Episode Ten in the Copper and Goldie Mysteries
Dense clouds hid more than the full moon hovering over Auntie Wila’s house. They also hid an intruder lurking among her lush bougainvillea bushes. It was a moke—pidgin for a local guy whose idea of fun is to smash someone’s kisser.
Wila Lopeki slept only fitfully most nights. But tonight at a touch past midnight, she rested on one side under an umbrella of fatigue in her second-floor bedroom. Her nephew, Sam Nahoe, had picked her up in his cab after breakfast yesterday for a family picnic at Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park in Honolulu and didn’t bring her home until bedtime. Oh, she enjoyed being with the younger folks: Sam, his ex-wife, and Peggy, their twelve-year-old daughter. But for Wila, just turned eight-three, the day was long, too long. A wise old bird, she knew she’d done it to herself. Feeling sprightly, she had borrowed Peggy’s bicycle for a spin along the park’s ocean-side promenade—then discovered she was fifty years too late to repeat her long-gone bike-riding skills.
As a consequence Auntie Wila didn’t hear her bougainvillea trellis complain under the weight of a climbing intruder. The aluminum trellis leaning against the side of the house provided a perfect invitation to a skilled villain. Nor did Auntie Wila wake up when the half-open bedroom window slid farther and farther up its tracks to accommodate the intruder’s bulk.
This moke, a burly, tough guy, deftly climbed in despite his 230 pounds of rippling muscle. He had nothing personal against Auntie Wila—only that her modest home looked easier to break into than many lavish houses he had cased from the street with their security-company stickers on the doors.
This second-story moke waited a few moments for his eyes to acclimate to the inside darkness, then strode silently across the carpeted floor to the mirrored dresser. The shallow top drawers were always the most likely to contain pricey goodies. Silently pulling open the two felt-lined drawers, he flashed a thin Maglite beam over the costume-quality pins, earrings, and necklaces. With a practiced eye, he selected the only piece worth fencing, and slipped it into one of his deep cargo pants pockets. The moke knew exactly what he wanted, and that piece was a compromise. He laid the Maglite on the dresser top and slid the two drawers back in place—only the second one required a skosh more beef to secure it shut. The shove didn’t sound nearly as loud as he perceived it. He turned toward the sleeping figure.
Auntie Wila groaned, mumbled a few unintelligible syllables, and rolled onto her opposite hip. As she flipped over, she threw off the bedcovers, revealing a bony form inside her nightie. The light breeze from the open window proved caressing and comfortable, so she slept on undisturbed.
The moke waited for the quiet to resume and then returned to the business at hand: the nine deep drawers in the dresser. One by one, he rummaged through each potential cache with his bare hands, poking through the petite-sized shorts, tops, jeans, and undies. In the central bottom drawer he found what he was looking for: a white leather jewelry box with a gold clasp. Pressing the clasp until it noiselessly sprang open, he lifted the hinged top and discovered two tiers of elegant pieces arranged on purple velvet. The mother lode. A magnificent whalebone scrimshaw brooch, a black pearl pendant, and three jeweled rings: an opal surrounded by star sapphires; a jade stone set in gold, and a one-karat engagement diamond. In his excitement, the thief elbowed the Maglite off the dresser top, and it thudded to the floor. He cringed, dropped the opal ring back into the case, and quickly turned to face the bed once more. The small figure lying there didn’t seem to be moving at all. In fact, he thought he’d detected a string of snores. He turned back to the dresser, scooped up the entire contents of the case in his large, fleshy fingers, and shoved the lot into his cargo pants pocket. The thief was so exhilarated with his booty that he failed to hear quiet movement in the other part of the room. After closing the jewelry box lid and sliding the dresser drawer shut, he stood and looked up in the mirror. The bed was now empty. Before he had a chance to survey the room, he felt something hard stuck in the middle of his back.
“Reach for the sky!” said a crackling alto voice. “Put your hands in the air. No, don’ turn ’round. I got you covered up, yah.”
The moke looked back into the triple dresser mirror, especially the tilted right-hand section, and discovered a person no more than four-foot-six pressing a rolled-up magazine against his back, trying her damnedest to make him believe she had a gun.
Wila was half-Japanese, half-Hawai‘ian. She was skinny but strong, with a deeply lined face and sharp chin. Recently retired, she’d held a job usually meant for a much larger, younger person, but did it well as a carrier for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser, delivering papers to residents in two city high-rises, starting at 3 a.m. seven days a week. Now, in the darkness of her bedroom, she glared up at the thug with a ferocious frown, hoping to scare him away.
The thief then realized the gutsy old broad hadn’t really thought this whole confrontation thing out. The crack of a vicious smile grew on his lips. In one swift motion, he pivoted to his left and caught the barefoot old lady in the solar plexus with his balled-up fist. Wila’s eyes widened and her gaunt cheeks filled with air as he buried his right hand into the braided network of nerves behind her stomach. All eighty-five pounds of Auntie Wila lifted off the floor and flew against the closet door with a bang, slumping to the floor in a posed-like, sitting position. Auntie’s eyes slammed shut, and her chin jerked down to her chest, while the old widow’s mouth hung slack as a Hawai‘ian guitar key.
The moke gave her the once-over and discovered a gold wedding band on her left hand. He struggled with the ring until he found a way to wrench it from her scrawny fourth finger. She exhibited no pain and made no noise, so he leaned closer, listened for her breathing, and satisfied himself that she was still alive. Then, back at the dresser, he removed a pair of Auntie’s cotton panties and wiped down most of the dark wood dresser top. On his way hurrying to the open window, he scanned the room one last time, and slipped through the window, wiping the sill from the outside. He tossed the panties inside onto the floor and climbed down the trellis, clumsily wedging his sneakers between the bougainvillea vines, and fled into the blackness of night.
* * *
Sam Nahoe was just as fatigued as Auntie Wila from a whole day at the beach park, so in his depth of sleep he could easily ignore a landline phone ringing off the hook. That is, until a sloppy, dribbling tongue sloshed across his cheek and Goldie’s malodorous breath assaulted his nose. He awoke with a start and pushed his furry pal’s nose out of the way to reach the irritating phone.
“Hello,” he grumbled. His eyes strayed to the luminous clock. Damned Mainlanders calling at all hours. “Hello, who is this? It’s 3:30 in the morning here,” he carped when he heard nothing at the other end of the line. Then, listening more intently, he thought he heard a trembling, weak voice say, “Auntie Wila.”
“Auntie Wila,” he repeated. “I can hardly hear you. What’s wrong?…You’ve been robbed and beaten? How bad? Do you need an ambulance? No? Are you sure, Auntie?…Put some ice on where it hurts. Have you called the police yet?…Why not?…Okay, we’ll be there in twenty minutes. Yeah, Goldie and me. Stay put, yah.”
Sam hung up the phone and began dressing. As he brought one leg up and twisted his hip forward to pull on a sock, he felt a stinging pain run through his back and torso. He twisted back and forth, yelping with the pain. His mostly golden retriever (with a dash of Doberman) brought her hind legs up on the bed in sympathy. Somehow, the pain eased, and Sam slowly continued to dress. Just another moment in the ex-HPD detective’s history. Four years earlier, he took a bullet in his spine in the line of duty—and it remained there to this day. Despite the painful interlude, Sam grabbed Cane and Able, his walking sticks. He and Goldie were out the door and on their way to Auntie Wila’s place in under ten minutes.
Despite the hobbling and shuffling, at six-foot-four his broad chest and muscled shoulders commanded respect. Curly black hair, a broad, ruddy face, and high, round cheekbones lent the allure of Hawai‘ian ancestry. Women found his demeanor compelling. They fantasized frolicking with him in bed and taking care of him outside it. But at the age of thirty-nine, all he personally wanted was to have a happy family again—to get back together with his ex-wife, Kia, and Peggy.
Following a medical separation from the police force, Sam had taken to driving an independent Checker Cab throughout the city and county of Honolulu. Goldie rode shotgun in her safety harness, a full partner in the taxi business. But somehow man and dog always landed in trouble spots, face-to-face with crooks, so he figured he might as well get his private investigator’s license.
* * *
Sam pulled into Auntie’s driveway and crunched to a stop on the gravel surface. He ski-walked his canes across the front lawn, up onto the lanai, and inside through the unlocked door. As he burst into the parlor, Auntie was sitting in her massive recliner, fully dressed in a blue-patterned muumuu. She had a cold pack pressed to her ribs and a bag of frozen peas atop and to the rear of her scalp, where it had impacted the bedroom closet door.
Goldie trotted across the floor and circled twice before settling down quietly next to her. Wila buried her hand in the golden’s fur behind the ears and the two were as one.
Before Sam had a chance to ask, Auntie Wila spilled out all the frightening details of her wee-hour’s encounter.
“It’ll take a lot mo’ den dat to put this ol’ broad out of commish,” she said.
“But are you okay, Auntie? That‘s the most important thing.”
“Dat big moke took da breath clean out o’ me, yah. Punched me bad right here.” She rubbed her solar plexus with gnarled fingers. “Gotta knot back here, too.” She bent her head, chin to chest. He leaned over and saw an inch-long gash of dried blood on her pink scalp between the thinning strands of salt-and-pepper hair.
“It’s more than a bump, Auntie. You may need stitches. Let me take you to the ER, or the urgent care clinic tomorrow morning, the one right here in Kalihi.”
“No, Sam, you no taking me anywhere. You can clean it for me. You good at that.”
Sam knew he’d lost that round. He decided to clean up her wound himself after the police arrived.
“I’m gonna call the police now, Auntie.”
She scowled and drew her tiny body erect. “No you don’t! You I can trust to find my stuff, Sam. But da cops ass too many questions, push lotsa paper, an’ do nuthin’ no good. I don’t want dem poking round my place.”
Sam decided on a more practical tack. He whipped out his iPhone. “How about I take a picture of the cut on your scalp? It’s proof of what a scumbag the thief was.”
“Okay, Sam, honey, I don’ mind my head getting famous. Bending her head once more, he tapped his camera function and snapped three times. Goldie took this occasion to remind them how important she was. She pushed her nose close to Wila and licked one shriveled cheek.
“Sam, honey, do my ribs, too. They sure am sore.” She lifted her muumuu up to her diaphragm, where an ugly purple bruise had already formed.
Sam snapped another photo. “Thanks, Auntie, you’re being very helpful even if you won’t go to the clinic.” Seating himself in a straight-backed chair next to the recliner, he said, “I know you’re all shook up, Auntie, and I would be, too, but I gotta know. What did the moke take? Anything of value?”
“All my rings, engagement diamond, too, an’ my pearl pendant, an’my grea’-grea’-grandma’s scrimshaw broach.”
Sam half-reared up out of his chair. “The one with the beautifully carved sailing ship? That’s an antique, worth even more than your diamond. And sentimental, too. What did this guy look like, Auntie?”
“Like all moke, beeeg an’ mean wi’ lotta black hair in pony tail.” Her short arms were stretched as high and wide as they could reach.
“Any tattoos? Scars?”
“No see—too dark.”
“I’m going up to your room and have a look around. You stay here.” With Cane and Able clutched in his left palm, Sam relied on his right hand and the banister to navigate up the flight to the second floor—pushing the canes down on each stair with his left hand and pulling himself up with the other. Ever-curious and protective, Goldie followed him a few safe feet behind. Inside Wila’s compact bedroom, Sam discovered a tiny smear of blood on the closet door where she hit her head. Using his iPhone he snapped another picture. More evidence. Scanning the rest of the room, he smiled when he saw that Auntie Wila had already made her bed and folded her nightie neatly next to the pillow. He even noted the dust line on the dark-wood dresser top where Auntie had supposedly swiped across it in a hurry.
Nothing else seemed out of place. Then Sam noticed a patch of white cloth lying on the floor next to the window at the same moment Goldie saw it. She trotted to the window and sniffed the cloth a few times before picking it up in her teeth and bringing it to him. The patch of white cloth turned out to be a pair of Wila’s panties, soiled with dust and not from being worn. A dust cloth?
Downstairs again he had to wake Wila from a deep sleep to tell her he was leaving. He showed her the panties and scolded her for dusting and destroying any possibility of recovering fingerprints.
“You wrong, Sam. I don’ dus’ tonight,” she declared in a huff. “It musta been da moke fella.”
“Sorry, Auntie,” mumbled Sam. “Yeah, looks like the guy was savvy enough to sanitize the scene before he left. Auntie, is there any chance you got an insurance description or photos of the pieces the thief stole?”
“No, Sam, I don’ believe in insurance. Is a waste a money. But I migh’ have a picture of me wearin’ da broach, yah.”
“That would be great, Auntie. Where would I find it?”
“In da album, silly. Ovah dere on the shelf, the last one. Yah, dat’s it.”
Sam brought the album to her. Wila rearranged her bruised body to get more comfortable in the recliner and began flipping pages. Forward, then backward, one at a time until she stopped and slowly separated a four-by-six-inch photo from the page. It wasn’t the clearest shot, nor the best angle. But still…
“Excellent, Auntie! This‘ll certainly do the trick,” he said, tucking the photo into his leather man-purse, slung diagonally over one shoulder. Before leaving, he gently washed the bloody cut on her scalp, dried it carefully, and covered it with a small antibiotic bandage. Goldie supplied her own brand of first aid with sloppy kisses to the old lady’s heavily veined hand as she allowed Sam to minister to her.
* * *
He parked the cab, leaving Goldie in charge, in the underground lot next door to the Honolulu Police Department headquarters on Beretania Street. Next, he sought out Sergeant Aiden Harada in the Robbery Division to file a formal report on the assault and stolen items. Sam explained that the perp had wiped down the bedroom, and added that there weren’t any insurance descriptions either. He showed the sergeant his iPhone photos of Auntie’s injuries and asked, “Would you need to send Forensics over to compare the blood on Wila’s scalp with the drop of blood on the closet door?”
Sergeant Harada, a stocky man with a kindly face, shrugged. “Not necessary. As you suspected, without fingerprints or insurance descriptions there’s not much we can do.”
“I’m hoping this will make a difference,” Sam said as he handed over the photo of the scrimshaw ship mounted in a gold filigree broach. “Isolated, blown-up, and distributed to all the pawn shops and jewelers in town should do the job. I’ll even distribute them for you. I want to catch this moke who terrorizes and beats up old ladies.”
“Hey, Sam, that won’t be necessary,” said Aiden. “No need for you to do our job. I remember you—they still talk big story about you in Homicide. You were a good cop, and I’m sure you’re a good P.I. I know how anxious you must be, especially the lady being a family member. I’ll let you know if we get any feedback on the photo.”
Pleased with his progress, Sam returned to his cab, then he and Goldie called it a night.
* * *
After work two days later, Sam found a heartening message on his landline answering machine. Wila’s stolen pieces had been located: three rings, a pendant, and a brooch matching the photo. He called Sergeant Harada, thanked him for acting on the case so quickly, and learned the details. A reformed one-time fence—now a small-business jeweler—had become suspicious. He convinced the customer, the second-story thief, that he needed more time to evaluate the pieces and suggested that the man leave them and return the next day for payment. The thief reluctantly agreed and hurried out. The jeweler immediately called the police. Under Sergeant Harada’s direction, the Robbery Division planned a trap.
The next morning Sam returned to Auntie’s with the good news, but he wasn’t prepared for her reaction. Wila sprang out of her recliner with surprising agility. “Sam, you take me there. I wanna see da moke arrested with my own eyes. Yah.” She did a little dance and swung a fist at the imaginary crook. “I make tha’ bassard pay fo wha he did ta me.”
It took almost thirty minutes for feisty Wila to calm down enough to hear Sam out.
“Auntie, you know I love you, but you need to stay home. It would be too dangerous for you to be present when they take him into custody. But I promise you, I’ll be there when the action goes down and I’ll come back and report everything to you.” It was a bit of a lie. He wasn’t sure the police would want him there either.
At one-thirty the next afternoon Sam and Goldie, in her shotgun seat harness, took up their positions. The police had told him he could park his cab across the street and one door away to watch the police make the collar—but on one condition: “As long as you don’t interfere, Sam. It’ll be at your own risk.”
The jeweler and the moke had agreed to terms over the phone and scheduled a two o’clock meeting, when the pieces would be fenced.
From half a block away, the moke came strolling toward the jewelry shop, fifteen minutes early. He scanned the street in three directions, then walked boldly inside. Sam had no way of knowing what went wrong in the shop, but in just a few minutes, the moke burst through the front door and dashed across the street, waving his arm, yelling “Taxi!”
Sam had no intention of letting him in. He instantly reached for the door-lock button, but his reflexes failed him. The moke flung the door open, slid into the rear seat, and slammed the door shut.
“Drive outta here quick!” he bellowed.
When Sam didn’t respond quickly enough, the moke slipped his belt from his pants loops, flipped it over Sam’s head, and with both hands pulled it tight across Sam’s neck.
“Maybe now you’ll git movin’.”
Protective Goldie growled, barked, and struggled, but she was secured in her harness. As Sam reached over to the ignition key, which he had turned off, he imperceptibly unhooked her harness from the seatbelt lock. Goldie flipped around, leaped over the seat back, and landed in the moke’s lap. The golden clamped her jaws down hard on the moke’s right wrist.
“Yeow!” he yelled and released his hold on the belt.
Sam started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Luckily, the street was empty. He did a U-turn and screeched to a stop directly in front of the jewelry shop just as two plainclothes detectives appeared from surrounding shop doorways. Their guns were drawn. The moke’s early arrival had taken them by surprise. One detective pulled the rear door open.
It was all over for the stunned thief, whose wrist was still clamped firmly in Goldie’s jaws. Sam leaned back and held up his right index finger for the dog to see. It was his command for her to let go. She obediently released her grip, swiveled her large body around, and climbed back into her shotgun seat.
The detectives yanked the perp out of the back seat and lifted him up by his armpits. As they walked him, cuffed, to their cruiser, his beltless cargo pants—weighted down by the loot—slipped over his hips and dropped to his ankles, exposing his red polka-dot boxer undershorts.
Sam guffawed, whipped out his iPhone, and snapped two photos through the windshield. Still laughing, he turned to Goldie. “Good girl,” he said, handing her a Milk Bone. “Let’s head over to Auntie Wila’s right now. She’ll get a kick out of the moke’s final takedown.”
