Murder of the Hula Dancers

by R. Barri Flowers

  Seymour took solace in that, but he wasn't sure if Mele would. "Maybe you're right. But for peace of mind, it would still be helpful if I knew who the woman was, where she lives, if she's moved on after giving up Akela, or if she has some fantasy about establishing contact."

  Naku tasted his beer. "That could be a tricky one. Just as it's difficult for the biological parent to track down the biological child, it's damned near impossible for adoptive parents to gain access to info about the birth mother. The records are kept sealed."

  "But it's not impossible...?" Seymour pressed hopefully.

  "No, not impossible," Naku allowed.

  "Then I'd like to hire you to find her and see what she's up to."

  "I'll see what I can do. As for hiring me, let's just call it a favor for an old friend and colleague."

  Seymour rejected the notion. "I appreciate that, Naku, but I'd feel a helluva lot better if I were treated like any other paying client using your time."

  "No problem, if that's what you prefer," Naku agreed.

  "It is. Just send me the bill for your services. If you need an advance, that's fine too."

  "That won't be necessary. I know you're good for it."

  Seymour nodded to that effect. He took a flash drive out of his pocket and put it on the bar. "All the information we have from the adoption is on here."

  "Great." Naku picked up the flash drive. "I'll let you know if, and when, I come up with something."

  Seymour downed the rest of his drink thoughtfully and said: "Mahalo!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Brenda Gonzalez had dreamt of being a hula dancer since the age of nine when she first laid eyes on a group of Polynesian dancers who were touring the United States. They happened to be performing at a shopping mall in Denver, Colorado, where Brenda grew up as one of five children.

  Now, twenty years later, she was a professional hula dancer on Maui, both as a teacher and performer. This evening, she was scheduled to do a show at Lahaina Cannery Mall, the island's only completely enclosed and air conditioned mall. She would be accompanied by a fire knife dancer and a band. She had no doubt the audience would enjoy this taste of Hawaii life and return to the mainland, or wherever, with smiles on their faces.

  Brenda parked her white Nissan Juke in the parking lot. Her cell phone buzzed and she saw it was her boyfriend, Shelby, calling. She debated whether or not to answer. He had left earlier in a huff when she had spurned his desire to have sex. It wasn't that she was averse to it, per se, as they had a good sex life. But she had been running late and, with gigs not as plentiful as they once were, especially in light of the serial killer asshole on the loose, she couldn't exactly afford to pass up this opportunity. She would have thought Shelby would understand that, given the fact they lived together and were struggling to make ends meet, even with their combined incomes.

  But no, his male ego and overactive hormones had to create unnecessary conflict between them. She would make it up to him when she got home. He usually came around with some gentle persuasion and the money she made.

  For now, though, it was nearly time to get the show on the road. As such, she held off responding to his call, not needing the added stress just before having to go on stage and dance like she meant it.

  * * *

  He had followed her all the way from her home in Makawao on the slopes of the Haleakala volcano in Upcountry Maui. Indeed, it had been his plan to kill her right then and there, but she had left her home as though in a huff or in a hurry. So he had to suppress the urge that raged deep within him, waiting for an opportune moment to end her life, permanently ridding the world of the hula dancer's penchant for using her body to arouse a lascivious audience.

  He had considered waiting until she got inside the mall to strike. But that might have attracted too much attention. As such, there could be no holding back in doing what must be done.

  As soon as the good looking, shapely, blonde-haired dancer stepped out of the vehicle, he approached her, pretending to be a lost tourist.

  "Aloha," he said kindly, "I seem to be having trouble locating an address—"

  "Aloha." She gave him a fake smile with ruby red lips. "I don't live around here, but I can try. What's the address?"

  He reached into his pocket, pretending to pull out the address. Instead, he removed the folding knife, opened it, and plunged it deep into her stomach. He watched her grimace in agony and, emboldened, he was about to stab her again and again, like the others, until she breathed her last breath.

  But then something happened that caught him totally off guard.

  She head-butted him hard, causing him to see stars. Then she rammed her knee into his groin, making him double over in pain.

  As he tried to regain control of the situation, she took off toward the mall, screaming like she was on fire.

  He couldn't risk going after her, having lost the element of surprise, only to end up being identified and apprehended. He could only hope that she hadn't gotten a good enough look at him to be able to give a reasonable description that set him apart from other Hawaiians occupying the island.

  But what if she had? Then they would come looking for him. Capturing him would not be easy, though. Not when he still had work to do.

  Wincing in pain, he put the bloody knife away and took off, away from the shopping center. With any luck, he had fatally wounded the dancer, accomplishing his objective.

  If not, he would have to wait for another time to continue ridding Maui of naughty hula dancers like his mother.

  * * *

  Blood gushed from the center of her muumuu dress. She was in some serious pain and trying hard not to pass out. If she could just make it inside the shopping center, then maybe the asshole wouldn't follow her inside and finish what he had started.

  I don't want to die, Brenda thought. Not like this—as a victim of the serial killer. She imagined that was what his other victims thought too, until they were lying on slabs in the morgue.

  Had he targeted her? Or was it totally random and she was just in the worst possible place at the worst possible time?

  The self-defense training she'd completed had probably saved her life. She could tell that he never expected her to fight back. Her head hurt from smacking his, but she suspected his face hurt even more the way she bashed it. Then driving her knee into his balls with everything she had, had definitely given him something to think about.

  She managed to get inside the mall doors. Turning around, she feared he might be right on her tail, but she did not see her would-be killer. But that didn't mean he wasn't still lurking and looking for an opening to murder her.

  She had to keep going and reach the area where they were set to perform. Then maybe she could get some help before it was too late.

  Just as she was making progress and trying her best to ignore the excruciating pain, her head began to spin.

  No, not yet, she pleaded to herself. Don't go out before you can get to safety.

  But her pleas went unanswered, as Brenda got very dizzy. The last thing she remembered was falling flat on her face, perhaps never to regain consciousness again.

  * * *

  Natalie was happy to be off duty and supporting her boyfriend, Jotoku. He was playing keyboard with his four-member band as they warmed up what looked like a lively audience for their gig at the Lahaina Cannery Mall. Fire knife dancer, Hiram Miyahira, was practicing his routines on the stage. His co-star, Brenda Gonzalez, had yet to arrive. She was a few minutes late and Natalie sensed that the others were getting antsy while waiting.

  Maybe she had a good reason for being late. Perhaps she had been spooked and didn't plan to show up at all; given the scary reality that someone was killing hula dancers on the island. Would anyone blame Brenda for having second thoughts about performing?

  Natalie wondered just how long it would take for the detectives in homicide to bring the culprit to justice. She welcomed the opportunity to become a detective and put her own intuitive skil
ls at investigating to better use.

  Her musings were interrupted when she heard a spatter of noises coming from the audience. She looked in that direction and saw what appeared to be Brenda Gonzalez. She stumbled toward the crowd, her muumuu soaked with blood, before collapsing amid screams.

  * * *

  Seymour arrived at the scene of what appeared to be the latest attack of a hula dancer by the Hula Killer. Only this time the victim had survived, at least for now. Obviously, she could be extremely valuable in identifying her attacker and stopping him before any other dancers were targeted to kill.

  Aside from that, Seymour had every confidence that Leila and Chung were up to the task of nailing the bastard, one way or the other. Cases involving serial slayers were never easy to solve, which was what enabled a single victim killer to have multiple victims. Having the killings take place on Maui was every member of the police department's worst nightmare, for it went decidedly against the grain of paradise, peace, and tranquility.

  Maybe we finally have the break we've been waiting for, Seymour told himself, as he stepped past the bystanders—all of whom, unfortunately, had to be treated as suspects—and made his way toward the victim, who was being treated by two EMS officers.

  Seymour approached the first responder on the scene, Officer Natalie Yuen, who just happened to be in attendance for the hula show when the victim, identified as hula dancer, Brenda Gonzalez, arrived.

  Natalie was with a dark-haired Hawaiian man in his mid-thirties. "Lieutenant, this is Jotoku Ozai, my boyfriend. His band was set to play with Brenda, when she showed up injured."

  Seymour shook his hand. "Sorry this happened to Ms. Gonzalez," he said sincerely.

  "We're all stunned," Jotoku said, anguish in his face.

  Natalie clutched his arm sympathetically. "She'll pull through," she told him.

  Seymour sensed that she was telling him mainly what he needed to hear.

  Jotoku nodded. "I better let you and the lieutenant talk, while I try to reassure the members of the band and the fire knife dancer."

  Seymour waited for him to leave and then regarded Natalie, before glancing at the victim, who looked like she was in pretty bad shape. "You really think she's going to make it?"

  Natalie sighed. "They seem to think so," she said, eyeing the EMS officers. "Apparently her attacker only managed to stab her once in the stomach before she fought him off."

  Seymour cocked a brow. "I'd certainly like to hear more about that and whether she was actually able to injure the perpetrator."

  "She's been drifting in and out of consciousness. I'm sure once she's stabilized, she'll be able to give us something."

  Seymour nodded, hoping that was the case. "Sorry you were pressed into duty during your off hours."

  Natalie shrugged. "It's my job."

  He agreed, wishing he was home with his daughter and wife right now, but duty called. "Have statements been taken from the attendees and passersby yet?"

  "We have officers doing that now," she told him.

  "Good. Maybe someone saw something—anything—that could be helpful." He paused. "It's also possible the attacker could have stuck around to see if the victim makes it or not."

  "I suppose. Or the surveillance videos might have captured him."

  "That would help," Seymour said, "or at least point us in the right direction." He watched as the victim was wheeled away on a stretcher. "I better get my team over to the hospital to take her statement as soon as she's well enough to speak."

  "Of course." Natalie brushed a couple strands of hair from her brow. "If I can be of any more help—"

  "You've done your job, under trying circumstances. Go be with your boyfriend. I'm sure he could use your company right now."

  She nodded. "Thanks."

  Seymour watched her briefly as she walked away, thinking that she had the right stuff to be a detective someday. He wondered if the thought had ever crossed her mind.

  His thoughts returned to the latest apparent attack by the Hula Killer and the possibility that it could prove to be his undoing if the victim survived.

  * * *

  He looked in the mirror at his forehead, which was bleeding from the hula dancer's head butt. Damn her for going after him in a way he never saw coming. That included kneeing him in the balls, which were still sore.

  But what was most painful to him was that she had somehow managed to get away before he could finish the job and prevent her from doing any more of that dirty dancing ever again. He had been careless this time—too eager to kill her and make her pay for all of her sins.

  Now she might live. And possibly be able to give the police enough of a description to place him at serious risk for discovery.

  See, mother, look what you've done, he mused angrily. I'm the offspring of your sins and abandonment. Others had to pay for this, but not if he was stopped from killing more hula dancers like dear old mother.

  He cleaned himself up and waited for the sun to rise and another day to pick up where he left off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  At the Maui Medical Center, Leila sat by the bed of Brenda Gonzalez, who had become the first person they were aware of to survive an attack by the serial murderer known as the Hula Killer. According to the doctor, an inch or so in a different direction and the results of the stabbing would likely have been fatal. The victim, who had bravely fought off her assailant, was expected to make a full recovery.

  But neither Leila nor the Maui Police Department were afforded the time to wait for that. Though she was weak from the loss of blood and surgery, the doctor allowed them to briefly take the victim's statement in which she spoke of being attacked near her car after the perpetrator asked for directions. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book used by killers and rapists, meant to get targets to let down their guard.

  It worked, but only up to a point this time.

  The victim had lived to talk about it—and him.

  Now it was time to get a description of the man who had put Brenda Gonzalez in the hospital.

  Leila knew the doctor wanted the victim to rest, so she had to get as much information as she could from her while she had the opportunity.

  With a tablet on her lap, Leila lifted the stylus for the digital composite sketch and began with the basics. "What was the race or ethnicity of your attacker?"

  Brenda swallowed and responded: "He was either Hawaiian or Asian."

  "How tall was he?"

  "About six-two."

  "Was he slender, medium, or heavy?"

  "Slender, but not skinny," Brenda said.

  Leila made a note. "How old was he?"

  "Probably in his mid-thirties or maybe a bit younger."

  That squared up with what the profiler had suggested to Leila and her own general beliefs in characterizing a typical serial killer. "Can you describe your attacker's face? Was it round, square, or—"

  "It was kind of oval, and his forehead was high."

  Leila quickly created a sketch, holding it up. "Like this...?"

  Brenda nodded and winced from the pain.

  "What color was his hair?"

  "Black."

  "Short, long, thick, thin...?"

  "It was short and sort of thick," Brenda said.

  "What color were his eyes?" Leila asked routinely.

  "I don't know," she admitted, and took a sip of water.

  Leila drew her own conclusions, based upon what she had thus far. She showed the victim the sketch. "Does the man who attacked you look like this?"

  Brenda studied the digital drawing and shuddered. "Yes, that's him—!"

  Leila glanced over at Seymour, who was standing in the hallway near the door. He had been spending more time on the case ever since he'd learned that Chung was a dirty cop. She wondered what would happen to Chung after this case was over. Would it blow back on her for ratting him out, in spite of Seymour's reassurances to the contrary?

  Turning back to the victim, she asked: "What
was the assailant wearing?"

  Brenda closed her eyes for moment before responding. "A print shirt and jeans, I think." She frowned. "I don't know... It all just happened so fast."

  The doctor, a woman in her forties, came in and said abruptly: "I think that's enough, Detective. Ms. Gonzalez needs her rest."

  "I'm done," Leila said, getting to her feet. She gazed down at the lone survivor of a cold, calculating serial killer. "You've been a big help, Brenda. We'll get the person who attacked you."

  Brenda smiled faintly. "I hope so. The next person might not be as lucky."

  Leila left the room and walked up to Seymour and Chung.

  "Here's the man we're looking for—" she told them, holding up the tablet.

  "We'll get this out to the media and everyone in the department ASAP," Seymour said. "At this point, we need all the help we can get to nail this son of a bitch's ass to the wall."

  "I'm sure he's desperate and running scared right now," muttered Chung.

  Leila glanced at Seymour and back, while wondering if Chung was speaking about himself as well. "Unfortunately, that's a toxic mix," she said. "The sooner we can identify him and track him down, the better."

  That was something they could all agree on.

  * * *

  Leila spent the night at Maxwell's house. They made love quietly and passionately. Maxwell's deep kisses penetrated Leila's very soul, increasing her desire to have him inside her so he could give her the ultimate fulfillment she needed. She clung to him tightly as her orgasm waned and then made sure he was satisfied, pulling him further inside until she felt his energetic release.

  When they were finished, Leila fell asleep in Maxwell's arms, using his chest as a pillow and getting no complaints from him.

  In the morning, Leila awakened to find Maxwell dressed and sitting on the bed staring at her.

  "What?" she asked, feeling a little self-conscious being naked in the light of day; even while on another level, she felt totally at ease showing him everything she had.

  Maxwell smiled. "I'm just enjoying the view and the woman who makes it possible."