buy, I’ll tell you.”
“It must have been strange to you, taking in so much cash at once.”
Brad leaned back against his chair, looked around at the empty shop, and then back at me. “Well, between you and me and the lamppost, at first I thought she was somebody’s mistress. You know, she had a body that wouldn’t quit, and she liked to show it off. But she wasn’t much into sexy lingerie.”
I let my voice catch. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
He pushed out of the chair, squatted down next to me and took my hand. “You poor thing, you must be devastated,” he said. “I mean, to find out your only friend in town was murdered!”
“It’s a shock.” I caught my breath, and then sighed.
Brad nodded. “All her friends felt that way.”
A bell started ringing in my head. “You knew her other friends?”
“Well, more like she knew my friends.” Brad stood up and walked over to the cash wrap. It looked like he was getting ready to close up. “I know this group of guys, and they all got to know her and like her.” He looked up at me sadly. “I guess that’s almost the same as having friends.”