He shed a tear at the thought, even while continuing to fire dance as a way to fight back the demons that controlled him. He knew the time would soon come where another hula dancer must be punished for the sins of his mother.
Until then, he would take a deep breath and be the person he was meant to be on some level. But he was fully aware that the forces controlling him would not be silenced as long as the objects of his wrath remained on the island and continued to strut their stuff, destroying family unity along the way.
* * *
Jackie Furomoto had no illusions about getting rich as a hula dancer. It wasn't exactly the type of profession that lent itself to a huge retirement fund. But that didn't mean one couldn't earn a decent living if they were skilled in the hula tradition. She was one of the lucky ones who had seen the torch passed from one generation of hula dancers to another, with her mother paving the way by teaching her the fundamentals of the trade.
Now twenty-four and actively involved in hula performances in several venues as an independent operator who made good use of the Internet to secure clients, Jackie hoped to one day pass her talents on to her own daughter. That was, assuming she ever got married and her husband wanted to have children. She wasn't interested in having a child out of wedlock. Problem was finding a man who was secure enough to not feel threatened by her busy schedule and dedication to the job.
Good luck with that, she mused doubtfully, while performing at a retirement party being held at a community center in Kihei. From her experience, such men were hard to come by on Maui. At times, she thought about broadening her range by moving to Oahu or the mainland. For the time being, she was going to stay put on the island where she had grown up and loved dearly, as there were numerous activities available to participate in.
Jackie, who was going solo for this gig, had brought her own Hawaiian music and was dressed in a costume appropriate for her audience, including a mid-length pink plumeria flower sundress with an ilima and tuberose lei, and a silk hibiscus hair clip on the side of her thick, black hair. Her outfit was quite different from the sexier, short, bamboo-patterned spaghetti dress she wore at her last show, which was meant to titillate her audience of soldiers on leave.
One soldier, in particular, had caught her eye. He was the same age as her, great looking, and seemed to share her outlook on life. Unfortunately, their potential romance hit a snag when she discovered in the nick of time that he was involved with a fellow soldier, who was actually pregnant with his baby and left behind at the hotel while he sought some action on the side.
Jackie had moved on from that experience, still hopeful that her knight in shining armor was out there somewhere. But she didn't expect to find him at the community center this evening. The retiree was a sixty-seven-year-old pharmacist named Claude Spangler. He had lost most of his hair, but could still cut a big smile.
Playing Don Ho's rendition of "Pearly Shells," she danced in front of the retiree and his buddies, flirting for fun and making sure they got what they paid for—a good time.
When it was over, Jackie left the center, having secured some future gigs. She climbed into her Volkswagen Beetle and had just started it when her cell phone buzzed. She grabbed it and, even though it didn't show who the caller was, she answered anyway.
"Hey, Jackie," the male caller said smoothly. "I saw your ad and was hoping you could perform at my brother's birthday party."
"When?" she asked.
"Tonight. Look, I know it's short notice, but it was kind of a spur of the moment thing. I'll be happy to pay you double your normal rate for half an hour's work at best."
Normally, Jackie didn't work past nine, mainly for safety reasons and because she didn't have to. But getting paid twice her normal fee was hard to pass up. Also, since she was already in costume, albeit for the geriatric crowd, it seemed like an easy and quick gig.
"Sounds like it could be fun," she said by way of acceptance. "Where do I go?"
Equipped with the address, Jackie used GPS to take her there, since she wasn't entirely familiar with the location. Afterward, she looked forward to heading home and taking a nice hot bath.
* * *
He tossed the burner phone into a dumpster, having no more use for it. She would come to him, just as the other one had. Then he could satisfy the burning rage in him that his mother had ignited as she danced her way into hell and back.
Having timed it to the second, the hula dancer arrived right on cue at the empty lot, just far enough from nearby homes, but close enough not to spook her before the time came for retribution.
He walked away from his vehicle, but left the headlights on so they shined on her car, and approached the driver's side window. Putting on his best smile, he said in a friendly voice: "Aloha."
She was cautious and let the window down a crack. "Did I get the right address?"
"Yes," he said coolly, "but it's the wrong location. We're right over there in that cottage—" He pointed toward a house just off the lot that could barely be seen with only one light on. "You can park your car here and we can walk over there, or you can follow me, or I can go get the birthday boy and—"
"We can walk," she cut in. "I'll leave my car here."
He smiled disingenuously. "All right. I'll just go turn my lights off and then I'll introduce you to everyone—"
He headed toward his vehicle, pleased that she had fallen right into his trap like a lamb for the slaughter. Once he shut off the lights, there was no chance of anyone seeing them and what was about to happen.
He swiftly walked back to Jackie Furomoto and said easily: "This should be a night to remember."
"I'll do my best," she promised.
He regarded her cruelly, while removing a folding knife from his pocket. "I'm afraid your best is not good enough!"
Before she could even contemplate what was happening, he had laid a hand firmly on her shoulder while slitting her throat, rendering her speechless. As blood spurted onto his face, he happily licked some of it off his mouth and then plunged the knife into her chest, causing even more blood to spurt out.
He caught the hula dancer as she fell, and stabbed her several more times—in the heart and stomach—as his mother's hula dancer image filled his head, before dragging the now dead woman back to his vehicle.
He dumped her onto a tarpaulin in the trunk, got behind the wheel, and drove off satisfyingly, while listening to the popular Hawaiian song, "Aloha 'Oe."
CHAPTER NINE
After work, Leila met up with her good friend Jan Monroe for dinner and drinks at Island House. It was a ritzy Japanese restaurant owned by Maxwell on Kaahumanu Avenue in Kahului.
Jan was an artist who specialized in seascapes and landscapes, as well as exotic flowers grown on the island. She was tall and slender, with big green eyes and long blonde hair. Engaged to be married to Erik Hollander, a real estate agent who sold luxury homes, it seemed to Leila that Jan had it all. Or she would once she and Erik officially tied the knot.
Leila wondered if she could say the same about the current state of her relationship with Maxwell. "He told me he loved me," she said casually, while forking harusame noodles.
Jan lifted a thin brow. "Seriously?"
"Yes, he was very serious," Leila admitted.
Jan sliced off a piece of her smoked duck breast with macadamia nuts and chili peppers. "How did you respond?"
"I told him the same thing." Leila softened her tone and added: "That I loved him."
Jan grinned. "I knew this was coming and I'm so happy for you. It's obvious that you two belong together, just like me and Erik."
"You think?" Leila lifted her glass of red wine thoughtfully.
"Absolutely. You can see it in your body language when you're together."
Leila pictured their body language when they were making love. They were certainly in sync there. But she wasn't sure if what they meant to each other beyond that could be defined in a way she was totally comfortable with. Was that just her way of de
aling with the pressure? Or trying not to?
"Mahalo for saying that," she told her friend. "I could say the same about you and Erik."
Jan chuckled. "Don't let me stop you."
"All right, you seem like a perfect couple," Leila played along. "You give Maxwell and me hope that we can measure up, though you've had a good head start."
"There are no bonus points for when you start—it's all about how you finish," Jan said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "I think we're both on the right track."
"I agree." Leila forked some stir fried vegetables pensively, wanting the track she and Maxwell were on to be right with all her heart. But was that enough?
Jan sipped her wine. "So do you think Maxwell will ask you to move in?"
"You never know," Leila said nonchalantly, though the thought had previously crossed her mind. She had learned through trial and error not to get too far ahead of herself when it came to matters of the heart.
"Well, short of marriage, that is usually the natural progression for two people in love," Jan said.
"Maybe not if one of them is old fashioned," cautioned Leila, "and not sure she would be all that comfortable living with someone—even a wonderful man like Maxwell with a house that's more than big enough for two people."
"You may need to adjust your comfort level and cultural hang-ups," Jan warned her. "Some people are simply worth bending the rules for. And Maxwell is one of those."
Leila chewed on the notion, only to look up and find him standing there.
"Aloha, ladies," he said, grinning attractively.
"Hey there," Leila uttered, wondering how much of the conversation, if any, he had heard.
"Hi, handsome," Jan said flirtatiously.
Maxwell blushed. He was holding a tray with desserts. "Courtesy of the house, I wanted you to finish off your meals with these truly appetizing Japanese style slices of cheesecake." He set a plate before each of them and then removed their food dishes. "What do you think?"
"Delicious!" Jan exclaimed.
Leila tasted a piece of the cheesecake, letting it settle on her tongue. "It's wonderful," she told him.
Maxwell beamed. "Excellent." He bent over and gave her a kiss, tasting some of the dessert off her lips. "Scrumptious. I'll see you later."
Leila looked forward to that as well, knowing that beyond anything else, he really was a keeper as a boyfriend and a man. She had a feeling that Jan wasn't going to let her forget that.
And could she?
* * *
The following morning, Leila was conferring by her desk with Property Crimes and Robbery Division Detectives Tony Fujimoto and Tucker Sanderson, who alternated between the Missing Persons Division and other investigations. In need of a sketch artist, the two detectives were working together on a breaking and entering case, where the victim was bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed.
"When she heard the bell ring to her condo, the elderly homeowner thought it was her son, who didn't have a key," Fujimoto told her. Thirtysomething and lean, with dark hair, he towered over the portly, balding Sanderson, who was in his forties. "Instead, what she got were two armed assailants, who forced their way inside."
"It looks like it may have been a case of hitting the wrong residence," Sanderson said. "The thugs were apparently looking for drugs, but came away with nothing. It just so happens that the victim, who is nearly seventy, wasn't on any prescriptions and didn't even have any over-the-counter medicine in the place. That didn't stop them from stealing her cash, some jewelry, and other things they could get their hands on, before leaving. But the victim got a good look at them."
Leila raised a brow. "You mean they weren't wearing masks?" She knew that most burglars were smart enough these days to be concerned with identification through witnesses and video surveillance, and usually tried to hide their faces to some degree. But that often went out the window, along with common sense, if they were under the influence of drugs or alcohol and desperate.
Fujimoto echoed that sentiment. "The victim described both perps as acting like they were on drugs. Guess they were more concerned with getting what they came for than covering their faces."
"And that's where you come in, Kahana," Sanderson said, scratching his pate. "Though the CSI team will hopefully find forensic evidence that can be linked to the intruders, the victim didn't have a surveillance system so we're out of luck there. But she's confident that her memory of their appearance can make up for it."
Leila doubted that a description could take the place of good surveillance video—much less, DNA or fingerprints left behind by the perps—but it was certainly better than nothing in trying to identify them. "Bring her in and we'll see what we can come up with," she said, while knowing her side job of sketch artist had to be done around her main task of solving homicides.
"Mahalo, Leila," Fujimoto said, cracking a grin. "As it turns out, she's here now and ready to describe her attackers."
Leila realized the detectives had cleverly boxed her into a corner, leaving her no choice but to suspend other things on her plate till she completed two composite sketches of gun-wielding intruders who were sure to strike again and had to be considered dangerous.
Half an hour later, Leila used a tablet to create a digital sketch of the two suspects. The victim, Rosalie Gohara, was remarkably calm and precise in describing the facial features, mannerisms, and clothing of the men who broke into her condo.
The police department immediately put out the composite drawings, hoping to match them against mugshots or a photo lineup; or receive tips from the public to help identify the men so they could be taken into custody.
It wasn't long before word came in that two suspects had been arrested after trying to break into another house that set off a silent alarm. Identified by their composites, the men confessed to victimizing Rosalie Gohara.
Leila was pleased that the inept burglars were off the street and in jail. As she headed back to her desk, Chung approached her with a dour look on his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
"There's another hula dancer missing—" Chung said.
CHAPTER TEN
Amanda Crawford and Eleanor Ortiz were twenty-two-year-old seniors at Michigan State University, spending a week on Maui for some fun in the sun. The attractive, slender, and tanned blonde roommates had leased a condo in Kihei, but were happy to spend most of their time enjoying the outdoors.
Both avid joggers on the MSU campus in East Lansing, Michigan, they were up bright and early for a run in Kama'ole Beach Park, which represented three popular beaches on South Kihei Road. Opting for the least crowded one, Eleanor and Amanda jogged on the north end of Kama'ole I. Known to the locals as Charley Young Beach, in honor of a World War II reporter who bought land there and built a home after the war, Kama'ole I offered astonishing views of the Hawaiian Islands of Kahoolawe and Molokini.
"I could definitely get used to this," Amanda said, gazing at the islands.
"I'll bet you could," Eleanor hummed. "So could I, except for the fact that I have a job in marketing waiting for me in New York when I graduate. And, unless I'm mistaken, you have a fiancé named Barry that you plan to move to Atlanta with."
Amanda frowned. "I know. But a girl can dream, can't she?"
Eleanor smiled. "Yeah, two girls can dream about coming back here every chance we get, with or without the guys in our lives."
Amanda giggled while imagining this as their little secret hideaway whenever they wanted to escape their real lives. "Aloha!" she uttered and they high-fived.
They continued to jog until they came upon a cluster of ironwood trees. It was there that Amanda spotted what looked like a leg atop some grass and dirt.
Upon closer inspection, her worst fears were confirmed as she and Eleanor gazed in horror at a young woman's bloody, nude body. Her throat appeared to have been cut, along with other parts of her body.
* * *.
Natalie Yuen was in the Kihei Police Stat
ion on Piilani Highway with her partner, Officer Spinelli. They had just brought in a vagrant who claimed to be twenty-one, but looked younger. Though homelessness was certainly not the problem on Maui that it was on Oahu or the mainland, it was becoming increasingly worse with the number of unemployed, working poor, and foreclosures on the rise, along with the cost of living and scarcity of good paying jobs in paradise.
Natalie had no illusions that the young, red-haired woman who said her name was Josie—with numerous needle marks on her arms and legs—would get the kind of help she needed as a junkie so she could eventually get off the streets. They could only do their part in helping her to take that first step, and the rest would be up to her.
After the vagrant named Josie had been processed, Natalie thought to ask Spinelli about his love life, or lack thereof. He had been strangely silent on the subject ever since giving her the news recently that he was getting a divorce.
"So where do things stand between you and Helene?" she asked after they left the station to return to their patrols.
Spinelli was driving and glanced at her with a sneer, before muttering: "Don't ask."
Natalie regarded his profile. "Hey, you're the one who volunteered to tell me your marriage was ending. Last I knew, you were going to try to make things right...in the bedroom, as a good first step."
"Yeah, and it might as well be my last step," Spinelli muttered. "Seems like she's got her sights set elsewhere and I don't think there's a damn thing I can do to turn the ship around in my direction."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Natalie told him sincerely.
"I know you are. Me too. The truth is things haven't been right between us for some time, but I guess I was in a state of denial. Nothing like having the wife say she doesn't love you anymore to get slapped with a cold dose of reality."
Natalie was speechless for a moment. She considered Spinelli to be one of the good guys and he deserved better. "I'm sure there's not much I can say to make you feel better, but if this is going to be your new reality, you need to get back out there and find someone who actually wants to be with you."
Murder of the Hula Dancers Page 7