Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09 by Damned in Paradise (v5.0)

was hugging my arm enthusiastically now. “Well,” she said, trying to sound disappointed, “I really would like to be at Thalo’s side, through this…”
    “You’d be welcome at Pearl, anytime,” Olds said. “You could spend every day with your cousin, if you like. You’d just have to find someplace else to sleep.”
    “We can manage that,” I said with a straight face. “I’ll run this idea past Mr. Darrow, and let you know before we leave.”
    Darrow was delighted by the suggestion, and Thalia liked the idea, too. Pop Olds said he’d put the plan in motion—Admiral Stirling was sure to give his okay—but for the time being, Isabel would stay behind with Thalia. This was where Isabel’s belongings were being delivered.
    She walked me to the limo, where the Navy driver was helping Darrow back in. The breeze was wafting her lovely haze of blond hair. Her arm in mine, she pulled me down, leaned in, her lips almost touching my ear.
    “I can’t decide whether you’re wonderful or terrible,” she whispered.
    “No one can,” I whispered back. “That’s my charm.”
    In the limousine, I said, “Where to now, C.D.?”
    “Pearl Harbor,” he said, “to meet our clients.”
    “Might I make a suggestion?”
    Darrow looked toward Leisure, who was sitting beside me in the roomy back of the limo. “You’ve probably noticed, George, this boy is not shy about making his thoughts known.”
    Leisure gave me a sideways smile. “I’ve noticed that. And I respect it. We three have a considerable challenge ahead, and I don’t believe we should hold anything back.”
    “Agreed,” Darrow said. “What’s your suggestion, Nate?”
    “Let’s make a slight detour. Mrs. Fortescue’s rented bungalow is only a few blocks from here. We probably won’t be able to get in, but let’s at least have a look at the outside of it.”
    Less than three blocks away, just one house off the East Manoa Road intersection, on Kolowalu Street, was a nondescript, even dingy little white frame number, a charmless cottage set back amid some scroungy trees with untended hedges along the side. With its intersecting pitched roofs, it was like a parody of the Massies’ little dream house. The yard was slightly overgrown, making it a mild eyesore in this modestly residential section.
    No question about it: if you had to pick a house on this street where a murder might have happened, this was the place.
    The Navy driver parked the limo across the way, and we got out, crossed the quiet street, and had a look around.
    Darrow, hands on hips, was studying the bungalow like a doctor looks at an X-ray. He stood ankle-deep in the gently riffling grass, like an oversize lawn ornament.
    “Wonder if it’s been rented out yet,” Leisure said.
    “Sure doesn’t look like it,” I said. “Unless Bela Lugosi moved in…. But I’ll find a neighbor to ask.”
    The haole housewife next door stopped her vacuuming to come to the door. She was an attractive brunette in a blue housedress, hair pinned up under an island-print kerchief; she thought I was cute, too. She wiped some perspiration from her upper lip and answered my questions.
    No, it hadn’t been rented, the place was still empty. The real estate agent was starting to show it, though. They’d left a key with her, if I was interested….
    I came back grinning, my prize dangling from a key chain.
    Soon we were inside the little place, and it was little: only four rooms and bath—living room, kitchen, two small bedrooms. More rental furniture, but of a lower quality than at the Massies’; not a framed picture on the walls, not a knickknack in sight. No radio, no phonograph. Dusty as hell, and only the crusty dried remains of two fried eggs in a skillet on the stove, and a place setting for two at the kitchen table, indicated anyone had ever lived here at all.
    The rust-colored outline of bloodstains in the master bedroom indicated somebody had died here, however. Odd-shaped stains on the