"One piece of jewelry taken was a family heirloom given to me by my grandmother," I said, pretending that I was about to cry. "I'd like it back—that's all. But first, I need to know if I'm on the right track—"
Lying was almost an art form in the private investigation business. If you were good at it, you were far more likely to net positive results, even if you felt bad about it afterward. So far, for me, the outcome had been mixed.
The receptionist hesitated before saying: "You need to talk to Doctor Zeller." Her eyes scanned the patients waiting in chairs and on foot. "I hope you aren't in a hurry because it's first come, first serve—"
I was in no position to argue. I settled for an adequate smile and a searched for an empty seat, which I never found.
Nearly two hours later, a tall, gray-haired man of around forty approached me. "I'm Dr. Zeller," he said.
"Skye Delaney." I stood and met his dapple-gray eyes.
"Come with me please," he said in a tired voice.
I followed him to a small and cluttered back office, where he offered me a seat in one of two vinyl chairs. I couldn't help but notice the framed medical degree from the University of Hawaii at Manoa's John A. Burns School of Medicine awarded to Andrew Gavin Zeller.
Dr. Zeller regarded me after following the path of my eyes, and sat down at his glass-topped desk. "Yes, I received my degree locally and am proud of it, but it doesn't mean much to most people who come to this clinic. Many haven't even graduated from high school, much less gone to college, and they don't always know how to take care of themselves."
I got the feeling he was defending the need to have such a clinic available to poor, uneducated, and uninsured people. I wasn't prepared to debate the complex issues of health care and impoverishment, so I said simply: "It's nice to know some of us do go on to college and are able to give something back to those less fortunate."
I couldn't tell whether he agreed or not, since he gave me a deadpan look. Finally, he said: "The receptionist told me your sad story about the family heirloom. Sorry to hear it was stolen—"
"It happens," I responded guiltily.
"And you think the thief your dog attacked may have come here for treatment?"
"I was hoping you could tell me—"
He hesitated. "That all depends..."
I frowned. "On what?"
Narrowing his eyes, Zeller responded: "Whether or not the wounded thief is the same person who killed your ex-husband." He watched my surprised reaction, then said: "You did say you were Skye Delaney, didn't you?"
I nodded reluctantly.
"And Carter Delaney was murdered at your home, right?" He leaned back in his chair. "It doesn't take a detective to be able to put two and two together, Ms. Delaney."
I agreed and tried to soften the blow. "My ex-husband really has—"
"What is this really all about?" he cut in sharply.
There seemed no point in stringing this out any further, so I sighed and said what he had likely already heard. "I'm a private investigator." I got no particular reaction from him, so I continued. "I need to find out if anyone came in here with a dog bite on the day Carter was killed."
Zeller stared at me for a moment or two, then said: "Yes, as I recall, there was a man we treated that evening who had a dog bite on his shoulder. I patched him up and he left in a hurry, after refusing a tetanus shot. There's not much more I can tell you about him than that."
He had already told me something. Was the wounded party Carter's killer or was it just a cruel coincidence?
I gazed at the doctor eagerly. "Did you by chance happen to keep a sample of his blood?"
He shook his head. "There was no reason to. Sorry."
I sighed. "I suppose that also means you don't know his blood type."
"Afraid not," Zeller said.
"Can you describe him?" I asked.
Zeller shrugged. "I'm not really good at describing people. He was Caucasian, average height and build, probably in his late thirties. Wish I could be of more help, but I don't have the luxury or time—being only one of two doctors on staff with more patients than we can handle—to pay much attention to those who use our services, aside from treating them as best we can." He paused, then asked: "You think he was the man who killed Carter Delaney?"
I considered the question and could only come up with one answer. "I'm not sure—" I stood up. "Thanks for your time."
He rose. "No problem."
As an afterthought, I asked: "Do you know if he came here by himself or maybe with a woman?"
Zeller shook his head. "Couldn't say. Sorry."
Not as sorry as I was.
I left the clinic feeling as if I had actually made progress on the case, though I was no closer to the who's and why's of Carter's death. If this man was Carter's killer, it still left more questions than answers.
I called Ridge and told him: "I suggest you get someone down to the Manoa Aloha Clinic right away and talk to Dr. Zeller. Mug shots and a sketch artist would probably be helpful, too."
* * *
I went home and had some lunch. Then I did a bit of neglected gardening, swam with Ollie, and showered. By three-thirty, I was at a boxing club on Palolo Road called Kurt's Gym. It was where many of the up and coming boxers in the city trained in hopes of hitting the pugilistic jackpot someday. Others were simply interested in getting a good workout.
The gym was named after its owner, Kurt Butler. Once a promising middleweight contender in Philadelphia who fell prey to drug addiction, he was now a middle-aged, well-respected trainer and drug free. Having lived in Honolulu for over a decade, Kurt also happened to be a man with big eyes and even bigger ears. He had been my source for information that I couldn't get anywhere else ever since my days on the force, and he was also my personal trainer in boxing techniques that came in handy at times. He called it settling his debt for my role in helping him stay out of prison when he was knocking at the door. I called it a nice and lasting friendship.
I walked through the place that reeked of body odor and sweat, worsened by the humidity that hung in the air like a cumulus cloud. Boxers worked out in rings for that one big shot, while others had taken to the bags in developing arm strength and quickness.
I found Kurt holding a bag unsteadily as yet another young hopeful was pounding away at it with everything he had.
I commented: "Hey, take it easy there on the old man. He's on your side."
Kurt smiled broadly, his bald head gleaming with perspiration. He had on a Kurt's Gym jersey and gray sweats. "Damned right I am," he uttered, absorbing a couple more punishing blows before saying to the puncher: "Take ten, kid..."
"Is he as good as he looks?" I asked Kurt while his finely sculpted, glistening protégé walked off.
Kurt chuckled. "Thinks he is. Like all young boxers—and sometimes us old ones—he's got a helluva lot to learn." Kurt took the towel off his wide shoulder and dried his face. His smile returned. "So how you doin', girl? Ain't seen you in a long time." His eyes scanned me from head to toe. "I see you're still taking good care of yourself."
"Have to if I'm going to keep up with you," I told him proudly. In fact, he looked as good as I'd ever seen him.
He laughed. "Ain't always easy, but I do all right." He sucked in a deep breath. "So what brings you down here? You ready to go a few rounds with me in the ring?"
Under other circumstances, I would have welcomed that with the master, but replied: "I'll have to take a rain check on that." I sighed and summed my visit up with two words: "Carter Delaney..."
Kurt's gray-brown eyes lit up. "Your ex," he said. "Heard he took it on the chin, so to speak."
"You could say that," I muttered, then said in earnest: "I need your help, Kurt."
He looked at me curiously. "What you got in mind, girl?"
I glanced around the gym and back at Kurt's face, before answering. "I need you to help me find out who murdered Carter." I knew it was a long shot, especially if the killer was beyond Kurt'
s network of underground contacts. On the other hand, if there was one person outside the police force who might be able to yield something useful, I was looking at him.
He wiped away more sweat from his face, which seemed to have increased in the last few seconds. "Why don't we step into my office?" he said. "It ain't too comfy, but it's quiet..."
And away from listening ears, I mused.
Kurt's office was small and carpeted, with paneled walls. The stench of cigars permeated the air, in spite of a corner fan that was on. A large TV sat on a stand next to an old metal desk that was cluttered with papers. Two wooden folding chairs leaned against one wall, and another wall was covered with framed photographs of Kurt with such boxing greats as Joe Frasier, Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, and Sugar Ray Leonard.
Kurt closed the door, unfolded a chair and said: "Sit." So I did. He sat on the edge of the desk, and gazed at me warily. "You know I love you to death, Skye, but I don't see how I can help you."
"Ask around," I suggested, "and see if there was a hit on Carter or anyone who may have had a strong reason to want him dead."
Kurt pursed his lips. "Ain't that what us taxpayers pay the cops for? Or are you trying to beat them to the punch cuz it's personal?"
"Let's just say I want to see justice done more than usual," I told him. My eyes rested on his scarred chin where boxers had left their mark. Looking into his eyes, I said: "If it means solving a case for the cops, so be it—"
He tilted his head to one side. "Carter Delaney was pretty well known in this town, and not always for the right reasons, which I'm sure I don't have to tell you. If someone put a hit on him, the dude must be pretty powerful. Course, there's always some lone rangers out there to settle old scores..."
I considered both of those possibilities, along with a few others.
Kurt leaned toward me. "I owe you, Skye, always will. Can't make no promises, but let me ask around—see if I can find out anything. Just know that askin' the wrong questions to the wrong people can get me killed—"
A wave of guilt washed over me. "I wouldn't think of asking you to put your life on the line, Kurt," I stressed. "It's not worth that for either of us, and it's too late for Carter. If you come up with something that won't put your nose out of joint, fine, if not, I can live with that—"
He smiled and then stood. "We'll be talkin' real soon."
I was counting on it. I got up and smiled at him. "You know where to reach me."
Kurt nodded and said: "Look, if you've got time, what say we do a little workout—keep those skills I taught you sharp as a knife."
"What about your protégé?" I asked.
"He can take another ten or fifteen. I don't think he'll complain."
It was an offer I found hard to pass up. "I've got the time," I told him.
"Good," he said. "Let's go."
My heart was already pounding with anticipation. As we headed into the gym, I told him: "By the way, in case I forgot to tell you, whatever debt you feel you owe me, you paid up in full a long time ago." I winked. "But feel free to keep believing otherwise if you want."
* * *
Nearly an hour later, I stepped outside Kurt's Gym feeling exhausted, but ready to rumble. The fresh air was like a slice of heaven. I wondered if it was smart to allow myself to become so wrapped up in a murder that hit so close to home.
It took me until I was halfway home to accept that I really had no choice but to see this thing through come hell or high water. The fact that I was operating as my own client, in essence, for a case that seemed anything but open and shut, made it all the more challenging.
Following a shower, change of clothes, and babying Ollie, I headed to my office. I was two minutes away when I suddenly felt lazy and decided to forego work for the rest of the day. Whatever had to be done could wait. A trip to the bookstore before it became extinct sounded much more inviting. Maybe diving into the latest Mary Higgins Clark or Devon Vaughn Archer novel was just what I needed to take my mind off real life horrors.
I couldn't think of a better way to spend the rest of the afternoon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He followed her to the bookstore just for the hell of it.
She was so wrapped up in looking for the perfect book that she never even noticed him, even though he practically went out of his way to block her path so she would bump into him. He imagined her saying, as though it was her fault: "Excuse me," then he'd been prepared to say humorously: "Don't I know you? Aren't you Skye Delaney? At least now I know you can read..."
Then he would have given her his charming smile and asked her out. Who knew where they might have ended up from there...if he had his way?
But no, before the fantasy could play out, she went the other way—straight to the cashier with three books in hand, and was soon out the door.
The mood had definitely been broken.
Next time, Skye Delaney, there may not be an easy out, he thought. He tossed the book he'd been holding on a table, and left.
* * *
By morning, he was back to his old confident self again. He followed Skye as she ran from her house to the beach, all by her lonesome. Must have been too early for that damned dog of hers to come along.
He took some pictures of her. And more pictures, enjoying each and every image she conveyed so gracefully.
Skye never failed to get a rise out of him. He could see everything that Carter Delaney saw in her, and probably more.
You hear that, Delaney? a voice in his head shouted. Your ass is six feet under and your ex old lady is very much alive and ripe for the taking, even with that damned Detective Ridge Larsen in her life. Think about it, while you rot in hell.
He ran out of film at about the same time Skye got tired of running.
Time to go develop these, he thought eagerly. He slipped away, and Skye Delaney never even knew he was there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ridge studied the sketch of the suspect from the passenger seat of the car as Kawakami drove. They'd just come from the clinic, where Doctor Andrew Zeller had described a man who had been treated for a dog bite around the same time Carter Delaney was murdered.
"What's your take on him?" Kawakami asked.
The man in the sketch was white, approximately thirty-five to forty years of age, with close dark eyes, straggly blonde hair, medium build, and about six feet tall.
Before Ridge could respond, Kawakami said: "He could be our man."
Ridge looked at the sketch again. "I don't think so," he said confidently, wishing to hell he felt otherwise. Especially since it was Skye's legwork that had sent them to the clinic in search of a killer.
Kawakami glanced his way. "Why not? We can place him in the vicinity of the crime when it was committed and he was bitten in the shoulder by a dog, but didn't hang around long enough to answer any questions... Seems to fit—"
Ridge frowned. "Anything's possible, but I'm just not feeling it. I'd hate to put too much focus on the sketch of a man Zeller admitted he couldn't even be sure was an accurate depiction. We've got no DNA, fingerprints, or anyone to back up the doctor's statement. My guess is this patient was bitten by a dog other than Ollie and had his own reasons for leaving in a hurry."
"So you're saying we should eliminate him as a suspect before we even track him down?" Kawakami asked.
"I'm saying I think there are others who make much stronger suspects, as far as I'm concerned," Ridge said, trying not to step on any toes. "Could be Zeller was mistaken in his description of the man, if not lying altogether, for whatever reason. Or Delaney's killer may not have needed treatment by a doctor. We just need to keep all possibilities on the table."
After a moment or two, Kawakami asked Ridge: "What were you doing when Delaney was killed?"
Ridge cocked a brow in surprise. "Am I a suspect now?"
"You tell me," Kawakami replied brusquely. "You're involved with Skye Delaney and the deceased happened to be her ex who may have been gone from her life, but
was definitely not forgotten. Maybe that mile long jealous streak in you snapped like a twig and you went after Delaney so you'd have Skye all to yourself."
Ridge resented the insinuation. As far as he knew, he did have Skye all to himself, when she gave in to romance. Even if part of Skye had still pined for Delaney, Ridge felt Delaney had his hands full with enough other women that he didn't need to try and win her back too. I would never have killed Carter Delaney or anyone else to eliminate the competition, Ridge thought angrily.
Then he sucked in a deep breath and realized that Kawakami was just being Kawakami, trying to push his buttons for the hell of it. Still, Ridge felt obliged to defend himself. "I was on a hostage stakeout/homicide investigation on the other side of town all afternoon until I got a call that Carter Delaney was found dead at Skye's house. At least a dozen other cops were on the scene at the time. You want their names and badge numbers?"
Kawakami grinned and then chuckled. "Lighten up, Larsen," he said. "I'm just messing with your head, man. No one's accusing you of offing Delaney. You're not that stupid or reckless." Kawakami paused. "But Skye is definitely worth fighting for. I only wish she'd seen in me what she obviously sees in you."
Ridge forced a grin, though he was not amused by Kawakami's sense of humor. "Yes, Skye's worth fighting for, but not murdering for out of jealousy without due cause. As for what she sees in me and didn't see in you, you'll have to ask her that." Ridge had a few ideas, but didn't want to mention them to Kawakami.
That notwithstanding, he couldn't help but wonder if Skye's interest in him was waning. Things clearly hadn't been the same between them on the romantic front since Carter Delaney's death. He wanted to be patient with Skye, but he needed her to be willing to meet him halfway, even as they pursued separately and together the culprit for her ex-husband's murder.
Ridge looked once more at the sketch and basically dismissed him as the person they were after, believing it simply didn't add up to be credible enough to pursue. Which meant that they were essentially back to square one in many respects. Nice try, Skye, he thought.
Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 14