Diamond Head by Charles Knief Page B

of to say. Her response had not been one I’d anticipated.
    â€œHe kill himself, they say, but I know different. They come for him, that’s why. In the middle of the night. Two men. They knock on his door. He let them in. They go inside. Hour later, they go out. Next morning, he dead.”
    Wondering at her narrative, I nodded.
    â€œThey say he call police and tell them he going to kill himself. And that he did. Overdose of da kine drug. Bad ‘ting, that. He leave a note. They say he kill himself. Two men, they kill him. They did it and blame him, that’s why.”
    â€œWho said he killed himself?”
    â€œThe police. I tell them what I saw. They don’t believe me. I’m an old woman, but I watch. I don’t sleep. So I watch. I know my building.”
    â€œHow long ago was this?”
    â€œOne month. Just before rent due.”
    â€œHave you rented the apartment?”
    She shook her head. “He leave big mess. Police make even bigger mess. Have to paint, that’s why. Move out his stuff. It takes me long time to paint da kine apartment. My fingers hurt, that’s why.”
    â€œMay I see the apartment?”
    She studied me again, her scrutiny extending from the top of my haole head to my sandaled feet. I was dressed as a local in shorts and T-shirt. “I give you key, you bring it back?”
    â€œOf course, Auntie.”
    She went inside and brought out a ring of brass keys that must have weighed ten pounds. “This here every key. His was
eight, on top floor in the back. I can’t see that key but it’s here.” She handed me the cluster of keys, the means of entry to every door in the building.
    â€œYou bring it back, you hear?”
    â€œI will, Auntie,” I said. I had not even told her why I wanted to find Souza. This lady remembered Hawaii as it used to be.
    The third floor was a repetition of the second. Eight was in the back, concrete block walls interrupted only by a window and a door. I found a key with “8” stamped in the brass and tried it.
    The door opened out. A musty emanation, the lingering scent of a protective ghost, came out to greet me along with a blast of superheated air. I stepped inside and looked around in the gloom. Curtains were drawn on every window. A tiny kitchen, little more than an extension of the entry, was to the right of the door, a bedroom and a bath on the left. The living room was directly in front of me. I flicked a switch. No light came on.
    I left the door open for both light and air and started across the room. I banged my knee painfully on a file drawer that was pulled out of a metal cabinet against the wall. I closed the drawer and started across the room again, this time with greater caution. Piles of manila file folders and reports were tossed carelessly on the furniture and the floor. I opened the sliding glass door that led to a tiny lanai and pulled the curtains back. Now I could see. In a little while I hoped to be able to breathe.
    It didn’t take long to see that whoever encouraged the late Robert Souza to shuffle off this mortal coil had also gone through everything the same way they did in his office. My guess was that they came here first, then took his keys to his office and ransacked that place. The police wouldn’t have made this kind of a mess. It was as if someone had intentionally done this. It was like spitting on a grave.
    It began to look as though Souza had found something he should not have found. If he had anything solid about Mary
MacGruder’s murder, someone had beaten me to it. By about a month. I didn’t expect to find anything now. The trail was cold. Souza wouldn’t have expected any trouble resulting from that case. It was pretty straightforward. If he had, would he have hidden whatever it was that he found out? Would he have understood its value? And would they have found whatever it was they were looking for? Whoever they were.
    There