Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

"Well, she's wrong," Leilani insisted. "Carter and I were just friends. Nothing more..."

  I had no proof to contradict her story, except for my usually razor sharp instincts. And they seemed right on target in this instance.

  "Look, I didn't come here to make accusations," I told her truthfully. "Remember, I'm the ex-wife. Whatever was going on between you and Carter is your business. Mine is to try to find out who murdered him." I lowered my voice. "I was hoping you could help—"

  Leilani did not bite the bait. "I'm sorry, but I don't know anything," she said sharply.

  I didn't buy it. She looked nervous, even scared. What or who was she afraid of? I wondered. "Did Carter ever talk to you about any problems he was having?" I pressed.

  She stiffened. "Only that he wasn't happy in his marriage." Her dark eyes met mine. "Obviously, that was the story of his life. And probably his death..."

  A muscular fire dancer interrupted the conversation. He seemed barely cognizant of me when he asked Leilani, "You still need a lift home?"

  She looked at me as though weighing her options before telling him: "Yes. I'll just be a few minutes."

  "Okay." He gave me a long look and walked away.

  I wondered if that was the new man in her life—or old one—now that Carter was permanently out of the picture.

  "Just a friend," she said as if reading my mind.

  "Right, like Carter," I said sardonically.

  She didn't seem amused. "I have to go change now."

  I got the message. I took out a business card and handed it to her. "In case you happen to remember something that might help your other friend rest more peacefully, give me a call—"

  She took the card, but said nothing. I had a feeling that I might hear from her sooner than later.

  I headed to my car, left with more questions than answers. What did Leilani know that she was not telling? Darlene had seemed so certain that Leilani and Carter were lovers. Was she right? Or were they truly just friends with other types of benefits?

  What interested me most was whether or not either had any bearing on his death. If anything, friends usually made far better confidants than lovers, I mused, while imagining Carter trying to get the most out of any type of relationship he was in. Maybe he had confided in Leilani that his life was in jeopardy. Or maybe not.

  I began to wonder if I was getting too deeply involved in my ex-husband's personal business. I had to consider that his murder might have had nothing to do with his private life. Being a millionaire certainly was reason enough for someone to want you dead. Especially if you'd made your fortune by walking over others along the way. I knew I had to keep every possibility on the table, including a random act, even if I didn't believe that for one minute.

  * * *

  I drove to Ridge's place, in desperate need of his company. He welcomed me with a deep, long kiss. I wasn't complaining.

  After our lips unlocked, I gave him the rundown on Leilani Mahaulu. Or rather, my speculation about her. I figured I owed him that much since he was my eyes in the Honolulu Police Department and the detective heading the investigation into Carter's death.

  "So you think this Leilani was having her way with Delaney?" Ridge asked, glancing at me sideways. "Or maybe it was the other way around?"

  I shrugged. "I believe Leilani knows more about him than she's willing to admit."

  "Like why he was murdered?" he asked.

  "That's something you may want to ask her yourself—" I responded with a definite edge to my voice.

  "I think I'll do just that," Ridge said. "So what was it about Delaney anyway that seemed to have women falling at his feet?"

  I chuckled. "Sorry, but I can only speak for myself. While I certainly didn't worship the man, being good-looking and charismatic probably didn't hurt matters any," I admitted, and left it at that, refusing to get caught up in exploring Carter's sexual conquests.

  That didn't stop Ridge from speculating further. "With Delaney bedding so many women and worrying about getting a dose of his own medicine, I just wonder where the hell he found the time to make his fortune."

  With a weak attempt at humor, I suggested: "I think it's called managing one's time wisely."

  Ridge wasn't laughing. "I can think of some other things I'd call it," he said. "Anything else interesting you've discovered about your ex that you'd like to share?"

  "I might ask you the same thing, Detective Larsen," I tossed back at him. "Or do teamwork and cooperation only work one way in your book?"

  "I think I'll take the Fifth on that one—"

  It seemed more like a brush off to me. Was I expecting too much from him for this case? Or was he expecting too much from me? I wondered. Both were probably true, under the circumstances.

  Silence fell between us at the worst possible time, just as things seemed to be heating up following our passionate kiss. Suddenly, I could wait no longer to speak my mind: "Why the Fifth? I've got a right to know what's happening with the investigation other than what I hear on the news. And we both know they only report what they're told, not what they aren't..."

  As he usually did when cornered, Ridge looked away contemplatively before meeting my eyes again. "This one is a little too close to home—for both of us," he said unevenly. "My ass is on the line here, Skye. Everyone knows about us and about your past with Carter Delaney. If I leak out anything to you and it gets back to my superiors, I'll be on permanent desk duty and you'll lose your license to legally investigate Delaney's death outside the department."

  I remained mute, prompting Ridge to ask flatly: "Do you get my drift?"

  I nodded meekly. "Yes, I understand where you're coming from, Ridge. And I don't want any information from you that will jeopardize your career—or mine." I paused. "But can you at least tell me if the investigation is proceeding along nicely insofar as getting solid leads? Or is there something else going on that you don't want to talk about?"

  Don't ask me why, but I had a gut feeling that there was more to the case in finding Carter's killer than met the eye. It was obviously bigger than the fact that Carter was a self-made millionaire and somewhat of an icon in the community. I glared at Ridge and waited to see if he would at least give me a clue.

  Ridge hesitated for a long moment before saying: "I'll just say this much and we'll leave it at that. Although Delaney had walked away from the legal system some time ago, apparently he had not stopped working for the prosecuting attorney's office altogether—"

  Of course, I couldn't simply leave it at that without further clarification, so I asked: "Are you saying that Carter was working with the prosecuting attorney while we were married?"

  "Yeah, I think so," Ridge replied awkwardly. "From what I understand, Delaney was a high-powered consultant with the P.A.'s office ever since his retirement as a prosecutor. He dispensed advice behind the scenes and was effectively a hand's on person in some of the county's biggest cases, without actually getting his own hands dirty."

  I listened with shock, taken aback that Carter had managed to keep this from me throughout our marriage and after, clearly not trusting me enough to confide in me. It made me wonder what other secrets he may have taken to the grave.

  "So you think his death had something to do with his work for the P.A.?" I asked straightforwardly.

  Ridge chewed on his lower lip. "We're not sure, to tell you the truth. It's just one angle we're working on. But, yes, it's possible...along with something related to his business empire or his private life, including the wife or mistress—"

  In other words, I thought, Ridge seemed to be saying that they still did not have enough to know what or who they were looking for, and why.

  And I was in the same predicament.

  * * *

  "Why the hell did Delaney pick this time to invite you back into his life?" Ridge asked me later in bed. His tone was anything but conciliatory.

  The same question gnawed at me. None of the possible answers was satisfactory. My head was resting on Ridge'
s chest as I responded dryly: "I'd ask him, if I could—"

  "Seems to me he not only wanted the cake and frosting," moaned Ridge, "but the damned leftovers as well—"

  I lifted up and glared at him, appalled. "Is that all I am to you, Ridge—damned leftovers?"

  "Of course not," he said. He smiled, clearly regretting his choice of words. "I think you know me better than that."

  "I'm not sure I do," I protested, still fuming at the thought of being anyone's leftover.

  Ridge gently took me into his arms and kissed my forehead. "Oh, don't get all bent out of shape, Skye. You're anything but leftovers in my book—you're more like a five-star meal." He paused. "That said, I've got a murder to solve. Until I do, neither of us can ignore the possibility that Delaney's motives for hiring you may have had little to do with your amazing detective skills or his wife's extracurricular activities—"

  I wanted to speak, but the words would not come out. Instead, I started to cry. They were the first tears I'd shed since Carter's death. As a cop, I was taught that emotion was a no-no or a sign of weakness, at least if you wanted to be treated as an equal. But I was no longer a cop, bound by cop's rules, no matter how sexist and antiquated they could be. I was reacting as a woman and the ex-wife of a man I was just getting to know in death and didn't necessarily like what I was discovering. I feared what was yet to come. To hell with holding back tears that needed to come out.

  Only it was not Carter I was crying for as much as those he left behind. Whoever he was inside, and whatever made him tick, his life was over now. But life went on for the rest of us. And I fully intended to stick around until I was old and grumpy, regardless of what emotional baggage I had to sort out and dispose of in the process.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I took my case straight to the prosecuting attorney's office, expecting resistance in my attempt to learn what, if anything, Carter had been involved in that may have led to his death. Even when I was on the force, such information was hard to come by when it involved their own, or their inner circle—except when used in the courtroom.

  Bradford Rennick was the First Deputy Prosecuting Attorney for the City and County of Honolulu. He was in his late forties and much shorter than I expected. His hair was definitely died jet-black and he had a cleft in his chin. Rennick had made the difficult and obviously successful move from the police force to the office of the Prosecuting Attorney. I had never had the pleasure—or displeasure—of working with him in either capacity.

  "So, you were the first Mrs. Delaney," Rennick remarked as we walked side by side down the long corridor on the tenth floor at Alii Place, where his office was located.

  "I still am, as far as I know," I responded wryly, looking up slightly into his brown eyes.

  He tugged at the jacket of his gray suit. "Carter's death hit us all hard. I keep expecting him to call me and say this whole damned thing was just a bad dream..."

  More like a very bad nightmare, I thought. Only it was real and nothing on earth could change that.

  We entered Rennick's large, carpeted corner office, bypassing the walnut desk and floor to ceiling matching bookcases in favor of a rectangular table surrounded by cranberry-colored leather chairs. There was a coffee pot, paper cups, cream, sugar, and a bowl of fresh fruit on the table.

  "Help yourself," Rennick said as he reached for an apple.

  Though tempted, I passed on the fruit, but did pour myself a cup of coffee while pondering what direction the investigation by the P.A.'s office into Carter's death had taken.

  After taking a generous bite of the apple, Rennick commented: "Heard you were one hell of a cop way back when, Skye..."

  "Funny," I replied without laughing, "heard the same thing about you—"

  He chuckled. "I wonder if we have the same mutual admiration society."

  I seriously doubted it, but didn't tell him that. Instead, I cut to the chase. "I understand that Carter was working for your office before he died. Is that true?"

  Rennick did not seek to deny it. "He never really stopped contributing to law and order in this county," he said. "Delaney's expertise and insight were invaluable to us."

  I tried not to let it show that I was taken aback with his confirmation that Carter had continued to work as a lawyer, even while making his mark as a businessman. I assumed Carter had his reasons for maintaining the secrecy.

  As though reading my mind, and perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Rennick said: "When Carter left the P.A.'s office, I think he'd had enough of the politics of the legal system. But he never turned his back on fighting for justice. He just didn't want to do it in the public arena anymore. He agreed to be a consultant when we needed what he brought to the table, as long as it was strictly unofficial and did not encumber his private or professional life. It seemed to work out well for all parties concerned—"

  Except for Carter, I thought. His secret deal with the prosecuting attorney's office might have cost him his life.

  Meeting Rennick's eyes, I asked him directly: "Do you think Carter's death was related to whatever he was working on for you?"

  He stared at the question before responding. "I never like to say never, but I doubt it." He poured coffee into a cup. "We don't really have anything concrete at this point that links Delaney's murder to this office."

  "Do you have anything non-concrete?" I asked, sensing there may be something he wasn't telling me.

  Rennick gave a long sigh. "Anyone following the news in recent months knows that the P.A.'s office has been trying to nail Kazuo Pelekai—also known as Chano—for some time now."

  I wasn't very good at following the news. There never seemed to be enough time in the day, or night, for that matter. That didn't mean I wasn't familiar with Kazuo Pelekai. He was like the Hawaiian version of Al Capone or maybe John Gotti: a reputed kingpin in Honolulu's underworld of drugs, prostitution, and murder, with strong ties to the local street gangs. Only, unlike Capone and Gotti, Pelekai always seemed to stay one step ahead of those who wanted to see him spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  Rennick continued: "As a prosecutor, Delaney was one of the leading forces in trying to build a case against Pelekai. But nothing seemed to stick. He still believed it was possible, even as a consultant. We were just beginning to zero in on nailing Pelekai's ass when Carter was murdered..."

  "Are you saying Pelekai may have ordered a hit on Carter?" I looked at Rennick wide-eyed.

  He hunched a shoulder. "Not that we can prove. At least not yet..."

  The idea that Carter may have been the victim of a sleaze bag like Kazuo Pelekai made my skin crawl. I tasted the coffee while wondering if an arrest was imminent or just wishful thinking.

  "Of course, there are other possibilities we're following—" Rennick regarded me with the type of look my father used to when he was about to accuse me of something that he already knew I was guilty of. "Did Delaney come to your house the day he was killed for any reason in particular?" he asked. "Or did your ex often drop by?"

  I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but felt relieved that Ridge hadn't spilled the beans about my work for Carter until it became absolutely necessary in relation to his death.

  Still, I felt compelled to set the record straight right now about certain issues. "Since our divorce, Carter and I hardly ever saw each other," I said, "and certainly not socially." More bitter coffee went down my throat as I walked the fine line between eliminating myself from apparent suspicion and protecting the confidentiality of a client. "I'm a security consultant and private investigator," I told him, though I was sure Rennick knew everything there was to know about me, including my relationship with Ridge. "Carter had recently hired me. On the day he died, we were supposed to meet at my office. But I think there was some sort of miscommunication, and he went to my house instead—"

  Rennick took another bite out of the apple, and chewed for a few moments while gazing at me. "Tasty. Sure you don't want one?"

  "I'm sure," I
told him. I was in no mood to be buttered up with fruit.

  He got back to the real issue on his mind that I preferred to dodge for the moment. "Do you mind telling me what you were working on for Delaney? And please don't tell me it's privileged information, even if it is. Need I remind you, we're dealing with a homicide here—"

  Caught between a rock and a hard place, I used quick thinking to say with a straight face: "It's not privileged information—at least not to this office. Carter asked me to do some investigative work on Kazuo Pelekai."

  Rennick did not convince easily. "I've been working closely with Carter on this case. Why the hell would he go outside the P.A.'s office without consulting me?"

  "Hey, I have no idea what went on inside Carter's head." I batted my eyes innocuously, while knowing at least that much was true. "I'm sorry if he stepped on your toes, Bradford, but maybe Carter figured he needed a fresh perspective. Someone who would report only to him—"

  "Yeah, right..." Rennick muttered with uncertainty, and then appeared to give me the benefit of the doubt. He ditched the rest of his fruit, and asked as if it were a test: "Well, what did you come up with? We can use all the help we can get—"

  "I'm afraid I don't have much to offer. I was just getting started on my investigation into Pelekai's financial wheelings and dealings, when Carter was killed—"

  At that moment, I was suddenly struck with a weird vision of Carter dead in my Jacuzzi tub. I quickly drank more coffee to try to pull myself together.

  "Too bad," Rennick said, giving me the evil eye. "And too damned convenient."

  "Death is never convenient," I told him. "I wish Carter was still alive and working with you to nab Pelekai. But it just didn't work out that way."

  Rennick still seemed less than convinced that I wasn't holding back on him. "What about your enemies?" he asked suspiciously. "All private eyes have people who would love to see them dead. Maybe someone went to your house looking for you, and found Delaney instead?"

  I had asked myself that same question a thousand times. And 999.9 times the answer came back the same. I told Rennick: "If someone was looking for me, I'd be a much easier target at my office or during my daily jogs than at home—" I finished off the coffee and made a face as the bitterness stuck in my throat. "Besides, I've gone back and forth through my case files and came up with no one who fits the bill and timing."