by Lakes, Lynde
“We came to apologize,” Malia said. “I could blame the pressure of this case, but you do have a strong motive.”
The motive comment twisted in his gut. Dammit, he couldn’t knuckle under and play a forgiving guy, even to get in Malia’s good graces. He snorted. “That’s it? You call that an apology? And why bail? You know I couldn’t have murdered that woman. I was locked up.”
Ku growled, “Maybe you hired a hit man to throw suspicion away from yourself. Or lucked out and a copycat serial killer gave you an alibi. Time will tell.”
Damon curled his hands into fists, but kept them at his side. “Show me the evidence, or get off my back.”
Ku’s eyes narrowed and he puffed out his massive chest, gearing up to take him down.
Malia stepped between the men, stirring the air with her faint and totally arousing female scent. “We don’t need this unnecessary tension, guys. We all want the same thing.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Ku said.
Malia turned to Ku. “It might be better if you wait in the car.” The sweetness in her voice scared the hell out of Damon.
When Ku was out of earshot Malia said, “Look, Damon, I think we both want to find Kiki’s killer. But you’re holding back information, and it’s casting doubts about you.”
Her voice, full of reason and sincerity, didn’t fool him. She wasn’t telling him everything either. Talk about lack of trust. “I don’t know why you think I’m holding out on you. But if I were, I’d never tell you. I sure as hell won’t help you convict me.”
Malia stared him straight in the eye. “Are you telling me your secret will prove you guilty?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I was in jail when the last victim was murdered. What more do you need?”
Light from the open drape threw shadows across her face, softening her resolute expression. “Evidence! No one can convict you if the evidence tips in your favor. “What are you afraid of?”
“Of being railroaded. Ku’s sure I’m guilty, and I get the feeling he’d twist the evidence to prove it.”
“Ku may have made up his mind, but he’d never tamper with evidence.”
Unconvinced, Damon cut her a sharp look. “You know your stuff, Detective, but you’re off your mark on this one. Your legal mumbo jumbo states that I have a right to remain silent.” He knew she wouldn’t let it go; she was too tough, too determined.
She blew upward at wisps of hair. “Just remember, I gave you a chance to come clean. Don’t doubt for a minute that I’ll find out what you’re hiding. Then I just might arrest you for interfering with an investigation. If you’re really an innocent man, I’m wasting my time digging out info that might not even have a bearing on the case, delaying the uncovering of the real killer.”
The passion in her tone reached inside him and added to his guilt. If only he could trust her to understand why he’d kept silent. But that was asking a lot of a cop, even a diligent cop like Malia Reed. “Can’t you just trust me?” Of course she couldn’t, but Damon wanted it enough to risk sounding like an idiot. And he wanted to trust her. But if he did, he’d really be an idiot. “What about gut feelings?”
“I consider them, but they aren’t always right. In the end it’s only evidence that counts.” With that, she turned and left, leaving him feeling miserable and almost wishing he had dared to spill his guts, but he’d never been a gambler.
****
Damon continued to type as the phone jangled repeatedly. He would let his recorder take it. But what if it was Malia with news about Kiki’s killer? With his luck, it would be Detective Ku. Damon looked at the caller I.D. and didn’t recognize the number. But it still could be one of the detectives. Wearily he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Damon Shaw?” a man asked.
“Who wants to know?” Damn, it wasn’t Malia. He sure as hell had no time for a telemarketer. He started to slam down the phone.
“Wait! Don’t hang up,” the man said. “I have sensitive information about your wife’s murder and wanted to clear it with you before going to print.”
“Who the hell is this?” The bastard had sparked his curiosity.
“Joe Lowen, reporter with The Advertiser.”
Damon knew the reporter by name only. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“You were seen in front of the Martin house the day of the murder. Cops think that’s where your wife was murdered. Any comments?”
Damon’s neck prickled, and he broke out in a sweat. The first question that came to mind was who had seen him? He had a gut feeling he was talking to the killer. “Look, Lowen, a call from my agent is coming in on another line. I’ll get back to you in about five minutes.”
“I’m calling from a payphone,” the deep voice said, “but I’ll be in my office in ten minutes. Call me there.” He gave an extension. Damon hung up, counted to three, then dialed it. The extension was wrong for Lowen. It took several minutes before he finally got through to the real Lowen who, as he’d guessed, hadn’t made the call.
With sweaty palms, Damon called Malia. She wasn’t in, so he left a message on her recorder guaranteed to get her attention: “I just got a call from the killer.”
He hung up. Then his brain caught up with his trigger reaction. He slammed the flat of his palm to his forehead. What the hell had he done? If he told Malia what the man said, he’d have to admit he was outside the Martin house on the day of Kiki’s murder, and that just might put a noose around his neck. Jesus, he’d played right into the killer’s hands.
****
Al Lee hung up, then paused to admire his black wig and expertly disguised reflection in a beveled wall mirror. “You’re just too damned good!” he told his smiling image. He pulled the strings, and all of them – the cops, Malia, Damon – danced to his will. Damon couldn’t help but know that he’d talked to Kiki’s killer. Al wished he could be a fly on the wall and watch the formerly estranged new widower plunge deeper into his hellish nightmare. The ex-military bum’s quick-thinking and tendency to act fast would be his undoing – and an off-balance man is easily toppled. The poor sap couldn’t even tell anyone that the killer had called without admitting that he’d stalked his wife. How secrets twist our souls and make us vulnerable.
Chapter Eleven
Sweat, Damon, sweat, Al Lee thought as he swaggered from the public telephone to his table in the darkened hotel bar. The surfers outside catching waves gave no thought to those who dwelled in the cool, tomblike quiet of the bar – or their black deliberations. Al stuck his hand into his pocket and with fervent fingers stroked the reunion announcement. Three down and counting.
He focused on his next prey, sitting alone two tables away. Bev Noni Nakata Hammel, once a sassy little cheerleader. Now a tub of lard. Judging by the desparate way she sucked up those Chi Chi concoctions, decorated with paper umbrellas and chunks of pineapple, Al figured she was trying to forget something. Maybe she wanted to forget that she wasn’t the svelte young thing of ten years ago. He might have pitied a fat chick back in high school when he still had a soul, but he felt only contempt now. In those days, she had thought she was too good for him, too good to even talk to him. She and her snobby clique had called him ghost and had drawn ghosts all over his locker. Now that he’d bulked up – and she’d flabbed-out – she wasn’t good enough for him. But to reel her in before getting even, he’d make her believe that she was beautiful again. Once he had her in his clutches, he’d hammer home his hatred, his blood-red revenge. The cool circulating air reeked of her strong perfume. Why do some women stink up the room with that skunk-juice? He sent her an easy smile. Come to Ghosty, Baby.
Perhaps sensing they were fated to meet, she gave him a coy glance with big, expressive, brown eyes. When he winked, she batted her mascara-laden lashes at him and crossed her legs provocatively. Her legs weren’t half bad.
Good legs reminded Al of Malia. Do you sense my deadly intentions, Malia? Do you feel helpless knowing you can’t stop me?
****
Grimly striding side-by-side, Malia and Ku approached the steps leading into the HPD. A chilling gust of wind appeared from nowhere and stirred the previously still air. Malia shivered. The icy sensation, odd for such a warm afternoon, gave way to a sense of someone’s laser-focus on her. The powerful gaze seemed to fire shards of ice through her jacket, her blouse, clear to the skin. She drew her jacket tightly about her and glanced around. In spite of loathing her sense of vulnerability, she stepped closer to Ku.
Once they entered the police department – her element – the urge to cling to Ku lifted, and she snapped back in control. Running on adrenaline and determination, she called a briefing on the latest crime scene to compare it with previous findings from the other two. Crime scene consultants carried in their computers, and Malia brought her CDs, discs and files. A tech wheeled in a large video screen to show the hotel’s security tape of the hammer thief in action. Within seconds, laptops flashed on. Malia opened her file folders and splayed the crime scene photos across the conference table in a glossy reflection of horror. Information spilled from the group, fast and furious. Malia jotted notes in the personal shorthand she’d perfected in college and backed her scribbles up with her tape recorder. The consensus of the group confirmed what she’d been thinking. The killer operated on the island like a local, and he knew his victims.
Dr. Pukui, the pathologist, reported that they found heavy theatrical makeup under the nails of the last two victims. Evidence specialist, Lowell confirmed that neither of the women had that kind of makeup in their purses, cosmetic boxes or anywhere in their belongings.
Irene Chun, assistant medical examiner, said, “Two of the three hair samples are from a wig. We have a rush on the third, but I suspect it will be the same.”
Malia furrowed her brow. “It’s starting to sound like our perp might be an actor, or someone with connections to the theater.”
Ku shook his head, but said nothing.
Lowell looked up from his computer. “We found a trace of fingernail polish remover under the nails of victim number two. The perp must have used the remover to clean under the nails. We found a trace of skin as well, but it wasn’t enough. Bottom line, your unsub’s dermis DNA isn’t in CODIS. He’s like a ghost, invisible to the system.”
Malia sighed. She had counted on the national DNA data bank. Out of the thousands of genetic profiles of convicted offenders and unidentified profiles from crime scenes across the country, it was just her bad luck that her killer wasn’t among them. Twenty minutes of comparing data made one thing crystal clear – they were dealing with a careful and clever psycho, and she still didn’t know his agenda.
As Malia and Ku left the conference room, their chief signaled them to come into his office. He’d already heard about the hotel homicide and wanted an update. They took chairs in front of his immaculate desk. Malia rubbed her forehead, trying to ward off a headache.
“Okay brief me.” The chief’s husky cigarette-voice boomed off the walls.
She told him what little she’d learned and said, “The guy’s probably local and knows his victims. He might be connected to the theater.”
“All those man-hours and that’s it?”
“We have the best people on it. Something will break.” Even to her ears, the data sounded meager.
“Maybe it’s time to bring in the Feds,” the chief growled. “The Mayor’s riding me hard. First, it was the real estate community, and now it’s the damned Tourist Bureau. Dead tourists kill business.” Without even a pause, he said, “What about Damon Shaw? Is he still a suspect?”
In unison, Malia and Ku answered. She said no; Ku said yes.
The chief scowled at them. “Just what I need, disagreement in the ranks.”
Malia couldn’t let that pass. “Damon Shaw was in jail at the time of the third murder.” Defensiveness rang in her tone; she silently cursed the powerful emotion she’d revealed.
“With a million bucks hanging in the balance, Shaw might be working with someone,” Ku said, justifying his position.
The chief frowned and shook his head. “Catch this SOB, whoever he is. You have seven days. We want people to feel safe here in paradise.”
Malia left her boss’s office feeling like a cop caught in the crossfire. Why did politics always have to worm its way into an investigation and make things harder than they had to be? She entered her office and slammed the door. Seven days, her fanny! She drew a deep breath. Losing her cool was just what her male-counterparts wanted. Well, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. No emotional fits today, Guys.
Calmer, she sat at her desk and focused on the stacks of accumulated paperwork, papers everywhere, file folders lying open, copies of crime scene photos tacked to her bulletin board. She dug out the files on Kiki, Ainsley, and Nancy from a stack and stared at them. She made a list of everything the women had in common. Even the smallest similarities were crucial, because the habits of victims often led back to the killer. Malia clicked her pen repeatedly, raising and lowering the tip, a habit that helped her think. Three dead women, all classmates, all cheerleaders, all professionally successful. So what was the killer’s profile? Was he a classmate with some beef striking back? Or, was he someone who hated to see women succeed? Could he have been romantically involved with the three women and jilted by all of them? Being publicly humiliated would fit. It would also fit if he felt he was righting some perceived wrong. Perps seeking revenge were the easiest to understand, and the hardest to catch. Malia noticed the blinking red light on her message machine. She pressed play. Her breath caught at Damon’s words. “The killer just called me.”
Chapter Twelve
Wildly curious and royally miffed that Damon wouldn’t tell her anything more over the phone, Malia begrudgingly agreed to meet with him in the Diamond Seas coffee shop. “Come alone,” he had stressed. Knowing how Ku felt about him, she had given in.
She yanked open the door and stepped inside, leaving the energy-draining humidity and early evening brightness outside. A scattering of eager-looking tourists with cameras around their necks and an after-work crowd of frazzled secretaries and tired-eyed businessmen sat in clusters at tables and in booths. Even if the place had been packed, Malia’s radar would have immediately zeroed in on Damon’s dynamic presence, which minimized everything else around him. He sat tall and militarily-erect, shoulders wide and impressive. His hundred-proof gaze focused on her. A simmering awareness charged the distance between them, and their gazes met in a collision of wills. Damon had already ordered their coffee before she arrived, and when she sat down, he gestured to the waitress to bring it. The petite Filipina slid two steaming mugs in front of them, and then returned to her other customers.
The full-bodied aroma of Kona coffee met Malia’s nostrils. With effort, she pushed the mug aside and glanced at her watch. “This had better be on the level. I don’t have time for games.”
Damon’s lips twitched, and then he gave her a long slow smile. “What happened to the good cop I talked to earlier?”
She shoved wisps of hair back from her face and sighed. “It’s been a long, hellish day. Now what did the killer tell you?”
A guarded look flashed in Damon’s eyes, and he looked down as though he had something to hide. “He claimed to be Joe Lowen, reporter with The Advertiser. But I checked. Lowen didn’t call me.”
She tucked that information away. “You brought me here for that piece of nothing?” She didn’t try to disguise her irritation.
His hand shot up as if to ward off flak. “Hold on. Hear me out. This could be the lead you need. If I ever hear the caller’s voice again, I’ll recognize it. It’s a deep radio-announcer or telemarketer voice, smooth, practiced, like someone who’d taken elocution or did a lot of public speaking.”
Or an actor, she thought. “How
do you know it was his real voice?” She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. She was still concerned about Damon’s guarded look, and willing to tread on whatever camaraderie might have been forming.
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “It was real,” he said levelly. He paused and studied her as though he could see right through her and had just learned something that could come back to haunt her later. Then his tone turned serious again. “He wasn’t afraid of me. He wanted me to know I was talking to the killer. One thing I can tell you about this guy – he’s arrogant as hell and thinks he’s smarter than all of us. Of course, he hasn’t met you yet.” Damon paused, and his voice took on a chilling tone. “Or has he?”
Malia winced within. She thought of the nights she’d felt sure she’d been followed, about the noises outside her home and her chilling feeling this afternoon in front of the police station. She couldn’t contain a shiver.
He covered her hand with his in an urgent gesture that felt protective. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His piercing green eyes, striking against tanned skin, softened with regret.
Damn. Damon had sensed her tension. She pulled her hand away. “You didn’t. Cops don’t scare that easily.” And if something scares them, they sure as hell never show it.
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I’m sorry anyway, Malia.” Then his tone hardened. “Guess I’m getting back at you for charging me while the killer is out there free to kill again.”
Defensive and desperately needing to maintain tight boundaries, she asked, “Did you forget? On duty, I’m Detective Reed.”
“We’re in a coffee shop, for crissakes,” he whispered with a fierceness that surprised her.
“This isn’t social,” she said, tension snapping along her nerve endings. “I’m trying to interview you about a case.”
“You’ll get it all, Detective. But take off the armor for five minutes, why don’t you? It must be heavy as hell.”