Spider Bones

CUMBO DIDN’T GLANCE UP WHEN I ENTERED THE ROOM.

Schoon and Epstein did. The lawyers watched in silence as I walked toward the table.

Up close I could see that Cumbo was sweating big-time. The collar of his hoodie was soaked with perspiration pumping from his face and neck. His eyes were underhung with flabby half-moon plums. His skin was the color of dun.

“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Taking a seat.

“Doctor?” Epstein looked from me to Schoon.

“ADA Cotton suggested that I participate in this interrogation.”

“Doctor?” Epstein repeated.

“I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“I work for JPAC.” I spoke directly to Cumbo. “The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Cumbo didn’t raise his head or acknowledge my question.

“JPAC’s mission is to locate American war dead and bring them home. And they do a fine job of it.”

Epstein started to object. I continued to ignore him.

“I’m involved in the case of a soldier who was killed in Vietnam, eventually buried in his home state of North Carolina.”

Nothing.

“That soldier’s friends and family called him Spider.”

The half-moon plums pinched up ever so slightly.

“Recently an odd thing happened. A man died in Canada. Fingerprints identified that man as Spider. But Spider was buried in Lumberton, North Carolina.”

Cumbo began working his thumbnails. I noticed they were yellow and ridged.

“As you can imagine, this situation created considerable confusion. The army doesn’t like confusion. They opened an investigation to determine how the same man could be dead in two places.”

I paused for effect.

“But I think you know.”

“This is ridiculous,” Epstein said.

Still I ignored him.

“Spider’s real name was John Charles Lowery.”

Epstein and Schoon both looked surprised. Epstein regretted it. Forced his face blank.

“But you claim you are John Charles Lowery. You say you killed Xander Lapasa in Long Binh forty years ago and assumed his identity.”

Placing my forearms on the table, I leaned in.

“But John Charles Lowery never went to Vietnam. Did he, Reggie?”

Still Cumbo avoided my eyes.

“You remember Spider. You were cousins. You went to school together. Played baseball together. Wasn’t it you who encouraged Spider to join the team?”

Cumbo’s thumbnails were clicking double-time.

“Want to know how Spider died? He tied a rock to his ankle and drowned himself. His body’s lying in a morgue in Montreal. The tag on his toe says John Doe.”

A bit loose with the facts, but close enough.

Epstein flapped a hand, dismissive. “We’re finished here. This woman is clearly misinformed.” He gripped the arms of his chair and began to push back.

“You’re right and you’re wrong.” Cumbo’s eyes bore into mine.

“Mr. Lapasa, I strongly advise—”

Without turning, Cumbo raised a finger, a teacher demanding silence.

Epstein frowned disapproval.

Unhooking the elastic loops from his ears, Cumbo removed the mask.

I forced myself still.

Cumbo hadn’t worn protection out of fear of infection. The lower half of his face was grotesquely disfigured. His chin skewed right at an unnatural angle, and his lower jaw appeared way too small. I guessed most of his mandible had been surgically removed. His neck had a cavernous indentation, and a scar jagged diagonally across his throat.

“That make us even? Your face is shit too.”

I kept my eyes steady on Cumbo’s.

“You nailed it,” he said. “I’m not Al Lapasa. And I’m not Spider.”

“You’re Reggie Cumbo.”

“Haven’t been Reggie Cumbo for over forty years.”

“You reported for military service in Spider’s place.”

“He didn’t want to go. I did.”

“Spider went to Canada.”

Cumbo shrugged. “He liked snow.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“For a while. I forwarded his mama’s letters. Quit when I headed to Nam.” Cumbo’s mouth executed a slippery sideways maneuver. “Still got some of her crap in a box.”

“The army wasn’t what you expected.”

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed.

“Combat. Hot, stinking jungle. You wanted out.”

“That war was stupid.” Defensive.

“So you murdered Xander Lapasa.”

“What? Am I watching a rerun?” Cumbo tossed the mask. It did a lopsided roll across the table, then dropped to the floor.

I switched topics.

“You own a bar in Oakland called the Savaii.”

“That a crime?”

“Savaii is a town in Samoa.”

“Now we all get an A in geography.”

“The Savaii is a hangout for members of a street gang called Sons of Samoa.”

Cumbo raised then dropped his hands back on the table. So?

“How does someone from Lumberton, North Carolina, end up SOS?”

“I got dark good looks so I fit the part. Indian, you know.” Cumbo’s mouth and chin tucked sideways in an attempt at an ironic grin. It was repellent. “Crips heard the name Lapasa, figured I was Samoan. Being a cuz worked for me, so I rolled with it.”

Schoon cleared his throat.

Epstein listened, quiet but vigilant.

“Tell me about Francis Kealoha.”

“Who the fuck’s Francis Kealoha?”

“Perhaps you know him as Frankie Olopoto.”

Below the scar Cumbo’s Adam’s apple rose then fell.

“How about George Faalogo? That name ring a bell?”

Cumbo said nothing.

“Let’s talk about Nickie Lapasa.”

No response.

“Xander’s brother. Xander Lapasa. The poor chump you murdered. I’m sure you’re aware that Nickie Lapasa is a powerful man. A rich man. I’m sure you know the Lapasa family has financial interests that extend far beyond the state of Hawaii. Maybe even to California. You told us you looked Nickie up online. Was that a little fib, Reggie? Are you and Nickie acquainted through, shall we say, professional ties?”

Schoon came to life.

“We will not discuss Nicholas Lapasa’s personal or professional affairs at any time during this interview.”

“Is that why you sent Frankie and Logo out here?” I pressed on.

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed even further, but he said nothing.

I pulled another topic switch.

“I understand you’re under investigation for selling illegal drugs. You deal out of your bar, Reggie?”

Now it was Epstein’s turn to object. “You’re crossing a line, miss.”

“You looking to expand distribution?” I continued drilling Cumbo. “Is that why you sent Kealoha and Faalogo to Hawaii? They your front men for new projects?”

“Enough!” Epstein was on his feet.

“You screwed up, Reggie. You sent Frankie and Logo onto another man’s turf. Ever hear of L’il Bud T’eo? You sent them into T’eo’s house.”

“This is outrageous.” A flush was spreading upward from Epstein’s collar.

“You got them killed, Reggie.”

“What the fuck?” Cumbo’s lips parted, revealing a tongue that looked like a shriveled eel.

“The sharks didn’t leave much to ID.”

Cumbo’s mouth closed, made another oily loop.

“Your line of questioning is completely out of order.”

For the first time I looked at Epstein. I had to credit the guy. He was tenacious as crabgrass.

“For this interview to continue you must focus exclusively on circumstances surrounding Xander Lapasa’s death.”

“Fine. Let’s focus on Xander. Your client says he wants to come clean about the murder. Still he lies about his real identity.” I turned to Cumbo. “Why is that, Reggie?”

“I told you. I have regrets.”

“You’re seeking peace? Forgiveness? Or are you just looking to save your ass?”

Cumbo snorted in derision.

“You know what I think, Reggie? Maybe the cops are closing in on your little operation. Maybe you’re taking heat from SOS for getting Frankie and Logo killed. Maybe you found out T’eo’s put a price on your head. Whatever. I doubt you give a rat’s ass about clearing your conscience. I think you’re looking to boogie again.”

I was on a roll, making it up as I went along.

“I think you see the clock ticking on Al Lapasa. I think you’re hoping John Lowery is your new get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s your MO, right? Steal someone else’s name and disappear? Reggie Cumbo becomes Spider Lowery. Spider Lowery becomes Al Lapasa. Now it’s time to go back to being Lowery. To disappear.”

Cumbo thrust his head forward so his nose was inches from mine. I smelled his sweat, felt his rancid breath on my face.

Locking his eyes on mine, Cumbo curled, then exploded his fingers.

“Poof!”

Droplets of saliva sprayed my face.

Revolted, I drew back and reached for my purse. I was searching for a tissue when the door opened.

I swiveled.

Lô’s face told me something was very wrong.

“May I help you?” Schoon asked.

Lô pointed at me, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

I rose and hurried into the hall.

Ryan was standing outside the conference room from which we’d observed the interview. His body looked tense. The ADA wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Cotton?” I asked.

“Gone.”

Lô said nothing further until we joined Ryan. Then, “Pinky Atoa is dead.”

“Dear God.” I was stunned.

Ryan’s expression told me he already knew.

“A bum found him ninety minutes ago behind a 7-Eleven on Nuuanu. He’d taken one slug to the head, three to the chest.”

I felt sick. Atoa was sixteen years old. Yesterday he’d been worried about his dog.

“His body was lying beside a Dumpster.” Lô swallowed. “His tongue was cut out and nailed to one side.”

Sweet Jesus.

“When was he killed?”

“Perry’s putting time of death at somewhere between nine and eleven this morning.”

“The kid had hardly hit the street.” I wasn’t believing this.

“Yeah. Someone was waiting for him.”

Lô’s eyes showed both pain and resolve. He knew what had happened, what lay ahead.

Ryan and I had lived through a gang war. Seen the bloodshed, the senseless death. We knew too.

“I don’t know if this prick Cumbo is involved, but deal or no deal, his ass stays put until I find out.”

“He acted genuinely surprised when I said Kealoha and Faalogo are dead.”

“Yeah, he’s innocent as Bambi.”

Lô glanced at his watch.

“Hung’s on her way here. She’ll deal with Cumbo. I’ve asked Fitch to see what he can scratch up on the Atoa hit. In the meantime, I’m heading to the scene.”

Lô’s heels squeaked softly as he strode across the marble.

Ryan and I rode the elevator and left the building in silence.

Walking toward his car we shared the sidewalk with tourists checking maps, mothers pushing strollers, shoppers carrying brightly colored bags.

Early-evening sun bathed the city in warm saffron tones. The air smelled of sea and warm stone, with hints of hibiscus and grilling meat.

The day is too beautiful for death, I thought. Death at sixteen.

Ryan was unlocking the car when tires squealed behind us.

We both whipped around.

Blue lights flashed from the front grille and back window of Lô’s Crown Vic.

I looked at Ryan. His face told me he shared my apprehension.

We hurried toward Lô.

“I’m glad I caught you.” He spoke through his open window. “Fitch called. Word is Atoa was T’eo’s hit.”

“He ordered one of his own killed?” I was shocked and appalled.

“Someone must have seen Atoa entering or leaving the station, dimed T’eo. T’eo decided to make an example.”

“Christ,” Ryan said.

“Word is Ted Pukui got twenty thousand to take the kid out.”

We waited.

“Fitch heard Atoa’s only the warm-up. T’eo plans to send a message, not just here but to all the cuz on the mainland.” Lô snorted his disgust. “Grow his legend.”

Lô’s eyes shifted from Ryan to me and back.

“Where are your daughters?”

“At home.” A cold fist grabbed my heart. “Why?”

“Call them.”

Ryan dialed the house. Got no answer. Lily’s mobile. Voice mail. He handed me the phone. I dialed Katy. Voice mail.

“Why are you asking about Katy and Lily?” I demanded.

“Word is T’eo’s offered another twenty thousand for you or one of your kids.”

The cold fist expanded to fill my chest.

“He was behind the incident at Waimanalo Bay. Cost him a case of rum to have those punks force you off the road.”

“Why?”

“To discourage you from helping Perry. Didn’t work, and now you’re causing serious inconvenience. This time he’s offering big money.”

I saw fury enter Ryan’s eyes. Felt it in mine.

“But his intel’s off on your kids. According to Fitch, T’eo’s order was to take out either white or brown sugar.”