business registry for all corporations and other businesses in the state.
Ricky had been two years behind me at Punahou, the private school Harry, Terri, and I had attended, and we’d known each other through a couple of extracurricular activities. He had come to me a year before when his drug-dealing brother had been killed in a drive-by shooting in Wahiawa, one of the more dangerous parts of the island. Ricky was concerned because he’d overheard one of the investigating officers refer to the crime as NHI—no human involved.
Though Wahiawa was outside of my district, I’d reached out to a detective I knew there, Al Kawamoto, and he’d made sure that Ricky’s brother’s killer was brought in.
“That’s the Professional and Vocational Licensing Division,” Ricky said, when I met him at his desk and asked him about acupuncture. “There are twenty-five professional boards and commissions and twenty licensing programs. You’re looking for the Board of Acupuncture.”
“Can you tell me whose license is behind the Golden Needles Clinic?” I gave him the address on Waialae Avenue and he turned to his computer. It took him a couple of minutes, hitting keys and browsing screens. I listened to Lite 94.7 playing anonymous slack key guitar music over the office sound system while I waited.
“The clinic is run under the license of Dr. Hsing-Wah Hsiao,” Ricky said eventually. “Reason why it took so long, I looked up Dr. Hsiao. Turns out he licensed three other clinics as well—all of them since shut down. I’m printing you a list of all the clinics under his license. Looks like he’s a signologist.”
“What’s that? Some kind of specialist?”
Across from his desk I saw a printer kick into action. Ricky walked over to it and pulled the pages off. “When a doctor signs off on a lot of different licenses, we get the idea maybe he’s nothing more than a guy who likes to sign stuff for money. A signologist.”
He handed the pages to me. “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”
“I owe you, Kimo. Come to me any time.”
I stuck my hand out to shake his, but he pulled me into a hug.
On my way back to the station, I thought about why someone would burn the center. To cover up a gambling operation? But they’d already shut down. Could the boy have worked for them, perhaps as a runner? Hang Sung had been hiding something about the acupuncture clinic, but I didn’t know what.
Could the fire have been a ploy to break a lease? The clinic’s two-year lease still had six months to run, and the penalty for breaking it was stiff—the clinic had to cover the rent until the landlord could find another tenant at comparable rent, or until the end of the term. Was that a good clause for that mainland company—or a deadly one for the rest of the tenants, and the boy Jingtao?
ARSON PAYS WELL
Back at my desk, I faxed Ricky’s list to Mike, to see if any of the other clinics licensed by Dr. Hsiao had been burned. Ray said, “I nosed around while you were out. Organized Crime has a task force investigating gambling in Chinatown.” He handed me a list of the guys on the task force. “You want to call Akoni?”
Akoni Hapa’ele had been my old partner in Waikiki. I didn’t see him much anymore, though we were both working out of downtown; he had been moving around from operation to operation. As soon as I left Akoni a voice mail, our next interviewee arrived: Robertico Robles, or Uncle Tico, as my nieces and nephews called him. He managed to fit us in between scouting spots for his new salon, which he announced was going to be bigger and better than Puerto Peinado—which as far as I could tell meant “hair port” in Spanish, a sly pun that he and Tatiana loved.
We went into a small conference room decorated with artwork prepared by our Police Explorer troop—pictures of cops and palm trees and one of a hula dancer on the hood of a blue-and-white. Tico accepted a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Thanks, I
Ricky had been two years behind me at Punahou, the private school Harry, Terri, and I had attended, and we’d known each other through a couple of extracurricular activities. He had come to me a year before when his drug-dealing brother had been killed in a drive-by shooting in Wahiawa, one of the more dangerous parts of the island. Ricky was concerned because he’d overheard one of the investigating officers refer to the crime as NHI—no human involved.
Though Wahiawa was outside of my district, I’d reached out to a detective I knew there, Al Kawamoto, and he’d made sure that Ricky’s brother’s killer was brought in.
“That’s the Professional and Vocational Licensing Division,” Ricky said, when I met him at his desk and asked him about acupuncture. “There are twenty-five professional boards and commissions and twenty licensing programs. You’re looking for the Board of Acupuncture.”
“Can you tell me whose license is behind the Golden Needles Clinic?” I gave him the address on Waialae Avenue and he turned to his computer. It took him a couple of minutes, hitting keys and browsing screens. I listened to Lite 94.7 playing anonymous slack key guitar music over the office sound system while I waited.
“The clinic is run under the license of Dr. Hsing-Wah Hsiao,” Ricky said eventually. “Reason why it took so long, I looked up Dr. Hsiao. Turns out he licensed three other clinics as well—all of them since shut down. I’m printing you a list of all the clinics under his license. Looks like he’s a signologist.”
“What’s that? Some kind of specialist?”
Across from his desk I saw a printer kick into action. Ricky walked over to it and pulled the pages off. “When a doctor signs off on a lot of different licenses, we get the idea maybe he’s nothing more than a guy who likes to sign stuff for money. A signologist.”
He handed the pages to me. “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”
“I owe you, Kimo. Come to me any time.”
I stuck my hand out to shake his, but he pulled me into a hug.
On my way back to the station, I thought about why someone would burn the center. To cover up a gambling operation? But they’d already shut down. Could the boy have worked for them, perhaps as a runner? Hang Sung had been hiding something about the acupuncture clinic, but I didn’t know what.
Could the fire have been a ploy to break a lease? The clinic’s two-year lease still had six months to run, and the penalty for breaking it was stiff—the clinic had to cover the rent until the landlord could find another tenant at comparable rent, or until the end of the term. Was that a good clause for that mainland company—or a deadly one for the rest of the tenants, and the boy Jingtao?
ARSON PAYS WELL
Back at my desk, I faxed Ricky’s list to Mike, to see if any of the other clinics licensed by Dr. Hsiao had been burned. Ray said, “I nosed around while you were out. Organized Crime has a task force investigating gambling in Chinatown.” He handed me a list of the guys on the task force. “You want to call Akoni?”
Akoni Hapa’ele had been my old partner in Waikiki. I didn’t see him much anymore, though we were both working out of downtown; he had been moving around from operation to operation. As soon as I left Akoni a voice mail, our next interviewee arrived: Robertico Robles, or Uncle Tico, as my nieces and nephews called him. He managed to fit us in between scouting spots for his new salon, which he announced was going to be bigger and better than Puerto Peinado—which as far as I could tell meant “hair port” in Spanish, a sly pun that he and Tatiana loved.
We went into a small conference room decorated with artwork prepared by our Police Explorer troop—pictures of cops and palm trees and one of a hula dancer on the hood of a blue-and-white. Tico accepted a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Thanks, I
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