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closets, our businesses had been allowed to run, with darkened windows and little advertising. Now that we were pressing our claims to live freely, marry like everyone else, things were getting more difficult.
    It couldn’t have been easy for an openly gay couple like Jerry Bosk and Victor Ramos to live next door to a religious family, the kind who kept a statue of St. Joseph on the front lawn.
    The house itself was nondescript, maybe a little more rundown than the average house on the street. It was a single-story ranch, painted a faded green, with brown grass in the front yard and a small outbuilding at the back. The slant-eyed St. Joseph said nothing as I walked up to the door and rang the bell.
    A trim, dark-haired young woman in a light-blue polo shirt and dark slacks answered. I showed her my badge and introduced myself. Though I knew she was a tenant, and not the owner, I asked, “Are you Mrs. Pender?”
    “Mrs. White. We’re renting from the Penders.” She didn’t invite me inside.
    “I understand you’re a runner,” I said.
    “Sometimes.”
    “A man was shot about a block away from here, early this morning,” I said. “Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”
    “I wear headphones when I run. I get into a zone, and I block everything else out.” I could just imagine her; I saw women like that every day on the streets of Waikiki, their grim determination seeming to suck all the joy out of exercising.
    “I know what you mean. I’m a surfer, and I focus the same way.” I paused for a minute. “Did you ever notice the homeless man living on the empty lot?”
    She grimaced. “Creepy guy. The city shouldn’t let people like that live on the street.”
    “Did he ever threaten you?”
    I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes, but she said, “No. I never had anything to do with him.”
    “Well, thanks anyway.” I checked her left hand before I said, “Your husband. Can I speak with him?”
    Again, there was something strange about her eyes, the way alarm seemed to register in them. “He sleeps late. He snores. He wouldn’t have heard anything.”
    “If it’s okay, I’d still like to talk to him.” I looked over her shoulder. A man I assumed was her husband stood in the background. “Mr. White?”
    Grudgingly, the woman stepped aside, and her husband came forward. He was dark-haired, a bit pudgy, wearing a shapeless T-shirt and jeans that were too tight around the waist. There was something familiar about him, but couldn’t place him. I repeated what I’d told his wife. “Did you see anything this morning?”
    When I’d first come out, my friend Gunter gave me some interesting advice. “Straight men won’t look you in the eyes,” he said. “Gay men will. That’s a big part of gaydar. It’s not about whether a guy has a limp wrist or says Mary every five minutes. It’s about whether he’ll make eye contact or not.”
    I’d put that to the test a couple of times, with interesting results. Especially because an awful lot of gay people on O’ahu knew who I was, that I was the gay cop, I’d gotten some surprising readings. It was equally surprising that this guy, Mr. White, looked me in the eyes with something that looked a lot like hunger.
    No wonder his wife hadn’t wanted me to talk to him.
    Unfortunately, Mr. White really had been asleep that morning, and hadn’t heard a thing. Probably to interrupt any additional flirtation, his wife put her hand on the door. “I’m sorry, detective, but we’re very busy right now. You know how it is, you get home and there’s so much to do.”
    “Thank you very much, Mr. and Mrs. White. You have a good evening, now.”
    She shut the door firmly without wishing me the same. I could see why Vic Ramos called her Mrs. Whack Job. Not the friendliest person to have for a neighbor. But rudeness wasn’t a crime under the Hawai’i Penal Code, though if my mother had her way it would be.
    I had a couple more houses to canvass, but