Murder of the Hula Dancers

by R. Barri Flowers

  "Sorry to hear that," offered Naku.

  Sanderson sighed. "After five years, I'm over it now. I just wanted to make a point about how easy it is for people to go against the grain of how we may perceive them."

  "Point taken."

  The next day, the coroner's physician, Doctor Patricia Lee, made it official by ruling the death of Frank Iwamoto a likely suicide.

  * * *

  "I want to hire you," Ricky Iwamoto said, sitting across from Naku in his office.

  Naku studied the son of Frank Iwamoto. He was in his thirties and slender with short black hair. Naku could see the resemblance to his father, which made it all the more painful for both of them.

  That notwithstanding, he wasn't sure there was a case to be pursued. "The police and the coroner seem to think that your father took his own life or, at the very least, accidentally fell after drinking himself into a stupor."

  "Maybe he did," Ricky conceded. "Or maybe something else happened—"

  "You think he might have been murdered?"

  Ricky shrugged. "You tell me. My father was a private investigator, just like you, and he always seemed to find clients. He made his fair share of enemies over the years. Maybe someone decided to get some payback. Or maybe a current case got too hot to handle."

  "There was no evidence of foul play," Naku pointed out, peering across his desk.

  "That's why I want you to dig around and see if there was something the police missed." He took a flash drive from his pocket and placed it on the desk in front of Naku. "Those are the cases my father worked on for the last couple of years that I downloaded from his computer. Apparently two or three were still active investigations."

  Naku sat back thoughtfully, still not convinced there was anything to investigate. Then again, the Frank Iwamoto he knew did not seem like he was ready to end it all. But that still didn't mean he didn't. However, an accident was even more plausible when combined with him being intoxicated.

  Naku leaned forward. "The police described Frank as having money problems or relationship issues, suggesting one or the other may have pushed him over the edge."

  Ricky sighed. "My father and I weren't very close—not since he and my mother split up nearly a decade ago. So I can't say if he was having money problems. As far as relationships go, he was never involved with any woman for too long. It wasn't in his DNA. The notion that he killed himself because of a failed relationship or was so careless he did it accidentally is ridiculous."

  "How can you be so sure?" Naku pressed him. "You said you weren't that close to your father."

  "I wasn't," he maintained. "But that didn't stop us from talking or hanging out together sometimes. I owe it to him and my mother to make sure the authorities get it right about what happened. We need to know the truth, whatever it is."

  Naku took note of the "we," meaning him and his mother, rather than simply him. This was not a surprise really. Hawaiians had the utmost respect for those who had passed on in wanting them to be buried without a dark cloud hanging over them—or at the very least some closure. Clearly this was what Ricky and his mother needed to put this chapter of their lives behind them.

  Though Naku was open to looking into Iwamoto's death, maybe even for himself, it was still business and he needed to be up front about that. "I charge five hundred an hour or twenty-five hundred a day, depending on which applies," he advised, "plus any necessary expenses I may incur. I also usually ask for a five thousand dollar retainer for the cases I take on. If applicable, any excess will be returned to the client."

  "I can do that," Ricky said without flinching. "I have my own business and I've done well for myself."

  Naku nodded. "Okay, I'll see what I can learn about your father and how he ended up falling eight stories to his death. But I must warn you, there may be nothing nefarious about the way he died."

  "I understand. Will you take a check?"

  "Sure." Naku watched him pull out his checkbook and start filling in the blanks. "What type of business do you have?" he asked.

  "A clothing store."

  Naku couldn't help but think that it was a far cry from Frank Iwamoto's line of work. He was sure that was a good thing, as private eye stuff was anything but a piece of cake. And it could be lethal. Did that apply to Frank Iwamoto? Or was his death pure coincidence as it related to his profession?

  Naku took a look at the check and then at his new client. "I'll need access to Frank's condo and his office."

  "No problem," Ricky said. "I can meet you at the condo this afternoon at two and I'll give you the key to his office."

  "Okay."

  Naku took down the address of the condo, having never visited Frank there, before seeing Ricky out.

  Afterward, he filled Vanna in on their latest client. "Frank Iwamoto was a friend and colleague. But I still didn't know him all that well." He handed her the flash drive. "Take a look at his latest cases and see who he was working for and why. Beyond that, do some digging for anything that might be of some use to give us an accurate picture of him that might provide some clues as to why he fell eight stories with only one possible outcome."

  "I'll get right on it," she said and wrinkled her nose. "What a terrible way to die."

  "Yeah," he agreed, "and even worse if you were shoved or thrown off."

  She couldn't argue the point.

  * * *

  Read the entire Dead in Kihei, available in print, eBook, and audio.

  # # #

  The following is an excerpt from the first book in an enthralling new series in paradise

  MURDER ON THE BIG ISLAND: A Hawaii FBI Thriller

  By R. Barri Flowers

  Prologue

  It was just after closing time when April Hoopai left the Paradise Cuisine restaurant on East Puainako Street in Hilo with the manager, Daryl Nakagawa. She'd been working there for exactly two weeks now, and had lived on the Big Island of Hawaii for barely a month. It wasn't exactly Honolulu, where she'd grown up, with so many more comforts of home in a thriving multicultural setting. But getting away from Leonides, her abusive boyfriend, had been a priority. She nearly swam from one island to the next just to put him in the rear view mirror and start a new life.

  They reached Daryl's Mitsubishi Mirage in the shopping center parking lot.

  "Where's your car?" he asked, glancing around the mostly empty lot.

  "Over there." Flipping her long, brunette hair over one shoulder, she pointed toward a light pole. Her gray Kia Rio was parked next to it.

  "Good spot," he said, nodding with approval as he towered over her. "Not that you have anything to worry about. This part of Hilo is usually pretty safe."

  Honestly, April hadn't devoted as much time to crime statistics as she probably should have when she chose to live and work in Hilo, the county seat of Hawaii County and the Big Island's largest settlement. So far, she'd had no problems, but one could never be too careful.

  "I'll take your word for that," she told him.

  He grinned. "See you tomorrow, April."

  "You too." She gave an awkward wave and walked away, thankful he hadn't tried to hit on her again. He seemed nice enough in an odd way—maybe too nice for comfort—but he wasn't really her type. He was about ten years her senior and thin, with short, choppy dark hair, and he walked with a limp, as though one leg was shorter than the other. She had considered asking him about it, but thought it was inappropriate.

  April looked over her shoulder as Daryl got in his car and drove off away from her. She heard the click of her heels as she padded across the asphalt in platform sandals. It was Friday night and she was already trying to decide what to do and who to do it with. She wasn't dating anyone, with the specter of Leonides still fresh in her mind. But she had made some new friends and most of them liked to go out for fun and frolic.

  When she reached her car, she got out her key fob and pushed the button to unlock it. She noticed another vehicle—a dark Toyota RAV4—parked close by with someone inside, b
ut thought nothing of it. All she wanted to do was get home, take a hot bath, and see what else the evening had in store.

  She watched as a tall, well-built, baldheaded man sprang out of the other car and approached her rapidly. April's first instinct was to go for the pepper mace she kept in her purse as a safety measure. The second was to start running and screaming as loud as possible, as she had been taught to do in a self-defense class.

  She did neither.

  "Hey, I didn't mean to scare you," the man said in a friendly voice. "My girlfriend works in the mall and was supposed to be out of there ten minutes ago. Can I use your cell phone to see what's taking so long? My phone needs to be recharged..."

  Normally, April would have had no problem with that. After all, she'd been in the same predicament many times herself. However, there was something about the man that made her nervous, in spite of his pleasant demeanor.

  "I don't have one," she lied, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Sorry."

  He frowned. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. I'll go inside and... Oh never mind, there she is now—"

  April watched him wave and immediately felt relief that he wasn't a killer, rapist, or some other type of creep, and let her guard down. She turned around expecting to see his girlfriend coming their way, but there was no one there.

  Just as a fresh wave of panic swept through April, she felt something being pressed against her neck. Immediately, she felt intense pain and grew dizzy.

  Before she could digest what was happening or why, she passed out.

  * * *

  She had no idea where she was. Only that it was dark, cold, and clammy. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been there. Or if there was any chance someone would come to her rescue.

  What April did know was that she was naked and her body hurt all over, as though it had been beaten, banged, dragged, kicked, or even tossed about like a sack of potatoes. She was lying on a cot, soiled by her own urine. Her hands were tied with rope to the wall above her head and her legs were also in restraints. While slipping in and out of consciousness, April had been sexually assaulted repeatedly and in various ways by the man who had abducted her. The idea of being violated and humiliated by this monster sent chills up and down her spine.

  April wiggled her toes, trying to keep circulation in them. She winced from the pain. Her abductor had taken a special interest in her feet: kissing and licking them; sucking her toes left and right, and then biting them until his teeth punctured the skin. Her screams only seemed to arouse him into continuing the torture, until he was satisfied that he'd defiled her enough for now and left the room.

  She dreaded the thought of what came next. Surely he would kill her when he no longer had a desire to do the things he did to her. She could identify him. Then he would be caught and not be able to hurt other women the way he was hurting her.

  April wondered what death would feel like or if she would feel anything at all. Would she see the white light at the end of the tunnel beckoning her to come forward and away from the hell she had endured?

  And what about her remains still on earth? Would he dump her body somewhere to be discovered? Her family had a right to know what happened and give her a decent burial.

  Maybe he would toss her corpse into the ocean where it would get horribly bloated and eaten by fish and other creatures, perhaps never to be found and identified.

  April began to cry. How could she have escaped from an awful boyfriend who battered her only to end up being held captive by some lunatic rapist, torturer—and worse?

  Suddenly she heard a noise. He was coming. She wanted to pretend she was asleep, but doubted it would prevent him from further assaulting her.

  She started to tremble uncontrollably as he touched her breasts. "Please, just let me go," she begged. "I swear I'll never report any of this..."

  He laughed wickedly. "Well now, as long as you swear on it, maybe we can work something out. Or not..."

  April looked at his face through the sliver of light coming through the doorway. There was a sly grin on his lips, as if he knew something she didn't.

  He wrinkled his nose. "I see you've gone and wet the bed like a bad little girl. I wish you hadn't done that. Now you've given me extra work to do. Damn you—"

  "I can wash the sheets for you," April pleaded, hoping to reach him on some level of humanity. "I'll do anything you want..."

  "Really? Anything—?" He chuckled mockingly. "Yeah, I'm sure you would. Unfortunately, your time has run out. Maybe in the next life, bitch!"

  April watched him undo the restraints around her ankles. It felt good and painful at the same time. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his erection. After putting on a condom, he climbed on top of her, forced her legs apart, and had his way with her again.

  She tried to fight him off, but was too weak to resist his strength and utter determination. When he clamped his large hands around her throat, April heard what amounted to her own death cries, before she started to gasp and gurgle for air. Her body felt like it was on fire and flashes of light bounced around in her head like fireworks.

  She couldn't help but think what a terrible way this was to die. The saddest part was there was nothing she could do about it, but pray that death came as quickly as possible. At least that way she would no longer suffer or think about how cruel fate could be.

  Or what this asshole's plans were regarding disposing of her body once it ceased to function as a human being.

  Chapter One

  Detective Sergeant Glenn Sugimoto got out of his department-issued sedan, dreading what he was about to see. He had been awakened in the wee hours of the morning with the news that a young woman's body was discovered on the side of Waianuene Avenue, just west of downtown Hilo. His gut instincts told him that it was likely Sharon Orchard, a twenty-four-year-old teacher who had been missing for the past three days.

  If the pattern held up, she would be the fourth woman raped, murdered, and discarded like rotting garbage over the past twelve months since April Hoopai's remains were quite literally stumbled upon by a jogger last December, not far from the Prince Kuhio Plaza in Hilo. It was the beginning of what had become a nightmare for the residents of the Big Island as well as those in charge of investigating homicides.

  Flashing his badge as a homicide detective for the Hawaii Police Department, Sugimoto nodded at the officer protecting the crime scene and went through. As he made his way to the body, he was met by his partner, Detective Lisa Baily. They stopped walking for a moment.

  "Sorry to drag you down here," she said, hand brushing strands of layered blonde hair away from her face.

  Sugimoto wrinkled his nose as he stood flatfooted at a solid six-foot-three. After three years of working tough cases together, they knew each other too well to apologize for merely doing their job.

  "I'm even sorrier for her." His gray-brown eyes looked over the petite detective's shoulder, where a crime scene photographer was taking pictures of the corpse.

  "Yeah," Lisa said. "It was definitely murder and it wasn't painless for the victim."

  Sugimoto raised a brow. In his mind, murder was always painful, no matter the manner of death. As a Native Hawaiian, he had experienced this reality firsthand during childhood when both his parents died from a murder-suicide. To this day, at age thirty-four, he still had difficulty coming to grips with the loss. He had no trouble imagining what grief the relatives of this dead person would endure.

  Running a hand through his short black hair, he walked alongside Lisa up to the body. "Do we have a positive ID of the deceased?"

  "Not yet. We haven't found any personal effects."

  That also fit with the previous women who were thought to be victims of a serial killer, which Sugimoto figured increased the likelihood that this woman met her death by the same sadistic hands.

  "Given the physical characteristics, my money's on Sharon Orchard," Lisa said sadly.

  He nodded. "Same here."

  "Hey, Sugimoto," Mits
uru Pahukoa, the dark-haired photographer, said as he stopped taking pictures.

  Sugimoto nodded at his drinking buddy off duty, keeping it professional. "Don't let me keep you from doing your job."

  Pahukoa smirked. "If you insist."

  "Just be careful to preserve the crime scene," he directed.

  "Always do." Pahukoa resumed taking photos of the dead woman.

  The flaxen-haired slender woman was in her early twenties. Lying on her back close to the curb, she was naked, with one leg and arm bent unnaturally. A trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. There were deep bruises on her neck, breasts, genitalia, and legs.

  Sugimoto focused on her feet. This was where he expected to find the killer's despicable handiwork. He winced when he saw that the toes were red and swollen with signs of bite marks, indicative of the killer's perversion that had the press referring to him as "The Island Foot Fetish Killer."

  To Sugimoto he was simply one sick son of a bitch who had to be brought to justice and pay for what he'd done. But could they accomplish this task before the killer added another victim to his string of sexual homicides?

  "Looks like she was strangled," Lisa observed. "Between that and the number he did on her feet, there's little doubt our wicked and elusive killer has struck again."

  "Yeah, I'd already come to that conclusion." Sugimoto sighed while envisioning the young woman's horrific ordeal. His eyes turned to the perpetrator's calling card—a single red lehua flower—left near the body. It was the Big Island's official flower, a blossom native to Hawaii from the ohia tree.

  Gazing at the victim, Sugimoto tried to picture her when she was still alive. The photograph he'd seen of Sharon Orchard had been taken a year ago. She was beautiful and had graduated from Oregon State University before landing a teaching job at Hawaii Community College.

  Sugimoto honed in on the unattractive, tortured face of death. Her eyes were half closed and her thick yellow hair was dirty and matted. He could only imagine what that animal had put her through.