Diamond Head by Charles Knief Page A

hysteria.
    â€œHello, Ms. Nagada? My name is Caine. John Caine. I’m looking for—”
    â€œI’m not interested,” she said. “And it’s Miss Nagada.”
    â€œI’m not selling and I’m sorry about the ‘Miss.’ “
    â€œSo am I, brother. What did you say your name was? What’s that noise in the background? Are you on a car phone?”
    â€œSort of. My name is John Caine and I’m looking for one of your tenants, Robert Souza. He used to be at—”
    â€œOld Magnum PI. I know where he used to be, that asshole. He left in the middle of the night. Took all his stuff and just moved out. He left owing, too. All that damage to the place, his deposit didn’t even begin to cover it.”
    â€œDo you know where he went?”
    â€œI can’t find him. It’s possible he left the island.”
    â€œCertified letters with return receipt requested?”
    â€œNo forwarding address. And the other tenants are going crazy because strange people keep stopping by looking for this character.”
    â€œI understand. Mr. Wong gave me your name and number.”
    â€œThen you must be nice. He runs most of them off.”
    â€œWhat kind of damage to his place?”
    â€œOh, you know. Papers strewn all over, holes in the walls and ceilings. Holes kicked in the doors. The medicine cabinet on the bathroom floor. There was even a hole in the ceiling big enough to crawl up to the attic space. Why he’d do that is beyond me, too. But who can figure? That’s the last time I’ll rent to a private eye.”

    What she’d described was a thoroughly professional search.
    â€œWhen did this happen?”
    â€œAbout a month ago. Right when he disappeared. He didn’t pay his rent and I went around to collect or post the notice and I found his office that way. It’s been vacant ever since.”
    I thanked Miss Nagada and hit the End button. Someone had moved Mr. Souza out. All the way out. Someone had also gone through his office, including the walls and ceilings, and they hadn’t wasted any time doing so. I made a bet with myself that Mr. Souza was feeding the fish somewhere offshore.
    I called information and got a residential listing for a Souza, Robert W. The prefix was for Makiki, an old section of town not far from Waikiki and even more run-down. I phoned the number given and was told by the recorded message that it was disconnected and no longer in service.
    If it was listed, the address would be in the directory. I spotted a phone booth with a directory hanging below on a chain and pulled in beside it. I found his address. It was on Young Street, near the old police station. I knew the area well. Souza’s place was within three blocks of the phone booth. I decided to walk.
    His apartment was on the third floor of a concrete-block building that looked as if it might survive a hundred hurricanes. It had all the charm and architectural appeal of a bomb shelter. There was a small hand-lettered sign that said the manager was in the back apartment, second floor, no vacancy. I went up a set of concrete steps and found her.
    She was an ancient, bent Japanese woman wrapped in layers of sweaters despite the midsummer heat, the kind of wonderful, revered creature the Hawaiians call kapuna. Her brown, wizened face peered up at me through thick lenses, making me think of an apple left too long in the sun. She wore a quizzical expression.
    â€œHello?” Her voice was tremulous and uncertain.
    â€œHello, Auntie,” I said, dropping into the Islander′s habit of
referring to any woman over sixty. “I am looking for one of your tenants. Mr. Souza?”
    A curious calm came over her and she straightened, staring at me through the clear lenses of her glasses, her eyes magnified to twice their normal size. Her gaze was intense.
    â€œHe is dead,” she declared.
    â€œI’m sorry.” It was all I could think