Rickards glanced at the clock on their Camry’s dash as he pulled to a stop next to the only two remaining cars.  “Looks like class is out.”

“Most of them end before 3:00 p.m.  Hopefully, our Mr. Townsend is still around.”

Together, they climbed out and approached the main entrance, crossing an open patch of Hawaii’s thick zoysia grass where two glass doors were propped open, welcoming in the afternoon breeze.

Scanning a small directory, they located the mathematics classrooms without difficulty and peeked inside each one.  All three were empty.  Finding nothing and no one else, the two climbed a set of wide stairs to the second floor, where more rooms lined the hallway, along with several offices, one bearing Townsend’s name on a light-colored plate.

“Locked.”

Angela frowned and looked up and down the hall.  Hearing someone talking near the far end, she and Rickards followed the noise and reached the final classroom, finding two students conversing.

“Excuse me,” Angela interrupted.  “Do you know if Professor Townsend is around?”

One of the two girls, attractive with distinct Polynesian features, shook her head.  “He usually leaves around two o’clock.”

“Every day?”

“Like clockwork.” The girl nodded.

“Do you know what time he arrives in the morning?”

“I think his first class is at eleven.  So probably about 10:30, unless there’s a faculty meeting.”

“I see.”  Angela smiled.  “Thank you.”

Both girls politely returned a smile and resumed their conversation, leaving Angela and Rickards falling back into the darkened hallway.

“That was quick.”

“I guess it’s onto Plan B.  Unless you want to wait until tomorrow.”

“What’s Plan B?”

Angela reached down and pulled her phone from her purse.  “I have his home address.”

***

Forty minutes away by car and along the island’s west coast, Lahaina had once served as the capital of the Kingdom of Hawaii.  In present day, the city still rested upon the ruins of Lahaina Fort, which dated back two hundred years and held the distinction of being the island’s largest census-designated place, or CDP.

With 11,000 permanent residents, the district often swelled to over 40,000 during peak tourist season, with an epicenter precisely two miles north on the same road onto which Joe and Angela had just turned. They slowed, looking for Townsend’s address.

The house was smaller than either were expecting, built upon a small, narrow lot that looked as though it had been squeezed between two much larger homes.

Rickards and Angela parked and approached the house, stopping in front of its waist-high chain-link fence.  On the other side, a modest green lawn appeared long and unkept and in the process of being slowly retaken by dozens of nearby bushes.  Multiple potted plants lined the porch, all wilted and browning.

The two looked at each other before Rickards raised the metal clasp of the gate and swung it open. They made their way over the overgrown walkway leading to the porch.