computer from a modified compartment in the dash. Her fingers flew over the keys as she inputted Rezents’s social security number and birthdate into the database. A couple of minutes later, the boy’s profile popped up.
“Rezents has a couple of misdemeanors. Drunk and disorderly, a pakalolo possession charge.”
“Any of them look good for this, then.” Ken’s gaze focused on driving as they wound into the older, run-down McCully Avenue neighborhood where Tyson lived.
“Except maybe Kimo Matthews—seems like he wasn’t mad at Paradise Air, though he’s a proven thief.” She punched up Kimo’s record. “Looks like he’s got a warrant out; didn’t show for his court date on the baggage robbery charges.”
“Hm.” Ken was thoughtful, his eyes narrowed. “So what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about family history—with Rezents starting work so early, I wonder if he’s got a chip on his shoulder, maybe because of this druggie mom of his. Decides to stick it to the man in a way that will be remembered.”
“That works for me, too.”
“Speaking of working—you worked Reynalda pretty well.”
“Like you said—the gaydar misses me when it needs to.”
“I’m not judging. I meant it as a compliment—you do interviewing really well.”
Ken grinned. “I have my ways.”
“Now that that other place was hit, don’t you think we should consider whether this is even related directly to Paradise Air and Max Smiley?” Lei asked.
“I’ve been wondering about that, too, but until we have further leads, we need to keep going in this direction.”
“Okay.” Lei kept digging, using one of the programs the FBI used to track online activity. “Rezents has an online presence. Pops up in chat rooms on the Occupy movement. He’s also got a Facebook page.” She scrolled through his timeline. “Lots of angry rants about the one percent. I’m liking him more for this every minute.”
“Any family connections that you can find?”
“Wait a minute.” She went back to the tax database, pulled up parents’ names. “No father on his birth certificate. His mother is Shawna Rezents—and boy does she have a record. Prostitution, petty theft, and several counts of child abuse. This kid’s had it rough.”
They pulled up in front of a sun-blasted beige duplex under a tired monkeypod tree in a neighborhood not far from Lei’s. Lei got out, looking for the mid-1990’s white Ford Ranger registered to Tyson Rezents—a vehicle so ubiquitous to Hawaii it might as well be a Toyota Tacoma.
“His truck’s gone,” Lei said as they walked up a short cement path to the front door. “Doubt he’s here.”
Ken didn’t answer, just knocked—three hard raps.
Nothing.
Ken’s hand was raised for another knock and Lei’s rested instinctively on her weapon as the door opened abruptly.
A girl hung in the doorframe, blinking at the invasion of sun and law enforcement. Raccoon shadows of old makeup ringed her eyes, and loose breasts fought for freedom in a thin tank top.
“Yes?” Voice like rattling gravel in a coffee can.
“We’re looking for Tyson Rezents,” Lei said.
“He’s not here. He’s at work.”
“He’s not at work; we checked. Are you his girlfriend?”
“No. Roommate.” Another shadow crowded from behind—a looming male one. “We share the place with Tyson. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.” Lei didn’t want to tip their hand that the FBI was looking for Rezents if they could help it. She tried a friendly smile—which didn’t seem to be working because the boyfriend moved up into view, meaty hand on the girl’s shoulder, unshaven jaw resting on her bed-snarled head.
“Who are you?” he growled.
“We’ll be back,” Ken said. They withdrew, leaving the cave-dwelling couple staring at the Acura as they pulled away. “I like it that I didn’t have to tell you it’s too early for Rezents to know we’re looking for
“Rezents has a couple of misdemeanors. Drunk and disorderly, a pakalolo possession charge.”
“Any of them look good for this, then.” Ken’s gaze focused on driving as they wound into the older, run-down McCully Avenue neighborhood where Tyson lived.
“Except maybe Kimo Matthews—seems like he wasn’t mad at Paradise Air, though he’s a proven thief.” She punched up Kimo’s record. “Looks like he’s got a warrant out; didn’t show for his court date on the baggage robbery charges.”
“Hm.” Ken was thoughtful, his eyes narrowed. “So what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about family history—with Rezents starting work so early, I wonder if he’s got a chip on his shoulder, maybe because of this druggie mom of his. Decides to stick it to the man in a way that will be remembered.”
“That works for me, too.”
“Speaking of working—you worked Reynalda pretty well.”
“Like you said—the gaydar misses me when it needs to.”
“I’m not judging. I meant it as a compliment—you do interviewing really well.”
Ken grinned. “I have my ways.”
“Now that that other place was hit, don’t you think we should consider whether this is even related directly to Paradise Air and Max Smiley?” Lei asked.
“I’ve been wondering about that, too, but until we have further leads, we need to keep going in this direction.”
“Okay.” Lei kept digging, using one of the programs the FBI used to track online activity. “Rezents has an online presence. Pops up in chat rooms on the Occupy movement. He’s also got a Facebook page.” She scrolled through his timeline. “Lots of angry rants about the one percent. I’m liking him more for this every minute.”
“Any family connections that you can find?”
“Wait a minute.” She went back to the tax database, pulled up parents’ names. “No father on his birth certificate. His mother is Shawna Rezents—and boy does she have a record. Prostitution, petty theft, and several counts of child abuse. This kid’s had it rough.”
They pulled up in front of a sun-blasted beige duplex under a tired monkeypod tree in a neighborhood not far from Lei’s. Lei got out, looking for the mid-1990’s white Ford Ranger registered to Tyson Rezents—a vehicle so ubiquitous to Hawaii it might as well be a Toyota Tacoma.
“His truck’s gone,” Lei said as they walked up a short cement path to the front door. “Doubt he’s here.”
Ken didn’t answer, just knocked—three hard raps.
Nothing.
Ken’s hand was raised for another knock and Lei’s rested instinctively on her weapon as the door opened abruptly.
A girl hung in the doorframe, blinking at the invasion of sun and law enforcement. Raccoon shadows of old makeup ringed her eyes, and loose breasts fought for freedom in a thin tank top.
“Yes?” Voice like rattling gravel in a coffee can.
“We’re looking for Tyson Rezents,” Lei said.
“He’s not here. He’s at work.”
“He’s not at work; we checked. Are you his girlfriend?”
“No. Roommate.” Another shadow crowded from behind—a looming male one. “We share the place with Tyson. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.” Lei didn’t want to tip their hand that the FBI was looking for Rezents if they could help it. She tried a friendly smile—which didn’t seem to be working because the boyfriend moved up into view, meaty hand on the girl’s shoulder, unshaven jaw resting on her bed-snarled head.
“Who are you?” he growled.
“We’ll be back,” Ken said. They withdrew, leaving the cave-dwelling couple staring at the Acura as they pulled away. “I like it that I didn’t have to tell you it’s too early for Rezents to know we’re looking for
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