by Lakes, Lynde
Her cell phone rang. She cleared her throat and snapped, “Reed here.” It was a member of her team, apprising her of their positions and unusual behaviors by the partygoers. “Check everything out,” she said, putting her hand over the phone and speaking only loud enough to convey her message. “If we step on toes, so be it. We can apologize later.”
Malia hung up and turned to talk with a classmate. Pretty soon a few more acqaintences dropped by and huddled together chattering and laughing. Malia mostly listened, watching for anything suspicious going on around her. When one woman suggested a trip to the restroom, she declined. She had no time to rush to the privacy of the powder room to whisper about nothing. She had to stay centrally located and alert for anything. She watched them head off together, feeling older and weighted down by her responsibily to keep them all alive.
Carlos Yoneda stumbled in looking like a bull dog, blurry-eyed and pouchy-faced. Once a Warrior, buff and handsome, he now looked like his only exercise was lifting shots of bourbon. He passed her by, too drunk to recognize her. She sighed in relief.
“Malia!” Rick Krehl, another guy she would have preferred to avoid, lifted Malia off her feet and swung her around. He was solid as a Hummer and square all over, including his jaw, a perfect model for a marine recruitment poster. Cigarette smoke clung to him, fouling the air between them.
Malia coughed and cleared her throat. “Rick, what a surprise.” He’d been captain of the football team in their senior year. He was always asking her out, and she had finally agreed and gone to the prom with him. It had been a mistake.
“I hear my little Malia is a cop,” he said in a booming voice.
She winced. His big, loud mouth had gotten louder, equal to his weight gain. At social gatherings she never liked to tell people that she was a cop, but unfortunately those who knew seemed to enjoy broadcasting it. His tobacco smell mingled with the odor of beer and half a bottle of some cheap shaving lotion. She dangled in the air, about four inches above the floor, with his hot, beefy arms hugging her to him. “Put me down, Rick,” she barked with her tone of authority.
“Yes, Ma’am, Lady Cop, whatever you say.” Laughing, he lowered her until her high heels once again touched the floor. “If your dance card isn’t full, maybe we could show ‘em how it’s done. You always were the best dancer in school, and after my divorce I brushed up with Arthur Murray. Promise I won’t embarrass you.”
He already had in ways she didn’t even want to contemplate. Smoothing and straightening her clothing, Malia forced a smile. “I’m with someone, and he’s the jealous type.”
Rick’s face turned serious. “Better dump him, Malia. Guys like that are dangerous.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Rick glanced around. “Say, is Al Lee here? I know you two were friends.”
“He isn’t on the list. Besides, I’d be surprised to see Al here. His memories about our graduating class probably weren’t something he’d want to relive.”
Rick looked down at his shoes. “Yeah, I know. The way we treated him has eaten away at me all these years. I want to apologize. It was so dammed wrong. My son lives with his mother, and he’s going through the same kind of hell now. It’s changing him from a happy kid to a moody loner.”
Sympathy for the boy tore at her heart. She wondered if part of the problem might be the divorce. She pressed her lips together, not wanting to encourage Rick by delving deeper into his life. “I’m sure your apology would help, but for Al, it’s probably water under the bridge.”
The tension around Rick’s mouth eased, and she was glad when he let the subject drop. Her stomach knotted when she thought about the way her classmates had treated Al, and it knotted even tighter hearing that, in this day and age, another little boy was being tortured.
For a few minutes, she and Rick brought each other up-to-date on their lives, him doing most of the talking. She discovered that under all the brashness he had turned into an okay guy. Still, she was relieved when the photo line moved forward. “It was good to see you again, Rick. Have a great time.”
The photographer motioned her forward. “Alone?” he asked.
For a moment she wished she’d allowed Damon to escort her. The picture taken the evening of the cruise would be her only memento of them together to cherish when this was over and they parted company.
Malia waited until the photographer finished taking her picture before she opened her evening bag and flashed her badge. “I need a copy of all reunion attendees with a list of names ASAP.”
He studied her a moment, then nodded. As Malia left him, she got two more calls on her cell phone canceling previous concerns. Officer King told her that the scream in the restroom was a false alarm. It turned out to be the excited shriek of a woman greeting her best friend for the first time in ten years. Ku advised her that the something tied around another potential suspect’s waist turned out to be a bunched up girdle, not a bomb.
Malia entered the Pagoda Ballroom. It was already set up for buffet banquet. She took a seat at her table in the back section just as the room darkened and the video of school events flashed on a big screen located on the center of the stage. She answered another cell call. Someone had seen a guy dressed like a gardener peek in a window. Another false alarm. It was a gardener.
She glanced up at the video. The names and pictures of the classmates who’d passed away flashed on the screen. A sadness rose in Malia at the parade of young hopeful faces whose lives had been cut short. Suddenly, Malia froze. Pictures of Kiki, Ainsley, and Nancy loomed on the screen. The efficiency of the reunion committee stunned her. Tears blurred her vision. The dead weren’t even in the ground yet, and their faces were plastered up there.
When the lights brightened, Malia sat numbly for what seemed like an eternity. People around her talked about taking up a collection for a memorial with the names of those who had died. She pulled a twenty from her purse and tossed it into the plate, wishing she had more with her. Malia closed her eyes, fighting the anger. If she didn’t get the killer, more classmates would be added to the list.
Malia sensed someone behind her. She turned and looked up at Damon. Her breath caught; he filled out his black tuxedo better than anyone she’d ever seen, or ever hoped to see. His shoulders looked wider than usual, and he looked taller.
“Whoops,” she said, her face burning. “I forgot to tell you that most of the guys would be wearing slacks and dressy aloha shirts.”
“No problem. It doesn’t bother me.”
But Damon’s dark good looks bothered Malia enormously, and she wondered about the wisdom of letting him sit next to her during dinner.
He leaned on the back of the only empty chair at the long table. “My seat, I presume?” he said, easing into the chair next to her. He leaned forward to bring the chair closer to the table, and she caught a whiff of a musky shaving lotion that was more intoxicating than inhaling one of the mysterious Hawaiian passion potions. His eyes glinted with approval as he took in her long, red evening skirt.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who overdressed.” He stared at her for several heartbeats. “You look sensational.” His words came out in a deep breathy murmur that vibrated through her.
She shrugged. “Thanks. You, too.” The laughable understatement was meant to downplay the stirring truth; he looked like the man of her dreams. Always had.
He held her gaze, saying things with his emerald-green eyes that sent heat rushing through her veins. In self-defense, she looked away. She intended to keep her fantasies about him only in her dreams.
The other cheerleader left their tables in a group to get in the banquet line. They motioned to her to join them, but she smiled and mouthed, talk to you later. They wouldn’t understand that she was only here to catch a killer. Her friends looked great, figures better than in high school. Later, if she had the chance, she’d tell them so. Their escorts remained at the tables, looking bored, their faces flushed from drinking too much. They clearly
wished they were home watching TV, or flaked out on the couch.
A husband and wife team strolled by, both wearing black aloha shirts and white slacks, looking like Mutt and Jeff penguins. It was Margene Halsted and Micky Dun. How had those two ever gotten together? Margene had lived on a ranch like those on the Big Island and was always bringing animals to school for show-and-tell. She’d wanted to become a veterinarian.
Micky was the kind of guy who would kick dogs and put cans on cats’ tails.
Malia shook her head. Her negativity about her classmates had nothing to do with them. In truth, it was herself she didn’t like very much, right now. Sitting next to Damon with her heightened awareness of him brought images of last night’s kiss – and her guilt. She had wanted him – and as much as she loathed herself for it, she still wanted him.
The man on the other side of Damon was Luke Tamara. He was showing Damon pictures and bragging. Luke hadn’t changed one iota since high school; he’d been a bragger then, too.
Good grief, she was being negative again. She had to stop that. Damon turned and showed her Luke’s pictures. The twin toddlers in the photo were beautiful; Luke had every right to brag.
Thinking of her twin’s grisly murder, Malia closed her fingers around her cloth napkin in her lap, squeezing it into a tight ball. Before she could get past that wave of sadness, an image of Kiki in the trunk of her Mercedes flashed in Malia’s mind. Dear God. The only way I’ll make it through this night is to numb my feelings and keep my mind on the job.
Chapter Twenty
Heading back to the kitchen, Al Lee paused and checked his appearance in one of the mirrors. His copper-tan makeup still looked flawless, and his curly dark wig looked like he’d been born with it. The mustache had been a good touch – it made him look continental and dashing as hell. He kissed his encircled thumb and forefinger, admiring his perfection. His fingers tasted of death and plastic. He smiled, imagining his classmates’ revulsion if they knew the gloves he wore to serve them were the same gloves he’d worn two hours earlier to strangle the waiter.
Al Lee quickened his stride and pushed through the double doors to get another tray of sweet and sour shrimp for the banquet table. From the start, he’d known what to do, thanks to six months’ service in the mess hall of Chino Detention Center. He’d learned so many useful things while in prison. The warden had promoted him from one job to another. Al had been good at the jobs, but his so-called promotions had come from paying off guards, not his expertise.
The day he was released, he vowed that he’d never return and used his hacker skills to erase any evidence that he’d ever been in prison. His slate was as clean as a newborn babe.
He lifted the tray and followed a waitress to the banquet room. Her sexy sway reminded him of Kiki. Kiki had been one hot mama. Another waiter returned with an empty tray. He didn’t even look at Al. Instead, he turned and admired the swaying fanny. Men are all scum, Al thought. And females stupidly lusted for the dangerous, bad-boy type. All the women’s books he’d read in prison stressed that. Well, gals, here I am – a bad, bad boy in every way.
The ballroom hummed with Al’s classmates reminiscing and almost drowned out the cha-cha the band was playing. He recognized the song, I Just Called To Say I Love You. A few couples danced, but most of the crowd seemed more interested in another kind of dance – the complicated gab maneuvers of one-upmanship.
Al placed the stainless steel tray of shrimp into the steam table and scanned the crowd, looking for Malia. Under his breath he sang, I just dropped by to say I’m going to kill you. His body went rigid, and he stuck his hand in his pants’ pocket and stroked the high school class reunion announcement. Calmer now, he moved through the maze of long tables and chattering classmates.
He scanned the sea of mostly brown faces. Those who made him suffer because he had the misfortune to be born with albinism would pay. His gaze fell on a table at the back. His heart pounded wildly.
Malia!
Al’s gaze devoured her shapely body draped in red silk, the color of blood. He imagined reaching out and stroking the hair that cascaded down her back like the flow of Madam Pele’s molten fire. Try to burn me, Malia. I dare you.
Next to her sat that damn Damon, hanging onto her every word like a newly released inmate after five years without a woman. A bitter laugh boiled inside Al. Well, well, the best friend and the best friend’s husband had gotten chummy awfully fast. To think she’d been so pure and untouchable in high school.
Underneath this disguise, it’s me, Malia. Me. Al wanted to flex for her, and let her see that, with hours of weightlifting over the last ten years, he’d built himself into a God-damned Adonis. But he could wait. Soon she’d feel his strength.
Malia brushed back lush strands that had fallen across the side of her face and glanced at him with cool disinterest. Under his brown contact lens, Al’s pale pink eyes twitched. Through the thin latex gloves, he dug biting nails into his palms. I loved you, Malia, but you just wanted to be friends. I have no friends. And I have no heart. You cut it out.
****
Malia felt the skin-crawling vibes coming from the right side of the room, devouring her. Only a waiter was looking in her direction. He smiled, bowed his head slightly and kissed a circled thumb and index finger in the universal gesture of perfection. An unexplainable sixth sense sent an icy tremor down her spine. What if he was the killer? She needed to get a better look. But he had disappeared into the crowd. She flipped open her cell phone and punched Ku’s button.
“Yeah,” Ku barked.
“One of the waiters fits the killer’s body type. His leer gave me bad vibes. Before I could check him out, he vanished. I suspect a disguise. See if personnel hired any temps for tonight’s banquet. Alert the team to lookout for someone who doesn’t quite fit.”
As she talked, Malia sensed Damon’s ears perking up. She shot a glance at him. Concern creased his forehead.
“What’s going on?” he silently mouthed.
She ignored him, or tried, but he made it difficult by easing closer. Malia leaned away from him. She didn’t need the distraction of his warm breath feathering along her cheek bone. She forced herself to focus on what Ku was saying.
“I’ll get on it,” he said. “But it’s probably a false alarm. Face it, Reed. Half the guys in here are leering and lusting after the ex-cheerleader-cop in the slinky, red getup. Couldn’t you have found something less eye-catching?”
“Dammit, Ku, what I wear isn’t your concern. All you need to know is that I’m fully on the job.” Her face flamed aware that Damon was listening. It had been unprofessional to allow Ku to rile her, but he’d touched a tender nerve. “Although it’s none of your business, Kiki chose it and made me promise I’d wear it. I wore it for her.”
“Better watch it, Reed,” Ku said. “You’re getting soft.”
Malia snapped her cell phone closed. She couldn’t afford softness, not now. Damon put his arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She glared at him. “You stay put. I have to find a waiter.”
He clamped a hand on her arm. “You mean that Leering Lackey? About six feet tall. Dark hair and brows. Mustache. Lightly tanned skin with an odd pallor.”
“You nailed it. Help me find him.” A warning rang in her head, but she couldn’t pass up an extra set of alert eyes, even if they belonged to a non-cop civilian.
She hiked up her long skirt, kicked off her heels and took off running, Damon at her side. They zigzagged through the crowd toward the kitchen, eyeing every waiter they met along the way. Holding her skirt up slowed her down. “This skirt’s gotta go,” she said as she yanked it off and threw it on the end of a table.
Damon glanced at her black tights and gave a humorless laugh. “Always taking off your clothes around me, tempting me.”
“I don’t have time for your cuteness.”
“I’m cute?”
He was simply trying to defuse her tension, but she needed the pressure – fed on it. “Damo
n, for God’s sake, shut up, and just look for the waiter.”
****
Slipping a fork and a pink linen napkin into his jacket pocket next to the roll of masking tape and matches, Al Lee ran toward the staff hallway next to the kitchen. It was deserted. The food handlers were busy in the kitchen and at the buffet table, but one of them could come through here any moment. With heart racing, he paused in front of the laundry chute and dug in his pocket for the napkin and a book of matches. It took two strikes to light the match. He glanced around before touching the flame to the linen. He watched, fascinated as the blaze turned the edges brown, and then he dropped the torch into the dumbwaiter elevator.
He ran to the fire alarm box at the end of the hall, and sweating, he swung the culinary meat hammer he’d stashed nearby into the glass. It broke enough for him to reach inside and pull down the handle. The shrill ringing drowned out the music and buzz of reunion chatter that came from the ballroom. He crept around the corner into a main hallway. People pushed past him in a frantic flight toward the exits.
He slipped into the women’s restroom located near the kitchen and found a line of women winding from the door past mirrored makeup counters and disappearing around a corner. “You ladies deaf?” he shouted. “The fire alarm’s ringing!”
The women broke and ran. He still had to deal with the stupid broads lined up inside the lavatory area. He rounded the partition, pretending to cover his eyes, but his intention was to make his disguised face less memorable. Through splayed fingers, he saw Ginger Tomaka go into one of the stalls. Back in high school, she had put a dead gecko in his sandwich and another time a cockroach in his milk. His gut churned. Maybe she was even one of the classmates who’d put the marijuana in his locker and gotten him kicked out of school for a week, which had brought all hell down on him at home.
“Fire! Everyone out now,” he shouted. He glared at them. “Go, go!”
The women turned tail and ran.
Inside the stalls, shoes shuffled, and toilets flushed.