I wondered what else Dario had done to seal the deal as I sipped the coffee. It was pretty good, better than what the regular barista made. “You referred Rich to Bishop?”
Dario nodded. “Bishop was going crazy with surfers traipsing all over his land, and we were worried that if he didn’t enforce his property line somebody might claim an easement, the right to get to the water. Rich was low on cash and needed a job, and it seemed like a good match.”
A good match indeed, I thought, since Bishop Clark had a collection of firearms, and Rich Sarkissian seemed like the kind of guy who could use most, if not all, of them. The only real question was, how good a shot would he be-good enough to shoot a surfer off his board? The doorbell rang and Dario pounced on a potential customer, leaving me to my latte, and my thoughts.
Ladies, Ladies
While I was at The Next Wave, I figured I might as well fire up my laptop and check for email. There was a message from Sampson with a reminder about our meeting in Wahiawa at two, as well as a copy of the ballistics results.
Brad Jacobson and Tommy Singer had been killed with a rapid-fire pistol, probably a Beretta. Crime scene investigation had revealed that they had both been fully clothed when shot, though very close to each other, and both had been dispatched with multiple bullets to the brain. Quick, relatively painless deaths. The killer had then stripped them down, posed them, and quickly rinsed their clothes in the ocean.
It was definitely the work of an unstable mind, and it bothered me. The first three murders had been cold and efficient; the motivation here was a lot murkier. There was no clear connection between the murders I’d been sent to the North Shore to investigate and these two; virtually everything was different. The only links were the location-Brad’s and Tommy’s bodies had been found at Pipeline, and Mike had been shot there-and the fact that like the first three, Tommy was a surfer, although in an entirely different class.
But I had some gut feeling, similar to the one Sampson had, that these murders were related. It was possible that the first three killings had been steps in a process that unhinged the killer-with each death, he or she became progressively unstable, leading to the weirdness surrounding Brad’s and Tommy’s death.
That was very spooky, because it meant that a killer whose brain was increasingly deteriorating was loose on the North Shore with a wide selection of weapons at his or her disposal.
Along with the ballistics results, Sampson had included some basic information on Rich Sarkissian, including his address, which I had been unable to find myself-his phone was unlisted, and as a renter, he wasn’t listed in any of the property records I could search. I didn’t know how Sampson had found the address, but I was glad he had.
I went out to my truck and got my street map of the North Shore; Rich’s address seemed to be on a rise overlooking Kawailoa Beach, not far from Bishop Clark’s place. I decided I’d swing past on my way to Wahiawa. Maybe I could peek through the windows, see the murder weapon lying out on a table, and solve the whole case before lunch. Unlikely, but a boy can dream.
I figured that Rich would already be at Bishop’s, but I was careful as I cruised past his place. It was a cute little cottage, perched on a bluff with what I figured was a fabulous view of the ocean, and the few surfers who were already out on the waves, daring both the Pacific and the possibility of getting shot off their boards.
It was kind of ironic that, hating surfers as he did, Rich’s front windows had a perfect view of them. As I looked around, I wondered idly how Rich could afford to live in such a place. Sampson’s notes had indicated that Rich was a renter, and I knew from the signs up at Fujioka’s that a place like his was pretty expensive. It was possible, of course, that he had some kind of deal, the way I did at Cane Landing. Perhaps Bishop Clark owned the property and it was part of Rich’s salary.
But I remembered Terri saying that Bishop had pretty much run through his inheritance and sold off everything he owned except that beachfront property. So it was unlikely that he owned the cottage. I made a note to check the property records myself.
Where could Rich get the money to afford a place like that, I kept wondering, as I drove down to the beach. The first answer that sprung to my mind was the same place Lucie Zamora got the money to afford her designer clothing-crystal meth. I wondered if Rich knew Lucie.
Perhaps Rich had been killing off his competition. Maybe Mike, Lucie and Ronnie had all been crystal meth dealers, and Rich had killed them off to corner the market?
The flip side to that was that someone else had been doing the killings, and Rich himself might be a target.
But Tommy Singer didn’t connect to any of them-Mike, Lucie, Ronnie or Rich. How did he fit in? I felt sure that there was something I was still missing, and that was the one thing that would point me in the right direction.
I headed toward the Kam Highway for the trip south. I tried not to think about what was going to happen, but by the time I arrived at the station I couldn’t avoid it. Most likely, Ruiz and Kawamoto wouldn’t be happy about getting outside help. I know if I was in their position, I wouldn’t want anyone else butting in on my case.
It was one thing to get help from an outside source, an expert, say. And if I’d been undercover on this case from day one, the way you might be on a drug case, then no one would have any cause for resentment. But now it would be clear to Ruiz and Kawamoto that Sampson wasn’t happy with their progress, didn’t trust them, and felt they needed somebody else.
Me. That was the second part of the equation. I wasn’t every cop’s favorite person, because my sexuality and my notoriety combined to make me an outcast. Sampson would not have an easy time bringing me back inside; but that’s why he was the lieutenant.
The best thing would be for the detectives to accept me, and leave me on my own. I’d be happy to report in, pass along whatever I found out. I didn’t need to be on the inside, looking over their shoulders, questioning everything they did. I just had to make them understand that.
Though I knew it was the coward’s way out, I waited in the parking lot for Sampson, so we were able to go inside together and meet with Ruiz and Kawamoto immediately. He was wearing what I had come to realize was one of his trademark polo shirts, this one black, with gray slacks. He did not look happy.
“I don’t like to do this, Kimo,” he said to me in the parking lot, looking around to make sure no one could hear us. “But I’m going to ask you to keep an eye on these guys. If you pass on information, I want to know that they run with it as necessary. Any time you feel they’re ignoring you, I want to hear about it.”
“I need to know what I’m walking into, Lieutenant. Do you suspect something is going on?”
He frowned. “I just don’t know. But I looked at the evidence you came up with, and I don’t see why Kevin and Al didn’t find out at least some of it. I mean, you just looked the three surfers up on the Internet and found they’d all been in Mexico, right?”
I nodded.
“So why couldn’t they? Jesus, they’ve got computers, and they’ve both been to training classes. They aren’t stupid guys-they’ve got a damned good clearance rate. Which makes me think there’s something fishy going on.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be back at headquarters in an hour, so we’re going to have to make this quick. Come on.”
Sampson led me inside, and once we met with Kevin Ruiz and Al Kawamoto, he got right to the point. “When I took over this investigation, you guys told me you were having trouble getting information,” he said. “You thought that the surfers up here didn’t trust cops and wouldn’t tell you what you needed to know. Am I right?”