* * *
When they got word that a vehicle was burning in a field off Makalii Street, fire fighter Herbert Ebisu and his crew left the Kahului Fire Station and headed over there. He had a strong suspicion that the fire had started due to the dry grass, along with kiawe trees. Some other fires had flared up recently under the same conditions, as there hadn't been much rain lately and the temperatures had been warmer than usual.
So much for a quiet night and thinking about him and his girlfriend, Gilly, hanging out tomorrow at the Wailuku First Friday event—the Maui Town Party held on the first Friday of every month with live music, art, fashion, socializing, and revelry. But snuffing out fires and related things came with the territory and it was also in his blood, as he'd followed in his father's footsteps.
They arrived at the scene and quickly went to work to put out the fire. A strong smell of gasoline was in the air, giving Herbert a good sense of what started the blaze. The real question was whether it was deliberately set or not.
By the time the fire was brought under control, he had his answer. Or at least it gave him pause regarding suspicious circumstances. Herbert winced as he and the other crew saw what was left of a body on the driver's side of the front seat.
* * *
Detective Trent Ferguson got the call that someone had taken it on the chin in a fiery way in Kahului. The particulars of a car engulfed in flames in a field, with the victim possibly burned alive inside, sent chills up and down his spine. As a homicide detective for the Maui Police Department, his first thought, prior to sizing up the scene, was that this was a case of foul play, till proven otherwise. He could think of no worse way to die.
En route to the location, which was near the intersection of Makalii Street and Lono Avenue, Ferguson mused about his life and times. He was pushing forty, divorced from the woman he once thought was the love of his life, and living with an ex-prostitute named Gina. In the midst of turning tricks, she had gotten pregnant by a married judge and had wisely given the baby girl up for adoption. It floored Ferguson when he'd learned a while back that the child had, in fact, been adopted by his boss, Lieutenant Blake Seymour. The irony of this was almost hilarious. Seymour's daughter was also Gina's daughter and she knew it, but Seymour wasn't the wiser.
Ferguson had wrestled with whether or not he should tell the lieutenant and former homicide detective, figuring Seymour probably had a right to know. On the other hand, Gina meant no harm to him or the girl—she just wanted to keep an eye on the child she gave birth to from a slight distance.
Apart from that, Ferguson wasn't eager to put himself on the outs with Seymour by revealing what could only affect their relationship adversely. Not to mention, he didn't want to jeopardize his involvement with Gina by betraying her trust and subjecting her to possible pressure by Seymour to never try to get in touch with her daughter.
As such, Ferguson rejected the notion, believing that what Seymour and his wife didn't know wouldn't hurt them. But it did help Gina to know the child had a good home. Ferguson also believed it gave Gina another reason, aside from him, to not want to go back to turning tricks, no matter what their future held.
He drove up to the area where there was a fire engine, ambulance, several other vehicles parked haphazardly, and people milling about, as if they had nothing better to do. A blackened vehicle was still smoldering, along with some nearby grass.
Ferguson got out of the car, stretching his long legs on a frame of just over six feet, and ran a hand through his slowly graying black hair. He heard another car drive up. Turning around, he honed in on his partner, Detective Rachel Lancaster. They had seen a lot of bad things while investigating crimes and were still in the game. He credited Rachel, in particular, for not turning her back on a good career after losing her husband a few years ago.
Ferguson waited for her to join him. "Hey, you must be slowing down," he kidded. "I actually beat you here."
Rachel, who was blonde-haired, short, and cute, sneered at him. "I figured your male ego needed to come out ahead every once in a while, so I took my time."
He laughed. "True enough."
"So someone's car blew up?" she asked.
"Looks that way. Along with the person inside."
She wrinkled her nose. "That's horrible."
"Yeah," he concurred. "Let's go see if we can get a read on just how horrible it is..."
They made their way over to the fire investigator. Victor Balagso was fortysomething, tall, and bald. "You two missed a pretty good fire show I'm told," he said dryly.
"Some things are better left to the imagination," Ferguson replied humorlessly. "Or not."
"So what are we looking at?" Rachel asked.
Balagso scratched his pate. "Well, for starters, we've got one person dead. Can't tell if it's a male or female. As for the cause of the fire, it's too early to tell. Based on the location of the vehicle, the way the car burned, the stench of gasoline, and the position of the decedent behind the wheel, my preliminary assessment is that we're looking at arson."
"Which translates to murder," Ferguson declared.
"That's for you guys to determine," he said. "But it sure looks that way. I'd say you've got a crime on your hands."
"What a surprise," Rachel said sardonically.
"That's the nature of the beast," Ferguson said. "You do your part; we'll do ours."
Balagso nodded. "You've got it."
A moment later, after Rachel went to speak with a first responder, Ferguson went over to the person who called 911.
Dale Pennock was visibly shaken as he muttered: "My daughter, Phoebe, saw the blaze from her bedroom window. She couldn't tell that it was a vehicle on fire or that someone was inside. I hope to hell she or he had a heart attack and died before the car burst into flames."
"That would be the best possible outcome," Ferguson had to admit, all things considered. "Did you see anyone running from the scene?"
"Just the opposite—people were running toward the scene, trying to somehow get the person out." He paused. "Unfortunately, it was way too hot and dangerous for that. There was nothing anyone could do..."
"You did the right thing just by calling it in," Ferguson told him. "Sometimes these things happen. We'll get to the bottom of it, one way or the other."
He suspected that couldn't come soon enough, even though it was too late for the occupant of the car.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"I'm afraid it was a homicide," coroner's physician, Doctor Patricia Lee, stated sadly after completing the autopsy. "The victim was an adult female, probably in her fifties."
Rachel glanced at Ferguson and back. She had already anticipated this finding, based on preliminary results. But that didn't make the manner of death and what occurred afterward any less disturbing.
"How did she die?" Rachel hesitated to ask.
Patricia removed her glasses. "A gunshot wound to the heart. A second shot to the head was almost just for good measure and did as much damage, before the fire ravaged the body."
"So setting the car on fire was the killer's pathetic attempt to cover up the evidence?" Ferguson asked.
"That would be my educated guess," Patricia answered. "He or she succeeded in a way, if only to slow down the process. But we did remove the bullets from the victim, which are currently being analyzed at the crime lab. And you have the vehicle, which should also be telling once forensics is done with it."
"All that's missing is to find out who she is and why someone wanted to kill her," Rachel stated thoughtfully.
"We'll need dental records to identify the badly burned victim," Patricia said. "As to why she had to die and was destroyed in such a horrible way afterward, only the killer or others involved can answer that."
"I'll be sure to ask the perp when we get our hands on him," Ferguson said sarcastically. "And we'll hold anyone else accountable who played a role in the woman's death."
"That should give her some peace of mind in the afterlife," she said.
Rachel agreed, but said: "Right now, it's the world of the living that I'm concerned about and the fact that someone out there is trying to get away with murder on our watch. But it's not going to happen."
She felt confident of that, but knew they still had to go through the process and deal with any obstacles they encountered along the way.
* * *
Ferguson and Rachel went to the crime lab that afternoon, where Naomi Baker had the results of testing done on the burned out vehicle.
"It's a Subaru Crosstrek," she said. "The vehicle was owned by Yoshie Akiyama."
Ferguson raised a brow. "The first victim of the so-called Hula Killer—?"
Naomi nodded. "Her car was reported stolen, presumably by her killer, and it remained that way—until now."
"Wow!" Rachel said, shaking her head. "So does that mean the woman in the car is another one of his victims?"
Naomi shrugged. "You tell me. If not, then we're looking at two killers who are connected indirectly by a burned vehicle."
Rachel frowned. "Hmm... That would be weird."
"Yeah," Ferguson mumbled, chewing on his thoughts. The coroner's physician did not indicate that the unnamed murder victim in the car was stabbed like the Hula Killer's victims. Moreover, she was older than the other women murdered. Did the killer change his M.O., perhaps to throw them off or cover up evidence that would identify him? Or was there a second killer?
"What else have you got for us?" he inquired.
"Well, we're still analyzing evidence collected in and around the scene," said Naomi. "But, we were able to get a read on the mangled bullets used to murder the victim. They came from a .38-caliber handgun. If you can find the weapon, we should be able to match the bullets to it."
"We'll do our best to find the gun as well as the person who used it to snuff out that poor woman's life," Rachel said somberly.
"When you have something more, Naomi, let us know," Ferguson said.
"Will do," she promised.
Not that they didn't already have enough to paint an ugly picture, Ferguson thought. Someone had committed a horrific murder as well as arson, as if that would hide the crime. And to top that off, they could be looking at a serial killer who had just upped the ante in his diabolical crime spree.
Ferguson and Rachel brought what they had to Seymour, Leila, and Chung, throwing them for a loop.
"I didn't see that one coming," Seymour said as they sat around the conference room table. "But when do we ever see something like this, except maybe in a horror movie?"
"It is surreal," Leila concurred, "only we're not on a Hollywood set. The women are all dead and we don't know if one person is responsible or not."
"I don't think it's the same person," Chung said. "It doesn't fit. Our killer stabs, not shoots, his victims to death. And he has a preference for lovely, young hula dancers—not older women. And burning a vehicle that he may or may not have even taken or been using goes against the grain, too."
Ferguson disagreed, if only for the sake of showing an alternate point of view. "Look, we've all known killers who change their stripes when it's to their benefit. In this case, maybe the Hula Killer felt the walls were closing in on him and thought that by killing someone out of character and by a divergent method might send the investigation in an entirely different direction—and away from him."
"I don't buy it," Rachel chimed in. "I'm not sure one killer is that clever. Or even two, for that matter. My money is on two killers with different agendas, though I'm not quite sure how they intersect."
"Well, whether we're looking at one or two perps," Seymour stated, "we need to solve these murders before people start to panic. Maui is known for being a perfect place to live and vacation and we can't afford to have that undermined with women being executed by any means."
"I don't think you'll get any argument there," Leila told him. "We just need to put our heads and cases together and figure this thing out before another woman is murdered."
"Agreed," Ferguson said, in spite of feeling that connecting the dots would be challenging, whether they were dealing with one assailant or two. A good place to start would be for them to positively identify the latest victim of murder and seeing where that led them.
* * *
Leila waited for everyone to go their separate ways, especially Chung, before she approached Seymour in his office.
"Got a sec...?" she asked gingerly.
"Yeah." He eyed her curiously from his desk. "What's up?"
She closed the door and took a seat. Second thoughts suddenly popped into Leila's head as she considered the information she'd gotten from Naomi Baker on the print left on a glass by Chung's associate. Did she really want to go down this path of no return? Would Seymour applaud her for doing the right thing? Or would he condemn her for crossing the blue line in speaking her mind?
"Leila..." His voice carried an inflection of concern. Or was it a warning to keep whatever she had to say to herself. "What is it?" he asked supportively.
I have to do this, Leila decided once and for all; knowing she could not in good conscience simply ignore what she had suspected off and on for some time and now had circumstantial evidence to support it.
"This probably isn't a good time to bring this up," she began, "but I think Chung's a dirty cop—"
Seymour frowned and leaned forward. "You think or you know?"
Leila batted her lashes while holding his gaze. "I have a pretty good idea that he is."
"Okay," Seymour said, sitting back. "Tell me what you've got to back it up..."
She took a steadying breath and said: "Yesterday, Chung and I were having lunch when a man I've seen Chung talking to before came up to our table. His name is Shichiro Gutierrez. He's a known drug dealer." She removed a rap sheet and fingerprint analysis from her handbag, and slid them across the desk. "Chung told me that he was an informant, but then the two suddenly had the urge to go to the bathroom at the same time. When I saw Chung again, his fist was bruised, as if he'd been in a fight—presumably with Gutierrez, as though he was angry that he'd shown up when he did."
Seymour studied the information and gazed at her. "As you know, most of our informants are less than perfect," he suggested. "Maybe that's the case here and Chung was simply upset that Gutierrez had possibly blown his cover."
"There was no cover to blow," Leila said sharply, wondering if coming forward had been a big mistake. "I'm Chung's partner and he never told me anything about having an informant—this informant—to get some inside information. The truth is I've suspected for a while now that Chung was on the take. Impromptu meetings, cryptic phone calls or texts in the middle of investigations...just a lot of strange behavior even when he was trying to act normal."
"Why didn't you come to me with this before now?" Seymour asked.
Leila didn't hesitate to respond. "Because he's my partner and partners don't rat on each other. But this time, with the evidence, circumstantial or not, staring me right in the face, I felt I had to say something." She paused. "Chung is mixed up with Gutierrez beyond gathering intelligence. There's no other way to look at it from where I sit."
Seymour sighed. "Okay."
"Okay, what?" she asked bluntly.
"I'll look into it."
Her eyes widened skeptically. "I hope that doesn't mean you just plan to sweep this under the rug and hang me out to dry?"
"I wouldn't do that." He ran a hand across his mouth. "Just give me some time. With possibly two interconnected homicide cases to work, I've got my hands full right now and so do you. Let's just get through this first and I'll deal with Chung later."
Given no other choice other than to take him at his word, Leila nodded. She understood the difficult position she had put him in, though she could say the same in reverse. He was asking her to carry on with Chung as though she no longer saw him as a crooked cop. Or someone she couldn't trust. But they were in the midst of a serial killer case that suddenly had an unexpected and disturbing twi
st with a burned woman's corpse found in the previously missing vehicle that belonged to hula victim, Yoshie Akiyama.
As such, Leila was willing to put her issues with Chung on hold as they tried to track down one or more very dangerous killers.
She got to her feet. "I'll let you get back to it then."
"Leila..." Seymour said, gazing up at her. "I'm glad you told me what's on your mind."
"Are you?"
"Yes," he maintained firmly. "I always want you to feel comfortable talking to me about whatever's on your mind, especially something as serious as this. You have my word that if your suspicions about Chung prove to be true, he'll have to face the consequences, just like anyone else who willfully steps over the line."
"Mahalo," she responded lowly and left the office.
Leila sucked in a deep breath, while wondering if she had set the right or wrong things in motion. Should she feel guilty if Jonny Chung's career ended because he chose to get involved with a drug dealer for personal gain? Or was it her duty as a law abiding member of the force to do the right thing, even if it meant losing her partner in the process?
She went home to cook dinner for her and Maxwell, planning to use some of the tips he'd given her. She hoped she could seduce him with a tasty Hawaiian meal.
After about an hour of preparation, Leila asked him to be the guinea pig as she put the spoon of pineapple béarnaise sauce with Hamakua mushrooms up to his mouth.
"What do you think?" she asked tentatively, planning to use it as topping for mahi-mahi, along with sliced organic Haiku tomatoes. The dinner also consisted of apple salad with hazelnuts and coconut molasses brûlée for dessert.
Maxwell closed his eyes and let the taste settle on his tongue before breaking into a wide grin and declaring: "It's delicious!"
She met his eyes. "Really?"
"Absolutely. I can hardly wait for the meal to be served."
Leila beamed, breathing a sigh of relief. She had made him dinner before, but she always felt the need to prove herself in that department, considering his profession. But, as always, he made her feel that she could do no wrong in his eyes. She wasn't sure she could ever measure up to that lofty height, but it didn't mean she wouldn't try.
Murder of the Hula Dancers Page 12