by Lakes, Lynde
A loud yowl broke the silence. She whirled, ready to shoot. Frozen in place, she watched a trio of feral cats scurry past her into the bushes. Did something frighten them?
God, what am I doing? Seeing perps in every shadow? In her stressed-out state she was a menace to herself and anyone passing by. Malia could just see the headlines now – police homicide detective fires on innocent cats. She quickly punched in her code and slipped inside the post office lobby. She opened her box and grabbed her mail. Trusting her earlier instincts, she wasted no time getting back into her car.
She headed up Makakilo Drive. The hollow rhythm of the road under her wheels and the eerie sound of her radio playing something that sounded like it belonged in Tales Of The Crypt increased the stiffness in her spine. She flipped off the radio and pressed harder on the gas pedal. Several turns took Malia to the neighborhood of new homes at High Point. Seeing no car lights behind her, she pulled into the safety of her garage and closed the door.
Inside her house, a one-story with sixteen-hundred square feet of sweet privacy, she inhaled the fragrance of new oak and turned the two deadbolts on the door leading from the garage. Still not feeling safe, she pressed the button lock, fastened the chain and dropped the wooden blockade into its steel brackets, desperate to barricade her home and shut out the world. Her precautions weren’t just because someone dangerous might have followed her; she’d been a door-locker ever since her twin, Melody, had been abducted right out of the room where they both slept peacefully, believing they were safe.
Malia unhitched her weapon and gently laid it on the counter top. Kiki was dead. Malia splashed water on her face to wash away the tears that had trickled silently down her cheeks most of the way home. She opened her bunny’s cage, took him into her arms and cuddled him, burying her face into his downy fur. “Ivan,” she told the bunny, “I miss Kiki so much.” She placed the rabbit on the floor and gave him some blueberries.
Malia shoved a mug of water with a bag of French Almond Vanilla tea into the microwave. Working on automatic, and not really hungry, she fixed herself some toast and opened a small can of “lite fruit cocktail”. Food was her comfort, better than any drug. After draining off the juice, she dumped the fruit onto the toast and covered it with nonfat Cool Whip. She plopped a cherry on top and pulled a bar stool up to the breakfast counter. Kiki had liked this toast and fruit concoction, especially the cherry.
Malia rubbed her forehead, trying to ease away the splitting headache. Let the whiplash from the case happen around me, not to me, or I won’t survive this. Her silent mantra had little chance of working. It was always difficult to detach herself from victims and their families, and this time it was impossible. Kiki had been as close to her as her twin, Melody. A scene flicked into Malia’s mind: the three of them, nine-years-old and baking Santa Claus cookies. Laughing like only little girls can do, they had gotten into a flour fight, dusting the counters with a white film. Melody had gotten flour in her hair and went to wash it out. As usual, Malia and Kiki had been stuck with the clean up.
Although a talented work dodger, Melody had been Malia’s day-in, day-out sidekick. They were into band, cheer leading – you name it, they went out for it. After the police had found her twin’s body, Malia dropped all of the activities she’d once loved and withdrawn into herself. Her parents had been lost in their own grief. It had taken Malia a year to decide that going into a shell didn’t work for her. She set about getting mentally and physically tough so she could be a cop and chase down scum like the evil bastard who’d killed her twin. Kiki had been supportive from the beginning. They both had things in their lives to overcome, and sharing their pain had brought them closer. Malia rubbed her throbbing head. Kiki is gone – her energy and spirit brutally silenced. Now there was no one to confide in.
Malia headed for bed, checking the locks again, taking her Beretta with her. She put the gun on the bedside table and drew back the comforter. After a quick shower, she slipped into her cotton shortie pajamas, and got down on her knees like she’d done every night since her twin was murdered. Since she’d joined the force, the prayer always ended with, “Lord, give me the strength and wisdom to catch and provide enough evidence to convict people like the man who killed Melody.”
Damn him. Suddenly, the violence of Melody’s and Kiki’s murders connected in a grotesque bloody blot in Malia’s mind. After all these years, she couldn’t get Melody’s murderer, but she sure as hell could get Kiki’s killer.
Mentally tired and emotionally spent, Malia climbed into bed, hoping sleep would come quickly. An image of Damon flashed in her mind. She wasn’t through with him, not by a long shot. Something about him disturbed her deeply. She didn’t want to think of him or the case now, but her mind wouldn’t shut off. Had someone followed her home? She drew her gun a little closer. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d be a mess tomorrow. It took a while, hearing every sound inside and outside, but she finally drifted off.
Chapter Five
Damon stared out the window at the mocking full moon, only barely aware of the CD playing softly behind him. When it registered that he’d subconsciously put on Kiki’s favorite disc, The Hawaiian Wedding Song, he turned and gently touched a framed picture of her. Kiki’s gone. Gone forever. Tears rushed to Damon’s eyes. With his thumb and forefinger, he wiped them away. Although their love was long dead, he still cared, would always care that some maniac-bastard killed her.
If only things had been different. Emotions boiled in him, grief, anger and even guilt. If he’d stayed with Kiki, would she still be alive? He knew that somehow her need for many men had finally caught up with her.
When he’d married, he’d thought he’d dated long enough to know the kind of woman he wanted. Not that he’d dated all that many women. He could count them on his fingers: two in high school, one in college, and several in the Air Force before he met Kiki. When he found her, he’d quit looking. Besides phenomenal sex, he admired her energy and drive. Looking back on it, he was simply ready to settle down and thought they’d make a good team. What he hadn’t known was that she’d never be satisfied playing on just one team.
If he ever exchanged vows again, he wanted a bride as committed to being faithful as he was.
Fighting the lump that lodged in his throat, he slid behind the monitor in his den, pushed the main switch and flicked on the computer. He pulled up the file with the working name, “Broadsided.” The title fit him as well as his novel. Detective Reed had a lot to do with the off-balance feeling. The whole time she questioned him she was sizing him up. She was disarming and tenacious, using few words and shock tactics to make her point.
Images of the ghastly snapshots she’d shoved at Damon brought bile to his throat. He lowered his head into his hands. Kiki’s dead – and I’m the prime suspect. Damn, I can’t let this eat me up. He typed in the heading, “Chapter Eight,” and then stared at the blinking cursor. Write something, man. Laying out a story would keep his mind off the last moments of Kiki’s life, the terror she suffered, the pain.
Now Malia suspected him. If only he’d stayed home that day. Like a fool, he had followed Kiki to Aina Haina, hell-bent on catching her alone for a talk. It messed up his plans when she joined Rosado for lunch. When they came out of Jack’s Restaurant, holding hands, he had followed them to the Martin house and watched her sashay up the brick walk with Rosado hanging onto her like a tomcat in heat. Damon shook his head. He had sat outside stewing for about ten minutes before he came to his senses and drove home. Following Kiki had been stupid. That stupidity could cost him his freedom.
He hoped the attorney he contacted a few hours ago was as good as Toby said. Damon knew he would need the best. Did Rosado kill Kiki? Damon frowned. He should have told Malia…Detective Reed…about the Romeo contractor. But this was murder, and without a strong, provable alibi, the truth could turn on a guy. Still, he hated himself for lying to Malia. He wasn’t a liar by nature. But if he’d admitted he hadn’t stayed holed up al
l day and had instead followed Kiki, he’d look like an angry ex, stalking his wife.
Damn, if he had put as much thought into his real life alibi as he did the facts in his novel, he wouldn’t be in this mess. It would be worse for him if Malia learned of the deception on her own. If he could catch her by herself, maybe he could make her understand. Was he insane? He was thinking of Malia as his wife’s best friend, the bridesmaid of honor at his wedding. But all those things that made her approachable also made her dangerous. He raked his fingers through his hair. How could he tell the truth after holding back without looking guiltier?
Failing to come up with an answer, he turned his attention back to his computer, but it wasn’t a scene from his novel that flowed onto the screen. It was what he knew about the murder. Writing was a lot like making up an alibi for the police, with every detail in place. Only he didn’t have details; everything was conjecture.
The phone rang, shattering the silence of the room. He glanced at the clock; it was almost 11:00 P.M.. Who would be calling him this late? Rushing to find out, he almost spilled his mug of day-old coffee. Disappointment washed over him. The unfamiliar female voice on the line didn’t belong to Malia.
****
The ringing phone awakened Malia. It was Ku. Frowning, she glanced at the large red numbers on the clock. 2:00 A.M. “This better be important!”
“Another murder,” he said. “Same MO. Female real estate agent. Bashed in head.” Ku paused briefly, as he always did when he thought he had a clever punch line. “You’ll never guess who found the body.”
Malia rubbed her eyes, trying to get her mind to function. “Who?”
“Damon Shaw.”
She was fully awake now. “I’ll be right there.”
****
Malia found the Waikiki condo crawling with cops from the CSU. She detected a hint of the metallic smell of blood in the air. The medical examiner and his assistant were bent over the body performing their in situ exam. Malia pulled on her latex gloves and slipped into her paper shoe covers. Then she saw Damon, down on his knees, hands handcuffed behind his back. Their gazes collided. The impact dispersed hot currents through her.
“Remind me to never report a murder again,” he said.
In spite of herself, she admired the calm disgust in his voice. “Let’s hear your story.” Her tough tone didn’t reveal the sinking feeling she got from finding him here. Images of Damon the day he’d married Kiki flashed in Malia’s mind. How handsome he’d been that day in his white tuxedo. Tall and magnificent. She’d been so happy for Kiki, praying that this man, who should be enough for any woman, would be enough for Kiki.
Malia stared at Damon, disturbed by the bond she felt with him. Her sixth sense rang an internal warning – he was the victim’s husband and a suspect. Guilty or innocent, this man was kapu – definitely forbidden.
“Ainsley Knowles called me,” Damon said. “She claimed to be a real estate agent from the Waikiki office. She wanted me to come right over. I didn’t know her, but she sounded upset, scared. She told me she had proof that Gabriel Rosado murdered Kiki. Naturally, I rushed right over.”
An alarm sounded inside of Malia’s head, but she tried to keep her tone and expression neutral. “On your white horse, I presume?”
He locked his gaze with hers, his eyes intense, measuring her as she measured him. “Look, you want to hear this or not?”
“What time was the call?” She’d had a high school classmate named Ainsley, Ainsley Carpenter.
“Almost 11:00.”
Malia glanced at her watch. It was almost 3:00 A.M. Damon, unshaven, wore faded jeans and a rumpled white T-shirt. The deep lines at the corners of his eyes suggested he hadn’t been to bed tonight. “What time did you get here?”
“Around 11:30.”
She met his gaze. “And I suppose she was already dead?”
“Unfortunately. I found the door standing open and called to her several times. When she didn’t answer, I went in. Normally, I would have waited at the door, but she had sounded so upset, so scared. I thought she might be hurt.”
“Can you prove Ainsley called you?”
“I’m way ahead of you, Detective. After you guys hauled me in the last time, I decided to record my calls. Call it self-preservation.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back a tiny smile. “Okay, Boy Scout, let’s give it a listen.”
Minutes later, in the dimly lit parking garage of Ainsley’s condo, Ku put his hand on Damon’s head as he assisted him into Malia’s unmarked car. Malia slid behind the steering wheel with the prickly feeling that someone was in the shadows watching them, but she saw no one. Ku got into the passenger seat beside her and adjusted the seatbelt to his big frame. When she heard the click of metal, Malia left the parking structure with a squeal of tires and turned into the light flow of early morning traffic. She glanced in the rearview mirror. No cars followed. She returned her attention to the road ahead. Then as if drawn by an irresistible force, her gaze flashed to the rearview mirror again, this time to glance at Damon’s shadowy head in the backseat. It was too dark to be certain, but she had the disconcerting feeling that, for an instant, their gazes met. She took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on the road. Full concentration didn’t last. Her thoughts returned to Damon. He was a puzzle of inconsistencies. She’d always been good at figuring out suspects. But somehow he was getting to her on a primal level and confusing her. Why did she hope so desperately that he was telling the truth about the tape?
Chapter Six
Damon was struck by the eerie predawn silence as he and the detectives paused outside his apartment door. Probably finding a dead body just hours ago and sleep deprivation had something to do with his dark slant. Even the hallway lights seemed dimmer. It was for the best. Bright lights would be torture right now. His eyes felt gritty, and he could hardly keep them open. If lucky, once he gave the detectives the taped calls they would leave quickly. The last two days had been hell, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and sack out, probably all day.
Ku un-handcuffed him, and Damon unlocked the door. Shadowed by Malia and the big Hawaiian, he confidently stepped inside and flipped on the lights. He gasped at the chaos – overturned furniture, drawers dumped. His confidence shriveled. He knew before checking the tape of the call would be gone.
“Either you’ve had company,” Ku said gruffly, “or you’re the biggest slob on O’ahu.”
Damon didn’t need a building to fall on him to know that the big Hawaiian didn’t like him.
“Or,” Ku said with sarcasm in his tone, “maybe you tore the place up yourself to make us believe your wild-assed story.”
Malia glanced at Ku with a masked expression. “Get CSU over here,” she said. “I presume you read Mr. Shaw his rights.”
“In my best radio announcer voice,” Ku said, without cracking a smile.
Damon’s heart pounded. He was caught in a nightmare with two comedian detectives with grim faces, albeit one was very beautiful, who wanted to slam him in jail and weld the doors closed.
“Okay, Mr. Shaw,” Malia said. “Until morning, you’ll be the guest of the HPD.” She made a circular motion for him to turn around.
“I want my attorney.”
“You can call him – or her, from downtown.” Malia’s smoky voice wrapped around him like vog from Volcano Kiluea, making him dizzy, off balance.
When she came close to slap on the handcuffs, he smelled her shower-fresh scent and something musky like she’d just crawled out of bed. The combination was sexy as hell. How could he think of sex with his freedom on the line? “Is this how you treat people who try to do the right thing? I could’ve left and you would’ve never known I was at Ainsley’s place. Think, Detective. What could my motive be for killing a woman I’d never heard of
before tonight?”
Malia paced, moving with a tired grace. Then she stopped and turned to Ku. “Run Ainsley Knowles’s name – see if her mai
den name was Carpenter.”
Damon didn’t know what was brewing in Malia’s mind, but strangely enough he trusted her to get to the truth. She was as dedicated as any cop he’d ever seen, and her intensity and stamina impressed the hell out of him. “Why aren’t you checking out Gabriel Rosado?” he asked.
Malia shot him a sharp look. “We’re working on it. He hasn’t been home.”
“Maybe because he’s out murdering people.”
Malia studied him, looking truly troubled. “For now I’m concentrating on you. I think you’re holding something back. I’ve felt it from the start.”
Damon’s heart pounded. This was his chance to get everything out in the open. But his attorney had said to keep his mouth shut until they met.
“Yeah,” Ku said, “spill your guts, and clear your conscience.”
Even if Damon was willing to ignore his attorney’s advice, which he wasn’t, the nasty tone in Ku’s voice would have squelched any desire to come clean. “Pick up Rosado, and you’ll solve this case quickly and get big, fat promotions,” Damon growled.
“You, of all people, should know this isn’t about promotions,” Malia said, her voice tired.
He knew that. His remark wasn’t meant for Malia. He could see that she was running on adrenaline. He longed to brush the wisps of hair from her face. Being a homicide detective couldn’t be easy. Especially when one of the victims was her best friend. What was wrong with him, worrying about Malia? He was the one in trouble. And to make sure he couldn’t dig himself out, someone had invaded his closely-held private world and destroyed the proof that might’ve gotten him off the hook. Who was setting him up? And why? He looked past the mess into the den. His computer seemed to be upright. “Before we leave, I’d like to check out the other rooms.”
Malia walked with him, the rhythm of her long-legged stride fluid, like a runner. “Interesting,” she said. “Whoever did this didn’t touch your computer, or work area.”