Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) Page 19

  “That’s my cue,” Rogers said. “I’ll tell the family you’re tuckered out. We’ll come see you when you’re home.” He gave her a thumbs-up as he disappeared around the door.

  “We’ll take you home with us,” Anna said, rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

  “No, Mama. You know how I have trouble sleeping. I want to go home to my own house.” Kamuela came back to her bedside after helping Anna set the food in the little fridge, fluff the pillows, and retuck Marcella’s blankets—only then would her parents leave. By then the pills had begun to work, and she felt loose and dreamy.

  “So we’re dating,” he said.

  “Yeah. Because I could hardly tell my parents anything different. I’m in my right mind now, and I think you owe me a kiss.”

  He got up and went to close the door and then took the thin green curtain on its clattering rings and encircled the bed with it. Once privacy was ensured, he toed off his shoes. She giggled as he climbed up onto the bed, his thighs straddling hers under the thin blanket. She’d elevated the back of the bed to eat, and now he bracketed her body with his arms, and light bloomed in his golden-brown eyes as his lips descended to touch hers tenderly.

  “There.”

  “More,” Marcella said, and hooked her good arm around his neck to draw him down into a deep kiss. She felt his hand tunnel behind her back, lifting her into his arms as he knelt above her, and whatever pain it might have caused her shoulder was entirely drowned in the satisfaction of being so thoroughly tasted and touched.

  He moved her gently over to one edge of the bed, lowered the raised back, and lay down beside her, one hand on her belly and the other one circling around the pillow at the back of her head.

  She fell asleep.

  Evening sunset streaked shadows across the gleaming windows of the high-rise across from hers as Marcella gingerly settled into a chair on the little deck of her apartment. The “entourage,” as she called the collection of friends and parents had finally left, and only Dr. Wilson was left, bringing a bowl of the reheated pasta, plates, and a glass of water.

  “Thanks for coming over to my place to talk,” Marcella said. “I love my parents, but they wear me out.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Dr. Wilson had arrived just as she was being discharged and had come along for the process. Breeze lifted the blond bell of her hair as the psychologist brushed some dust off her deck chair with a napkin and sat. “Finally have a moment to hear about the shoot.”

  “Thanks for hanging in there. Thought I’d never get out of that hospital.”

  “They’re just making sure you’re okay. No infections, or blood clots, or whatever.”

  “So did you hear anything about my shoot? What they’re saying about it, whether it was justified or not?”

  “Too early to know. Relax. Let the process do what it does.” Dr. Wilson handed Marcella a glass of water and a plate of pasta.

  “I know. I just—keep wondering if I should have handled it differently. Waxman said I should have let Fernandez ditch the weapon and brought him in alive. It just didn’t occur to me. I wanted that gun.”

  “I’m interested in why you felt you had to retrieve the weapon right away.”

  “I don’t know…I didn’t want it to get lost. I mean, I’d just been diving in the Ala Wai, and I guess I realized how murky, muddy, and difficult it is to see in there…and that weapon is all we have tying him to the murders. The evidence would have been compromised.”

  “Sounds plausible, but I’m still not sold.” Dr. Wilson brushed back the smooth bell of her hair with her fingertips. “There’s a reason you confronted him. You wanted to take him down.”

  “I guess I did. But I truly didn’t expect him to turn the weapon on me. Obviously, I wasn’t planning for that, without a vest or anything on.” Marcella sipped. “He really had two sides to him—the meek maladjusted scientist with the tics and this bold side that came out only occasionally. I guess it was the bold side that murdered.”

  “I’m still not sure why it had to be you who confronted him, you who tracked him even. Who was in charge of the surveillance assignments?”

  “Waxman. But I volunteered to watch Fernandez. I’d surveilled him before, and honestly, of the three, he seemed the most guilty to me.”

  “So this was partly an intuitive feeling.”

  “Isn’t a lot of police work? We have a feeling, we follow up on it. I bet you psychologists could say we are subliminally assessing all the time and know something we don’t know consciously.” Marcella dug into her pasta. Even reheated, it was delicious—she tasted fresh tomatoes and basil, and little pine nuts popped with flavor on her tongue.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Dr. Wilson settled back. “So there was something off for you about Fernandez. The weapon ties him to Dr. Pettigrew’s murder—but what about Cindy Moku?”

  “There’s so much that’s still unanswered.” Marcella looked at the sliver of indigo sea between the high-rises, the sunset twinkling in the reflective windows. “The blogs tie him to Cindy Moku, but we’ll have to see what he says when he wakes up. Still, we can probably close the case on her murder too.”

  “That seemed to be what your SAC was planning to do. Who else could have murdered Cindy?”

  “She probably saw or heard something about Fernandez’s communication with Dr. Pettigrew—and confronted him about it, thinking she could get him to come in or something. She was that kind of girl.”

  “A brave kind of girl.” The setting sun gilded Dr. Wilson’s skin with copper and gold, lit her bright blue eyes. “You two had a few things in common.”

  “Her death is a huge loss to her family, to the Hawaiian community. Dr. Pettigrew’s death is a loss to the world, possibly. I don’t know what I have in common with that.”

  “Your family values you tremendously. You are obviously the apple of your parents’ eye. And the loss to the FBI would be tremendous if you died in the line of duty. So—why don’t you value your own life a little more?”

  Marcella felt her throat close. She coughed, drank a sip of water. Looked into the penetrating blue eyes of the psychologist. This was a chance to come clean a little, see if it helped her find her way forward with Kamuela—wherever that led.

  “Confidentiality?”

  “You got it. Nothing in my report but that you completed the interview.”

  “I have a problem. A sexual problem.” Marcella stirred the leftover pasta for something to do with her hands. “I like sex. It’s a tension reliever. And it’s a bit of—a compulsion.”

  “So what makes this a problem? I agree this isn’t the kind of lifestyle choice the Bureau would sanction, but it seems like you have been handling it in a way that makes sense for you.”

  “I had a boyfriend in college. He was older, one of the professors actually, and he sensed something in me, I guess. He taught me…so much.” Images flashed across her brain, memories of every kind of sexual deviancy. “I tried it all. I did it all, whatever he wanted. Even the painful stuff. He got me to like it. When I finally broke away from him, I weighed ninety-seven pounds. I was battered and bruised, and I still have scars.” Marcella touched the stitchery of silver threads on her breast.

  “How long did that go on?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “How did you get away from him?”

  “I got my prelaw degree, and I applied for the Bureau. I told him he didn’t belong in the rest of my life, and I left for Quantico. He couldn’t reach me in the Bureau—I feel protected there. I’ve often wondered if the real reason I joined was to get away from him and from my parents.”

  “Seems like it filled the bill. So have you had any other long-term relationships? How long has it been?”

  “No. I’ve dated here and there, and since I transferred to Honolulu, I’ve had some one-night stands. But no. I didn’t want anyone getting their hooks into me.”

  Hooks. He’d used hooks on her one time…She shook her
head briskly to clear it.

  “I’m almost immediately bored by men once I go out with them. Until Marcus Kamuela. I met him at a singles club, of all things, and he…just seemed to know what I needed in bed. And even though the sex was hot, it wasn’t ever degrading…I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “I think you’re explaining it just fine. Sex first, get to know you later—it’s different, but you seem to be working it out.”

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t know where this is going, or if I want it to go anywhere—and yet I know I do.” Marcella rocked back the cheap aluminum chair and stopped, brought up short by pain from her shoulder in its sling. “I can’t trust myself. He’s got to have something wrong with him. I mean, he was a member of the club too, for godsake. He’s probably a sicko perv under the nice smile and cop badge. And he’ll figure out I’m a sicko perv, too, and dump me.”

  “Aha. Well. Take it from a professional. I think he’s already seen what kind of woman you are, and it isn’t scaring him off.” Dr. Wilson pointed to the scalloped edge of Marcella’s bra peeking out from her plain white blouse. “What’s that?”

  “Oh.” Marcella smiled, plucked the tiny white crane out. “He stuck that in my blouse when he left.” She unfolded it, felt the dimple appear as she read aloud, “‘I’m glad we’re dating.’”

  “Sounds like a real sicko perv,” Dr. Wilson said.

  Marcella laughed and tucked the crane back in. “I really liked waking up to him next to me in the hospital. He’s something special, and I don’t want to hurt him or lead him on.”

  “Why don’t you just take it one day at a time, see where it goes?”

  Marcella sighed. “Yeah. I guess I can try. That’s just never been my style.”

  Chapter 20

  Marcella woke too early and cried out as her shoulder was jarred—pain was what had woken her. She steeled herself to use her abs to lift herself into an upright position. It didn’t go well because of the cushy bed.

  Shaking, sweaty, and moaning, she swung her legs off the side, wondering why the hell she had sent her parents and Kamuela away. She staggered into the kitchen and ran a glass of water at the sink. At least her mother had shaken out a row of pain pills on the sill, anticipating she wouldn’t be able to get the childproof cap off. Marcella scooped up two, glugged them down with the glass of water, and made her way over to her computer to check e-mail while she waited for them to work.

  Her e-mail in-box was loaded, but she clicked on the red-flagged FBI notifications one first, a forward from Rogers’s work e-mail: Thought you’d want to know the BioGreen formula went live on the Internet as a free download. AgroCon is having a shit fit. Attached was a link to a scientific blog with the formula, all Greek to Marcella. A footnote all in caps proclaimed, IN MEMORY OF DR. TRUDY PETTIGREW.

  “Son of a bitch. Someone posted it. No wonder AgroCon is pissed.” Marcella sat back, jarring her shoulder and emitting an inadvertent squeak.

  Loverboy did a few laps around the bowl beside her computer, his version of agreement.

  Marcella scrolled through the rest of her e-mail and finally felt the fuzziness of the medication. She barely made it back to bed before falling asleep.

  Sunlight was a bright lance across her bed when she next woke, and this time her mother was in her room, lifting the box of tissues, the wooden bowl containing loose change and her cred wallet, and dusting the dresser. Marcella dimly remembered giving her a key to the apartment.

  “Hi, Mama.”

  “Oh, Marcella.” Her mother spun, set down the duster, came to feel Marcella’s forehead with the back of her small, cool hand. “How are you today?”

  “Better, I think. This is the first time I haven’t woken up in pain.”

  “Oh good. The doctor, they say to taper off those strong pain medicines.”

  “I know. It’s fine.” Marcella’s shoulder area was stiff with bandages. Her mother helped her sit up and put on the sling. Marcella shuffled to the bathroom and did her business, brushing her teeth and peering at her matted hair and puffy face in consternation. Marcus Kamuela had kissed her looking like this? Geez, the guy must have it bad.

  She found herself smiling, a distinctly cat-with-canary grin—even as she felt butterflies of uncertainty. She tightened the belt of her robe and went out into the kitchen, where her mother was generating delicious smells.

  Marcella took the glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and the paper her mother handed her.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “At work.” Anna cracked an egg into a bowl with flair. “He’s at the bistro, overseeing the men working.”

  “Great. I’m so glad you guys found some hardy slaves to clean that kitchen.” Marcella took a sip of the juice, feeling energy come back into her body with each swallow.

  “Not only that. They painting, taking out the deli counter. We have another idea for that,” Anna said. “So who is the family of the young man you dating?”

  “Mama, I don’t know. We—we just started.” Marcella realized she was getting nervous over the whole thing and wondering if her reaction to Kamuela wasn’t just what he’d called it, a “postshoot urge to merge.”

  “Well, I want to get to know him. We have him over. I make something special.”

  “No, Mama. I’m not ready for that. Tell me more about the restaurant. Maybe he can come to the opening.”

  That got her mother going, and Anna chattered on as Marcella sank into one of the kitchen chairs. Her mind was chewing over the posting of the formula.

  Who’d posted it? One of the researchers obviously—Natalie Pettigrew, while she might have access to the information, wouldn’t necessarily have understood it enough to complete the abstract that described BioGreen.

  So either Abed, Truman, or Kim had posted it. And she eliminated Kim because he was the one who’d sold it to AgroCon. Actually, she was betting on Truman. He’d want the formula to get the maximum exposure, and perhaps he’d done it with Natalie’s blessing.

  Anna had switched to Italian, describing the new decor in the bistro, a retro-chic contrast of turquoise and chocolate brown. They were doing the tables over and painting the chairs in the chocolate. They’d settled on a café-bar-type breakfast and lunch menu and planned to be open four days a week to start.

  “Sounds wonderful.” Marcella really was happy her parents had found a project to keep them busy and united.

  Looking at the paper, with its update box on the Pettigrew murder and Fernandez shooting, a thought occurred—what if Peter Kim was in trouble now that the formula was public? He might try to flee and take the formula to Korea—though it was available free, he had experience with building the BioGreen algae and could probably get a Korean version up and growing before anyone else—and effectively dodge charges in the States.

  She frowned. “Just a minute, Mama. I need to make a call. Where’s my phone?” Anna pointed, and Marcella retrieved it and went out onto the little deck, closing the glass door behind her as she speed-dialed Rogers.

  He didn’t pick up. She left a message about her worries regarding Kim.

  “Breakfast ready!” her mother fluted.

  Marcella ate the omelet mechanically and was startled when Anna hung up her apron. “I have to go help your Papa. I come back and check on you later.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” Marcella kissed her goodbye and felt surprisingly bereft when her mother slipped out the door. She headed back to the bedroom, but the worry about Kim wasn’t going away. What if no one was watching him anymore and they all thought the investigation was over now that she’d taken out Fernandez?

  Marcella couldn’t settle to anything. It was too bad Rogers wasn’t answering his phone—she had one more person she could try. She speed-dialed Sophie Ang. Still no answer. She didn’t leave a message, just sat on the edge of the bed frowning. It wouldn’t hurt to just go out, take a look. She just didn’t feel confident about Kim. He could so easily be packing his bags, with the formula in the
m. She knew the building where Kim lived; it wasn’t far.

  She would just go and see what he was up to. She was on leave, and she didn’t even have her gun and cred wallet, so this was purely a surveillance visit. Not that he needed to know that.

  Marcella dressed awkwardly, brushing her hair and leaving it down, slipping on a button-up shirt, pulling up loose black rayon pants. Simple things like putting on her running shoes were impossible one-handed, so she slid on a pair of black leather mules, loaded her backup Glock into her purse, and headed for the door. Waxman held her Bureau-issued weapon and creds wallet until her shooting investigation cleared.

  Loverboy charged the glass of his bowl, and for some reason that reminded her of Kamuela. She got her out phone and called him. Again, no answer.

  “Hey, Marcus. I’m going by Kim’s apartment. I’m worried he’s going to try to run with the BioGreen formula out there in cyberspace, and I just have a feeling. Call me back.”

  Twinges with each step reminded her she’d been shot only a couple of days ago, so she went slowly, thinking of her mother having a fit about this little field trip. That gave her the juice to get on the elevator and take it down to the parking garage.

  Driving the Honda was awkward but possible. She was thankful she had automatic shift as she had to do everything with her good right hand. She drove slowly and carefully out of the garage and up into the suburban sprawl outside the Manoa campus to Kim’s apartment.

  He lived in a low-rise on a side street, not far from the other interns’ apartments. She pulled up into one of the stalls marked “Guest” and sat in the car, considering.

  She could wait out here and surveil the building. That was what she’d thought she’d do, until someone called her back and took it further.

  Or, she could go up there and see what Kim was doing. Get an eyeball on his activities. See what he was up to, and if nothing, fine. If something, then good. She’d warn him not to leave, pretend she was on duty. After all, how would he know? And she was still armed, if awkward.