Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) Page 10

  Rogers turned to greet her. “Marcella, you know Agent Sophie Ang, right?”

  “You were at our team meeting.” Marcella shook the rangy black woman’s hand anyway. “What have you got for us?”

  “Take a look.” Ang sat back down in front of her workstation, a shallow bay lined with several outsized monitors. “I was able to get the last few days of phone calls off Dr. Pettigrew’s SIM card. Some of the older information, like her contacts list, was degraded, but those last few days of recents were still available.” The woman hit Print, and a nearby laser spit out a list of numbers, many of them already identified with names.

  “Then the real bonus.” She activated another monitor and photos came up. “Appears she photographed each page of the missing lab books.”

  “I know the interns said they were missing, but I don’t get the significance,” Marcella said, looking at the graph paper sheets filled with handwritten hieroglyphics and hand-lettered charts and numbers.

  “Real working labs do every bit of research by hand and hand record it,” Ang said. “This is to prove authenticity for replication and publication and to prevent work being stolen or hacked before it’s published. Anyone wanting to verify results in a lab should be able to show up at the actual premises, request to see the lab books, and reconstruct the work from what’s there. Looks like Dr. Pettigrew was taking her own precautions by photographing the lab books.” Ang pointed to a date/time stamp in the corner of each photograph. “Seems like she updated it daily. So since we recovered this, the research isn’t really gone.”

  Marcella felt her spirits lift. “This will be great news for the university and the team,” she said. “Let’s print some copies of this for Truman at least.”

  She picked up a nearby phone and updated Waxman on the latest developments.

  “Let’s use this,” Waxman said. “This is the perfect opportunity to see who wants to suppress the information about the lab books. Finish setting up the interviews with the remaining interns and Truman and let them know we’ve come into possession of the information. Maybe we can set a trap.”

  Marcella wound the phone cord around her finger. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep you posted,” she said. She hung up, turned to Rogers. “Waxman’s got an idea. A good one, damn him.”

  She informed Rogers of Waxman’s idea as they made their way back to their office, printouts of the many pages of research in a thick file folder.

  “That’s why he’s the boss and we are mere foot soldiers,” Rogers said. “I know you think he’s an ass, and he is—but he’s a pretty good chief for all that.”

  “He doesn’t make you get in front of the whiteboard with a marker,” Marcella grumbled. “Okay, how shall we play this?”

  “Let’s see who we can get in first, go from there.”

  Peter Kim perched on the edge of the angled seat of an armchair in Conference Room A. Marcella brushed a strand of hair back, adjusting the near-invisible earbud in her ear, which piped to Waxman and Gundersohn in the monitoring room next door.

  “Start off slow,” Waxman said.

  Marcella suppressed irritation. She’d done a few interviews in her time. “Thanks so much, Peter. We so appreciate you coming in on such short notice.”

  “No problem,” the Korean doctoral candidate said, his smile stiff.

  “You speak English like a local boy,” Marcella said. “How’d you get so fluent?”

  “I grew up bilingual—my father had dual citizenship. I made visits to Hawaii ever since I was a kid, to visit my aunt and uncle here—Councilman Kim.” Reminding them of his connections, not a bad move.

  “That’s great. That why you chose the University of Hawaii?” Marcella asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “So what was your relationship with Dr. Pettigrew like?”

  “Cordial. She was my principal investigator and my doctoral supervisor. I had enormous respect for her.”

  “Some people have said she could be a little abrasive. Any of that ever come up for you in the lab?”

  “No. She told me what to do, and I did it.” Tiny shadow of something in his words. Marcella moved in on it.

  “Sounds like she was a bit of a dictator.”

  “She was. But she was the PI and that was her job.”

  “Speaking of job. We pulled your financials, and there are some irregularities.” She slid a copy of his bank statement over to him. The deposits for $9,999 were highlighted. “That seems like a little more than the usual monthly support you were getting from relatives.”

  “How did you get this?” Kim’s square jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed. “You have no right.”

  “Actually, we do. Remember that disclosure agreement you signed with the university as part of your immigration application? You agreed to submit your financials to any federal or state agency requesting them. We requested them.”

  “I don’t remember signing that.”

  “Fine print.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for these cash deposits?”

  “You’re not being charged with anything,” Rogers said, leaning forward. “This is just a little longer follow-up interview of all Dr. Pettigrew’s lab crew. We’re talking to everyone one more time, especially in light of what happened to Cindy.”

  “What happened to Cindy?” His angled brows drew together.

  “Figured you might have heard she’d died by now. She was murdered,” Marcella said. “Strangled and made to look like a hanging. Know anything about that?”

  Kim’s olive skin went waxy. He stood up, looked around frantically.

  “Trash can,” Marcella snapped, and Rogers grabbed a nearby plastic-lined rubbish container and shoved it in front of Kim just as the student doubled up and vomited.

  Rogers handed over a box of tissues. Kim yanked out a handful, wiped his mouth. “I apologize. Cindy was a good friend. I am—upset.”

  “I can see that,” Marcella said. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  Kim bent and retched again. Nothing much came up. The young man wiped his mouth again, sat back in the armchair. Rogers stood and put the trash can in the hall.

  “I’m not sure what I should say,” Kim said.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” Marcella said, soothing. “Only we were so hoping to clear you quickly, because as soon as we clear each of you, we can let you back in the lab. And in all this tragedy, there’s some good news: We recovered Dr. Pettigrew’s photographed records of the missing lab books. So you all can go right back to work when this is over. We’ve already put the records back in the lab—the university doesn’t want us delaying your team even another day when you can get back to work on BioGreen.”

  The bait was cast.

  Kim had taken out his phone and now he put it away. Wiped his mouth again. “Those deposits were a loan from a family member who doesn’t want it getting out that they helped me. And I didn’t know anything about Cindy dying. It’s horrible. But I know who might.”

  Zosar Abed’s big brown eyes filled. “Cindy? Murdered? Surely, no. This is too much!”

  Marcella was prepared with not one but two boxes of tissues and a fresh trash can on hand. The Indian student scorned the tissues, letting the tears stream down his cheeks, catching on his full lips, dripping off his chin. “Fernandez. He must have done it!”

  “Funny. Someone else pointed the finger at you,” Marcella said. She got up, paced a bit near the door, though there was little room what with all the bolted-down furniture. “Apparently, according to this source, you were in love with Cindy.”

  “I was. I loved her.” Fresh sobbing. This could take a while. Marcella rolled her eyes skyward, looked at Rogers.

  “I’ll be right back.” She swiped her card and the door unlocked. Marcella strode down the hall. She could still hear the interview through the multidimensional earbud as she headed to the lounge to get a much-needed cup of coffee—Zosar Abed was an emotional roller coaster.

  “What mak
es you think Fernandez had anything to do with Cindy’s death?” Rogers’s voice, low and kind, crackled a bit as she got some distance from Conference Room A. She went to the sleek black coffee machine, a dispenser style that kept it warm at a temperature that never burned the delicate brew. She got her favorite mug, the one with the chip in the handle and the FBI logo on it, and dispensed a black stream into it. “They were having a thing. Cindy liked him—more than liked him. I don’t know why. He was an ass to her and everyone else.” Zosar’s voice had an edge of bitterness.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and, startled, she whirled around, splashing hot coffee on her hand. “Shit!” she exclaimed, shaking the hot liquid off.

  Marcus Kamuela loomed way too close.

  “Oops, sorry,” he said. “Looks like it’s going well in there.” She narrowed her eyes, made a throat-cutting gesture. He looked puzzled, an eyebrow cocked. She reached up and turned the earbud off.

  “We have all-way sound comms,” she explained. “I was listening in on the interview.”

  “Seems like you needed a coffee break. Mind if I have some?”

  “Help yourself.” Marcella shook her head. “Dammit. I can’t handle that whiny dude. I don’t know why. He gets on my nerves. Anyway, I better get back in there. Didn’t know you were here.”

  “IT needed more help with all those computers. I’ve got some skills, so I was helping down there. Mind if I observe?”

  “Up to Waxman,” Marcella said. “Room right next to Conference Room A.”

  She brushed by him, and damn if her nipples didn’t pucker up and send a message that set off an unwelcome throb south of her beltline. The man emitted pheromones or something.

  “I’m turning my comm back on.” She stomped a bit as she headed down the hall with her coffee and back into the conference room. There was a time and a place for everything, and now wasn’t it for that.

  Maybe it was time to get her money back from the Club. It had been a bad idea.

  “I tried to warn Cindy,” Abed was saying. “I told her he didn’t seem to respect women. He didn’t respect Dr. Pettigrew either.”

  Marcella sat back on the love seat, crossed her legs, tried to focus, but the thought that Kamuela was in the next room watching was distracting. “How long were Cindy and Fernandez having a relationship?”

  “A couple of months. She broke things off with me and started hanging around with him. I don’t know what she saw in him. All those tics and noises he made were very distracting in the lab.” Abed sniffed fastidiously.

  “So it doesn’t sound like it was that serious.”

  “I don’t know. I just know I tried to win her back and she said she had ‘feelings’ for him.” Abed blew his nose.

  “Let’s switch gears a bit here,” Marcella said. “We reviewed Dr. Pettigrew’s phone records, and she received three calls in the last hour before the phone went into the canal. One of them was from you. Do you remember what you called her for on the evening she was shot?”

  Abed rubbed his hands on his thighs, reached up to stroke his shoulder-length hair. He seemed to be soothing himself as one might a pet. “Can’t say. I talked with her several times a day.”

  “Well, we’ll be asking you that again, so try to reconstruct the day as best you can. On a positive note, we’ve recovered the research.”

  “You’re kidding!” The widened eyes, brightened expression appeared to be genuine. “How?”

  “Dr. Pettigrew took daily photographs of the pages of the lab books. We recovered the pictures and printed them. As soon as you all are cleared, you can get back to work in the lab.” Marcella set the hook. “We’ve already put the data back, ready and waiting for you.”

  “That’s great news. I hope you consider me cleared?”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks again for coming in,” said Rogers, escorting Abed to the door. Marcella threw back the rest of her coffee in a couple of gulps. Something about that guy—smarmy. Ugh. She got up.

  “Way to bag out on the interview, Agent Scott.” She’d almost forgotten that Waxman was listening. “Needed a cup of coffee that bad, did you?”

  “Sorry, sir. I—just needed a break.” She knocked on the adjoining door into the surveillance room. Gundersohn let her in. The narrow space, lit by the glow of monitors, was filled by the Waxman, Gundersohn, and the bulk of Kamuela. “Can I see a replay of the part I missed?”

  “Nothing of note.” Waxman looked at her. “Your hair is falling down. You might consider cutting it.”

  Marcella grabbed a Bic pen out of a nearby holder. She twisted her bundled hair tighter and pushed the pen through the wad. “I wonder if you advise our male agents to cut their hair. Sir.”

  “If it touches their collar, yes, I do, Agent Scott. The FBI has a certain professional appearance to maintain, and I want everyone on my team to maintain it.”

  Marcella felt her throat close with humiliation, and she withdrew, closing the door with deliberate care. She stomped back to her office, dug in the desk drawer, muttering curse words as she located a handful of bobby pins. Her mouth was filled with a row of them, as she wound her hair into the FBI Twist, when Kamuela appeared at the door.

  “Hope you don’t mind me saying your boss is a prick,” he said. His eyes wandered over her, and she could swear she saw something warm and appreciative in them. Did he know? Was he thinking about her like she was about him? God. This charade between them couldn’t go on.

  Yet it did. And she wasn’t going to be the one to pull off their masks—at least not yet.

  She pushed the bobby pins in, anchoring her hair in the demure roll she hadn’t taken time for that morning. “I happen to agree. He’s got it in for me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s a bit of a misogynist. Also pissed off about a councilman I wrongly accused of embezzlement a few months ago.”

  “We have asshole chiefs in HPD too, but it’s tough to deal with. I thought you set the trap nicely. Only one interview to go, I hear.” Kamuela sat in the guest chair. “With Fernandez.”

  “Yeah. We’ve got our surveillance unit set up in the lab next door and ready to go if any of the students tries to get the notes.”

  She noticed his curling hair touched his collar—detectives didn’t have quite the restrictions agents did—and she remembered how it felt in her hands, soft and springy. Her palms itched to touch it again. She turned on her computer instead.

  “Fernandez is our last interviewee. Unfortunately, he’s not answering any of his numbers.” Rogers walked in and took a seat at his desk.

  “Ching was in his residence area and went by to try and bring him in while you were interviewing. He doesn’t seem to be home.”

  “Wonder where the guy could be, with the lab shut down.” Marcella kept her eyes on her e-mail.

  “Well. When you finish up, want to grab a bite to eat?” Kamuela asked.

  “I can’t—I’m going home,” Rogers said. “I always try to see the fam a little each day at least. Yeah, don’t know how it happened, but it’s already six o’clock.”

  “Sure.” Kamuela cleared his throat. “Ahem. Agent Scott?”

  “What?” She glanced up.

  “Want to grab something?”

  “No thanks. Too much to do.” No telling what might happen if she was alone with him—avoidance was the only option. She kept her eyes on her monitor as he left. As soon as he was down the hall, she sat back in the chair. “Damn that man!”

  “Little Shit, you are going to die a lonely old maid.” Rogers got up, picked up his jacket. “Poor guy likes you. More fool him.”

  “He does not. Geez.” She felt her cheeks heat up. She’d rediscovered blushing—that, or it was really early menopause, God forbid.

  “I’m telling you—you two got some chemistry going on. But whatever. I’m off for at least ten minutes of family bliss before the kids go to bed. See you.” He left.

  “We don’t got something going
on,” Marcella muttered, staring blankly at her monitor. Did Kamuela know? Was he looking for a way to let her know he knew? And if by some miracle, they made it past this bizarre hurdle, how could it possibly go anywhere? And did she want it to?

  She wished for a moment she could take her mask off with him at the Club. She pictured his dark eyes widening, the recognition, the flame of hunger between them flaring up, his arms wrapping around her, his lips descending on hers…

  “Agent Scott?” Waxman stood in the doorway.

  “Chief? What can I do for you?” She pasted a “yessir” look on her face.

  “I apologize for my remarks earlier. I should have spoken to you privately about something as personal as your hairstyle.” Waxman looked like he was sucking on a penny.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Marcella didn’t have to pretend to be surprised.

  “Yes. Well. See you tomorrow.” He withdrew his shellacked head and continued down the hall. She heard his steps, each of them. The swish of the door.

  The office was empty.

  Marcella kept staring at her monitor. She felt something, and it didn’t feel good. She searched and came up with what it was—the bad side of alone they called lonely.

  She could go down to IT. Someone was always there. Or Evidence Collection. They were still working on all the trace they’d collected from Moku’s apartment. She could go get something to eat, but even empty her stomach was too knotted to put anything into it. The worst thing to do would be to sit here and imagine what she could be doing with Kamuela.

  In masks. Or not. She was increasingly wishing for not.

  Marcella shut down the computer, loaded her weapon into the harness, slipped the creds in her pocket, hooked her jacket off the chair, and headed out.

  She’d be fine as long as she never went home and checked her e-mail.

  Marcella swiped her ID badge at the door into the Information Technology lab. Low lighting, the better to enhance screen reading, kept the area cavernous. She never spent much time here, but it appeared deserted. She wandered into the various bays where the tech agents worked, each at a U-shaped module ranged with monitors and power strips, veinlike blue Internet cording lining the counters in bundles.