Deadly Reunion

by Lakes, Lynde

  After they’d made a complete round of the two decks, talking to everyone along the way, she asked, “Anything?”

  Her question confirmed that her interest in him was strictly professional. So how did he explain the warmth and highly-charged vibes he’d sensed between them? To hide his confusion and disappointment, he looked down at the boat’s gray deck. When he raised his gaze and met her earth-brown eyes with those devastating gold flecks in them, he felt thunderstruck. She looked so hopeful, so lovely; he hated to let her down. “We can’t give up,” he said, drawing her toward the dining room.

  Inside, a sign indicated that the room’s capacity was 350, and it was packed to the hilt. The classmates and guests lined up for the buffet seemed to be talking all at once. Damon doubted he’d have much luck picking out that one crucial voice among the babbling throng. Before getting in the buffet line themselves, Malia took Damon down the string of people, making introductions. His jaw tightened, noticing how men’s eyes followed her, even after she moved on.

  “I guess I counted on this too much,” she said in a low voice meant for his ears alone. “Although I hated to consider it, I was beginning to believe the killer was a classmate.”

  “Any evidence of that?” Damon’s throat felt dry. If he could, he would give her the killer on a silver platter for her sake – for Kiki’s sake – and for his own piece of mind.

  “Only that all three women had a reunion connection,” she said, leaning close. He knew the closeness was only to keep their conversation private, but her plumeria lei and unique feminine fragrance heated his blood and sent desire radiating around in him like humidity in a hot house.

  After talking to dozens of people, they took a place at the end of the line. Damon tried to filter out all but the voice they were after. Listening wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just the noise. He was too aware of Malia standing next to him and the sense of unified purpose arcing between them.

  When they got their food, they sat at a long table of congenial people, and if he hadn’t been so busy listening, he might have joined the lively conversations about everything from bestsellers, to the fight against terrorism. One guy said he’d heard Hawaii was a haven for groups like that. Damon doubted it, but he remained silent. His job was to listen, not get into a debate. He settled into his familiar and comfortable observing mode, listening so carefully to each speaker that his ears actually ached. It was odd how no one mentioned Kiki or the other murdered women. It was just as well; he and Malia weren’t here to field questions about that.

  As the band played Kealoha Mele, dessert was served. Damon wanted to ask Malia to dance, just to get her in his arms. He had to keep reminding himself that, as Malia had clearly pointed out, they weren’t here for fun. After coconut cake and coffee, the band took a break and people ambled out of the dining room to the outside decks.

  Damon and Malia followed them out into the night, exchanging stuffy air for a warm, salty breeze. It was dark now, and moonlight played in Malia’s hair like ribbons of phosphorus. The hundreds of lights outlining the mast sparkled in her eyes. He’d never seen anyone, or anything, more beautiful.

  Suddenly, around the corner of the main deck, he heard a voice that prickled the hairs on his neck. He grabbed Malia’s hand. “Come on. I think I hear him!”

  They ran toward the sound and discovered a woman staring at tape recorder with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Welcome to the reunion cruise,” a man’s voice crooned. “Bullies, and those of you who didn’t stand up for your bullied classmates, enjoy this sail to the fullest because it’s your last.”

  Terror flashed across the face of the woman with the tape recorder.

  Damon met Malia’s gaze – her alarmed look verified that they were thinking the same thing – the recorder might be a bomb! Damon grabbed it, ran starboard and threw the recorder upward over the rail as high and far as he could. “Everyone down,” he shouted.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Screams sliced the salty air as a wild scramble of people rushed for cover. Damon pushed Malia and the other woman to the deck and covered them with his body. If it wasn’t really a bomb, in a second he’d feel like a big fool.

  The explosion lit up the dark sky. A fountain of foamy spray rose and curled into a wall of water that rocked the boat and crashed over the deck, knocking people about. Damon clung to the women with all his might. With both arms busy, he couldn’t deflect the sea debris and loose ropes and hooks raining down on them with the wave of water. He drew the women closer, sheltering them with his body, taking the blows.

  When the boat stopped rocking, Damon helped Malia and the other woman to their feet. “Are you all right?” he asked, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  They nodded; but both looked wild-eyed, and Malia had a cut over her brow.

  “Let me look at that,” he said.

  “No time.” She turned her attention to Ku, who had just come around the corner on the run. She gestured to the woman. “Ku, this is Joyce Ward. Keep an eye on her while I make sure everyone is okay,”

  Malia’s take-charge voice stunned and intimidated Damon – and made him proud, but he didn’t have time to explore those feelings. He worked at her side, administering first aid to the injured people, treating minor cuts and bruises and murmuring calming words. A crew medic joined them.

  Some people cursed Damon for handling the problem wrong. Others thanked them for his quick-thinking. Half the passengers had no idea what had happened and thought maybe the boat had collided with a mine.

  But this was no accident. The sheer finality of the outcome if he hadn’t acted quickly hit him. They would’ve all been blown to bits.

  He closed his eyes to calm down enough to allow the chilling awareness to pass. Everyone was alive; Malia was alive, and he still had a chance to get to know her better.

  Later, when Malia questioned Joyce, the woman told her a man had paid her fifty dollars to bring the recorder aboard. She’d been instructed to wait until after dinner then stroll the deck, playing the tape of prom-night favorites for all to hear.

  “Can you describe him?” Malia asked.

  “He was tall,” Joyce said in a shaky voice. “And bundled up completely like those gardeners along the freeway with only mirrored sunglasses showing.” Joyce rubbed her arms. “He assured me the songs would make the reunion cruise more memorable. He seemed so charming—” Joyce twisted a strand of mousy hair. “It sounded like a cool surprise. I’m so sorry.”

  Joyce started to cry, and, to Damon’s surprise, Ku opened his arms and drew her close, comforting her as one might a child. Maybe the warrior-cop did have a heart somewhere in that hulking body. Or perhaps he just felt guilty for not checking everyone’s belongings as they boarded. Damon knew he was being unfair. With the killer’s M.O., no one could have anticipated a bomb. Damon turned to Malia to tell her that. His words died when he saw that the cut over her eye was swollen and still oozed blood. He ran to the dining room, grabbed some ice, and wrapped it in his handkerchief.

  When he skidded to a stop in front of her, he heard the end of her conversation; she had alerted the bomb squad. He assumed that was standard procedure when a bomb was involved. He gestured to her cut. “Here, let me fix that.”

  She ducked away. “I told you. It’s nothing.”

  He grabbed her wrist and drew her close. “You’re going to let me do this,” he said, locking gazes with her. “I feel responsible.” He should have protected her better. She could have a concussion for all he knew.

  It surprised him when the tension went out of her. “Okay,” she said. “But don’t make a big production out of it. We’re almost back to shore.”

  He glanced toward the Honolulu lights and realized she was right. As he pressed the cloth filled with ice to her brow, he wondered how to persuade this independent, strong-willed cop to let him go home with her.

  After stopping the bleeding, he gently applied an antiseptic. She looked up at him; the soft look in her eyes
made him wonder if now would be a good time to ask to go home with her. He knew she’d refuse.

  “Damon,” Malia said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “We have to talk.”

  His stomach knotted. Here it comes, the quick goodnight, the big kiss-off. She’d heard the taped voice and could identify the killer and didn’t need him anymore. “Go ahead. I know what you’re going to say anyway.”

  “Good,” she said. “It makes this easier. I know all the reasons you shouldn’t spend the night with me, but you’re the only one who has actually talked, at any length, to the killer. After the bomb scare, I can’t let my best witness go home alone. Tomorrow I can assign someone else to protect you, but—”

  “Hold on. You want me to spend the night at your house?” He shook his head to clear it. Had he heard her right? This was crazy. He wanted to protect her, and she wanted to protect him. Well, he wasn’t so macho that he had to make it clear who was protecting whom.

  “It isn’t negotiable, Damon.”

  He couldn’t believe that she expected him to fight her on this. He hesitated, and then feigned a long face. “Okay, Detective, if you feel it’s really necessary.”

  ****

  Al Lee kicked over a trash can, hot rage building inside him. He’d meant to blow up the Windjammer, not some spot on the horizon. Damn the cops. Damn Malia. The pigs shouldn’t have expected a bomb. He’d used the element of surprise.

  His stint as an ammunition and bomb specialist before his discharge from the Marines made the assembling job a cinch. The Makapuu lighthouse construction crew kept their explosives locked up tight. That and the guard had made the theft more of a challenge, not impossible. He’d used one of the half dozen timers he’d swiped from Radio Shack to trigger the explosion. The small bomb had the power to take out a city block. Not all 350 of the classmates and guests would have died, but if there was any justice in this unjust world, the worst offenders would have been blown into fish bait. Now he had to go to plan B. Malia was to blame for the foul-up. It was time to show her who’s boss.

  Al moved through the metered parking lot, crouching low, looking for Malia’s unmarked car. He spied it at the end of the row. The meter had twenty minutes left. She could have used her official pass and parked free, but not her. Probably she didn’t want to draw attention to her car. But he found it!

  He glanced around. His usual luck was with him – the wharf parking lot was jammed full of cars – but no people. He grabbed Malia’s door handle and set off a loud screech. He jumped even though he’d expected a security alarm. The whine grew louder.

  Sweat broke out on his brow. He slipped a lock-wedge down between the glass and the door frame. When the lock clicked up, he yanked open the door, lunged inside and pulled the lever to pop the hood.

  After he cut the wires, all was quiet again. He closed the hood, moved a few spaces away and hid behind a Hummer. Once he was absolutely sure no one had been alerted, he opened Malia’s door and started to climb inside to wait on the darkened floorboard. He froze. What if she flashed a light onto the backseat floorboard before getting in? After all, he wasn’t dealing with the usual dumb-witted or preoccupied female. Malia had always been smart, cautious, and now to boot, she was a trained cop.

  He dropped to the pavement on the driver’s side of the car, rolled onto his back and shimmied sideways until he lay under the Camry. The smell of oil and brake fluid reminded him of the service station job he’d slaved at after school to earn money to take Malia to the senior prom. Then she’d refused him! Hot rage boiled in him again, and he began to shake. He closed his eyes. He had to keep his wits about him. He knew Malia’s history, the loss of her twin. He knew her fears, and soon he’d learn her weaknesses. In his head, he heard the ticking seconds. The Windjammer would dock any minute now, and his classmates would swarm into the parking lot unaware they’d only received a short reprieve.

  Al pushed thoughts of their fate to the back of his mind and concentrated on Malia. He ran his plan through his mind. When she opened the door, he would grab her booted foot and yank her down. He pulled a cord from his pocket and tested its strength. “Come to me, Malia. I’m waiting, my love.”

  ****

  Media and the bomb squad were waiting for them when they docked. Malia fended off the reporters with the usual non-committal statement. As soon as they had concrete information they would call a press conference. But don’t hold your breath, guys.

  She briefed the bomb squad commander, and his men began a fast search of the Windjammer to rule out a second bomb. While the squad isolated the crew and guests to the Mauka, or inland, side of the deck, Malia and her team jotted down contact numbers for everyone on the cruise before allowing anyone to disembark. The bomb squad had found nothing, and none of the cruise guests remembered seeing the killer except Joyce, so Malia saw no point in putting the wet, haggard group through the agony of giving more detailed statements tonight. Tomorrow she’d assign a couple of officers to question them more thoroughly. After the group had a good night’s rest they might remember something that could be critical to their case.

  As classmates stepped off the gangplank, reporters shot questions at them. Most of them waved them away. A few stopped, and against her earlier caution, told what they knew, and probably exaggerated a bit to get on camera.

  The bomb squad commander was still talking to the cruise captain when she and Damon slipped past the media who were busy with gabby classmates.

  Once they were out of everyone’s earshot, Damon said, “Ride with me, Malia. You can get Ku and one of the other guys to bring your car home when they get through here.”

  His offer was tempting. She was dog tired, and her head hurt like hell. It would be great to sit back and let someone else drive. “Can’t,” she said. “My men have already put in long hours. Believe it, or not, even cops need down time now and then.” Her words sounded sarcastic even to her own ears. She softened her voice and managed a weak smile. “I’ll get my car, and you can follow me.”

  “The killer could still be hanging around. I’m walking you to your car.”

  “Hate to step on your macho ego, but I’m a well-trained cop quite able to handle myself.” What she couldn’t handle was the thought of being alone tonight, and she was in no mood to analyze the why or wisdom of doing something about it. “Now, if you want to come home with me, get to your car. Or maybe you’d rather go home with Ku.” She knew neither man would like that.

  Damon arched a wicked brow and grinned. “If this is about protecting your witness, maybe you’d better drive me to my car so no boogie man gets me.”

  She glanced back toward the ship and saw Ku walking past Damon’s four-door Toyota truck, and shouted, “Ku, hold up a minute until Mr. Shaw gets safely inside his vehicle.”

  “You sure know how to sock it to a guy,” Damon muttered.

  Malia pressed her lips together to squelch a smile. Damon wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the arrangement. Ku frowned and leaned against the fender, his beefy arms folded across his chest. “Make it snappy, Shaw,” he called.

  “Whatever you say, officer,” Damon said, sarcasm spiking his tone, and then he took off running toward Ku.

  Malia laughed. Damon would soon learn that she was a cop first and a woman second. It was totally out of character for her to invite him to her house, her private sanctuary, on both counts. What had gotten into her? And what had she gotten herself into? She doubted that she’d been honest with him, or herself.

  As she neared her car, Malia dug out her keys. She pressed the button to disengaged the security feature and unlock the doors. The locks were up. What happened to the reassuring beep? She slowed her steps and drew her gun.

  Approaching from the passenger side of the car, she pulled her light from her belt and flashed it into the back seat. Empty. After being almost blown to kingdom-come less than thirty minutes ago, she deserved to indulge her paranoia. The chance of another bomb was slight. Still, she imagined turning the igniti
on, then bam! She shuddered. No way was she getting into that car until the bomb squad checked it out.

  She replaced her gun in its holster, and flipped open her cell phone to request that the bomb squad commander stop by her car when he finished talking to the cruise captain. Before she could punch in the number, strong fingers clamped around her ankle and yanked her off her feet. As she fell, she screamed, “Officer down!”

  Her head hit the concrete, and a purple flash of pain stunned her. From beneath the car, gloved hands reached out and wrapped a cord around her neck, cutting off her air. She flailed to break free as strong hands dragged her under the car. With the heel of her leather boot, she kicked backwards at the attacker’s shins. The cord twisted tighter. Ignoring the agony of her throbbing skull, she threw her head back and slammed into the perp’s nose. He yelped, and the cord loosened. She grabbed it, but he held on like a pit-bull.

  Twisting her body, she rolled to face her attacker. In the parking lot’s dim lighting and the black shadow of the car she saw only a face flattened and distorted by a nylon stocking. Deep grunts and curses spewed from the man. Size and weight were in his favor.

  Using the leverage of cord and momentum of motion, she slammed the man’s gloved knuckles into the undercarriage of the car. She grabbed for the stocking mask. The perp ducked. Gasping for breath, she began kicking the hell out him.

  He rolled away. She scrambled out from under the car after him. Flushed, breathing hard and high on adrenaline, she drew her gun, and shouted, “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”

  The lot had become a noisy thoroughfare as passengers from the reunion cruise boarded waiting buses or piled into rental cars. She couldn’t fire into the darkness with innocent people about. Her hesitation cost her. The perp disappeared.