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My Kind of Town

by Don Chapman

Wednesday, August 8, 2001


A tail of crime

>> Makiki Heights

No species on Earth has a greater survival instinct than the politician.

Both the male and female of the species, as well as every genus known in a variety of environments from sub-Arctic to sub-Sahara, will do almost anything to gain power and even more to retain it, no matter how distasteful it may be personally. So it was with Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka. When HPD Detective Sherlock Gomes explained that the senator could avoid jail if he abided by a few new rules that Gomes had devised, the senator jumped. He could still be Hawaii's governor! Yes, it would mean giving up his penchant for illegal substances, as well as the prostitutes who often supplied those blessed indulgences, at least for a while. But that was a small price to pay in the long run. And too many people had invested too much money in him. He owed it to them to at least try.

Besides, Gomes wouldn't live forever.

>> Portlock

Target practice at the Koko Head shooting range was not Quinn Ah Sun's favorite thing. He really did think of himself as an officer of the peace.

The last thing he wanted to do was have to use lethal force. If he did, it probably meant he'd screwed up somewhere. But all of a sudden he was glad that he'd been to the range on Monday. It might make up for what he considered a major screwup today. He should have found some excuse to check out his cousin Lily's house when he brought her home and saw the faded gray sedan parked two doors down. The same car he'd seen following Lily onto the H-1 this morning.

Leading with his Glock 9mm, hugging the wall, he moved quickly but quietly in bare feet toward the room at the end of the long, carpeted hall. First a woman had shrieked in what sounded like terror. Then a man had wailed in what sounded like pain. And then silence. Until just now -- the unmistakable sound of a Velcro fastener being ripped open jolted the silence.

At the end of the hall, a door to the right was open. Quinn forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply. He was a solo bike officer, liked working outdoors with room to maneuver. Once he stepped into the doorway, he would have very few options and very little room. And no bullet-proof vest.

One more measured breath. Leading with the Glock again, Quinn stepped into the doorway and nearly gagged. The last thing he expected to see staring at him was a big hairy okole.




Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com



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