Read Online The Pearl Harbor Murders by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, History, Mystery Fiction, World War II, Military, Attack on, Pearl Harbor (Hawaii), 1941, Pearl Harbor (Hawaii); Attack On; 1941, Burroughs; Edgar Rice, Edgar Rice, Burroughs
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alert Fred at the lodge, and have him post somebody at the crime scene, so that the body isn't disturbed."
Had the situation not been so loathsome, Hully might have laughed. "I'll be damned, Dad," he said. "You really were a cop."
Burroughs nodded, and dragged Kamana off.
Hully went to the lodge and woke the manager, filling him in as they walked to the beach, where the younger Burroughs got his first close, grisly look at the beautiful dead woman with the ugly head wound, bathed in gold by an obscenely beautiful Hawaiian moon.
Manager Fred Bivens—who was in his pajama top and some trousers he'd thrown on, a heavyset genial fellow in his forties—turned away, aghast.
The tide sweeping onto the shore had a distant sound, despite its closeness, like the hoarse echo of a scream. The ocean stretched purple to the horizon, glimmering with gold, almost as lovely as this girl had been.
"Are you all right, Fred?" Hully asked, touching the man's arm.
"What a hell of a thing," Fred whispered. "What a hell of a thing... She was a sweet kid. Flirty, but sweet—and so talented... What a goddamn shame."
Hully understood and shared all these sentiments, and was not surprised by the tears in Fred's eyes.
"Can you stay here with her, Fred? Till the police come? Dad's calling them."
Fred ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, shaking his head, as if saying no, as he said, "Sure... sure. Poor sweet kid..."
"We need to keep everybody away. Dad says this is a... crime scene, now. So you need to keep your distance, too, Fred—don't touch her or anything."
"Don't worry."
Moments later, Hully joined his father in the bungalow. The whimpering musician was seated on O. B.'s typing chair, which had been situated in the middle of the sitting room. Kamana sat there, slumped, chin on his chest, one hand on a knee, the other hand—the bloody one—held out, palm up, as if he were trying to weigh something.
O. B.—who had thrown on an aloha shirt and some chinos but whose feet were bare—stood with his muscular arms folded, staring at the musician like a scornful genie.
"Fred's standing watch," Hully said.
"Good."
"When will the police get here?"
"Soon. I got lucky."
"How so?"
"Have you met my friend Jardine?"
Hully shook his head. "Don't believe so."
"He's a Portuguese—the best homicide detective on the island—works out of City Hall, not the police station. Officially he's a detective on the Honolulu PD, but he operates strictly out of the prosecutor's office, principally on murder cases."
"That's a good thing?"
Burroughs came over to his son, turning his back to the seated, moaning musician, and whispered, "Local PD is so corrupt, it makes the LAPD look squeaky-clean."
"Jeez."
"Jardine's straight as an arrow. Luckily he was in, at this hour."
"Why was he?"
A tiny half smile crinkled O. B.'s bronzed face. "When he isn't working a murder case, he makes a habit on weekend nights of standing at the corner of Hotel and Bishop, giving the soldiers and sailors the evil eye. He's known around there as a hard-nosed cop, so standing guard like that, looking at passersby like . they're all suspects, well it's his idea of crime prevention....1 caught him at his desk just before he was heading home."
Hully figured this Jardine had probably given his friends Fielder and Pressman the "evil eye" tonight—and many nights.
"I want to wash my hands!"
Hully and his father turned toward the musician, who had finally stopped sobbing and spoken—actually, more like yelled.
O. B. went over to the man—who was holding the blood-streaked hand out, staring at it—and sneered down at him. "I just bet you'd like to wash your hands of this."
The slight, pockmarked, roughly handsome Kamana looked up, as if startled, as if realizing for the first time just what he was being accused of—even though he'd already run guiltily away. "I didn't do this."
"You didn't, huh," Burroughs said. It wasn't really a question.
Kamana's eyes were
Had the situation not been so loathsome, Hully might have laughed. "I'll be damned, Dad," he said. "You really were a cop."
Burroughs nodded, and dragged Kamana off.
Hully went to the lodge and woke the manager, filling him in as they walked to the beach, where the younger Burroughs got his first close, grisly look at the beautiful dead woman with the ugly head wound, bathed in gold by an obscenely beautiful Hawaiian moon.
Manager Fred Bivens—who was in his pajama top and some trousers he'd thrown on, a heavyset genial fellow in his forties—turned away, aghast.
The tide sweeping onto the shore had a distant sound, despite its closeness, like the hoarse echo of a scream. The ocean stretched purple to the horizon, glimmering with gold, almost as lovely as this girl had been.
"Are you all right, Fred?" Hully asked, touching the man's arm.
"What a hell of a thing," Fred whispered. "What a hell of a thing... She was a sweet kid. Flirty, but sweet—and so talented... What a goddamn shame."
Hully understood and shared all these sentiments, and was not surprised by the tears in Fred's eyes.
"Can you stay here with her, Fred? Till the police come? Dad's calling them."
Fred ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, shaking his head, as if saying no, as he said, "Sure... sure. Poor sweet kid..."
"We need to keep everybody away. Dad says this is a... crime scene, now. So you need to keep your distance, too, Fred—don't touch her or anything."
"Don't worry."
Moments later, Hully joined his father in the bungalow. The whimpering musician was seated on O. B.'s typing chair, which had been situated in the middle of the sitting room. Kamana sat there, slumped, chin on his chest, one hand on a knee, the other hand—the bloody one—held out, palm up, as if he were trying to weigh something.
O. B.—who had thrown on an aloha shirt and some chinos but whose feet were bare—stood with his muscular arms folded, staring at the musician like a scornful genie.
"Fred's standing watch," Hully said.
"Good."
"When will the police get here?"
"Soon. I got lucky."
"How so?"
"Have you met my friend Jardine?"
Hully shook his head. "Don't believe so."
"He's a Portuguese—the best homicide detective on the island—works out of City Hall, not the police station. Officially he's a detective on the Honolulu PD, but he operates strictly out of the prosecutor's office, principally on murder cases."
"That's a good thing?"
Burroughs came over to his son, turning his back to the seated, moaning musician, and whispered, "Local PD is so corrupt, it makes the LAPD look squeaky-clean."
"Jeez."
"Jardine's straight as an arrow. Luckily he was in, at this hour."
"Why was he?"
A tiny half smile crinkled O. B.'s bronzed face. "When he isn't working a murder case, he makes a habit on weekend nights of standing at the corner of Hotel and Bishop, giving the soldiers and sailors the evil eye. He's known around there as a hard-nosed cop, so standing guard like that, looking at passersby like . they're all suspects, well it's his idea of crime prevention....1 caught him at his desk just before he was heading home."
Hully figured this Jardine had probably given his friends Fielder and Pressman the "evil eye" tonight—and many nights.
"I want to wash my hands!"
Hully and his father turned toward the musician, who had finally stopped sobbing and spoken—actually, more like yelled.
O. B. went over to the man—who was holding the blood-streaked hand out, staring at it—and sneered down at him. "I just bet you'd like to wash your hands of this."
The slight, pockmarked, roughly handsome Kamana looked up, as if startled, as if realizing for the first time just what he was being accused of—even though he'd already run guiltily away. "I didn't do this."
"You didn't, huh," Burroughs said. It wasn't really a question.
Kamana's eyes were
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