Read O'ahu Lonesome Tonight? (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series #5) for Free Online

vestibule with a large carved mahogany door on the opposite side from the
elevator. There was a small brass plaque with ‘Penthouse’ engraved in script to
the left of the door. Jeff took a key card from the folder and slipped it into
the lock. A light flashed green and then the lock beeped.
    “Moment of
truth,” Jeff said as he pushed the door open.
    The penthouse
opened before us like a cave of buried treasure. The first thing my eyes landed
on was the view. A sweeping horizon of sapphire blue ocean
lay dead ahead. We were up so high it seemed we were seeing it from the
vantage point of a bird in flight.
    “Wow.”
    “Yeah, wow,”
Jeff said. “I knew Tom had hit it big with that app he created, but I had no
idea how big.”
    “Well, I’d say
a full-on ocean view Waikiki penthouse means it was big with a capital “B”
big.”
    We looked
around the spacious penthouse. The floors were some kind of ebony-colored
hardwood and every flat surface was either granite or marble. The bathrooms had
those sinks that look like big glass bowls sitting on the counter. The kitchen
was stainless steel everything with an enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator that was
paneled in the same expensive-looking wood as the cabinets. There were two
bedrooms. One looked down on the ocean and the other looked over the rooftops
of the city.
    “I’ll flip you
for the water view,” Jeff said.
    “No, you take
it. I’ve got vertigo enough just being up this high. I’ll feel a little more
grounded seeing other buildings around.” It wasn’t true, but I wanted Jeff to
get to see the ocean as much as possible while he was here. After all, I can go
to the beach any day of the week.
    The lanai off
my bedroom looked out across the entire skyline of Waikiki and ended with the
green folds of the the Ko Olau Range mountains beyond Manoa .
I was glad I’d offered Jeff the other bedroom. I’d spent four years at UH and Manoa would always have a special place in my heart.
    That night we
went out to find a restaurant we could both agree on. It turned out to be
sushi. Actually, I’m not a big fan of sushi.  It seems to come out of the
kitchen missing a key ingredient—cooking. But Jeff said he rarely has time at
home to savor a true sushi bar experience so I conceded. Even though I’d
probably just stick to ‘training wheels’ sushi like California roll, the sushi
bar vibe is usually a lot of fun. 
    The restaurant
was on the second floor of an open-air shopping area a few blocks mauka ,or inland, from the beach. The
entrance was window-less, with only a simple sign displaying the name, ‘Miyake
Sushi’ in both Japanese and English. When we got inside, it was quickly
apparent it was an authentic Japanese place, not a wanna -be place catering to American tourists. The
front entrance was feng shui’d to the max—very dimly lit, with a small koi pool, bamboo plants, and pale
yellow walls. Farrah would’ve loved the décor, but she probably wouldn’t have
appreciated seeing the fish swimming in the huge aquarium. No doubt those very
fish were the ones referred to in the menu as ‘freshest fish in town’ and those
guys blithely doing their last laps were only an order away from being cleaved
into tiny morsels.   
    The hostess
wore an authentic Japanese kimono. It was an exquisite silk wrapping of coral
pink, white and pale blue. Her hair was done up in a heavily-lacquered bun. She
took a look at us and her face displayed the tiniest flash of concern. She
bowed her head slightly. In a small voice she greeted us in Japanese and
gestured for us to follow her.
    “I think this
is a Japanese restaurant,” I whispered to Jeff.
    “Of course it’s
Japanese,” he said. “It’s sushi.”
    “No, I mean I
think this is a restaurant for Japanese people. Not for us.”
    “I don’t see a
sign saying we can’t eat here,” he said. By now four or five diners positioned
at the sushi counter along the back wall were staring at us, chopsticks poised
in