Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) Page 5

  “So that’s what this is about. You don’t like it that she’s not at home, at your beck and call.” Marcella reached over, patted his hand. “She’s having fun, and you’re not in on it. You need to get out, find some interests.”

  “I thinking we go back to New Jersey.” Papa Gio had retired from his successful shoe-import business, though he maintained an interest in the company and a steady stream of free samples he passed on to Marcella and her mother. A continent and an ocean hadn’t been enough to get Marcella much distance. Her parents had followed her to Waikiki recently, and the six months they’d been in Hawaii had been a big adjustment for all involved.

  When Papa was upset, his accent thickened, and Marcella had to lean closer to make out his words. “I no like the heat here.”

  “Oh, Papa. Give it a chance. You could also wear fewer clothes, you know.” She gestured to his long-sleeved shirt, slacks, and wing-tip shoes with socks. “You know what? There’s a men’s clothing store nearby. Let me take you over there, pick out a few things. I’ll tell Rogers I’ll take a cab back to HQ.” Before he could protest, she speed-dialed Rogers, and as they paid the check, the Acura pulled away from the curb.

  Marcella took her father’s arm, and as they walked down the sidewalk, the sun beating on their heads, she could feel him relax. Palm trees swayed above them, and the canal was far enough away that the air felt fresh with moisture and a warm breeze.

  “How is my angel?” he asked in Italian.

  “Great, Papa. You know, working. But I love what I do.” She replied in the same language.

  “I have never understood you. But I love you. I try to accept you are a modern woman.”

  “That’s good, because that’s what I am. I love you too.”

  “So when we going to meet a young man?”

  “You never give up, Papa.”

  “Your mama, she never going to give up on grandbabies.”

  “Don’t blame this on her. You two need to get a dog. Maybe a small yappy one that needs a lot of professional grooming.”

  “We have to keep an eye on you. That cazzo you were with. He hurt you. We come, we make sure you okay,” he said, switching back to English.

  “Papa. For godsake, that’s ancient history. I was a freshman in college.” Marcella shook her head. “Now I finally know why you followed me over here, and it wasn’t for the weather. You don’t have anything to worry about. Seriously.”

  She steered him into the air-conditioned depths of the Tommy Bahama store. “Excuse me; we need some help here.” She waved a saleswoman over.

  Half an hour later they came out. Papa Gio wore knee-length Bermudas, huaraches, a lightweight cotton aloha shirt, and a Panama hat. He finally looked like a retired Mainland transplant, not a tourist.

  Her father drove her back to the Federal building in the boatlike Cadillac he’d driven the last twenty years and had shipped over.

  “You look good, Papa,” Marcella said. She leaned over and kissed both his cheeks.

  “I can get used to this clothes.” He adjusted the hat to a rakish angle. “Not so hot.”

  Marcella opened the heavy car door. “Don’t get lost going home.”

  She didn’t look back. She knew he watched her walk into the building and out of sight before he drove away.

  Marcella’s phone rang as she rose in the elevator to the tenth floor of the Prince Kuhio Federal Building, the Bureau’s headquarters. She dug it out of her jacket pocket as the doors swished open on to the marble-floored lobby that did a good imitation of a regular office, complete with couches, a fan of magazines, and a shiny-faced New Agent Trainee behind a bulletproof window.

  “Scott here.” She headed to the interior door—reinforced steel disguised as wood—and swiped her ID badge. The door swished open.

  “Agent Scott.” Gundersohn’s voice, each word rendered hypnotically pedantic by some internal metronome. “We have found some items at the residence.”

  “What, exactly?” Marcella’s kitten heels clicked on the smooth hall tile. She turned into the Spartan little office she shared with Rogers, flung herself into her office chair. She hoisted her feet to the corner of the desk, unbuckled the shoes, wiggled her toes.

  “You could always wear sensible shoes,” Rogers said from behind his computer. She held her finger up to her lips.

  “The woman’s car is in the university parking. No purse or phone at her home. We have her home computer though. Bringing it in for IT to go over. Encrypted.”

  “Good. Want any help down there?”

  “We have it under control. Will let you know if we find more contacts.” He cut the connection.

  “They don’t want us at Pettigrew’s apartment,” Marcella said, turning on her computer. “That makes me think we should go. Just let me rest my feet a minute—had to walk a couple blocks to a clothing store with the paterfamilias.”

  Rogers tossed her a bottle of water from a box beside his desk. A former military man, he was fanatical about health and fitness and believed drinking enough water was the secret to eternal youth. Given his ripped muscles, high energy, and shiny hair, it seemed to be working.

  “Waxman stopped in and wants us to drag the canal where she went in for her purse. You’re the only one of us who scubas, so you have fun with that. I’ll supervise from shore.”

  “Great,” Marcella muttered, sipping the water as she scrolled through her e-mail. “I get to catch some biological disease in pursuit of a biologist’s murderer. Perfect.”

  “Yeah, the bacteria count in the Ala Wai is pretty high.” The broad pathway of water flowing through downtown was used for flood control and sewage disposal, though supposedly the waste was treated. During annual flooding, bacteria multiplied, and there were always surfers who insisted on riding the break near the canal mouth who came down with various infections—some of them lethal.

  Marcella checked her messages. “AgroCon got back to me. We have an appointment tomorrow to talk with the vice president. Let’s swing by Pettigrew’s. I’ll see if I can get anyone else to help with the scuba.”

  Chapter 7

  Marcella ducked under the crime-scene tape crossed over the doorway of Dr. Pettigrew’s corner-unit condo in the prestigious Kahala area. Rogers brought up the rear as she opened the door with gloved hands.

  Gundersohn had his head buried in the cushions of the couch. He straightened and frowned as he turned to face Marcella, a high-powered flashlight in his hand. Kamuela and Ching appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

  “What are you guys doing here? We have it handled.” Kamuela’s husky voice had an edge.

  “Just wanted to pop in, have a look around. We know you’ve got it handled, and in fact, we’re on our way to drag the canal, look for the murder weapon. We just wanted to get a sense of the victim—I always like to have a look at the residence.” Marcella kept her voice conciliatory but firm—she wasn’t about to be excluded from any part of the investigation, and she was there to prove it.

  She turned to look around the sparely furnished apartment. Furniture was typical rattan-and-tropical print on beige shag, a plastic palm and artificial fern decorating the corners—decor of the seldom home. The only real individual touch in the place was a great blazing canvas hung above the couch. Three dark shadowy outlines low to the left huddled in front of what appeared to be a nuclear explosion threaded with rainbows and touched with gold leaf.

  “Must be the niece’s work. She’s a painter.” Marcella leaned close and could make out the initials “NP” in the corner. The detectives went back into the second bedroom.

  “Weird painting. Don’t think I could look at that every day,” Rogers said.

  “It’s a metaphor, Texas Boy. This is a great painting.” Marcella shook her head. “That girl’s got talent.”

  “We’re mostly done,” Gundersohn said. “Since you’re here, let me orient you.” He led them to the first bedroom. “She slept here. Doesn’t appear she spent much time here.” He opened
the closet. Matched sets of plain elastic-waisted slacks hung with polyester shirts, a row of plain orthopedic-soled shoes on the floor below.

  “A fashion plate she was not,” Marcella said. “Pettigrew was all about her work.”

  “No signs of company, male or female,” Gundersohn said.

  “Not even a vibrator?” Rogers pulled open the side drawer. “Aha. The Kangaroo 3000. Guaranteed to replace ninety-five percent of husbands.” He slammed the drawer shut. “The picture we’re getting is pretty consistent.”

  “It worries me that you recognized the brand of her vibrator,” Marcella said.

  “I’ve got eyes. It’s writ big and bold on the—oh, never mind.” Rogers’s ears turned red.

  “The other bedroom is where she did spend some time.” Gundersohn ignored the byplay and led them into the other room. Once again, one of Natalie’s dynamic paintings lit the wall. The room had been made into an office, with computer desk, floor-to-ceiling books, and facing a TV in the corner, an exercise bike.

  Kamuela had unplugged the computer and lifted it off the desk, heading for the door. “Understand you want to take this in for the techies to have a look at.”

  “Yes,” Gundersohn said.

  Marcella felt the hairs rise along her arms as Kamuela brushed by her, a ripple of awareness, and she had to wrench her eyes away from the corded muscles wrapped around the bulky stack of equipment he carried.

  “Well, you’re sure there’s no sign of her purse or phone?” she asked Gundersohn for form’s sake. “Or a personal calendar. Anything like that.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m thinking maybe the killer just tossed them in the Ala Wai. Maybe we’ll get lucky and even find the gun when we go in and search.”

  “Sounds like SAC Waxman’s idea,” Gundersohn said, reaching up to rub the back of his ear. “I don’t scuba. I will take everything in to inventory.”

  “Good. We should try to get into the water today, not let any more time go by. I could use a dive buddy—any of you scuba?”

  “I do,” Kamuela said. None of the rest of the team were certified. They arranged to meet in an hour at the primary crime scene with scuba gear. Marcella tried not to think about the unsanitary waters of the Ala Wai by imagining Kamuela in a wet suit.

  Marcella’s phone toned as she struggled to drag the wet suit over her curvy hips, clad in a sensible black tank suit. “Get that, will you?” she barked at Rogers, who was kneeling on the cement beside the canal, screwing the regulator onto the scuba tank.

  Her partner picked up the phone, glanced at it. “It’s an unknown number.”

  “Answer it! Please.” She hauled the claustrophobic rubber suit up over her arms. As usual, the zipper went up the back, and the long tape to pull it up was gone. Damn rental equipment.

  “It’s Cindy Moku,” Rogers said. “She wants to talk to us.”

  “Gimme that.” Marcella strode over on bare feet, took the phone. “This is Agent Scott.”

  “Hi, Agent Scott. I was wondering…if I could come in and talk to you. I’m worried about a situation.”

  “Of course. We’re in the middle of something, but we could meet you in a couple of hours.”

  “No, tonight’s not good. How about tomorrow morning?”

  “That’s fine. Are you sure you can’t just tell me now?” Marcella felt sweat spring up on her spine as the black rubber suit heated up. Her eyes scanned the road for the tan Forerunner Ching and Kamuela drove. If he didn’t show up soon, she was going to have to jump in without him or expire of heat prostration. On that thought, the Forerunner drove up.

  “No, I can’t talk about it on the phone, and I feel bad…I might be wrong. I have to check something out first before I say anything more.”

  “Well, we’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning,” Marcella said, her eyes on Kamuela getting out of the Toyota SUV, his wet suit already halfway on, the rubber torso and arms dangling around his waist. Her breath hitched at the sight. Damn.

  “Okay.” Moku’s voice sounded wobbly and uncertain. She hung up.

  Marcella handed the phone back to Rogers. “I gotta get into the water ASAP before I die of heatstroke. Where’s my BC?”

  “Right here. And here are some beacon markers and a high-powered flashlight for your head and a handheld. You’re going to need both.”

  The rented Buoyancy Compensator Device, or BC, was an unfortunate hot pink. Marcella curled her lip but clamped the strap around the air tank. The BC, an inflatable vest, was the secret to being able to descend and ascend in the water, compensating for a weight belt worn to create negative flotation. Marcella bent over, slung the weight belt across her lower back, and straightened up, slipping the plastic buckle into its cradle with a click.

  “You’re forgetting something.” She heard the rasp of the long zipper running from her ass to her neck ascending, felt the tightness and restriction of the rubber suit molding itself to her body.

  “Thanks.” She turned, but it wasn’t Rogers who’d zipped her up—it was Kamuela. He was packed into his suit as tightly as she, and it wasn’t the heat that made her cheeks flush.

  “Scuba would be a great sport if it weren’t for all the equipment.” He already had his weight belt on. “Let me hold your gear for you, dive buddy.” His voice was carefully neutral.

  “Sure.”

  He hoisted the BC, tank, and regulator up and held them out to her, the vest arms open for her to slip into. A moment later she did the same for him. They turned on each other’s oxygen, checked their dive computers, and compared their compass readings.

  Marcella took a look at the murky water before them. “Can’t believe it’s looking good to me, but I’m hot enough to be ready to get in there.”

  “You got that right.”

  The last touches were mask and fins, which they put on while sitting on the cement edge of the canal. Marcella was the first to slide forward into the murky, briny water, bobbing easily with the BC fully inflated.

  Marcella and Kamuela turned on the flashlights and gave each other thumbs-up. Marcella reached up to compress a valve on her vest. A stream of bubbles emitted, and she sank into greenish dim pierced by the yellow lances of their lights and a silver stream of bubbles. She tracked Kamuela beside her, descending at the same rate, and let herself smile a little around the rubber regulator in her mouth.

  He looked even better in the wet suit than she’d imagined.

  They hit the bottom in seconds—the canal was no more than twelve feet deep. Marcella’s fins sank into the muck on the bottom, and as she pushed up, a cloud of mud obscured visibility even further. They were going to have to get very close to the bottom and try not to disturb the silt.

  Marcella took a compass reading and set her first tracking beacon, a triangular cone with a flashing light on top of it. Two feet over, per protocol, Kamuela set a second beacon.

  Marcella inflated the vest slightly without moving her legs and rose a couple of feet off the bottom, high enough to reach down into the muck with her hands. She experimented with height by manipulating the air in the BC until she was able to hover at just the right depth. Kamuela rose to parallel her, and they waited for the silt to settle.

  The deep inhale of her breath followed by the singing stream of bubbles was remarkably soothing; Marcella felt herself relax. Suspended weightless in the dark, no sound but the mysterious song of her own breath, safe with Kamuela beside her, she finally stopped thinking.

  When the silt had settled a bit, she pointed her light down into it, and they began systematic passes, looking into the silty mud with the lights and keeping their movements small. As they suspended in the hypnotic environment, time seemed to slow.

  Marcella was surprised to see her O2 gauge begin flashing a yellow warning on the dive computer dangling from her BC. She glanced at the built-in clock—they’d been down an hour. Kamuela suddenly kicked forward, engulfing them in a brown cloud. She shone her handheld light on his face,
grinning around a stream of bubbles.

  He was holding a cell phone.

  They still had around fifteen minutes of oxygen, and moments later found a beige purse drifting gently against a cement piling, a few feet away from where Kamuela had found the phone. Marcella photographed both items where they were found.

  The purse was weighted with something or it would have washed away even in the slow current. Marcella’s heart picked up speed with excitement, but now wasn’t the time to investigate its contents. Hopefully the .22 Pettigrew was shot with was weighing down the purse.

  Marcella’s O2 meter began flashing red. She caught Kamuela’s eye and pointed up. He nodded, and they inflated their BCs, rising at the speed of their silvered breath to the surface. They were mere feet from the concrete lip of the canal.

  Kamuela held up the purse, streaming water, and Rogers reached for it, grinning. “Yes!”

  “This too,” Marcella said, holding up the phone. Rogers took the items as the divers reached up for the edge. Kamuela was able to haul himself out with brute strength, his gear still on, but Marcella was rendered too clumsy and heavy without the buoyancy of the water. She took off her weight belt, handed it up to Rogers, then her BC. He hoisted the gear up onto the cement, and Marcella took hold of the edge, pulled herself up. She flopped on her back, panting. The sky had gone dark, streaked with the flame of sunset, and late-evening shadows surrounded them. She sat up.

  “I’m hoping the purse was weighted down with a weapon,” Kamuela said. He’d stripped out of his gear and squatted beside her.

  “Let’s see.” Rogers turned the purse upside down.

  Out poured water, a ballpoint pen, a Nikon digital camera, a metal pill canister, a comb, a ChapStick, a pair of sunglasses, a soaked paper datebook, a roll of Tums exploding out of their wrapper.

  No gun.

  “Must have been the camera weighing it down,” Marcella said. “Maybe we can save the SIM card.”

  “Same with the phone. Hopefully the water didn’t get all the way into it.” Kamuela shook his head briskly. “We need to get this water off us—I can feel an itch coming on. Everywhere.”