Life Can Be Murder: Rich Bishop Novels, #6

Chapter 1

THE PHONE RANG WHILE I was trying to decipher the clue, Symbol of purity or spirituality and guess the five letter word for thirty-four across on Monday’s Honolulu Star-Advertiser crossword puzzle. I put down the stubby pencil and picked up the receiver.

Bishop Detective Agency, I said into the phone.

What? said the female caller.

Hi, Sally.

Sally Jayne Fisher was my gorgeous, wealthy Australian green-eyed blonde, with a figure to die for, girlfriend. And the love of my life.

Well? Sally asked.

Well, what?

Well, what happened to the catchy slogan you always answer the phone with?

Bishop Detective Agency is enough. I’ve decided to conduct my business on a more professional level.

Why?

I think it’s time, don’t you?

No, Rick. You will only confuse everyone and start all kinds of rumors.

Rumors?

Common talk. People will start saying you’re just another private investigator. Nothing special.

I don’t care. I’m tired of defending myself and needed a change.

You haven’t defended yourself since primary school, Rick.

Are you forgetting last night on your living room sofa, Sally?

Rick!

Don’t give me that sweet innocence stuff, darling. You should have rewarded me for that vigorous defense of my virtue.

Didn’t I?

Miss Fisher! Have you no shame?

Oh, Rick. Don’t be a drongo, you root rat.

I glanced at the door as it swung open and a portly gentleman stuck his head in. Mr. Bishop?

Something I can do for you?

Me? Sally asked.

No, hold on, Sally.

Yes, if you’re Richard Bishop, the man said.

Client? Sally asked.

I think so, babe, I replied. I haven’t seen a subpoena yet.

Awesome. Talk to you later, darling. Good luck.

Bye, I said.

Bye.

Sally hung up, and I replaced the receiver.

Well, get it over with, I said to my visitor. Hire me or serve me.

I beg your pardon?

Forget it. Come in, and close the door quietly. I don’t want you to wake my landlady.

Your landlady?

Yes, she owns the Chinese herbal shop on the first floor. She’s cranky enough without getting woke up early from her afternoon nap by slamming doors.

Thank you, the man said, closing the door and crossing the room.

Sit down, Mr...

O’Donnell. Laurence O’Donnell, he said, settling into the chair in front of my desk.

O’Donnell was prodigiously heavy with a reddish face, longish thick white hair, and heavy caterpillar brows to match. He wore a gray pin-striped, tailored three-piece suit with a gold watch chain stretched across his prosperous paunch.

What can I do for you, Mr. O’Donnell?

I would like to hire you, if it’s agreeable.

For three-hundred a day plus expenses, I’m pretty agreeable.

That’s fine. I am prepared to pay you generously.

How generously and for what?

Twenty-five hundred dollars for a quick trip to San Diego to pick up a package and return with it, O’Donnell said.

He withdrew a long, thick leather wallet from inside his jacket, and counted out twenty-five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

You could get an average size package delivered from San Diego next business day by FedEx for a few hundred bucks. Or if it’s something extremely valuable, Brinks could handle an insured shipment for you for less than a thousand. Why pay me twenty-five hundred to go get it for you?

When people wanted to throw money at me, it always made me suspicious.

I am quite capable of understanding the type of service I require, Mr. Bishop, O’Donnell said, dropping the impressive stack of hundreds on my desk.

What’s in the package? Cocaine or heroine? I’m not a drug mule.

Nothing like that. It’s an artifact. An ancient and rare Hawaiian artifact that is worth a fortune. I’m a dealer in antiquities and wish to repatriate the artifact for the benefit of the Bishop Museum. By chance, have you ever heard of a lei niho palaoa, Mr. Bishop?

Of course. I’m a native Hawaiian, Mr. O’Donnell. A lei niho palaoa is a Hawaiian necklace traditionally worn by aliʻi. They commonly comprise a whale's tooth carved into a hook-shape pendant suspended by plaited human hair.

Mr. Bishop, I’m pleased to learn you understand Hawaii’s rich cultural history. This particular lei niho palaoa belonged to King Kalani’opu’u, uncle of Kamehameha. He gifted it to British navigator and cartographer Captain James Cook when he sailed into Kealakekua Bay in 1779.

Antiquity smuggling is as illegal as narcotics smuggling, Mr. O’Donnell.

Don’t worry, Mr. Bishop. The customs papers are filed and everything is in order.

Why can’t you go and get it yourself?

The job will be quick and simple, but it is not without risks.

What’s risky about it?

Andrew Weismann, a rival antiquities dealer, will be awaiting the arrival of someone to pick up the artifact.

And that’s a problem?

Yes, he will try to stop you.

How?

He will kill you if he believes it is necessary.

That statement just cost you another twenty-five hundred, I said.

I anticipated that, O’Donnell said, counting out another twenty-five crisp Benjamins. He placed the second stack on top of the first. Five thousand then, and there will be another five thousand when you deliver the package safely to me here in Honolulu.

Only if I live long enough to collect it. Why did you pick me for the job, Mr. O’Donnell?

I wanted to commission the best man available to retrieve the artifact from San Diego.

Oh, you must have seen my Yelp reviews. I hope I can count on you for a five star review after I complete the job for you.

O’Donnell dismissed my remark and carried on with his instructions.

You must leave for San Diego tomorrow. Go to the Hotel Del Coronado, where I will have a room reserved for you. On Wednesday afternoon, a Mr. Albert Brooks, an associate of mine, will meet you at the hotel to give you the artifact. I will email him your name and description and he will make the contact. Then you will return to Honolulu with the package on Thursday.

I agreed to meet him at my office early on Thursday afternoon after I returned with the item. He gave me a printed confirmation for a round-trip ticket on American Airlines, a sweaty handshake, and a smile that reminded me of a man who had swallowed a mouthful of sour milk.

In my business, I expect trouble and can usually spot it faster than a lonely hot blonde. And as I watched the door close behind Laurence O’Donnell, I spotted trouble all over the place and I figured Rick Bishop was about to be up to his shoulder holster in it.

Chapter 2

SINCE I HAD TAKEN IN more money in a single day than I usually earned during a good month, I thought a celebratory drink was in order. Sliding open the bottom drawer of my desk, I pulled out the fifth of Old Rip Van Winkle bourbon, but found the bottle was empty. I pressed it down on top of the trash in my overflowing waste basket and stood up.

Picking up the pile of cash, I slipped two thousand into my wallet and carried the rest over to my office safe. After dialing the combination and opening the safe, I took out the envelope that I had marked with Rainy Day Fund and added the remaining three thousand to the thirty-seven cents already inside the envelope. Then I slotted it back inside the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial.

Glancing at the wall clock, I saw it was nearly one in the afternoon. Close enough, I thought. I slaved away from eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon four days a week and figured I deserved to knock off a little early for once. After all, all work and no play made Rick a dull boy. I’d grab a nice lunch down at the Ala Moana Center food court, drop by the liquor store to resupply my office liquor cabinet, and head over to the Likelike, the dive bar owned by my best friend, Joe Rose, to kill time before dinner at Sally’s condo.

I locked up the office and took the stairs down to the street entrance singing We’re In the Money, as I descended. We’re in the money, we’re in the money; we’ve got a lot of what it takes to get along! After pushing out through the glass door and locking it, I turned to walk to my car and almost ran into my curmudgeonly old landlady, Mrs. Wong, who was sweeping the sidewalk with her ridiculous short-handled fan broom. She stood erect, and brushed a strand of gray hair out of her eyes that had escaped the severe bun at the crown of her head, and scowled at me.

Mr. Rick, she said, pointing a bony finger in my face accusingly. Your rent ten days past due. You pay now or I evict you again. You hear, Mr. Rick?

Mrs. Wong, I said, flashing her my best smile. What a pleasant surprise running into you. Yes, I’m sorry about the rent. I’ve just been swamped with work and it slipped my mind.

I reached for my wallet and carefully picked nine one hundred-dollar bills out of it and offered them to Mrs. Wong with a flourish.

There you are, Mrs. Wong. I added an extra hundred for the inconvenience. Buy yourself something real nice. Maybe get a new broom down at Aloha Dollar. Using that thing you’ve got there must be murder on your back with all the stooping over.

Mrs. Wong snatched the bills and then held each one up individually to the sunlight to gauge their authenticity. Satisfied I hadn’t stuck her with counterfeits, she shoved the money into the pocket of her floral house dress and returned to her sweeping without a word.

I strolled to my car at the curb and clicked the key fob. Just as I opened the door of my Ford Mustang convertible, Mrs. Wong shouted at me.

Yes, Mrs. Wong, I said, turning back to her.

I tell you, parking reserved for customer, Mr. Rick. You park in back. You hear, Mr. Rick?

Yes, Mrs. Wong. Have a nice day.

I got in the Mustang, cranked the engine, and merged into the Hotel Street traffic.

IT WAS GOING ON THREE in the afternoon when I parked the Mustang in the lot at the Likelike Club. My friend Joe and I had served together in the SEAL teams until we had both tired of the thankless job of spreading democracy in far-flung countries across the globe where the people had a zero interest in democracy and weren’t even sure what it was.

Joe, always the thrifty sort, had saved a bundle during our years in the Navy. As soon as we got out, Joe bought a rundown dive bar off Waikiki steps from the beach and he renamed it the Likelike. With a lot of sweat equity, he completely remodeled the place and transformed the club into the most stylish dive bar in Honolulu.

I spent a lot of my recreational time at the Likelike because, of course, I wanted to support my best friend’s business. But I admit it helped that Joe practically forced free drinks on me whenever I visited his establishment.

Joe was sitting at his usual corner of the bar reading the paper when I walked in and Eddie Ka’ahea was tending the bar.

Hey, cousin, Eddie said. The usual?

Yes, thanks, Eddie, I said, climbing on the stool next to Joe.

Eddie pulled a bottle of Longboard Island Lager out of the cooler behind the bar, but just as he was about to pop the top, Joe snapped his fingers and pointed at him.

Don’t serve him until you see his money, Joe said.

Eddie paused and gave me an apologetic look.

What’s your problem, Joe? I asked. I always pay.

You never pay, Richard, Joe replied. Your tab is up to five hundred bucks again. I’m cutting off your credit, pal.

You wound me, Joe, I said, reaching for my wallet.

Taking five crisp Benjamins out of it, I slapped them on the bar next to Joe.

I’d never want it said I don’t pay my obligations in a timely manner.

Joe gaped at me in astonishment and then scooped up the bills and handed them to Eddie.

Okay, he can have the beer now, Joe said to Eddie before glancing back at me.

"I