Diamond Head by Charles Knief

impressive location. Behind the glitz and glitter of the thirty-story hotels along the beach, Waikiki is the home of the worst urban slums on the island. The streets are narrow, the apartments filled to overflowing. Crime is an everyday occurrence. The predators prey on the tourists and on each other. Along McCulley Avenue the iteration of the food chain is out in the open.
    Parking is another problem. There isn’t any. And due to the high crime rate there are police everywhere. They don’t put a dent in the crime rate, but they do notice illegal parking. The Honolulu PD doesn’t write parking tickets, it tows your car. I didn’t want to pay the mandatory two-hundred-dollar fine for towing so I searched for a legal parking spot, got lucky and found one two blocks away.
    The morning sun had neared its zenith and was blazing on my back as I trotted along. By the time I reached the detective’s office sweat was pouring down the back of my shirt and dripping into my eyes.
    The building was a small strip center with storefront businesses and enough parking for only the tenants. A Chinese CPA had the space nearest the street, a hair salon and an upholstery shop occupied the next two. Unit D, the address listed in the yellow pages for Robert W. Souza, Private Investigator, was vacant.
    The door was locked so I peered through the glass. The office wore the shabby look of a place that had been unoccupied for weeks. There was no furniture. A white telephone rested on its side, the handset flung against the dark, soiled carpet like a broken arm. Letters, newspapers and business cards were piled beneath the mail slot. The one envelope I could read through the glass was addressed to Souza.
    I went to the CPA’s office. The interior was shaded from the morning sun by miniblinds and chilled by powerful air conditioning. It was so cool my back felt cold immediately. I stood in a small waiting room that was dominated by an unoccupied
secretary’s desk. There was a sign that said w. WONG, CPA over a blue door.
    I noticed a bell on the desk, the kind you hit with your palm. I touched it gently. The bell produced a ring that carried a nostalgic trace of childhood school days with it. A man came out of the back room. He was of average height with a slender build. He had coal black hair and a thin mustache.
    â€œHello?” he said. There was some caution in his manner, as if he expected violence.
    â€œI’m looking for Robert Souza,” I said. “I thought his office was here.”
    â€œUnit D, yah?”
    â€œYes. Robert Souza, the private detective.”
    â€œI understand he moved out about a month ago.”
    â€œDid he leave a forwarding address?”
    â€œNo. Not that I know of. Why don’t you contact the leasing agent?”
    â€œDo you have his name?”
    â€œYah. Let me check. Wait here, please.” He held out his hand, palm down, as if warding off my advance.
    He disappeared behind the blue door again and closed it behind him. I heard the lock click shut. I waited a full five minutes before he returned.
    â€œHer name is Nagada. Laurie Nagada. Here’s her telephone number.” He handed me one of his cards with the name and number of the leasing agent scrawled across the back.
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    He went back through the blue door and closed it without acknowledgment.
    I let myself out.
    Back out in the heat I took my cellular phone from my pack and tried the number. It was busy. I walked back to my parking space, hitting send over and over again, trying to get through. Her line was busy until after I’d found my Jeep,
stowed the backpack away and pulled out into traffic. On impulse I tried it again. It rang.
    I shifted the phone to my left shoulder as I steered and shifted my way through heavy traffic on McCulley while I waited for Ms. Nagada to answer. When she did she sounded harried.
    â€œHello?” Her voice was on the edge of