by Lakes, Lynde
Malia’s house had surprised him in so many ways. It was a barricaded fort with all the modern-day security features available. Did all cops live like the world was after them?
Interestingly, once you got past the locks and alarms, the place had a gentle homey feel to it. A warming rose in his chest and wrapped around his heart. He shook his head; she even had a bunny. He would’ve been less surprised, after seeing all the locks, if she owned a pit bull or a junkyard Doberman.
He’d learned from Kopa’a that, in Malia’s teens, someone had kidnapped her twin right out of the room where both girls slept. Maybe that accounted for all the security. Maybe it even accounted for her choice of profession, her drive to catch bad guys. These were things he suddenly wanted to get to the bottom of. She was a much more complex woman than any he’d ever known, and he had a hunch that, although she’d never admit it, that no one had ever needed love more.
He stared at her lips again, soft and supple in slumber. He imagined how soft they’d feel under his own. Before he could stop it, a fantasy image popped in his head, Malia in bed, opening her arms to him, her eyes eager, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, shadows and light tracing exciting patterns on her firm, nude body. He forced himself to breathe. It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter Sixteen
Dark clouds blocked the morning sun, shadowing Kiki’s mourners. The grayness, the smell of new-mown grass and freshly-turned earth deepened Malia’s sense of loss.
She stood next to the graveside, between her parents and Kiki’s parents. Damon stood next to Auntie Kopa’a, his arm around the old woman’s shoulders as she wept. In the days since Kiki’s murder Auntie and Toby had aged ten years. Could anyone besides a parent whose child had been murdered fully grasp their pain? Was it worse than the pain of seeing your best friend in a trunk with her skull crushed? Worse than knowing some evil bastard had slipped into your bedroom while you slept…kidnapped your twin sister…raped her…brutally murdered her? Worse than knowing he was never caught?
A familiar ache clawed at Malia’s gut, and a silent scream tore at her throat. Would she ever get past those horrors that haunted her dreams at night, and in daylight drove her to chase killers? Dear God, how she’d love to crawl into bed, lick her wounds, and lose herself in sleep. She blinked away her tears. She had no time for weakness, no time to be human.
The low voice of Reverend Lucas droned on, his tone a hum meant to console, but Malia doubted that anyone was really listening, least of all her. Her head ached like someone had taken a crow bar to it, and her knees felt shaky. Please, Lord, get me through this.
What a horrible ending for a beautiful young woman who could have had it all. Malia’s throat tightened. With Kiki’s quirky sense of humor, she was probably looking down from Heaven on this, smiling at the attention she was getting from the media. The staff photographers for the Star Bulletin and the Advertiser stood off by themselves, cameras ready and primed to catch someone off guard. They wore sunglasses, but Malia had a hunch their eyes were focused on Damon, the estranged husband – and the beneficiary of a million dollar insurance policy. Her eyes were on him, too, fascinated by how appropriate his every gesture was, the brave, bereaved husband giving comfort to his beloved in-laws. Were his reactions too perfect? Too controlled? How many estranged husbands would be welcomed by the deceased wife’s family at her funeral? Kopa’a and Toby knew him far better than Malia did, and they trusted him unquestioningly. Could he really fool insightful Auntie if he wasn’t what he seemed?
It still bothered Malia that he had stalked Kiki. She let her gaze trail over his dark suit, the wide shoulders, and the wavy crop of inky hair. He looked much the same as the day he married Kiki, minus the smile. She knew that even a man with a face like his, with its clean, strong lines could be less than aboveboard. Ted Bundy was a perfect example.
She didn’t want to stare at Damon, but he had that certain indefinable something that drew her attention to him like a hummingbird to sugar-water. He turned his head a fraction as though he sensed her watching him. What was he thinking behind those dark glasses?
Dammit. He can’t be guilty – not if all the murders are connected – and the evidence, meager as it is tells me they are. All of the murdered women were classmates; then a bomb was slipped onto the reunion cruise, and a man with the killer’s description attacked me in the parking lot.
Damon had to be the decent man he seemed. Last night he’d been there for me, staying with me at the hospital, seeing that I got home safely. Her face flamed thinking of him undressing her. She forced the thought away. He had stayed by her bedside, given her Vicodin to get her through the night.
She was still a bit distanced from everything because of the pills. But without them this day and her sense of loss would be unbearable. Damon had tried to persuade her to stay home, arguing that because of the attack and her injuries, no one expected her to attend the funeral, but he was wrong. She expected it and would have never forgiven herself if she’d missed it.
Malia scanned the crowd of mourners, looking for strangers, someone suspicious. Many times, killers got a sick thrill from attending their victim’s funeral.
Her homicide partners were there: Toni Sharpe, the other female recruit who had entered the ranks with Malia when she’d joined the force; Ku, who seemed to doubt Malia’s ability to do her job; Officer David Hawkins, who had videotaped the trunk and poor Kiki from every angle; Officer Kwock, who thought this was the case that would bury Malia; Officer Morales, who wrongly thought she was made of ice; and Officer Lowell, the meticulous Evidence Specialist who to-date hadn’t given her anything solid she could zero in on. But he would. He wouldn’t give up until he had something. And neither would she.
The officers scanned the crowd. With all of them scrutinizing the gathering, at least one might notice someone who didn’t fit, someone who looked smug or gratified.
Gabriel Rosado, the guy Kiki had been with at the restaurant, and perhaps one of the last people to see her alive, had an alibi. However, his alibi, Jeff Stenzel, had a record and had perjured himself in court on more than one occasion. That left Rosado still under suspicion. The trouble was he didn’t have any apparent motive.
Malia was struck by all the attractive men there, hats in hand, feet shifting. Were they all Kiki’s lovers? Ku would see that none left the cemetery without showing identification. It would take precious time to follow up on all those guys. Which one of you hunks have a motive? Malia had told Ku to watch for possible classmates. Malia didn’t recognize any, but people sometimes change after five years. Besides, she didn’t know all of them to begin with.
She did recognize Kirk Michaels, the best man at Kiki’s and Damon’s wedding. His affair with Kiki had broken up the friendship between the men. Michaels cared enough about Kiki to show up and face Damon, or was it to rub salt in Damon’s wounds? She preferred to think it was just a caring guy paying his last respects, but she wanted to talk to him later. She’d ask Ku to bring him in for an informal chat.
The wind fluttered the flowers and greenery that obscured the lid of the koa wood casket. Malia blinked back tears, thinking of Kiki’s still body resting on a bed of satin. Kiki used to say she loved satin sheets and planned to buy some. Had she ever gotten around to it? How quickly life can turn on you. One misstep and it’s over.
Malia noticed a tall, well-built man in the distance under the shadow of the big, old banyan. He was too far away to identify. He was built just like her attacker. Would her assailant dare show up here and risk that she might recognize him? In spite of the humidity, Malia shivered and rubbed her arms. A cold uneasiness shot through her. Malia gestured to Ku. In the instant it took him to respond, the man disappeared. Malia stepped away from everyone to use her cell phone to alert the officer she’d stationed at the gate. His orders were to stop and hold anyone that matched her attacker’s description. The unidentified man could be someone merely visiting another grave, but Malia couldn’t take that chanc
e.
When Malia returned, her parents gave her narrow-eyed looks. She’d broken some kind of sacred funeral rule by using her cell phone during the service. Tough, folks. They didn’t understand her job, and they didn’t understand her. Maybe she didn’t understand herself, or how she could stay focused on the job when her heart was breaking. Of course, she didn’t have to understand it. She just had to do it.
****
After the funeral Damon, Malia, Ku and other close friends and members of the family went to Kiki’s parent’s house. They talked in soft, reverent voices, trying to console the inconsolable.
Damon forced down a guilt-ridden rise of resentment when the conversation flowed to a proclamation of Kiki’s gifts: her generosity, her gregarious nature, her passion. It was ironic. Those were the very things that had drawn him to her, made him fall in love with her, and the excess of those things had ended their marriage. The group was right, though, that she had lived life to the fullest, and he sure as hell would miss her. Pressure pushed at the back of his eye sockets, but he tightened his jaw and managed to hold back the tears.
After about twenty minutes, the conversation slipped into longer silences as the group’s thoughts, like his had, must have turned inward and more personal.
Malia exhaled heavily, looking almost relieved when her cell phone rang. “I’m sorry.” she said, standing, “but I have to take this call. It may be about Kiki’s killer.”
Damon saw the disapproving looks Malia’s parents gave her as she passed them. Her response was a quelling glance and quickened steps as she left the room.
When she returned, he noticed a wince of pain as she bent and hugged Kiki’s parents. “I have to go. Ku and I are needed at the department.”
“What?” Damon said, stunned. “Kopa’a and Toby need you here today.” And he needed her – and hoped a dose of guilt would change her mind.
“I want to stay,” she said, “But my team rounded up some suspects at the funeral and questioning them can’t be put off.” Her eyes softened. “Finding Kiki’s killer is the best way to honor her.”
Damon could tell that Malia’s injuries were giving her pain, and he knew she’d skipped her latest dose of pills to stay alert. He admired her determination and mental toughness, but wished he could handcuff her to the bed for a couple of days to give her time to recuperate.
He ignored the image that shot into his mind, and grabbed her arm before she started out the door. “Come back as soon as you can. I’ll wait here. If your interrogation doesn’t uncover the killer, I’d like to take you to dinner and discuss an idea I have to help catch that bastard.”
Neither of them would be interested in food, but they couldn’t run solely on adrenaline forever. The part about having an idea was true, but what he really wanted was to get her to relax a little. Everyone was worried about Malia – Kiki’s parents, her own parents, even Ku.
Malia narrowed her eyes. “Spill it now if you really have something. Or is this just a trick?”
He bent down close to her ear. “My plan’s too involved,” he whispered, too late realizing that his breath was probably warm and intimate against her lobe. He glanced at Ku. “And I need your approval before involving others.”
She gave him a doubting look. “If this is on the level, I’ll go, but—”
He raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” He pressed his lips together tightly to hold back any sign of a smile.
“I doubt you were ever a scout,” she said wearily. “But since we need to talk anyway, I’ll go.”
She didn’t say when she’d be back, but like a fool, he promised to wait.
After all the other mourners went home and Kiki’s parents retreated to take a nap, Damon found an unused notebook and journaled his myriad feelings until his fingers cramped. Then he rose and paced the floor, feeling like an idiot for just hanging around waiting for Malia’s call.
His gaze jerked up when an angry wind whipped sheets of rain pelts against the picture window. The relentless pounding tightened the edge on his already taut nerves. At least, Guy Hagi’s storm had had the decency to wait until after the funeral to hit. Damon couldn’t do anything about the bad weather outside, but he struggled to hold back his stormy emotions. It seemed the two turbulent forces were somehow connected, and his emotional one threatened to break loose as well. He was too focused on Malia, too caught up in his concern for her. He knew better – he’d learned the hard way that you can’t trust your heart when it comes to women. Never again did he want to be in love alone.
Last night had been a test. One moment he wanted nothing more than to sit beside Malia and play the male version of Florence Nightingale, and the next he imagined himself kissing her tempting lips, and lying next to her, touching places he had no right to imagine. Just thinking about his fantasy sent adrenaline and heat surging through him. Guilt rocked him. It was wrong to picture making love to Malia on the day of Kiki’s funeral, but he had no control over his thoughts. Beyond immoral, it was crazy to think of Malia with such passion when there were serious problems at hand, life and death problems. Last night had proven just how dangerous her job was, and how much, in a very short time, she’d come to mean to him.
Chapter Seventeen
“You got something going with your suspect?” Ku asked as Malia grabbed up her files to leave the windowless interrogation room. The big Hawaiian, whom she loved like a brother, in spite of his annoying ability to read her, stood with his arms folded, looking like a cross between King Kamehameha and the Jolly Green Giant.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She thought about not answering. The only sound was air pouring through the AC vents. “First of all,” she told him, rubbing her aching head. “Your intimidating stance won’t work with me. Second, Damon is no longer a suspect and—”
“You like him,” Ku interrupted in a monotone. He held her gaze with eyes so brown they looked black, unreadable eyes that showed no emotion. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t have dinner with him.”
“Who made you my conscience?” Malia whirled around and headed for her office. She groaned when Ku followed. She had just interrogated five uncooperative men, and now she had to deal with a man who thought he had the right to interrogate her. She didn’t have to justify herself, but the words seemed to roll out of their own volition. “We’re having dinner to discuss the case. Damon has some ideas about—”
“He has ideas all right, but they have nothing to do with this case.” Ku slouched into the chair in front of Malia’s desk. He looked like a Warrior linebacker trying to wedge himself into a child’s chair.
She slammed the files down on her desk. “I refuse to have this conversation. Even if what you say is true, that’s his problem.”
“Yah? It might be if he was just interested in a bit of fun and games. I know you cut guys like that off at the knees. But I saw our guy’s face while waiting to hear word about your condition. He really cares, and because you like him, it’s like dynamite and a lit match.”
“Look,” Malia said, turning to face the window to hide her awareness that he was right. A bolt of lightning lit up the black clouds, warning that even Mother Nature disapproved. “I know you don’t like Damon but—”
“Not so. I’ll admit I didn’t when I thought he’d offed his wife for a cool mil, but he’s a stand up guy when the chips are down. Still, bottom line, he’s not a cop, and you have no business discussing this investigation with him. And whether you like it or not, this guy is—”
Malia thrust her hand forward. “Stop. I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.” She unclipped a list from the top of a file folder and handed it to Ku. “Get these guys in here in the morning for questioning, and don’t forget we’re on reunion-duty tomorrow night. The plan is to cover the ball, while our team covers every exit and the parking lot. Nothing bigger than a clutch evening bag gets through the door, and the bomb squad will do periodic sweeps of the premises. Only the killer knows what he’ll pull ne
xt.”
****
Exhaustion, flood warnings, and downed electric poles and trees wiped out Malia’s and Damon’s dinner plans. Since she’d been rocky from the pain pills, she allowed Damon to drive her from her place in Kapolei to the funeral in Honolulu and now regretted it. She should have stayed in town.
Heading back to her place, he didn’t drive over thirty miles an hour, slowed by sheets of rain that made seeing nearly impossible. “The storm’s getting worse,” he said. “Even fast food is out. Can we grab a bite at your place?”
She still ached from her fight with the killer, and her adrenaline surge was dwindling fast. Worse yet, Ku’s words hammered in her head like a second conscience: Damon really cares, and because you like him, it’s like dynamite and a lit match. “Afraid not,” she said, “I—”
“Hey, this is white-knuckle driving. Are you really gonna to turn me away in this storm without even a sandwich?”
Oh, hell. I guess I owe him at least a snack or something – and I don’t want to be alone “Okay, okay.” No matter what I do it’ll be wrong. “But it’ll have to be canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. That is if the electricity stays on.”
Damon sent her a grateful smile.
She frowned. Tomorrow she’d have to face more questions from Ku in his non-relenting, and disapproving tone. So what? I don’t have to answer to him.
She sighed, wishing she could just lay her head back and relax. But in this storm, driving took two sets of eyes. And the storm within Malia was even more unnerving. In a few minutes they’d be alone in her cozy little house. Trying to distract herself, she thought about tomorrow. It’d be another long day. Of course, the days would all be long until they caught the killer of what the press was calling, the Reunion Murders. Malia shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Cold?” Damon asked
“Delayed reaction to a lousy day.”