“You’ll catch your death out there,” said Kathy, standing at the stove making her grandmother’s chicken soup.
“Now more than ever,” said Chan, sitting on the lānai, watching Honolulu darken down with the sun.
“What?”
In the stiff breeze, Chan sipped his medicinal JD. “Nothing,” he said.
“Come and get it, Lieutenant.”
Downing the last of his generous pour, Chan got up and went in.
“Sit, boy,” Kathy commanded.
Chan sat. Kathy proceeded to bring him a steaming bowl of soup. “A couple gallons of this, and all that ails you will be cured.”
She returned to the kitchen and came back to the table with a smaller bowl, a sleeve of crackers wedged under her arm.
“What is that?” asked Chan, pointing to an object in her bowl.
“The head,” she said. “I always ask the butcher for a head.”
Lightly repulsed and not a little leery, Chan said, “What else is in this?”
“My Granny calls it her ‘kitchen sink’ chicken soup. You name it, it’s probably in there. Loads of good stuff. As my grandfather used to say, ‘All the best parts of the chicken.’ ”
Chan ran his spoon back and forth through the bowl, hoping to expose any hidden surprises. Anything that looked suspicious was placed on a napkin.”
“Such a careful eater,” Kathy said, crumbling some crackers into her bowl. “My dad would kill me if I didn’t eat those goodies.”
Chan laid down his spoon. “Today,” he said, I watched a father kill his wife after having stabbed and burned his son to death.”
Immediately wishing she’d not said what she had, Kathy watched him closely. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I could never do your job.” She reached for Chan’s hand and squeezed it.
“A father killing his son for the stupidest of mistaken reasons,” said Chan. “It happens, sure, but it never gets easier to think about.”
Kathy said nothing.
“We’ve got an APB out on the other twin. The thing is, even if we do find him, I don’t know if we’ll be able to charge him with anything.”
“Is that a good thing? That he didn’t commit any crime?”
Chan sat back in his chair, and Kathy let go of his hand.
“Yes, sure, if that’s the case. He’s a fire starter too, though. Allegedly, at least. According to the mom’s say-so. What if he was in on the killing of Jasmine Komine or, horrific to imagine, his own brother? And we couldn’t prove it. Getting away with it. Geez.”
“So would it be better if you never found him?”
Chan nodded, then shook his head. “Hard to say.”
“I was thinking,” said Kathy, “maybe you heard your dad discussing the case back then. Maybe that’s where the names came from in your dream?”
“You mean I’m not psychic,” said Chan with a half-hearted laugh. “Just the victim of eavesdropping. I don’t know. My dad for sure would never discuss open cases with us.”
“How about over in the department? You used to hang out there a lot when you were young, right?”
This seemed more likely. “Well, I suppose that could be. But they were kids like me back then. How could I know what they looked like now? And then there’s Jasmine Komine. She’s a new piece of the puzzle. How would I know anything about her, not to mention her relationship with Harry Wong?”
“Right, right, that’s all true,” Kathy agreed. “What a weird mystery.”
“Well, until we find Harvey, I’ve been told to take some time off.”
“That’s good,” said Kathy, “given your health situation recently, as your now primary care physician, I’d agree that you need a mini-vacation to recover.”
Chan smiled and reached for her hand. “Doc, can you prescribe my no more dreams, please?”
“My prescription’s sitting in that bowl. Eat your soup, Lieutenant, and that’s doctor’s orders.”
Peering into the bowl, Chan shuddered. “Pass the crackers, please.”
He took the pack, pulled out several, and began munching.
“Not going to break them into your soup?”
Chan shook his head. “Plain old crackers probably won’t lead to bad dreams.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Kathy.
Chan did hear the voices, but he couldn’t understand the words.
“Here you go, Mr. Han,” said Kathy, laying the envelope on the table beside Chan. “Courtesy of Mrs. Watson.”
Opening the envelope, Chan found yet another brief application for a MasterCard.
“Kathy, there are two irritating things about getting these David Han charge card applications. Well, three if you count just getting them as one. First, they always go to Mrs. Watson, which once or twice might have been a mistake, but this many times makes it look like the postman might be misdelivering them intentionally.” He paused.
“And number two?”
“If it turns out these aren’t being misdelivered, then the only thing I can think of is that Mrs. Watson is taking them from my box and then bringing them over to me.”
This made Kathy laugh. “Are you kidding me, Detective Han? Why on earth would she do that?”
Lanning Lee 