Authors: Toby Neal
Because no matter the privacy challenges, time constraints, and limits of physical tiredness, she needed her husband.
Now.
The cotton sheets were silky on her nakedness as she slid in beside Stevens, and as she moved against his length, the heat of his body warmed her cool one. Stevens woke at her nearness, then woke further at her wandering hands and turned toward her.
His touch trailed liquid fire over and through her body, and in minutes they were joined in a moving, breath-held, quiet intimacy that felt like the solid rightness of a key sliding into a lock and opening a box of treasure. She’d never get tired of all there was to discover between them, from long, fragrant, noisy hours of extreme sensation to this soft, tender clenching in semidarkness, others asleep nearby.
Lei fell into a deep and dreamless sleep for the few hours given her, held close in his arms.
* * *
Stevens sat up and hit the Off button on the alarm. He was still in bed, since Kiet had slept later than usual. Lei had left early. The bed still smelled like her…and he wasn’t eager to leave the nest of warm sheets.
As if discerning this thought, Kiet rolled over and, using the bars of his crib, pulled himself upright. He was early at that—and many other milestones, they’d discovered. Spotting his father still in bed, he smacked the top of the bar with his hand.
“Da, da, da!” he stated.
“Daddy,” Stevens enunciated carefully, sitting up and realizing he was still naked. He reached over onto the floor for last night’s boxers, shed during that surprise visit from Lei. “Da-da-da-ddy.”
“Da-da!” Kiet yelled happily.
“Okay, close enough, little man.” Stevens picked up and changed the baby on his little changing table nearby, talking to him as he did so. Kiet grinned, kicking his legs. Kiet was such a joy. He thought of their lost child with a pang. It would have been challenging but fun to have two babies. Lei would have been seven months along by now if she hadn’t had the miscarriage.
Stevens thought of the Big Island case that had brought them so much heartbreak. An old enemy from Lei’s past had been behind a series of vicious attacks, and the stress of dealing with them had caused Lei’s traumatic miscarriage. That was his secret opinion, in spite of the doctor’s “these things happen” commentary, but he’d never say so because Lei blamed herself, questioning her ability to be a mother.
It was going to take time, and the love and relationship she had with Kiet, to heal her enough to be ready to try again.
He mentally shrugged off the sorrow, setting Kiet on the bed as he got into a cotton robe. He carried the child out into the kitchen. “Let’s go over and get your grandma up for some coffee.”
Wayne was already up and had the fragrant Kona brew going. So, a few minutes later, Stevens, clad in robe and rubber slippers with a mug of coffee in one hand and the baby on his hip in the other, made his way across the dewy morning grass to the tent.
“Mom?” He couldn’t see inside because the interior flaps were zipped shut. “Mom, I brought coffee.”
No answer. He frowned and set her mug down on the grass. Awkward with one hand, he drew up the zipper and poked his head in.
Alcohol fumes met his nose, along with a musky smell he associated with old people and closed spaces. “Mom?”
Kiet wriggled to get down. He loved to play in the tent, and now Stevens had to use both hands to keep a grip on the baby. Kiet grunted and writhed, eager to crawl around, and Stevens stepped back out. Making a decision, he backtracked rapidly across the yard and up the steps, setting Kiet in the playpen in the living room.
Wayne turned away from refilling his mug. “You’re back quick.”
“Mom’s been drinking. I need to leave Kiet here.”
“No problem.”
Stevens walked rapidly back to the tent. He peered inside again. “Mom?”
Still no answer. He unzipped the tent and entered. He squatted in the dim light beside the air mattress. He reached out a hand and shook her by the shoulder. “Mom.”
Her head flopped, but her mouth opened, and he heard and smelled her boozy exhaled breath. His stomach tightened with repulsion and frustration. He glanced around, spotted the empty quart bottle of Scotch. She’d always been fond of that particular liquor, believing that it was the drink of “real women.”
Stevens was just lucky she hadn’t puked all over Lei’s nice patterned rug, but there was still time for that to happen. He backed out of the tent and strode across the grass to the newly erected carport, where he found a plastic utility bucket and brought it back, setting it down next to his mother’s passed-out form.
Just in case.
He backed out and rezipped the tent. His gut churned with familiar emotions: anger, disappointment, disgust, and grief, too, that she’d come all this way and this was what happened on day one.
No wonder she’d wanted to go to bed early. She’d had that bottle waiting. He left the coffee mug where he’d set it down. She could drink it cold when she woke up.
He reached in the pocket of his robe and pulled out his phone to call Jared.
“I should have searched her backpack,” he said when his brother answered. “She had a bottle, and she’s passed out in the tent.”
“Listen to you, bro,” Jared snapped. “She got drunk, and it’s your fault because you didn’t take away her booze in time.”
A long pause. Stevens pushed a hand through his unruly hair, struggling not to snap back at his brother even as he admitted to himself Jared was right. Fighting each other wasn’t going to help them, or deal with the problem of their mother. It was frustrating to be tested this way so quickly after their pact of the night before.
“I’m sorry for biting your head off,” Jared said, heaving a sigh. “I just woke up. Haven’t had my morning coffee. And I admit I was a little taken in last night. Let myself get hopeful. She was so sincere. So happy to be a grandma.”
“I felt the same,” Stevens said. “And you’re right. Searching her, trying to prevent her getting something—none of it works.”
“Wayne said he thinks she’s so thin because she’s unhealthy. Maybe she’s sicker than we know, and we need to talk to her about rehab anyway. I’m off today. How about I make an appointment for a doctor visit and come get her?”
“Sounds great.” Stevens headed back to the cottage. “I have to go in to work. First day on my new detail as official trainer for new detectives. I don’t think the captain would look kindly on me calling in.”
“Well, after the doctor we’ll know more and we can decide what to do about her.”
Stevens agreed and said goodbye, the ominous sound of his brother’s last sentence reverberating in his mind: “what to do about her.”
What to do, indeed.
And though things had gone quiet with their enemies supposedly dead or in jail, Stevens would never be able to forget the relentless attacks of the one they’d called the shroud killer. The man they’d brought down on the Big Island had his trial in a few weeks, and Lei would have to go to the Big Island to testify.
Stevens wished he was more confident that the one in custody really was the shroud killer. He still had concerns that the remaining member of the Chang crime family, Terence Chang, had some long-term plan to move on them when their guard was down.
When there was vulnerability in their lives, like his mother the raging alcoholic.
Chapter 6
L
ei sipped her second cup of inky coffee at her workstation, giving a swizzle with the little plastic stir stick and hoping the chunks of creamer would dissolve. An e-mail from Pono had come through before she left the house in the morning, and she’d been able to print out the IDs and mug shots of two men with minor records he’d identified last night from the prints. Pono had gone home at three a.m., according to the time stamp on his e-mail.
Lei scanned the photos she’d printed out. Unfortunately, either of them could have matched the description Shayla Cummings had given, and both of them resided on Oahu.
“Too many average-height men with black hair and brown eyes, medium build, and no visible tats or facial hair,” Lei muttered to herself. That was the general description Shayla had given Kevin, the sketch artist, of the suspect’s overall appearance.
She inspected the photos more closely. One of the suspects, Freddie Arenas, listed an address in Kahuku, a town near the North Shore where the pro surfers hung out this time of year. The other, August Jones, had a downtown Honolulu address.
Lei flipped through her file folder for the artist’s sketch. Holding it carefully next to the photos, she tried to see which one most matched the pictures.
It was really hard to tell. Freddie Arenas had a mustache and one of those chinstrap beards in his photo, and August Jones wore a goatee that covered the center of his chin. The man Kevin had sketched had been clean-shaven.
Stumped for the moment, Lei put the pictures and sketch away and pulled out the reference file she’d begun on the Triple Crown of Surfing and Makoa Simmons’s sponsors and career. She’d hurriedly printed some references on the event.
According to the website, the Triple Crown was won by a scoring system that went across three events: the Hawaiian Pro held at Haleiwa, the World Cup of Surfing held at Sunset Beach, and the Pipeline Masters held at Ehukai Beach Park. Events were held when surf was judged good enough, between November and December of any given year. Participation in the contests was by invitation only, and those invited were considered “big wave masters” of surfing. The contests were a part of the main American Professional Surfing circuit of contests, but were also scored and managed separately from the bigger roster of worldwide events.
Reading up on it, she found Makoa’s talent and drive even more extraordinary. To have achieved such a level at his age, and from Maui, where there wasn’t as well developed a surf scene as some other islands, was remarkable.
Lei flipped to the bio she’d found on Makoa. He’d attended a private school, Paradise Preparatory Academy, and graduated in the top of his class. According to interviews, he’d said, “I made a deal with my parents: if I didn’t make a living within my first year out of high school on the pro surfing circuit, I’d go to college.”
He’d secured a host of sponsors within his first few months of turning pro, chief among them Torque, an international surf and skateboard company with subsidiaries in motocross and snowboarding. He lived during the winter season at the Torque surfing team house on the North Shore of Oahu, famous for its regular, excellent surf during that time of year.
Lei had a business summary about the sports brand, which made clothing and “incidentals” for surfing, including wax, leashes, neoprene pads for surfboard decks, backpacks, and board bags. Torque was a division of a much larger sportswear company, NeoSport, and even Lei, who only browsed an occasional surf magazine, was aware of their successful ad campaign, “Be Amazing
.
”
The “Be Amazing” campaign showed athletes at the peak of their sport: oiled beach volleyball bodies flying through the air, football players crashing like rams in rut, and a shot of Makoa Simmons doing a reverse off-the-lip air on a wave much too thick and intense for that kind of freestyle maneuver. According to the blurb, he’d stuck the landing and had been able to end his ride successfully—and he’d only been at the beginning of his career.
The more Lei studied Makoa Simmons, the more tragic his death seemed. Lei traced the photo of Makoa flying with her fingertips, remembering her last glimpse of him as they’d zipped up the body bag to carry him off the beach, accompanied by the sound of the girls crying. Their grief echoed in her own heart. Her losses were never far from the surface.
The phone rang, startling Lei out of her dark thoughts. “Sergeant Texeira.”
“Lei, it’s Doc over at the morgue. I wanted to have you and Pono over for a quick review of my autopsy findings.”
“Sure.” Lei’s stomach tightened at the prospect of the morgue. Only Pono knew how much she hated going there. The morgue always reminded her of the first time she’d identified a body, that of a dear friend. “When do you need us?”
“I worked late and got the post done, but I wanted to be extra careful because I know this case is going to get a lot of scrutiny. Soon as you can get here is good.”
“Okay, thanks.” Lei hung up and phoned Pono, waking her partner. “Meet me at the morgue. The post is done.”
It wasn’t long before Lei and her partner were on the elevator at Maui Memorial Hospital, riding down to the lowest floor, marked with a nondescript “B.”
Pono was rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, and his shirt had a splotch of coffee on the front.
“Sorry to get you up so early,” Lei said. “I guess I could have gone on my own.”
“No. It’s the first twenty-four. We have to get as much traction as we can on this.” Pono glanced at her, and his mouth quirked up. “Have you seen your hair today?”
“No. And I don’t plan to,” Lei replied, but she tried to smooth the springing, frizzing curls off her forehead. She’d avoided looking at the newspaper the office stocked as well as her hair. She knew the Simmons case would be the headline, and reading what was being said would only distract her, intensifying the sense of pressure they were under.
The morgue was through swinging doors designed to respond to wheeled gurneys, and the inner sanctum was accessed by an automatic button on the wall or a push bar. Pono hit the push bar, and Lei took one last breath of fresh air, bracing herself, and walked in.
Dr. Gregory was behind his desk, typing. At the sight of them, he dropped his glasses to dangle around his stout neck. Today’s shirt was embellished with red and green leis. The sight reminded Lei that Christmas wasn’t far away. They’d been trying to get the house done by then, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen.
“Ah. I’ll get our young man.”
Lei wished she didn’t have to see the body again.
What I do is at least a way to get justice for Makoa.
The thought brought steel back to her spine. She glanced around the large room.
The bodies were all put away at the moment in their pull-out drawers. Every other time Lei had been here, the stations had been occupied. The open space with three steel-topped tables with drains beneath them, bright lights gleaming on metal, saws, scales, and other impedimenta neatly stowed, reminded her of a restaurant kitchen.
The thought made her stomach lurch.
She and Pono followed Dr. Gregory over to a bank of square metal doors. Gregory popped the clasp on one of them with a sound like opening a soda bottle and pulled out the drawer.
Makoa Simmons’s body was naked. His tan had yellowed as blood drained from his tissues. The Y incision on his broad, once-muscular chest looked cartoonish, the skin rubbery. Lei grasped her hands behind her back as Gregory put his readers back on. He pointed to shadowy marks on the young man’s neck and forehead.
“See these? Consistent with a forceful grip used to hold him under. I’ve sent the stomach contents and blood work out, but that’s probably not notable. Cause of death is drowning.”
“So no surprises from your early assessment of homicide,” Pono said.
“Right. But I’m still wondering how the suspect, whom I heard described as medium height and weight, was able to hold Makoa down. Must have caught him by surprise.”
“I can’t imagine Simmons saw it coming,” Lei said. “He was at his home break, surrounded by friends. Or people he thought were friendly, at least. A guy dropped in on him—but that guy wasn’t just any ordinary wave-stealing jerk. I wouldn’t have seen it coming, either.”
“Right.”
“So do you have anything else for us?”
“Well, I was hoping to get something more specific off the marks on his neck. Hand size, maybe some trace. But I went over it with a fine-tooth comb, and there was nothing. The ocean removed anything that might have remained.”
“That’s a shame. We have two possible fingerprint matches from the van the suspect rented, and they both could be the sketch we worked up with a witness yesterday.” Lei drew back from the body, breathing shallowly through her mouth. “We’re going out on a couple of interviews this morning, and one of them is with his parents.”
“Oh. Then you can give them his clothing.” Gregory pushed the body back into the refrigerated shelving and led them to a locker. “He only had on this bracelet and these shorts.”
The humble items were in a plastic bag, neatly labeled. The shorts were emblazoned with
torque
down a side seam, and the bracelet was made of heavy silver links with a tiny plaque on it with the initials “SC.”
“Shayla Cummings,” Lei said aloud, fingering the bracelet through the plastic. “His girlfriend. She’d probably like to get it back.”
They swung by a Starbucks on their way out. “So here’s the lineup today,” Lei said. “We have the sketch and APB out on Oahu for our suspect, but I still want to go over and find these two van rental suspects. I have reservations going out this afternoon. We should also interview the parents again and find this Eli Tadeo, the jealous boyfriend.”
Pono yawned as he doctored his coffee with sugar and cream. “I vote boyfriend first. Don’t know that the parents are going to be in a whole lot better shape to talk than they were yesterday.”
“Still. They may know something more about his rivals, et cetera. I also want to find out how much the dad was opposed to his surfing career.”
Pono snorted. “You think that dad would stoop so low as to take out his own son? Why?”
“We have to follow every line of inquiry. I don’t like to fasten on one theory too early,” Lei insisted. “We need to find out what Makoa’s money situation was, check if there is any financial motivation anywhere.”
“I have a lead on that. He had an agent. Harvey Nebel. He’s on my list to visit.”
“Harvey Nebel. What kind of name is that?”
“The successful kind. Harvey is one of the best sports agents in the country. He represents every kind of athlete, from soccer players to shot-putters.”
“Okay. Let’s leave your truck here at Starbucks and take mine today. Eli Tadeo, here we come.”
* * *
Stevens walked into the big, square, urban carbuncle of modern utility that was Kahului Station. He’d heard his new office was on the third floor, and he’d be sharing it with the island’s top recruiting officer, Eric Tadeo. Third floor was dedicated to accounting and operations, away from where most of the detectives on the island had cubicles. Riding the elevator up, with his box of personal items, he wondered if this meant he was as sidelined in his career as he felt personally these days.
Maybe he’d finally be able to keep his work hours as a trainer to a straight forty a week and have more time with Kiet.
He didn’t fool himself that he’d see Lei more, and that depressed him.
The door
ding
ed and slid open to reveal a warren of cubicles, much quieter than the bullpen on the floor below. Air-conditioning whispered, and the main sound was the
tappity-tap
of keyboards as the various support personnel went about their business. Stevens stepped off the elevator and walked around the cubicle perimeter, looking for 312.
He was surprised to find it was a large corner office, one wall of which was a smoked glass window offering a view of the dramatic crenellated green folds of Iao Valley behind the building. There were two desks set opposite each other, and one of them was marked with a blotter and various personal items: photographs, a baseball on a little stand.
The other desk was empty except for a new flatscreen computer. Stevens set the box on what must be his desk and looked around. The large office area was apparently meant to double as a classroom, because one wall was taken up by a retractable overhead screen with a whiteboard beneath it. A projector on a handy stand was wheeled against the wall.
This didn’t have the feeling of a demotion. The sight of the teaching tools lifted Stevens’s spirits, and for the first time, he considered looking forward to this new challenge.
He began unpacking his meager office equipment and realized he’d somehow left behind all of his pens. His roommate wouldn’t mind if he borrowed one. He glanced over at his new partner’s desk, got up and went to it and pulled out the drawer. He picked up a pen and paused.
A dog-eared
Sports Illustrated
occupied the drawer, folded open to a photo of bikini model Shayla Cummings. The stunning brunette was seated like a modern mermaid on a lava rock, wearing a skimpy hibiscus-print bathing suit. His nerves on high alert, he glanced toward the door, picked up the pen he’d come for, shut the drawer, and returned to his own desk.
“Hey.”
Stevens turned to the voice at the door. A handsome young mixed Hawaiian man with a short, tailored haircut and a painfully neat uniform stood in the door. “I’m Sergeant Eric Tadeo. Recruiter—and your roommate.”
“Lieutenant Michael Stevens.” They met in the middle of the room and clasped hands. Tadeo’s grip was strong, the kind of handshake that conveyed confidence but no need to dominate. Up close, Stevens could see Tadeo’s eyes were bracketed by fine sun creases. He was older than he’d first appeared, in his early thirties, but Stevens could see why he’d been tapped for recruiter—he made the uniform look good.
“How long have you been up here on the third floor?” Stevens asked.
“Just a couple of months. I was down on the first floor with the patrol officers for my first year on the job, but too many of them would come find me and complain the stuff I’d told them when they were recruited was hot air.” He gave a rueful chuckle, hanging up his hat and jacket on an old-fashioned wooden rack. “I asked the captain to move me somewhere less distracting, where I could keep the illusion going.”