Peggy Nahoe had attained the promising age of twelve only yesterday and had amassed a serious amount of birthday cash from her loving aunties and uncles. Sam Nahoe, Peggy’s father, offered to take her to a neighborhood branch of the Pacific National Bank in Honolulu to open her first savings account. Sam’s ex-wife, Kia, was a full-time attorney, so the task naturally fell to Sam this Monday morning. As a taxi driver, his time was certainly more flexible.
He left Goldie, his golden retriever partner, in charge of his Checker Cab, which he parked across the street with all four windows down for fresh air. But Sam’s razor-sharp mind was taking a momentary holiday. He was so focused on his mission with his daughter that he forgot to secure Goldie in her shotgun-seat harness.
Peggy bounced along, feeling quite grown up. Tawny-skinned, with large dark eyes like her Hawaiian mother’s, she wore her chestnut-brown hair in two thick braids. She had on her birthday outfit: pearl-gray miniskirt, pink shirt, charcoal-gray leggings, and sturdy high-top gray sneakers with pink laces.
At 8:40 Peggy pushed through one of the two glass doors and held it for her dad.
“Thanks, Pegs,” he said. He immediately became suspicious. A deathly silence hovered over the low-ceiling lobby with its recessed lights and tasteful decor. There wasn’t a single customer at the four wood-paneled teller stations. Stranger still, there were no tellers at their stations behind the counters.
Sam heard heavy footsteps and slowly turned his head. He sensed what was happening. Two men wearing nylon stocking masks stepped out from behind him. Both were dressed entirely in black. The shorter of the two held a Glock 9mm and wasted no time pressing it against the middle of Sam’s back. He felt it hard against his white polo shirt. Suddenly, he was shoved forward with such force that he fell on one knee.
“Hey!” he shouted. His long legs splayed out like a spider’s. Still clutching “Cane” and “Able,” his walking aids, he dragged himself up to a standing position once more.
The shorter man, built like a battering ram, issued drill-sergeant orders to his partner, a towering, beefy islander who hovered close by. “Toma,” he said, “take his cell, and the kid’s too, if she has one. Lock this troublemaker up with the others. We’ll take the kid as hostage.”
“Aw, Boss,” Toma muttered.
Sam didn’t give a damn whether there was a gun in his back or not. “No!” he bellowed. “You’re not taking my little girl. Take me instead. I can’t give you any trouble. You can see I’m crippled. Don’t hurt her. She’s only twelve, for chrissake.” He half-turned and whipped Cane upward to swat Toma in the head. But Toma grabbed it and returned the favor by striking it against the side of Sam’s head, sending a lightning bolt of pain through Sam’s body, and tossed the cane far out of Sam’s reach.
Boss shoved Sam forward, stumbling and dizzy, toward the far side of the lobby, to a door marked “Manager.” The key was in the lock. Boss opened the door and pushed his victim inside. Sam shouted: “You do one thing to harm my little girl, and I swear you’re a dead man.” The second half of his threat was muffled by the heavy door slamming shut on his words. He heard the key turning in the lock.
Sam fell to the floor, still grasping his one cane. The left side of his head ached, not so much from the blow but from knowing he was totally helpless. A lotta good my PI license is doing me now. I can‘t even protect my own child.
Sam was a former Honolulu Police Department detective, on permanent disability from a bullet lodged in his spine. This six-foot-four Hawaiian hated that he was getting a paunch, softening up from a lack of exercise. The stationary bike and treadmill at the gym, even walking more than a hundred yards caused too much pain. And now, how the hell was he going to get out of this small, windowless office? Sprawled out on the floor, he saw that he was trapped with four other victims, all wearing name tags: three females—tellers, he assumed—and a forty-ish islander in a light-blue shirt and tie. His gold nametag read “Alan Maleka, Manager.” The manager sat at his desk. Two of the tellers, although tense with fright, sat in the chairs across from him, as if they were all conducting a financial transaction on an ordinary day. The third teller, young and trendy in a pants suit and suede boots, crouched on the floor against the left wall, arms hugging her knees drawn up to her chest.
The manager jumped up from his swivel chair, rounded his desk, and, bent over to help Sam to a sitting position. Introducing himself, Sam asked, “What happened?”
“We all arrived about the same time, a little before eight,” Alan said. “These two men appeared out of nowhere and followed us in. The short one forced the tellers at gunpoint to hand over all the cash in the drawers. I would guess they got about fourteen, fifteen thousand. Maybe less. The big guy stuffed the money in a gym bag. I tried to hightail it into my office to call the police, but didn’t get a chance.”
“Did they make you hand over your wallets and cell phones?” Sam asked.
“Not our wallets. I guess they figured they’d get more money out of the bank drawers. They did take our cells. The big guy threw them into the bag with the money.”
“Mine too, and my daughter’s,” Sam said.
Ashen-faced, Alan defended himself. “The short one was a real bully. He followed me to the office and held his gun on me, forcing me to hand over the key. Then the bastard cut the wire to the landline on my desk.”
“That’s bad,” Sam said.
In the lobby, having seen her father manhandled and locked away, Peggy trembled with fear. The gun threatening Sam had kept her submissive, but when she saw Boss tuck the weapon into his pants belt, she started screaming. He tried to grab her by one arm, but she kicked hard at his shins.
Boss yelled, “Toma, gimmee the money and hang onto this rotten brat. I’m going out to start the truck.”
“Aw, Boss, what the hell do we need her for? She’s just a little kid. We got the money. Let’s just get outta here.”
“She’s gonna be our hostage, you idiot. If the police chase us they won’t shoot if we got the girl.” He grabbed the gym bag and headed out the door ahead of his partner and their young hostage.
Outside the bank, they moved toward a shiny black SuperCrew Ford F-150 pickup. It was parked with the bed gate dropped, casting the rear license plate in dark shadow. Toma’s sweaty left hand held Peggy’s arm above the elbow—rather half-heartedly, she noticed. With her several recently acquired adult teeth, she chomped down on the fleshy part of his hand. He yelped and yanked his hand away. Placing one arm under her knees, he clumsily lifted her off her feet and carried her the few steps to the truck. She screamed, but no pedestrians appeared to be in sight. With both feet free, she kicked hard, but couldn’t reach his shins. He was huge and too strong. He swung open the door behind the driver’s side and lowered her onto the floor. Slamming the door shut, he climbed into the truck to ride in the front passenger seat. Boss started the engine.
Lying on the carpeted floor, Peggy yearned to just let go and sob with frustration. But with the grit inherited from both parents, she held her emotions in check and began to calculate. To her surprise, she had been left unrestrained. She climbed up onto the soft seat, which smelled of fresh new leather, and let her brain shift into overdrive. The big robber had not hurt her. He had actually set her down quite gently. She couldn’t decide—should she buckle herself in or not? If she didn’t, maybe she could escape. She reached for the door handle, but heard a loud click. The handle wouldn’t budge. The guy called Boss must have read her thoughts and locked her in.
Oddly enough, there had been no pedestrians on the sidewalk. Still, her kicking and screaming had not gone entirely unnoticed. Goldie saw her beloved Peggy in trouble. Sam’s Checker Cab was parked at the curb several cars behind the truck. Happily free of her harness, she squeezed her eighty-pound body through the driver’s-door open window and hit the street galloping. A car behind her screeched to a stop. “Damned dog!” the driver yelled.
Goldie had heard the Ford F-150 engine start and reached the truck bed just as the pickup began to crawl through congested traffic. The powerful dog’s chase momentum, along with her leaping ability, was enough to lift her onto the gate and into the truck bed. Landing on all fours, she slid backward with the truck’s forward motion until her clawing, slipping hind legs hung precariously over the gate’s edge. Luckily, the pickup slowed, then turned right at the first corner, helping gallant Goldie roll deeper and safer toward the cab. The din of rush-hour traffic and the clattering construction of luxury high-rises, covered any sound the bank robbers might have heard in the truck bed. A light rain began to fall. Goldie found shelter under a crumpled blue tarp just behind the cab.
It wasn’t only love and loyalty that propelled this fabulous furry beast. Three years ago, Sam had rescued her at age two around the same time he’d started driving his cab. Somehow trouble always found man and dog, or was it the other way around? They always seemed to end up in a hotbed of criminal activity. That’s what propelled Sam to get his PI license. Once a cop, always a cop. He’d started training Goldie early. As affectionate as she was, he had a feeling there was a strain of Doberman somewhere in her genes. If a fare neglected to tip, Sam would hold up two fingers behind his back; Goldie would stick her head out the window and growl until the fare forked over a tip. More elaborate skills followed.
* * * *
Vicky Mateo had had a tooth crowned that morning, so she was an hour and a half late to her teller’s window at Pacific National bank. Her manager had given her the necessary permission—that wasn’t the problem. She entered an eerily quiet, deserted lobby during regular banking hours with immediate suspicion. Where was everyone? At her station, she opened the cash drawer. It was empty. Her heart skipped a beat. Chicken-skin covered her bare arms. She automatically reached under the counter and set off the silent alarm, alerting both HPD and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Then Vicky got bolder and began to explore the empty lobby. She heard muffled noises, crying and shouting, perhaps coming from the manager’s office.
“Who’s in there?” she called.
A jumble of voices yelled back. The deadbolt key was still in the lock. Vicky unlocked the steel door and swung it wide. The three tellers emerged first, showering their coworker with thanks and hugs. Alan kindly helped Sam to his feet. Sam hobbled out on one cane, and gratefully found the other one on the floor against a wall. Two police cars had just pulled up, with officers rushing to the front door.
* * * *
Peggy heard sirens off in the distance. Holding her breath, she silently prayed the police were coming to rescue her. But the sounds grew fainter and fainter. Maybe they’ll rescue Daddy first and then they’ll all come for me, she thought. But her hopes soon deflated. Tears welled up under her thick lashes. Where are these horrible people taking me? How can Daddy find me?
The truck accelerated as it entered the freeway west. Peggy blinked hard and brushed the tears away. It was time to start thinking. They were driving farther and faster away from town. She wished she’d worn the Timex that Grandma had given her for her birthday. Peggy had thanked her warmly, but didn’t admit the truth. She and her friends never wore watches; they checked the time on their iPhones. The guy called Boss had grabbed her new designer purse and found her iPhone inside! In fact, Mom had been annoyed that Sam was spoiling Peggy with such a lavish gift. The rain beat down harder now. They drove through a farming area with few houses and, way off, cows grazing. Dairy farm country, she guessed. The Waianae mountain range loomed in the background, shrouded in rainy mist. Down a narrow dirt road, the pickup truck slowed as it passed a ramshackle bungalow, and quickly stopped in front of a huge, weathered, gray barn.
Toma climbed out, lumbered over to open the padlock, and pulled back the wide barn door. He ducked inside. His partner drove the truck inside. Toma shut the barn door and flicked on the light, a bare bulb hanging by a wire from a rafter. Returning to the truck, he swung the back door open. “Time to get out, little girl,” he said. He’d planned to lift her off the seat himself, but having carried her once, thought better of it. That one’s strong and sturdy, prob’ly five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds.
Peggy didn’t move. She was trying to figure out where she’d be better off. It was stuffy inside the truck. What if they locked her in? Maybe she’d suffocate. But she wasn’t given a choice. The macho truck stood so high. Toma nudged her off the seat and let her slide carefully down to the floor on her own.
The moment Peggy landed upright, all four of her limbs started lambasting Toma. Her sneakers’ heels pelted his shins. He jumped back, out of her reach. She tripped mid-kick and fell on the straw-covered dirt floor.
The two men had removed their stocking masks. Peggy cocked her head to study them. The big guy, Toma, had a benign round face, thick neck, matted black hair, and slightly floppy ears with big lobes. Boss had a narrow, weasel-like face, squinting eyes set too close together, and a weak chin. His buzz cut was so short that she could see his pink scalp. Military? she wondered.
Toma was the first to speak. “Hey, Boss. Wha’ the hell we gonna do wi’ this kid? Takin’ her was a big mistake. Now she’s seen our faces and knows where we hang out, yah?”
“I don’t know yet,” snapped Boss. “Tie ’er up or something while I think things out.”
Toma scowled. “Forget it,” he muttered.
“Hey, you guys,” Peggy called from her sprawled-out position on the floor. “I can hear you talking about me. How about I just walk away from here with a very, very poor memory? Honest! I could easily forget I ever saw you or this place. I’m real good at forgetting. And I’m twelve. I can get far away from here in a big hurry.”
“Shuddup, brat,” yelled Boss. Then noticing the contents of one of the nearby stalls, he said, “Hey, Toma, how bout the dog cage in the stall over there?”
“Aw, Boss, give it up,” said Toma, his voice wavering. “She’s not going no place. Why don’t we just head up to your house to get sumpthin’ t’ eat?”
“Yeah, sure, but we can’t just leave the brat running around loose like this.” Infuriated by Toma’s defiance, Boss resorted to the only move left to him. He pulled out the Glock from his pants belt and waved it menacingly in her direction. “Get over there,” he said, pointing with his free hand toward the cage.
Peggy walked slowly, dragging her feet, but knowing better than to argue with a gun. She knelt down, ducked her head, her braids flopping, and crawled inside. Boss flipped the hasp over the U-bolt, and stuck a bolt through to keep it locked in place.
As her captor walked away, she yelled after him. “Hey, you can’t leave me in this thing like some zoo animal.”
“Who sez? Yell all you want. Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya.” Boss disappeared out of the barn and jogged to catch up with Toma.
Peggy felt anger swell inside her as she plopped down cross-legged on the bed of hay, softer than the coarse straw on the barn floor, and surveyed her surroundings. She saw a line of empty stalls—for cows, most likely. The air smelled of stale manure. The rectangular steel cage was actually higher than her head when she was sitting—made for a great Dane or other enormous dog, she thought. She tried to bend one section. Though she could fit three fingers through the hefty wire mesh space, her whole hand could not. Shaking the cage proved unproductive. She could see the bolt, but there was no way she could reach it. There was actually room to lie down, but, yuck, she wouldn’t want to. She anchored her back against one side wall and pushed against the opposite wall with her sneakers. Stretching out her legs with all her might slightly bowed the wall, but only momentarily. The mesh was too strong. Frustration and helplessness displaced anger. The tears began to roll down her cheeks. She felt more afraid and more alone than ever before in her whole life.
But Peggy wasn’t all alone. The blue tarp in the truck bed began to stir. Goldie had heard all the earlier commotion and decided to stay hidden. The two men had frightened the dog with their yelling and Peggy’s screaming and trying to fight back. But now Peggy’s soft crying was too much to bear. Goldie poked her head out and padded to the edge of the truck bed. The F-150’s gate was still flat open. She leapt to the packed straw and mud floor, galloped toward the cage, and bumped it, causing it to rock slightly off its base.
“Goldie!” In total disbelief, Peggy laughed in spite of herself. “I can’t believe it!” As the dog vigorously wagged her tail and licked Peggy’s fingers through the mesh, Peggy had an idea. If it was possible for Goldie to rock the cage even slightly off its base, maybe the two of them could rock it back and forth until the cage flopped over. Maybe if we do it enough, the bolt will fall out. Maybe. Peggy stretched out both arms, clutched the wire mesh on both her right and left and started her rocking motion. The cage bottom lifted slightly on both sides, but rocking the heavy cage was hard work; she soon had to stop to rest. All the while she coaxed the golden to join her. “Come on, girl, help me!”
Smart as the dog was, she didn’t understand what Peggy wanted from her. Besides, she’d found a toy: a large, dried-out cow pie.
Ewwww. Yuck. Peggy made a face. But this was no time to get distracted. Her lips pressed together with determination—like her keen focus when she was about to kick a goal for her middle-school soccer team. She began to think. She recalled a trick Sam had taught the dog to stop a fleeing crook. He would pump his left fist in the air. Goldie would pursue and take the crook down by ramming into the back of his knees.
Fearful that her captors would soon return, Peggy began to rock again—until she got the cage flopping off its base. She yelled to Goldie “Come!” while pumping her left fist. Goldie raised her head, forgot the cow pie, and sprang up. She charged the cage, this time hitting the upper edge with her muscled body. The coincidence of forces was perfect. The cage flopped over on its side. “Good girl, Goldie. You did it. Such a good, good girl.”
Peggy’s exaggerated praise convinced Goldie that she should repeat what she had done. But now that the cage was already on its side, what was the point? Frantic and discouraged, she failed to notice that the bolt had already worked its way loose and fallen off. She gave up. But Goldie did not. She charged the cage once more and the hasp flipped away, causing the door to swing open.
Peggy crawled out and stood up. She and Goldie started for the barn door to make their escape when they heard voices approaching. Peggy spun around for something she could use as a weapon. A rusty pitchfork hung on the wall. She grabbed it and waited.
Toma stepped inside. Peggy was standing behind the open door. With all her strength, she swung the pitchfork in a downward arc and plunged one of the tines through his right calf, piercing his pants leg.
“Owwww!” he roared. Reeling from shock and pain, he tried to grab the pitchfork handle, but stumbled and fell backward onto the floor with a great thud. She saw a small paper plate fly out of his other hand and land halfway across the room. A manapua rolled off it—a steamed bun filled with sweet char su pork. Toma had brought it from the house for her. Prostrate in agony, he had no idea there was a dog in a far corner, wolfing it down.
“Yo, Toma,” called Boss from outside. “What the hell are ya doin’ in there?”
Peggy was caught between the prone Toma and the threat outside. A pointed gun appeared first as the door creaked open and Boss entered the barn. She wanted to run and took the first two steps toward the row of stalls, but she didn’t get far.
“Stop, brat, or I’ll shoot yah.”
Quivering, Peggy half-turned to face him. “I’m not going back in that cage, Mr. Boss.” Her peripheral vision caught Goldie in the corner, moving silently in the shadows, but managing to stay unseen.
Toma shouted, his squawking voice breaking up in pain. “Hey, Boss! Quick! Get this damn thing outta my leg.”
Boss whipped around, still clutching his weapon, and found his partner lying in the straw. He grabbed the pitchfork with his free hand and wiggled it back and forth.
Toma roared, “Yeow! Pull it out, don’t rip me!”
With Boss standing over his partner, Peggy signaled Goldie by vigorously pumping her left fist. Boss had not yet stuck the gun in his belt. Goldie charged forward and hit him squarely behind the knees, collapsing him over the top of his wounded partner.
The gun slid across the floor. Peggy took off after it. Boss rolled off Toma and tried to get to his feet to give chase. But Goldie was on a roll herself. She’d received no signal to stop. She clamped her jaws around Boss’s left ankle. He collapsed on his stomach again. Her grip wouldn’t allow him to turn face-up.
Peggy bolted forward and quickly picked up the weapon. Trembling, she turned around and pointed it at the two of them. “Mr. Boss, if you think I don’t know how to use this, think again. See that Dr. Pepper over there?” She cocked her head to a half-crushed can sitting on a wood shelf a few feet away. She pulled the trigger once. The can flew up and landed on the floor.
“Jeezuz,” he muttered.
Pointing the weapon at them once more, Peggy appeared outwardly composed, suppressing the cold knot of fear she felt inside. “My dad was a policeman and now he’s a private investigator. Empty your pockets and throw everything out in front here.” She slapped her leg with her free left hand. Goldie perceived it as a clap, the signal to release Boss’s ankle.
Boss hauled himself up to a sitting position, still sore from Goldie’s jaws, and tossed out a cell phone, two rings full of keys, a wallet, some coins, and a pocket knife. “That’s it,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Yah.”
“Use two hands and pull the pitchfork out of Toma’s leg.”
Boss roughly pulled the pitchfork out. Toma screamed.
“Now empty his pockets and add his stuff to the pile,” demanded Peggy. “Maybe you can roll up his pants leg and do something about the wound.”
Boss dropped the pitchfork. “You sure give a helluva lot of orders for a kid.” He pushed Toma’s pants leg up to expose the lacerated calf. It was slimy and bleeding, with flecks of rust along the torn flesh. “Hell with that,” Boss grumbled. Instead, he fished through his partner’s pockets. The pile grew—a second phone, a wallet, a key ring, and a rabbit’s foot.
Peggy did a double-take. “My iPhone! Toma, what were you doing with it in your pocket? I thought you put it in the bag with the money.”
The massive guy looked peculiarly at odds squirming on the floor. Peggy felt a spasm of pity. “Sorry I had to do that to you, Toma. But I’m asking you, what were you doing with my phone?”
With a look of hopelessness on his puffy, unshaven face, Toma said, “I was gonna give it to my little girl. I can’t afford one.”
Peggy understood. He needed money. So that’s why he agreed to go along with the robbery. But that wasn’t her problem. Getting rescued was. She leaned down and scooped it up, well aware that her dad no longer had his. She punched in her phone contacts and her mother’s cell.
“Mommy!”
“Darling! Are you all right? Where are you?” Kia’s voice choked with tears as she kept talking. “Daddy’s okay. I’m here with him at the station—with the police and FBI. We’re both frantic. I love you, and I’m putting Daddy on.”
“Daddy? I’m okay….Really, I’m fine. So is Goldie. She’s here with me….She must’ve jumped out of the cab window and into the truck. She’s been amazing. Yeah, I’m holding a gun on your two bank robbers. It’s Mr. Boss’s gun. Daddy, come get us! We want to go home!… Where am I? I don’t know. We took the freeway west into farm country. I saw cows grazing. We’re in some kind of abandoned dairy barn…..Yes, my phone is fully charged. You taught me to always make sure.….You did what?”
Sam told her that he had installed the GPS app into her iPhone when he bought it. As he spoke, the police were beginning to track her location.
Leaning against the truck’s still-open gate to steady her nerve-wracked emotions, Peggy stood ramrod-straight as she pointed the gun at the men on the floor in front of her.
Boss’s hardened look grew slack; it dawned on him how stupid they’d been to forget that the truck gate was down. That’s how that miserable cur got on. And it was her dog?
***
Sam knew it would take at least forty minutes to reach Peggy from HPD headquarters on Beretania Street. But he was also with his detective friend and former partner, Danny Oshiro. Danny immediately contacted the HPD Kapolei Station in west Oahu, less than ten minutes away from her GPS location.
***
Peggy heard the police sirens before the cruisers even appeared on the dirt road. Boss had made only one aggressive move, and Goldie had put an end to it with a growl, ear-splitting barking, and a feinting charge at him. Peggy edged around her prisoners and swung the barn door back as three cruisers screeched to a halt. The assault team quickly took charge. With breathless relief, Peggy surrendered Boss’s weapon.
One officer cuffed Boss behind his back and read him his Miranda rights. The other officers looked at each other, virtually scratching their heads at this uncommon scene. A young girl, with a golden retriever leaning protectively against her, was holding two bank robbers at bay, one with an ugly wound and a rusty pitchfork lying next to it. Explanations and statements would be welcomed down at the station.
But Peggy’s conscience wouldn’t leave her alone. “Officers,” she said, pointing to Toma, “this man is hurt. Could you please call an ambulance for him?”
“On it!” said the closest officer. He knelt down beside Toma, first Mirandizing him, then cuffing him—behind his back wasn’t necessary. Toma appeared about to pass out.
While waiting for the ambulance, two officers fixed their attention on the brand-new, flashy Ford F-150. They called in the plates. The truck had been stolen about 4 a.m. from a driveway in Waimanalo, a town on Oahu’s windward side, and reported to HPD by CrimeStoppers. Grand auto theft would be added to the charges of armed bank robbery, hostage-taking, and kidnapping a minor.
Peggy stood just outside the door, anxiously scanning the long muddy road to the highway. The rain had stopped. A huge smile lit up her face when she saw Sam’s Checker Cab approach and brake to a stop. Both father and daughter sobbed with relief as they locked in a tight embrace.
The ambulance also arrived. EMTs strapped the handcuffed Toma to a gurney. As the bank robbers were about to be taken away, Peggy said, “Daddy, wait. I need to talk to Toma.”
Sam scowled. “Only with me here.”
Peggy looked down at the helpless man. “Mr. Toma, you didn’t act much like a bank robber. Of course, I don’t really know what bank robbers act like. Anyway, how come you were so gentle with me? And you brought me lunch! You sure surprised me.”
The woozy Toma said softly, “My daughter’s about your age.”
Moments later, just before Sam, Peggy, and Goldie climbed into the taxi, Peggy grasped her father’s hand and squeezed it. “Daddy, when we open my savings account, can we go to a different bank?”
“It wasn’t the bank’s fault, sweetheart,” he said. “But yeah, sure. Anything you want.”
