Sinister Paradise

So that was why Ross Rafferty didn’t want to go to the police, Nancy thought. The merest hint of Faulkner family trouble might trigger a panic among Windward stockholders. But how could he be so callous? There was no way the bank’s well-being measured up against the life and safety of a human being!

  Nancy’s brow furrowed. “And you have no idea who’s on the board of this corporation?”

  “None whatsoever.” Amy shook her head. “Believe me, we’ve tried to find out. No luck! Not even Lester could learn anything.”

  “Who’s Lester?” asked Ned.

  “Lester Jarman, my late husband’s business partner,” Alice explained. “He and Charlie founded Windward Fidelity Bank thirty years ago. Lester’s retired now. He’s still sharp as a tack, though. Next to me, he’s the biggest stockholder in Windward Bancorp.”

  Nancy tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. So the Malihini Corporation was trying to steal the bank away from the Faulkner family. That made sense. But how was helping Lisa run away from home supposed to accomplish that?

  Nancy shivered. To save Lisa Trumbull, Nancy would have to trail a pack of killers through the strange and treacherous world of high finance!

  Chapter

  Eleven

  THE NEXT MORNING Nancy and Ned visited the main station of the Honolulu Police Department. A grizzled desk sergeant directed them down the hall to the office of the Criminal Investigation Division.

  “Hi, Nancy!” Tim DiPrizio called out. He was in shirtsleeves, his feet propped on the desk. Martin Giles sat across the aisle, painstakingly typing with two fingers. “What brings you kids downtown?”

  “We need some information, Tim.” Nancy quickly explained how the Malihini Corporation had foiled them. When she had finished, Tim remarked, “Malihini Corporation, eh? Never heard of them.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Nancy added. “They keep a really low profile. I was hoping you guys could dig up some tax information on them.”

  “Be happy to.” Tim glanced at his partner. “You’re the team intellectual, Marty. Where do you go for corporate tax records?”

  “The state Department of Accounting and General Services,” Martin answered, pulling on his suit jacket. “My friend Darlene works over there. Let me go talk to her. You folks sit tight. I’ll be back.”

  Martin was as good as his word. He returned to the detectives’ office an hour later and handed Nancy a slim manila folder. He wasn’t smiling.

  “That’s a copy of the state tax file,” Martin told her. “There isn’t a whole lot on this Malihini Corporation. This just says they’re an overseas investments firm. They don’t even have an office here, just that post office box. According to Darlene, the Malihini Corporation was chartered in the Cayman Islands. They’re very careful not to break any laws. They always pay their city, state, and county tax assessments. They always pay by mail, too, using checks drawn on the Bank of Nova Scotia.”

  Tim sat on the edge of his desk. “What’s the bottom line, partner?”

  Martin sighed. “These Malihini dudes are under a cloak of total secrecy. There’s no way to get a handle on them. Compared to the Malihini Corporation, the mob is a bunch of blabber-mouths.”

  Disappointed, Nancy handed back the file. “Thanks, guys.”

  Martin stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “Know what’s bothering me?”

  “What?” asked Tim, standing up.

  The black officer’s gaze shifted curiously to Nancy. “You tried to find these Malihini guys. No luck! I tried the state tax people. Nothing! So how did Lisa Trumbull find them?”

  “Maybe they came to her,” Ned offered.

  “I think you’re right, Ned.” Nancy’s voice turned somber. “No one tries to kill people in a rigged car accident unless they’ve got something to hide.”

  “You think the girl’s in trouble?” asked Tim.

  “I think she got in over her head,” Nancy answered honestly.

  As Nancy and Ned walked out the door, Martin said, “You kids be careful, all right? If you need any help, give us a call. I don’t like the sound of all this.”

  • • •

  Nancy slogged unhappily through the thick sand of Waikiki Beach. Two hours had passed since their visit to the police station. Since then, Nancy and her friends had split up, pursuing a number of different leads. Nancy and Bess were at the beach, interviewing lifeguards and surfers.

  So far, it hadn’t been a productive effort. Nancy had shown Lisa’s photo up and down Waikiki, but no one remembered the girl. She looked too much like all the other teenagers wandering around.

  Suddenly Nancy heard Bess’s excited voice. “Nancy! Come quick! I found someone!”

  Nancy trudged back up the sandy slope. Bess waited anxiously beside a tall surfer who was diligently waxing his board. “I figured you ought to talk to him, Nan. His name’s Lance, and he’s seen Lisa!”

  Lance straightened up. With his well-muscled physique and skin the color of old hickory, he reminded Nancy of an ad for suntan lotion.

  Lifting the photo, she asked, “Do you recognize this girl?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen her.” Lance studied the photo carefully. “This morning. Just after sunrise. I was riding my board about a mile out. Pretty good surf here when it’s high tide. Not as good as Kuilei or the Banzai Pipeline, but it’s a wild ride coming in.”

  Nancy took back the photo. “Lisa was surfing?”

  “Awww, no. She was with a big guy. They were walking on the beach. Like they were looking for something, you know? Then the big guy started yelling. The girl got scared and tried to run, but he grabbed her wrist. Then this car pulled up. A brown-haired woman got out and held the girl. Meanwhile, that big guy went crazy! He was dumping out litter baskets—kicking the trash around. I figured the girl needed help, so I started in on my board.”

  “Then what?” asked Nancy, listening intently.

  “The brown-haired woman got him calmed down. All three of them got in the car and took off.” Lance’s face showed regret. “They were gone by the time I got to shore.”

  After thanking Lance for his help, Nancy and Bess headed back to Kalakaua Avenue again. Nancy’s thoughts were racing. What if the people with Lisa had been part of the Malihini Corporation? If so, they must have counted Lisa’s money the previous night and come up fifty thousand short. They would have made Lisa retrace her steps, hoping to find the missing bearer bond—the one Nancy had found at the Ka Lae apartment house.

  She explained all this to Bess, who asked, “Why would the big guy get so upset, Nan? It’s Diana Faulkner’s money.”

  “Bearer bonds can be cashed by anybody,” Nancy replied. “The Malihini Corporation was planning to double-cross Lisa all along. I’ll bet they promised Lisa they’d help her get to San Francisco to live with Michele.” Nancy’s stomach felt hollow. “Only I don’t think Lisa realizes just how vicious the Malihini Corporation really is. She doesn’t know how they’ve tried to hurt her grandmother. She probably thinks they’re on her side, never realizing that they could turn on her at any time.”

  “At least Lisa’s still alive,” Bess added.

  “As of this morning.” Nancy flashed a worried look at her friend. “But you heard what Lance said. They’re no longer treating Lisa like a guest. Sounds as if she’s their prisoner now.”

  As they passed a dress shop, Nancy turned her gaze toward the window. She ignored the fashions on display, concentrating instead on the mirrored reflection of the street. It was an old detective trick, a way to check to see if she was being followed.

  Ice water seemed to fill Nancy’s veins. A familiar face had appeared in the crowd behind her. A moon-shaped face topped by slick black hair!

  The International Market Place was just ahead. Nancy steered Bess toward the entrance. “We’re being followed,” she whispered, shepherding Bess into the mall. “I want you to go to a gift shop and pretend to be shopping. Make yourself noticeable. I want his eye on you.”

  “What will you be doing, Nancy???
?

  “I hope to set him up.”

  Nancy left Bess’s side the minute she entered the gift shop. Nancy took cover behind a concrete pillar. Bess put on a nice show, playing the part of an airhead tourist. The man’s face appeared in the window. Nancy flattened herself behind the pillar. His gaze on Bess, he moved farther along.

  As soon as he was out of her line of sight, Nancy crossed the lobby and entered a phone booth. The phone at the other end rang sharply. George’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “George, it’s me.” Nancy exhaled in relief. “Listen, our friend is back—the one with the moon face.” Not pausing for an instant, she told George the plan. “I’m going to lead him back to the boat. You hide out on the pier while Bess and I go aboard. When the man leaves, I want you to follow him.”

  “All right! It’s about time I got in on the action.”

  “Don’t take chances, George. Okay?”

  “Okay. Be careful, Nan!”

  Nancy hung up. As she emerged from the phone booth, she saw Bess in the Market Place lobby wearing a floppy straw hat.

  Her smile forced, Bess shifted her eyes to the left. “He’s outside.”

  “I’ve set him up, Bess, but I’ll need your help to pull it off. It’s acting time again. Do a lot of talking while we walk. Tell me about Hawaii.” As they strolled back onto the sidewalk, Bess began a rambling monologue about beaches, gift stores, and palm trees. This left Nancy free to check the window reflections and make sure their enemy was still on the trail.

  He was! The moon-faced man sauntered along, completely unaware that Nancy had identified him. Bess was doing a great job. Between her giggly chatter and Nancy’s leisurely pace, the man probably thought they were out on a shopping trip.

  When they reached Ala Wai, Nancy boarded the Kahala and pretended to check a mooring line. Bess went straight below. Peering out of the corner of her eye, Nancy saw the moon-faced man loitering at the dockmaster’s shed.

  Nancy went below. Hot, stifling air filled the cabin. She cranked open the hatch. A blast of cool sea air streamed past her face, filling the main salon.

  Bess stood in her stateroom doorway. The giggling tourist was gone. “Nancy, is he still out there?”

  Leaning against the bulkhead, Nancy eased the blind away from the porthole. Her gaze swept the parking lot. It was empty!

  “Bess, I don’t see him—!”

  Thump! Nancy’s gaze zipped upward. Something had hit the roof of the cruiser’s main cabin.

  The noise sounded like footsteps. And they were heading straight for the open hatch!

  Chapter

  Twelve

  THUMP-BUMP-BUMP! NANCY LOOKED around desperately for a weapon. He was almost to the hatchway!

  Something flashed through the opening. Gasping, Nancy raised her fist. The object struck the deck with a hollow thump, bounced toward her—and came to rest between her sneakers.

  Nancy grinned. It was a white rubber ball covered with blue stars.

  Bess groaned in relief and slumped against the wall.

  A childish voice yowled. “Maaaaa! I lost it!”

  “Jason, I told you not to play around other people’s boats!”

  Nancy returned to the porthole. She saw a tired-looking woman drag a sniffling toddler back to another cabin cruiser.

  Across the lot, the door at the rear of the dockmaster’s shed suddenly swung open. The moon-faced man appeared, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He crumpled it into a ball, lobbed it into the trash can, and moved toward the Kahala.

  At that moment a brunette in a swimsuit approached from the other direction.

  “George!” Bess gasped, standing at Nancy’s elbow.

  “I told her not to take chances,” Nancy said in a worried voice.

  As George approached the man, Nancy fretted. It was too late to warn her friend away now. . . .

  “Excuse me. Are you looking for somebody?” George asked, her hands on her hips.

  The man produced a battered wallet. “Yeah, you might say that.” He flipped it open, revealing a laminated card. “I’m a private eye. I’m looking for Nancy Drew. You live around here?”

  “Yes, I live here.” Deadpan, George gestured at a big motor sailer at the end of the pier. “Lived here two years. Never heard of a Nancy Drew.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen her around, then.” He put away his ID. “Tall girl. Reddish blond hair. Lives aboard that boat there.”

  “The Kahala?” George feigned a look of confusion. “That’s Mrs. Faulkner’s boat. Are you sure you’re at the right marina?”

  Nonplussed, the man pressed on. “Maybe you’ve seen Nancy’s friends around. A blond girl. Couple of guys named Ned and George.”

  Nancy sucked in her breath sharply.

  Mischief gleamed in George’s eyes. “Hmmmm, maybe I have seen George around. What a hunk! He plays football for Oklahoma State.” She grinned. “Want me to pass on any messages?”

  “Ah, thanks—but no.” Looking very worried, the man retreated across the parking lot. “I got to get back to work. See you!”

  George watched him dash across the street and climb into the driver’s seat of an older-model car. Tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. George smiled and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger.

  Nancy and Bess hurried out to greet her.

  “If you want to find him, his license number is HWI zero-two-eight,” George said, beaming.

  “Nice work, George.” Nancy hugged her friend. Then the three of them headed back to the boat.

  Bess and George decided to return little Jason’s rubber ball. While they were gone, Nancy, on impulse, flagged a cab and headed uptown. She had a few things she wanted to clear up before she looked for the moon-faced man. She had to learn more about the Malihini Corporation. Why did they operate out of a post office box? Why had they incorporated in the Cayman Islands? Once she was able to answer those questions, she hoped she’d be able to figure out what they wanted with Lisa Trumbull.

  And Nancy had a good idea who to ask. . . .

  • • •

  Jack Showalter was on the phone when Nancy arrived. Flashing a welcoming smile, he gestured at the guest chair beside his desk.

  “Yes, well, those interest payments are due, Mr. Gavalu.” Jack made an apologetic motion with his free hand. “I understand. Yes. Nice talking to you, sir. Goodbye!” Hanging up, he let out a low groan. “What a day!”

  “Who were you talking to?” Nancy asked curiously.

  Jack flushed self-consciously. “The deputy finance minister of Kiribati. But he’s not the high-priority item around here these days. Lisa Trumbull is. How are you making out?”

  “Jack, have you ever heard of the Malihini Corporation?”

  “Who hasn’t? They’re knocking the legs out from under this bank.”

  “Have you ever run into them?”

  “Just once. I put together a nice little loan package a few months ago. I even got old man Rafferty to approve it. Then the Malihini Corporation came out of nowhere, stole my clients, and blew me out of the water!” Scowling at the memory, he added, “Why are you so interested in them?”

  “I did some checking with the Honolulu police. They said the Malihini Corporation was set up in the Cayman Islands,” Nancy said quietly. “You’re the banker, Jack. Is there anything significant in that?”

  Features thoughtful, Jack leaned back in his chair. “Caymans, eh? You know, those islands have the tightest bank secrecy in the world. Tighter than Switzerland! Some people use the Cayman Islands as a tax dodge. In my trade, we call it ‘chasing the hot dollar.’ What people do is go to the Caymans and set up their own private corporation. Then they open a bank account in the corporation’s name, using a bank with a branch office here in the States.”

  “Like the Bank of Nova Scotia?” Nancy asked.

  “Exactly!” Jack warmed to his topic. “It’s a cute way to cheat the government. You make money in the corporation’s name, squirrel it away
in the Caymans, and, if you ever need any, draw it out through the branch bank. Let’s suppose you made a million dollars, Nancy, and reported only ten grand to the IRS. How is the government going to prove you’re a liar? It can’t get into your Cayman bank to see how much you really made. That’s what I mean—it’s the perfect tax dodge.”

  Nancy mulled it over. “Jack, suppose you wanted to run your Cayman corporation out of a post office box. Could it be done?”

  “Sure! All you have to do is set up either a telephone or a computer link with your Cayman bank. The bank will issue checks the minute you ask for them. Why, with computer equipment, you could run your corporation from the seawall at Sunset Beach!”

  Nancy frowned thoughtfully. At first she’d assumed that the Malihini Corporation was based in the Cayman Islands. Now she wasn’t so sure. The Malihini Corporation might be a front for someone in Honolulu. Someone very close to the Faulkners and to Windward Fidelity Bank.

  Reaching across the desk, Nancy took Jack’s telephone and tapped out the number of the Honolulu police’s CID. Seconds later, Tim DiPrizio’s baritone voice answered. “Criminal Investigation Division.”

  “Tim, hi! It’s Nancy Drew. Listen, I’ve got a lead. A license number. HWI-zero-two-eight. Can you run a make for me?”

  “Just a sec.” After a couple of moments, Nancy heard a police Teletype rattling noisily. When Tim returned, “We bombed out. That car’s rented to a Waikiki agency.”

  “What about the person who rented it from the agency?” she asked.

  Tim sounded frustrated. “The Department of Transportation lists only the owner—the Makaha agency. To get the name of the driver, we’d have to subpoena the agency’s records. We can’t do that without a court order.”

  “Oh, well. Thanks, Tim. Bye!”

  As she hung up, she noticed Jack’s sympathetic expression. He said quietly, “You know, maybe I can help.”

  Jack picked up the phone and asked to be put through to Mr. Carstairs, the president of the Makaha agency. Then he switched on the speaker.

  “Mr. Carstairs, this is Jack Showalter at the Windward Fidelity Bank. We have a little problem here, and I wonder if you could help us.”