Five Decembers

by James Kestrel

Genres: World War II; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Five Decembers is a gripping thriller, a staggering portrait of war, and a heartbreaking love story, as unforgettable as All the Light We Cannot See.



"Read this book for its palpitating story, its perfect emotional and physical detailing and, most of all, for its unforgettable conjuring of a steamy quicksilver world that will be new to almost every reader."
Pico Iyer
 
December 1941. America teeters on the brink of war, and in Honolulu, Hawaii, police detective Joe McGrady is assigned to investigate a homicide that will change his life forever. Because the trail of murder he uncovers will lead him across the Pacific, far from home and the woman he loves; and though the U.S. doesn't know it yet, a Japanese fleet is already steaming toward Pearl Harbor. 
 
This extraordinary novel is so much more than just a gripping crime story—it's a story of survival against all odds, of love and loss and the human cost of war. Spanning the entirety of World War II, FIVE DECEMBERS is a beautiful, masterful, powerful novel that will live in your memory forever.

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Hard Case Crime

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

Joe McGrady was looking at a whiskey. It was so new the ice hadn’t begun to melt, even in this heat. A cacophony surrounded him. Sailors were ordering beers ten at a go, reaching past each other to light the girls’ cigarettes. Someone dropped a nickel in the Wurlitzer, and then there was Jimmy Dorsey and his orchestra. The men compensated for the new noise. They raised their voices. They were shouting at the girls now, and they outnumbered them. The night was just getting started, and so far they weren’t drinking anything harder than beer. They wouldn’t get to fistfights for another few hours. By the time they did, it would be some other cop’s problem. So he picked up his drink, and sniffed it. Forty-five cents per liquid ounce. Worth every penny, even if a three-finger pour took more than an hour to earn.

Before he had a taste of it, the barman was back. Shaved head, swollen eyes. Straight razor scars on both his cheeks. A face that made you want to hurry up and drink. But McGrady set his glass down.

“Joe,” Tip said.

“Yeah.”

“Telephone—Captain Beamer, I guess. You can take it upstairs.”

He knew the way. So he grabbed the drink again, and knocked it back. The whole thing, one gulp. Smooth and smoky. He might as well have it. If Beamer was calling him now, then he was going to be pulling overtime. Which meant tomorrow—Thursday— was going to be a bust. Molly was going to be disappointed. On the other hand, he’d be drawing extra pay. So he could afford to make it up to her later. He put three half-dollars on the bar, wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, and went upstairs.

***

“This is Detective McGrady.”

“Thank Christ.”

“Sir?”

“You’re not drunk.”

“I punched out a half hour ago. If you’d given me a whole hour, maybe I could’ve done something.”

“Some other night. Get back here on the double. I’ve got the Chief waiting.”

“Yes, sir.”

He set the receiver back onto its Bakelite cradle and took the other staircase, the one that led directly from the Bowsprit’s upstairs office to the street. It was raining, but it wouldn’t last. Besides, there were awnings and porticos above most of the Chinatown shops. He had a roof over his head for all but the last minute of the walk back to Merchant Street. He waited on the steps of the Yokohama Specie Bank as a dozen black-jacketed cops roared up and parked their motorbikes stern-to along the curb. Then he crossed Merchant and went into his headquarters.

Captain Beamer’s office was in the basement. McGrady came in without knocking and shut the door behind him. He took off his hat and settled it onto his knee when he sat down.

“This just came in,” Beamer said. “Not half an hour ago.”

“You said the Chief was here?”

“He stepped out a minute.”

Beamer pushed up his glasses and swiveled the green shade of his lamp, uncovering the bulb. Now the room was brighter, but just as stifling. Beamer chain smoked with the door closed. There was no ventilation, and tropical heat seeped through the bedrock. Now he was lighting a new cigarette off the butt of his last. He ground out the old one, the ashtray overflowing to the desk. Even in here, Beamer wouldn’t roll up his shirtsleeves. He was that kind of guy. He was wearing a dark uniform jacket and tie, his Sam Browne belt cinched tight around his waist and across his chest. The man was too skinny to sweat.

“We’re short. Happens every year, day before Thanksgiving. I’d go up there myself if the Chief could trust someone to sit in this chair all night. He’d rather have you in the field than on the phones. Even if you’re a risk. You okay with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s what they taught you in the service?” Beamer asked. “No matter what, you say yes, sir?”

“Yes, sir,” McGrady said. “That’s how it goes.”

“I’m still getting a feel for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You worked a homicide?”

“Five, on patrol. I was first on the scene—”

“But as a detective?”

“No, sir. You know that.”

“I’m making a point. And you’re not from here, are you?”

If Beamer had seen the personnel file, then he knew McGrady wasn’t from anywhere. He’d seen Chicago, San Francisco, Norfolk, and San Juan before turning six. That was just a warm-up for what came later. His father had given him a good enough taste of the Navy, so he’d tried college instead. Four years later, he was back where he started. Except that he’d joined the Army. His hitch had ended in Honolulu, and he’d stayed on. Beamer might have known plenty about him, but it wasn’t a two way street. McGrady wasn’t even sure of his new Captain’s first name.

“I’ve been here five years since discharge. Most I’ve ever lived in one spot. This is home, sir.”

“You’re either from here, or you’re not,” Beamer said. “And you’re not. You ever walked a dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it doesn’t know the length of its lead, it’s liable to get hurt,” Beamer said. He held his hands about six inches apart. “Yours is like this. Run ahead, I’ll yank you back so hard your neck snaps.”

“All right,” McGrady said.

It was just a little thing, dropping sir. But it stopped him from reaching across the desk, wrapping Beamer’s tie around his fist, and bouncing his pinched face off the desktop. And Beamer didn’t even register it. Either you’ve been in the Army, or you haven’t.

“We’re absolutely clear on that?”

“Sure thing, Cap.”

“Then we’ll get along fine.”

Beamer’s door opened, and Chief Gabrielson stepped in. McGrady began to stand up, but Gabrielson motioned him down. There was one empty chair, but Gabrielson stood with his back against the closed door.

“You tell him yet?” he asked Beamer.

“Just getting there.”

“Start with the call,” Gabrielson said.

Beamer blew smoke in McGrady’s direction. “You know Reginald Faithful?”

“I’ve heard the name. The dairyman.”

“He’s got a house around the bend from Kahana Bay. But he runs most of his herd in Kaaawa Valley. He and the Chief are friends, so he called the Chief first. You follow me?”

“No.”

“He didn’t call the front desk, and tell his story, and get passed around till he got to someone.”

“Okay.”

“Which means, right now, there are exactly three people in the department who know about this. Which means, I’m not going to open the paper tomorrow and see a story. Am I?”

“I understand.”

“Reggie’s got this boy,” Gabrielson said. “Miguel.”

“When you say boy—”

“Not his son. A hired hand.”

“Okay.”

“So, Miguel came knocking on his door tonight,” Gabrielson went on. “He was rattled, had a story to tell. Reggie didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But if it’s true, you’ve got a case. Can you handle it, you think?”

“I’ve just been waiting for the chance.”

Beamer blew smoke at the ceiling.

“There’s an equipment shed at the back of the valley,” Gabrielson said. “Miguel keeps a cot and a blanket in there. Probably a bottle, too. He went in tonight, and got his lantern lit, and the first thing he saw was a guy hanging from the rafters.”

“A suicide?”

“You ever heard of someone putting himself upside down on a meat hook?” Beamer asked. He took a long draw on his cigarette. When he spoke again, smoke came spilling out both corners of his mouth. “That’d be a new one to me. In terms of suicide.”

“He was hanging from a hook?”

“You better get up there and find out,” Beamer said. “Maybe it’s nothing but a cowhand with the DT’s. But the second you know either way, what do you do?”

Beamer held up his hands again, indicating the length of McGrady’s leash.

“Make my report.”

“To me.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s your first murder. You’ve been here five years. I was clearing cases with Apana Chang before you were born. Remember that, and we’ll get along.”

***

McGrady took the Pali Road, the lights of Honolulu disappearing behind him as he ascended into the mountains. Then he went over the edge of the cliffs, and the only sign of civilization was the road itself. In full darkness, he came through the switchbacks. He was on the windward side. Jungle shouldered over the road and pushed through the pavement cracks. At stream crossings, waterfalls sprayed the asphalt.

In perfect conditions, it was the better part of an hour to Kahana Bay. Double that at night, then add half an hour for the rain. So it was past ten when he missed the driveway to Reggie Faithful’s half-timbered, mock-Tudor house. He found a pull-off, turned back, and skidded to a stop behind three other vehicles.

He switched off the lights and got out of the car, then looked up at the house. The size alone would have impressed him. He lived in a rented room above a chop suey shop on King Street, the smell of onions and oily pork seeping out of the walls. He could reach out from his bed and touch both of his suits, where they hung on the wall.

McGrady shut his door and walked up the stone stairway, and then across a patio. He climbed a second set of stairs to the porch, and there was Reginald Faithful, waiting for him.

“You’re McGrady?”

“That’s me. You talked to Chief Gabrielson again.”

“To find out when you were coming. And that was an hour ago.”

“Maybe you’ve got a faster way over the mountains. Where’s Miguel?”

“Inside. My wife’s keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s in shock?”

“You might put it that way.”

“How would you put it?”

“The boy’s legs were going out from underneath him. Either we gave him the couch, or he’d be on the floor.”

“You give him a drink?”

“There was no point. He was drunk when he got here.”

“That’s his truck down by the road?”

“It’s mine—my company’s. But he drives it.”

“Your wife drives the LaSalle, and you’ve got the Cadillac.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else in the house?”

“No.”

The dairyman set his hand on the porch rail and faced down the slope toward his driveway. He was wearing a wash-worn white shirt. Black suspenders kept up his khaki pants. He’d loosened his tie. He looked at the line of four cars, then back at McGrady.

“And what about you?” he asked. “No partner. You didn’t bring backup?”

“It’s just me.”

Faithful tapped his cigar on the rail.

“If you’re all I’ve got, I guess I ought to show you Miguel.”

“I’d rather get to the body—if there is one. Can Miguel walk?”

“It’ll take both of us to get him down the stairs.”

“That’s fine. You’re coming, too.”

***

Miguel Silva, Reggie Faithful’s cowhand, must have been older than Reggie Faithful’s father. He had creased, sun-darkened skin, the color of scorched mahogany. His hair was silver-black, and clipped short. He was sprawled on the couch, face up, his eyes covered with a rolled towel.

“Really? You’re taking him?”

That was Mrs. Faithful, kneeling on the floor next to her husband’s employee. She was in a gingham housedress, a loose button at the top. Wavy dark hair, eyes to match it.

“Can’t he stay with me?” she asked. “Look at the poor man.”

“Until I figure out what’s going on, you shouldn’t be alone with him.”

“He’s been with us forever. I trust him.”

“Then I shouldn’t have any trouble with him, either.”

Miguel’s clothes were soaked through with sweat. There was a strong odor of liquor coming off him. Otherwise, there was nothing wrong with him. He didn’t need Mrs. Faithful’s tender ministrations. He could sleep it off in a concrete cell, wake up with a bucket of water, and talk.

McGrady leaned down, pulled away the towel, and slapped the old man’s left cheek. He could have been rougher. It would have sped the process of rousting the guy, but there was Mrs. Faithful to consider. He wanted her on his side. Someone ought to be.

The old man opened one eye.

“You a cop?”

McGrady had one of those faces. Everything squared off and somehow unfinished, as though his sculptor had snapped a chisel on unexpectedly hard stone.

He nodded, and the man began to sit up.

“You’ll be coming with us.”

“Not going back in there.”

“All the same.”

He took Miguel’s wrist and hoisted him to his feet. After that, they went three abreast, McGrady on one side and Reggie Faithful on the other, Miguel’s arms over their shoulders for balance. Across the porch, and down the steps, and to the car. They left him sprawled across the back seat. McGrady shut the door on him and looked back at the house. Mrs. Faithful stood at the top of the steps, just the silhouette of her, the house all lit up behind.

2

The pavement ended as soon as he turned off the coast road and into Kaaawa Valley. At the beginning, the valley was broad and there were fields on either side of the stream. He caught scents of wet grass and cattle, of jungle water running down out of the mountains. But the valley narrowed as he drove up it, the fields shrinking as the cliff walls came in toward the stream. They went under a stand of mango trees and then came into a sodden meadow where nothing grew but ginger.

“It’s just around the bend,” Faithful said. “A quarter mile.”

McGrady glanced behind him. Miguel was asleep again.

“Where’s he live when he’s not sleeping in the shed?”

“His whole family’s out in Nanakuli.”

“That far?”

“He gets out there once or twice a month.”

“So he lives in the shed.”

Faithful shrugged.

“It’s got what he needs.”

McGrady rounded the last bend and saw the shed. It was backed up against the cliffs, a low waterfall off to the right where the stream broke out of the mountains. It was made of unpainted hardwood lumber. It was rotting from the outside in, but the boards were so thick it probably had a hundred years to go.

“I’m going in,” McGrady said. “Stay here with Silva. Shout out if he wakes up. Or makes a run for it. Or comes after you.”

He pulled the keys from the ignition, got out of the car, and slammed the door. Faithful jumped out and spoke to him over the roof.

“If he comes after me?”

“Half the time, the guy who finds the body is the one who put it there. So if he comes at you, do whatever you have to do. And shout for me. I’ll come running.”

McGrady went to the back of the car and used his keys to open the trunk. He found his flashlight. A big six-cell rolled-steel job, heavy as a truncheon. He thumbed the switch. Nothing happened. He gave it a hard slap against his left palm. The trunk flooded with yellow light. There was a black leather satchel with the tools of the trade. He opened it and dug past the extra cuffs and the booklets of blank forms and the teak billy-club. He took out his backup piece, which was a .45 ACP automatic. An unauthorized holdover from his Army days, and not the kind of thing he wanted unattended in a car with his captain’s friend and a possible murder suspect. He chambered a round, tucked it behind his belt, and slammed the trunk lid.

Reginald Faithful was a foot away from him, blinking against the light and swatting mosquitoes away from his face.

“You got one of those for me?”

“No.”

“How about a light?”

“You’ve got the car lights.”

“You’re leaving me out here?”

“It’s your land.”

He walked across the hoof-trodden dirt, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and stepped inside. Before he even brought the light around, he knew the old man hadn’t lied about everything. There was death here. If the smell hadn’t given it away, the flies would have.

The day had topped out at eighty-five degrees. It was cooler now, with the rain blowing in and out. But the shed had been sealed tight, and was holding onto the day’s heat. When the door cracked open, McGrady recognized the stench right away. There was a slaughterhouse on the west side of the island, and his business had taken him there twice in the last six months. So he knew the smell of pooled blood and piled entrails, and that at least prepared him for what he saw when his eyes focused.

The dead man hung upside down from the rafters, his ankles impaled on either side of an iron spreader bar. There was no question but that he was dead. He’d been split nearly in half, and most of his guts were on the dirt floor. McGrady covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his left arm, and stepped the rest of the way into the shed.

A fly rose up from the floor and settled on the lens of his light. He waved it away, then crouched to look at the man’s face. He was young, maybe eighteen or twenty. It was hard to say, because his eyes were gone and his tongue may have been missing. McGrady wasn’t about to dig around in his wrecked mouth to find out for sure.

He got to his feet and turned slowly, casting around with the light. He saw Miguel’s camp stove and coffeepot. There was a wooden bucket with water and a bamboo ladle. There were shovels and pickaxes, and bits of nameless tackle and gear hanging from wall hooks. There was a cot along the far wall, piled high with a jumble of sheets and old canvas tarpaulins and Miguel’s other clothes.

He turned the light up, and saw the rafters and the underside of the tin roof. The spreader bar hung from a rope, which was looped through a pulley. Someone had hoisted the man up, his whole weight on hooks sunk deep into his ankles.

If he’d been alive for that part, the screams would have carried a mile. McGrady figured he’d been alive. His legs and back were slick with blood that had run down from his ankles. Impossible if he’d been dead. So he would have screamed, long and hard. But there was no one within screaming distance. This far back in the valley, only the cows would have heard him.

McGrady backed out of the shed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went over to the car. Miguel was motionless in the back. Reginald Faithful came out of the shadows.

“It’s true?”

“I need your telephone,” McGrady said. “Unless there’s another one closer.”

“We leave all this here?”

“The sooner we go, the sooner I can come back. But I’ve got to talk to my captain, and call in the meat wagon.”

***

The Faithfuls left him alone in the house. He decided to call Molly first. One of her roommates answered. The new girl, from California. He couldn’t remember her name.

“It’s Joe,” he said. “Can you put Molly on?”

“She’s been asleep an hour. Since she got back from the library. You want me to wake her up?”

“Can you leave her a note?”

“What note?”

“I caught a big case. I’ll make it for dinner tomorrow if I can. If I don’t, tell her I’m sorry.”

The California girl muttered something and hung up. McGrady called the operator again, and got himself transferred to the downtown police station, detective bureau. He had Captain Beamer on the line inside of a minute.

“McGrady?”

“Yeah.”

“I was starting to wonder if I could trust you. What’ve we got up there?”

“It’s what the man said. A body, hanging from the rafters. But he’s cut up bad.”

“It’s a man?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“He’s naked.”

McGrady paused, waiting for his Captain to cut in. But the man said nothing, so McGrady went on.

“I think what killed him was the disemboweling.”

Beamer was rubbing the telephone’s receiver against his chin. It had been a while since he’d shaved.

“Other marks?”

The truth was McGrady had looked at the body for maybe ten seconds, holding a shaking flashlight against the dark. The guy could have had words carved into his back, entire paragraphs with names and addresses, and he wouldn’t have seen it. He’d just seen the one angle.

He said, “Maybe when the coroner washes him off, we’ll know more.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Hard to say,” McGrady said. “He’s covered with blood and his face is a mess. I don’t think he’s anyone I know. I don’t know who you know.”

“Race?”

“He’s got white skin—I can say that for sure. Take out a guy’s eyes and it’s hard to rule some things out.”

“He could be a Jap, is what you’re saying. What color is his hair?”

“Bloody,” McGrady said. He pictured the body again. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s Caucasian. He’s too tall. Shoulders are broader than mine.”

“All right,” Beamer said. “Get back out there and sit tight. I’ll round up some help and send it your way. And put Reggie on. I want to talk to him.”

McGrady set the phone on the table and walked out of the house. He found the Faithfuls on the porch. Reggie was leaning against the rail, watching the road down below. His wife was on a rocking chair thirty feet away, at the opposite end. Just a shadow, and the lit tip of a cigarette. He hadn’t figured her for a smoker. Maybe she dealt herself an exception on nights when corpses turned up on their land. He could relate.

Reggie heard the door close, and turned at the sound.

“Yes?”

“Beamer wants you,” McGrady said. He put his hat back on, and nodded toward Mrs. Faithful. Then he hurried down the steps to his car. Miguel was asleep in the back. That was fine. He could hand him off to the patrolmen when they arrived, or he could bring him to town himself.