Was that a smart idea?
He hadn’t always made the smartest moves. Why change that now?
* * *
That night Ferguson had dinner with his wife, Brenda. She’d made spaghetti and turkey balls. He felt her staring at him and resisted the temptation to look back. They were ten years into the marriage, but it somehow seemed more like twenty or thirty. Their relationship had grown stale. Especially in bed. The passion that had once kept them hot and heavy at all hours of the night barely registered anymore.
He blamed himself. She deserved better. Yet he couldn’t walk away. And go where? Maybe he didn’t even want a divorce. They could be messy and expensive.
Instead he preferred to just keep things as they were and see what happened.
Ferguson lifted his head and gazed across the table. “This is good,” he said, and rolled more spaghetti onto his fork.
“What’s going on with you?” she asked pointblank.
He cocked a brow. “Nothing. Just preoccupied with work.”
She frowned. “You never talk to me anymore.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything! Just don’t shut me out, Trent.”
He took a sip of wine. “I don’t mean to.”
Brenda wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Are you having an affair?”
“No, of course not.” Ferguson swallowed, hiding his guilt. “Where is this coming from?” As if he didn’t know.
“It’s coming from the reality that we don’t seem to be on the same page anymore.”
“Sure we are.” He tried to convince her if not himself. “Sorry if I made you think otherwise.”
Brenda leaned forward. “Are you still attracted to me?”
“Yes, of course. After all, you’re my wife.”
“Then start treating me like it!” She gave him an annoyed look and stood up. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to join me if you like.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Ferguson finished his wine. He wasn’t looking forward to being with his wife tonight. She couldn’t give him what he wanted.
So maybe he’d give her time to fall asleep before hitting the bed.
* * *
The doer ate a chicken sandwich while reading the newspaper article about the murders of Doctors Larry Nagasaka and Elizabeth Racine. The police were said to be baffled by the execution style murders and had no suspects, but were following leads.
What leads? Was there reason to be concerned?
Of course not. The police always put a positive spin on every case, if only for morale. Didn’t mean they had anything to back it up. The justice had been carefully planned and perfectly executed. Nothing to fear.
The doer’s confidence returned.
Let them follow all the leads they wanted. Wouldn’t change things any. Those two deserved to die a thousand deaths.
And there was no returning from the dead. They could rot in hell.
The doer sipped wine. It was sweet with just the right amount of tartness.
An image of the shock on Larry’s face just before it was blown off was priceless.
And Elizabeth, beautiful in spite of herself, breathed her last breath with Larry wedged inside, before she took a bullet to the head.
More wine was tasted before the doer’s rage erupted and the glass was thrown against the wall, shattering.
A deep sigh was let out slowly. Revenge was the great equalizer. The spider caught the two wicked flies when they were most vulnerable and showed them no mercy, biting with the venom of bullets.
As doctors, they couldn’t save their own lives when all was said and done. So much for being members of the Medical Association of Maui. Little good it did them. Others should heed the warning or risk being dealt a similar fate.
SIX
On Monday, Leila and Seymour went to the crime lab. The ballistics report had come in on the murder weapon used to kill Elizabeth Racine and Larry Nagasaka.
“The victims were shot with a .25 caliber handgun,” said forensic examiner Gil Delfino.
Leila was not surprised, but wanted to have it confirmed. “Were you able to get anything on the bullets used?”
“A couple of them were so mutilated, it was all but impossible to identify markings. But there was one bullet virtually unscathed that spoke in volumes. It was ejected from a gun barrel with six lands and grooves, along with a right hand twist. You find the weapon, you’ll find your shooter.”
“Is it possible there was more than one shooter?” Seymour asked routinely.
Delfino blinked. “Anything’s possible, but probable, no. We also recovered shell casings at the crime scene. The ejection and firing pin marks on them were identical, strongly suggesting a single assailant. Unless the gun was passed from one shooter to another.”
“Not likely.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Leila envisioned the killer pumping bullets in the victims. It wasn’t necessarily the worst way to die, with death by fire coming to mind. It was the way bullets could tear through the body and its vital organs. Nasty.
She didn’t want to be the one to set this killer off unsuspectingly. Or had the craving to kill been satisfied with the murders of the doctors?
“Were you able to get any prints?”
Delfino scratched his cheek. “Yeah, lots of them from the victims. There’s also plenty of others from people who I assume had nothing to hide in spending time at the condo, except maybe from their spouses or significant others.”
“Never assume anything where it concerns murder and murderers,” Seymour said. “Killers usually underestimate what we can do with what they leave behind to track them down. We’ll see if we can match any of the prints with what we’ve got on file. Something may show up.”
Delfino nodded. “Speaking of fingerprints, it’s possible the bullets or fragments could still yield something useful to help identify the assailant. Though prints are typically difficult to obtain from bullets, there are what we call fat molecules or lipids people leave behind on whatever they touch—including the metal surfaces of bullets. We may be able to isolate these by examining the electrochemical reactions caused by the contact, revealing print patterns.”
“Sounds complicated.” Leila tilted her head.
“It is and may take some time.”
“Then we’d better let you get back to it. Anything else?”
“Just the usual DNA evidence found at the scene to sort through: blood—and not all of it from the victims—hair, semen, skin cells. Maybe some of it will come in handy to identify a suspect.”
“We can use all the help we get to find our killer,” she told him.
Seymour made a grim face. “Yeah, before they nail someone else.”
* * *
Officer Kelly Long was doing his standard patrol around the park, which had seen an up tick in juvenile vandalism lately and some drug use. Obviously they had nothing better to do in the dead of summer. Not on his watch.
He drove slowly, not wanting to miss anything that would come back at him later. Yeah, this was grunt work. Whatever it took to make detective.
Long’s thoughts drifted to the woman he was living with, Carol Fleisher. She was pregnant. But was it his? They’d been involved for just over a year and had shared the same house for the last four months. That didn’t include the two weeks she disappeared after they had a big fight, before coming back.
Had she gotten pregnant then?
He wasn’t the least bit interested in supporting another man’s baby. Long wasn’t even sure he was ready for his own kid at this stage of his life. He could barely stay above water on a cop’s salary with two mouths to feed. Three might really put him in a crunch.
He would demand a paternity test.
Long spotted a man hanging around a trash can. He looked familiar. Long picked up the sketch of a mugger.
It was him.
Slowing down, he called it in. Fearing the man would g
et away if he didn’t act immediately, Long decided it would look good on his record if he brought the son of a bitch into custody himself.
He pulled the car to the curb, checked his firearm, and got out. Surprisingly, the suspect was so fixated on the trash, he didn’t notice Long approaching with his gun drawn.
By the time he did, Long was practically on him. “Put your hands up.”
The man tossed garbage his way that never came close to hitting him and made a run for it.
“Stop!” Long’s voice raised a couple of octaves. The man ignored his command. Damn. His first thought was to shoot him, which was well within his right in the line of duty. But Long had no desire to possibly kill a man who gave no indication of possessing a weapon and was not directly threatening his own life.
The next best thing was to remember he ran track in high school and should have no problem outrunning the suspect.
Putting on the burners, Long caught up to the man and tackled him to the ground. Acting quickly and decisively, he handcuffed him.
“Don’t move!” Long had a knee firmly planted in the middle of his back, so he didn’t imagine the suspect was going anywhere. “You’re under arrest.”
* * *
“I’ll have my contact on the street ask around to see if anyone has purchased a hot .25 caliber gun,” Seymour told Leila as they headed down the hall. “It’s a long shot, no pun intended, but our killer may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
“The unsub was bright enough to penetrate a multimillion dollar condo complex and execute two people before making a clean escape.” Leila scratched her nose. “But anything’s worth a try. At least we know the type of gun used and have the ballistic fingerprints to try and match.”
“Now all we need is to find that murder weapon. Why don’t you call the local gun shops and see if any .25 caliber guns or ammo has been sold recently and, if so, to whom.”
“Will do. Might also be a good idea to look back and see if a .25 caliber gun was used in any other recent homicides. Could be this wasn’t the first time our killer struck.”
“And may not be the last,” feared Seymour. “Since this very likely wasn’t a random act, the killer might just be getting started.”
“What would the motive be?”
“Maybe he just hates doctors the way I do dentists.”
“But you’re not murdering them.”
“That’s because I know where to draw the line. The killer obviously already stepped over it and there’s no going back. But there’s plenty of potential to move forward for further bloodshed.”
Leila made a face. “A scary thought.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You like art?”
Seymour fixed her. “As in Rembrandt or Picasso?”
“Contemporary art.”
“Yeah, sure. Can’t afford to buy any, but it’s nice to look at.” He wondered where this was going.
Leila met his eyes. “My artist friend’s having a showing Saturday night. I thought if you weren’t busy...”
“I’d love to go.” He smiled.
“Cool.”
“My social schedule’s not exactly overflowing these days.”
“Neither is mine.”
“Then it’s a date.” Seymour regretted saying that, hoping it didn’t make her uncomfortable. Or should he make that assumption?
She batted her lashes. “I suppose it is.”
* * *
Leila had done it. She’d invited Seymour to accompany her to the showing. She didn’t know if that would lead to anything, but at least it would give them a chance to step outside the official box that had defined their relationship for so long.
She wouldn’t dare look beyond that.
“Hey, Kahana.” Detective Fujimoto caught up to her.
Leila saw a half grin on his face. “Hey back.”
“Just wanted you to know your composite sketch worked. We arrested the mugger. Turns out he’s a meth addict named Jeremy Irwin. Been in and out of jail half his life. Time to go back in again, hopefully for a long stretch this time.”
She smiled. “Glad you got him.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I just got lucky this time. Maybe the next composite will end up leading the search in the wrong direction.”
“I doubt that. Personally, I’d trust your skills far more than some computer generated sketches.”
Was he actually coming onto her? Leila had known Fujimoto since joining the force. She saw them as nothing more than acquaintances.
“Try telling that to the top brass,” she said, downplaying it even if she agreed. “It’s only a matter of time before sketch artists like me become a thing of the past. Good thing I have my day job to fall back on.”
His cell phone rang and he looked disappointed. “I’ve gotta get that.”
Leila was happy for the intrusion. “No problem. See you later.”
She was still thinking about her art show date with Seymour when Leila noticed a thirty-something, dark haired Asian woman standing at her desk.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to know when you plan to arrest the person who murdered my brother.”
Leila assessed her. “You’re Larry Nagasaka’s sister?”
“My name is Rita Nagasaka.”
Leila could see the resemblance, though the image that stuck most in her mind was of Nagasaka with much of his face missing.
“Ms. Nagasaka, the investigation is still ongoing...”
“She killed him!”
Leila lifted a brow. “Who?”
“That bitch my brother married. Connie...”
SEVEN
Seymour joined Leila in listening to the accusation Rita Nagasaka was making against her sister-in-law Connie. It was normal for relatives of murder victims to blame a spouse when no other suspects were named. But each such instance had to be taken seriously until proven otherwise.
“Why do you believe she murdered your brother?” he asked curiously.
“For one thing, Connie only married Larry for his money. She couldn’t get enough of it and spent every penny she could.”
Leila glanced at Seymour. “I’m sure you may resent that, but I’m afraid it isn’t a motive for murder.”
“How about life insurance?”
“We know Nagasaka was insured for half a million,” Seymour said. “Not unusual for a man in his position.”
“Connie insisted that he get a second policy for one million dollars about a month ago.” Rita’s lips pursed. “Larry wasn’t happy about it, but he agreed. He often bent over backwards to appease her for some reason.”
They had missed this other insurance policy. Both policies created a million and a half reasons why Connie might want to see her husband dead.
Seymour gazed at Rita. “We’ll look into it.”
She sneered. “So what, in the meantime, Connie just gets to live in that house doing whatever she wants?”
Leila leaned forward. “Ms. Nagasaka, whatever you may think of your sister-in-law, she was married to your brother and is innocent till proven guilty. That means we can’t just kick her out on the street or make an arrest without probable cause.”
“Well I hope you get it soon. She doesn’t deserve to profit from Larry’s death.”
“She won’t if it turns out she’s responsible for his death,” Seymour assured her. “Did your brother ever express any concern that Connie might try to hurt him due to his affair with Elizabeth Racine?”
Rita rolled her eyes. “He knew it pissed her off. If he’d realized just how dangerous she could be, I think he would have left her a long time ago.”
Seymour doubted that. When it came to domestic homicides, the victim often chose to stay for one reason or another. Till it was too late. It remained to be seen if that was the case here.
“We’ll be in touch with you,” he told Rita.
* * *
“You think th
e wife followed her cheating husband and shot him to death with his lover?” Leila was thinking out loud as she sat on a corner of Seymour’s desk, looking down at him.
“Can’t rule it out, especially now that we know she stands to get a windfall from his death.”
“People get life insurance policies all the time for different reasons, even when they can’t stand each other. If she did kill them, I think it was more about the infidelity than the money she stood to gain.”
“You really think so?” Seymour asked.
Leila had second thoughts about opening up this can of worms. Since Seymour had cheated on his own wife and could be headed that way with her, it was unfair to put him on the spot.
“I’m only saying that she struck me as a woman who was more interested in seeing her husband’s lover dead than him.”
Seymour scratched his pate. “You might be right about that. I think we need to get Connie Nagasaka in here and see what she has to say outside her comfort zone.”
Leila was not about to disagree. She wanted to solve this case before the killer decided it was so easy, why not find some other targets.
Maybe Connie could shed some light on this notion.
* * *
Ferguson walked into the day spa in Ma’alaea. He ignored the hot bodies that came into view, remembering he was on the job.
“Can I help you?” asked a shapely strawberry blonde in her thirties.
“I’m looking for Suzanne Darby.”
“Look no further. I’m Suzanne.”
He showed his identification. “I’m investigating the murder of Elizabeth Racine. I understand you were her best friend.”
“Yes, that’s right. I still can’t believe Liz is gone.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about her.”
Suzanne blinked. “Sure. Why don’t we go to my office?”
Ferguson followed, wishing he could have a piece of her. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“That’s what I’m told.” She offered him a seat and took one herself. “What would you like to know?”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what type of person Elizabeth was?”
Murder in Maui Page 5