Thomas

If you ever want to shock Lieutenant Tanaka of the Honolulu police department, try throwing out the word 'nawashi.' I got a stunned glare and a lot of shuffling around as a quick response to my question.

"Where the hell did you hear that?" he finally asked me. I did my best to look innocent but the two of us knew each other too well to pull it off, so I stopped trying pretty quickly.

"Right now I can't say, but it's nothing to do with a case," I assured him. He looked only slightly mollified by that. "So what does it mean?"

Now he looked . . . apprehensive. I gave him time, planting my feet in a way that told him I wasn't going anywhere until I got an answer and that seemed to move things along.

"It's Japanese. An old term that means 'rope maker,'" Tanaka muttered rubbing his chin, "but in reality it means a helluva lot more than that, Magnum. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into but this isn't something . . . normal."

"Rope maker. As in . . . bondage?" I prodded, about ninety percent sure now that I was on the right track.

Tanaka gave a little sigh, his mouth twisting up. "Bingo. And not your average 'tie me to the bedposts' kind of stuff either. We're talking about Kinbaku- the sort of intricate work done by interrogators and torturers since the Edo period. The sort of work you see in clubs that cater to very rich and very dangerous people. Yakuza dangerous."

That sent a quick jolt down my spine but I did my best to shrug it off. "This doesn't involve any clubs. It's just a term I heard someone use in passing and I was curious."

Tanaka gave me one of those keen-eyed stares of his and I met it. Finally he gave a little sigh. "Okay, fine. But it's not a term that's thrown around lightly. A nawashi is a specialist, Magnum. They're well-paid professionals and not always on the straight and narrow, so whoever used it probably knows more than they're saying."

"Professionals?" I tried to sound mildly curious but underneath I felt another jolt as the connection between danger, ropes, and Daisy got a little stronger.

"You don't pick up skills like these in an afternoon from a manual," Tanaka muttered. "And like a lot of other expressive forms of Japanese culture it gets misinterpreted. It's not," he sighed, "for amateurs. So watch yourself."

The fact that Tanaka was warning me had me reconsidering my next steps but now I was more than curious; I was concerned. I took myself to the public library, asked a few questions and ended up being escorted to the restricted book cage and left with a one hour time period to look over the two related items that the librarian had found for me. The first one was a privately printed book all in Japanese but filled with illustrations of particular knots and bindings carefully drawn with step by step directions. I couldn't read it, but it was easy to get the gist of the instructions.

The other item was a black and white magazine from the nineteen Fifties with glossy photos and all of a sudden the reality of the art was right there under my fingertips. Page after page of half-dressed women trussed up in exotic ties and positions. I'd be a liar if I denied that some of the images had me aroused; it had been a while since I'd seen exposed flesh, and none of the women here looked distressed or scared.

And that got to me. Most of them had a sort of glazed dispassionate expression, a sort of otherworldly look that made it clear they were a part of what was going on. Partners in the act so to speak, dangling or draped like exotic ornaments.

Now what the lieutenant said made sense. This wasn't pornography the way I understood it, no this was something on a different level. Still highly erotic, but much more sophisticated than your average copy of Playboy. This was an art and a discipline, albeit a disturbing one.

I left before my time was up, thanking the librarian who seemed unfazed by the request. I guess there were other items in the restricted books cage that probably made this look tame by comparison. Still, as I drove back home, I thought about the suitcase in the attic and debated once again about looking inside it.

Now, of course I had to factor in the knowledge that Daisy was in hiding, and from the sound of it, from someone who was a part of her past and part of this bondage scene. I could justify it on the basis of estate security I suppose—if pushed I could always claim that. But given that Robin had invited Daisy to stay here it might not hold much water. I wondered if Robin knew about what Daisy was doing too, and offered her sanctuary as much to get her out of the business as anything else.

Wasn't sure what to say—if anything—to Higgins. Sure he's stuffy and cantankerous but scarily intuitive when it comes to picking up my train of thought. One question about kinbaku and he'd probably insist on alerting Robin or confronting Daisy, neither of which would be good.

When I got back to Robin's Nest nobody was around. There were three messages on my answering machine: one potential client who wanted me to check out a marriage counseling scam; a request from TC to call him back; and a time-share salesman. I knew it was the morning Higgins went to play bridge at the Palms, and that Daisy's AMC wasn't in the garage so I had the place to myself.

I went up to the attic.

The suitcase was an American Tourister in dull tan, with latches and a tag on the handle. I checked it: D. Munro, no listed address. Carefully I set the suitcase on its side, facing away from me and reached to undo the latches. I wasn't expecting a bomb but I wasn't taking any chances either, especially after all I'd learned. I pulled the top up and glanced over it, into the depths of the suitcase.

Sunglasses. Leather gloves. Very expensive black lace lingerie. Under that, rope. Neatly coiled, pale cotton, cut into lengths with knotted ends. And under that, a Beretta 950.

Now I had questions.

Daisy

I had signed up with the only talent agency on Oahu and they got me small bits of work here and there, mostly based on the stunt work on my resume. I'd been in a car commercial where I surfed on the hood of a moving vehicle, and climbed a coconut tree in a Ginger Grant costume to help promote some local channel's reruns of Gilligan's Island. Silly stuff, but it was bringing a little money in and I didn't object to showing off a bit.

Currently I was in the running for a jump out of a helicopter onto a floating target for Golden Doll Suntan lotion. The producer wanted to paint me gold, sort of like the woman in the Bond movie. Tricky—I knew body paint had gotten better since nineteen sixty-four, but it could still be uncomfortable since it would stop me from sweating and staying cool. I gave in though, especially when they offered to pay me extra for it. I'd even get to try out the paint beforehand as well, and that clinched matters. As I drove back to Robin's Nest with a few cans of the spray, I was feeling a little achy, and when I shifted in the car seat, I suddenly realized why as the trickle wetted the inside of my thigh.

Damn it.

I made it home and inside before I stained the car seat but I knew I was going to have to do some hard cold scrubbing to get the blood out of my jeans. Usually I keep track better than this but between the move and being busy I hadn't been paying attention much. I slunk in, grateful that Higgins wasn't around and stripped out in the bathroom. One pair of sweats later I felt the cramps begin in earnest, and that sent me on a hunt for Midol. There was nothing in any of the upstairs bathrooms and I was making a circuit of the downstairs ones, feeling crappier by the minute.

I found a first aid kit but all it had as aspirin which I knew wouldn't do me much good. I didn't really want to get back in the car and go to the market, which left one possibility, so I made my way over to the guest house, fingers crossed. "Magnum? Are you in?"

It took a few minutes for him to answer the door and when he did I tried to smile. "Ah, this is really embarrassing but do you have any . . . pain reliever? Something besides aspirin?"

"Headache?" he blurted and I rolled my eyes.

Men. Good lord.

Apparently my expression was enough to clue him in and Magnum blushed, backing up to let me in. "Ohhh, um, let me go check."

I wandered down the stairs after him, feeling bloated and debating on a nap. There seemed to be a rubber chicken on the coffee table so I picked it up, making it hoot softly. Magnum came back a few minutes later with two bottles and a glass of water.

"I've got Tylenol and some Midol . . ."

I'm embarrassed at how fast I snagged the meds out of his hands. Only took me a moment to chug two Midol down and wash them along with the water, draining the cup before handing everything back to him. "Thanks. I really needed those."

"I could tell," he muttered but didn't look grossed out, which helped. "Need a heating pad too?"

That's when I stared at Magnum. "Do you have one?"

He'd had it tucked under his arm and handed it to me.

I clutched it to my chest, almost in tears at this point. "I owe you," I muttered, "big time for this. Next time you need a fake wife, just let me know."

"I'll do that. Might be sooner than you think," Magnum told me with that sort of wry grin he does so well. He took the rubber chicken from me, and we just looked at each other for one of those long assessing moments. Hazel eyes and thick lashes. I've always been kind of a sucker for hazel eyes.

"Okay then," I sighed and turned for the stairs. A long nap with that heating pad were in my immediate future. "Thank you, Tomcat."

"I'm not a tomcat," he groused. I shifted on the stairs, looking down at him.

"Sure you are . . . confident; studly; prone to getting into scraps; assuredly unneutered."

The rubber chicken gave a very loud squawk as Magnum strangled it and I laughed the rest of the way up the stairs and back to the main house.

Once I got to my room I stretched out, plugged in the heating pad and took a nap, hoping I'd bypass the worst of the cramps. After all, I had gold paint to try out in a few hours.