Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) Chris Bauer (free reads TXT) 📖

glass in that window. To keep that information hush-hush.”

“And removing the leftover dry ice,” Evan said.

Detective Ujikawa swallowed hard one time, the only comment to rattle him so far. “Yes. The dry ice… he left the body in the tub for someone to find. Murdered in the bedroom, moved her to the bathroom, left her in dry ice.”

Philo spoke up. “So your cleaners will remediate the bedroom, too?”

“Cleaning the rest of the place will be the owner’s responsibility. Always is.”

“The homeowner is fucking dead, Uji!” Evan screamed, spittle spraying. Philo was quick to insert himself between them, successful this time in backing his friend away.

“Right. Sorry, Commander, my bad. Again, please accept my apologies…”

Evan’s look was pained, incredulous, but mostly he looked lost. He pushed away from Philo and stormed off, talking to himself while he marched up the beach. On the horizon, a Navy Seahawk started its descent to the island’s military installation a half-mile north, a radar tower glinting from the installation’s perch.

Philo and Patrick had to hustle to fall in behind him on foot along the coastline, their destination the Navy’s Miakamii radar installation to catch their ride back.

9

“So this is one of the land parcels,” Wally Lanakai said to the surgeon. Wally eyed the panoramic view from Dr. Umberto Rakoso’s second-story office. It stretched far to the north, the distant horizon overwhelmed by the wraparound Pacific Ocean, all blue, all heavenly.

“Yes,” the doctor said.

They were seated at a desk facing the doctor, Wally in a comfy side chair, one of two, the other chair barely containing Wally’s oversized associate Magpie Papahani. Dr. Rakoso, a native Kauaiian, sat with his hands folded on his desk.

“This property was deeded to you as a Rakoso family descendant?” Wally said.

“Yes.”

“A half-acre.”

“Yes. It’s one of many parcels that total eight-plus acres owned by descendants of the family.”

“But not for long, you say.”

“That is the present concern. If no one does anything about it, we will lose all eight acres at auction.”

Which was why Wally was here on a recruiting run, sent by another Hawaiian surgeon strapped for cash for a reason far less noble than Dr. Rakoso’s: exorbitant gambling debts owed to Wally. The referral came from someone onboard with Wally’s organ transplant business, but also aware of the doctor’s real estate squeeze. Wally had decided on a stable of two doctors in Kauai to start. Stealth was of utmost importance considering the risk.

The doctor and more than two hundred native islanders were in the legal fight of their lives. A mega-billionaire was sinking hundreds of millions of dollars into acquiring northern Kauai property, much of the north shore sugar plantation town of Kilauea in particular—where land passed from generation to generation with the ownership largely undocumented, which meant property taxes often didn’t get paid. The megabucks person was looking to make his seven-hundred-acre beachfront property more private. But the islanders weren’t into selling, which meant the billionaire was into suing. In the balance were the rights to auction off the eight acres to the highest bidder, a foregone conclusion as to whom that highest bidder would be.

The doctor and his family needed money, lots and lots of money, for legal fees to protect their rights.

Enter Wally Lanakai. “I see your family has quite a number of crowdfunding pages.”

“Yes. Each parcel holder has one. We’re desperate.”

Wally nodded his understanding. “Hence my reason for being here. If you’ll let me, I can contribute.”

The intimation was Wally would make cash donations to the doctor for his surgical services, in amounts small enough to stay below the radar.

“You are a liver specialist, Doctor?”

“I am a transplant surgeon who specializes in the liver, but I perform other organ transplants.”

Wally began. “I’ll pay you per transplant. Handsomely. Outgoing and incoming. I provide the donors, the recipients, the facility, and the support staff. You supply the scalpel. Magpie, your help here, please.”

“Sir?”

“Please pull up our operation on your phone and show the doctor.”

Magpie hit a few keys, a significant achievement considering how meaty his dark hands were. He reached across the desk to show an image to the doctor. On the screen was the picture of an exterior storefront in a strip mall, the marquee showing shadowy evidence of a sign for the prior occupant’s business, a local health services company. The tall windows were papered over except for the real estate “For Lease” sign in one corner.

“One of a few around the islands, Doctor. Short-term rentals from retail space lessors desperate for cash flow. Magpie?” A few swipes by Magpie’s paws brought up pictures of the empty interior.

“I’m renting it. As a warehouse for my planned Kauai import-export medical supply business.” Wally’s sardonic smile and air quotes betrayed the lie. “It looks quite different inside now. This one’s proximity to the airport sold me. Convenient for well-heeled clients who want easy and discreet island entry and exit. So let’s head to my car, Doctor, where we can talk about the specifics of the surgeries. Have you cleared your schedule for this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Let’s head to Lihue so I can show you the operation, shall we?”

Wally being a good host, the ride south along the coastline in the backseat of his limo included snacks and beverages. Magpie drove, the window between the front and rear seats open so he could participate in the conversation if needed. Wally popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, filled a glass flute, and offered it to the doctor.

Dr. Rakoso hesitated—“Your celebration is a bit premature, Mr. Lanakai”—but after Wally’s second attempt to hand it to him, he accepted. Wally launched into his pitch.

“An operation small enough not to draw attention to itself. This one can handle the surgery on both sides, donor and recipient. The recipients are pampered. We treat the donors well enough, but not like my paying customers.”

“Then let’s talk about the recipients first,” Dr. Rakoso said. “I assume they’re on transplant lists somewhere.”

“Ha. Why yes, yes they are, and I’m tapped into them. But