Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  I regarded the second wife. In many ways, she was probably more than Carter deserved and in other ways, less. "For what it's worth," I told her, "I probably would've done the same thing, given the same circumstances—"

  Darlene licked her lips. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you never had to."

  I reflected on that while glancing at the suddenly inviting pool. "Someday it might be nice to go swimming in your pool."

  "Anytime you like," she offered, and seemed to mean it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It turned out that Carter's death was only the start of a trail of untimely demises in Honolulu that may or may not have been connected. Right now, my interest was solely on discovering why Carter had been left head first in my Jacuzzi tub, the victim of foul play.

  Ridge provided one possible suspect. "Kalolo Nawahi," he told me during a video phone chat, revealing the name of Darlene's drug supplier. "He's been arrested a couple of times on drug charges, but was released for lack of evidence."

  I gathered as much, since the person Ollie bit had no DNA on file in the CODIS database. Was Nawahi just lucky? I wondered. Or was there more to him than dealing drugs, like having AB negative blood and committing cold and calculated murder?

  "Could be Nawahi discovered the lady he knew as Amber was really Mrs. Carter Delaney, wife of the millionaire businessman," Ridge suggested. "If that isn't enough, it just so happens that when Delaney was a prosecutor, he put Nawahi's half-brother, Julio Estrada, away for attempted murder. Maybe Nawahi was trying to blackmail Delaney about his coke-using wife and it went sour. Or maybe he just decided he wanted revenge on behalf of Estrada, so Nawahi killed Carter—"

  I looked at Ridge's face on the small screen, digesting his words and the surprise about Nawahi's half-brother. This notwithstanding, the facts and figures still didn't add up in my mind and I told Ridge so. He agreed, sort of.

  "Okay, so maybe revenge wasn't the most likely motive," he conceded. "But finding out that he could make a hell of a lot more money from the husband than the wife might have been more than Nawahi could resist."

  "Possibly," I said, knowing that greed and murder often went hand in hand, along with opportunity.

  "Kawakami and I are going to pay Kalolo Nawahi a little visit," Ridge told me. After a pause, he added thoughtfully: "You want to meet us there?"

  "Are you inviting me?" It wasn't every day that he allowed me to ride along for an official visit with a suspect. But this wasn't a run of the mill case where the stakes weren't high for both of us.

  "Just this one time," Ridge said cautiously. "Maybe your women's intuition or something can tell us if Nawahi is our man, assuming he doesn't volunteer the info..."

  "Why not," I hummed, not wanting to press my luck with this sudden cooperation in the investigation. "Where to...?"

  I took down the address, and headed there, hoping to put my women's intuition to work.

  * * *

  It was three o'clock when I arrived at the apartment building on Kukui Street where Kalolo Nawahi lived. Located in a part of the city known for drug dealing and prostitution, Kalolo's unit was on the third floor. I knew something had happened when I saw a number of people milling about outside, a scene I was all too familiar with and was usually associated with tragedy. If that wasn't enough of a clue, the flashing lights from several cop cars were a dead giveaway, figuratively speaking.

  I realized the trouble involved Kalolo when Ridge greeted me in front of the suspect's apartment building.

  "What happened?" I asked, noting the yellow crime scene tape already in place.

  "Nawahi's dead," Ridge said glumly. "Someone called in, reported hearing gunfire in his apartment. Looks like he was shot once in the back of the head—execution style."

  I winced at the thought, as well as the irony. "First Carter, now Kalolo..." I sighed. "It's almost as though he was silenced before you could talk to him—or maybe before he could talk to you..."

  "Let's not jump to conclusions, Skye," Ridge urged, keeping his voice level. "Nawahi was a known drug dealer and probably had more than his fair share of deals gone sour. Anyone could have had it in for him."

  Including Darlene Delaney, we were both no doubt thinking but kept to ourselves. We parted to allow the body to be removed by members of the medical examiner's office.

  I followed Ridge inside the victim's apartment. I saw Detective Kawakami, along with several others from the department, combing the place for evidence. Kawakami glanced at me and smiled, almost as if to say: "Don't worry, Skye. Everyone knows you're working this case. Just stay the hell out of the real cops' way and no one will bother you."

  I smiled back at him and just as quickly wiped the grin off my face, knowing that joviality aside, someone had been murdered who was, at the very least, indirectly associated with Carter and directly connected to his widow. The distinct sweet and sour smell of fresh blood permeated the air in the tiny apartment. I could see blood and brain matter where the body had been. I couldn't help but wonder if his blood happened to be AB negative.

  Ridge was reading my mind, which he'd done so well of late. "Nawahi's blood type will be analyzed right away," he told me. "My guess is he didn't have anything to do with Delaney's death. Other than the common link between the two, there's no evidence to indicate Nawahi took a bullet as a result of his association with Darlene Delaney—"

  Wearing a pair of protective, disposable gloves, I carefully picked up a folded newspaper on the coffee table that the techs had ignored. Unfolding it, I noted the headline: FORMER PROSECUTOR CARTER DELANEY FOUND DEAD IN JACUZZI. The article was accompanied by a picture of Carter and Darlene. The paper was dated the day after Carter's death.

  "Take a look at this," I said to Ridge, handing him the newspaper. "If nothing else, Kalolo probably recognized his cocaine customer Amber as Darlene Delaney from the photograph and article..."

  Or, I wondered, had he already known the relevant facts in the article before the paper was even printed?

  * * *

  "Kalolo Nawahi's blood type was O negative, which also matched the blood in his apartment," Ridge informed me the following day. We were enjoying an early morning jog on the beach, while Ollie tagged along.

  I moaned, though not surprised, and said: "It would've made things so much easier if Nawahi's blood had been AB negative and his DNA was a positive match with the blood Ollie took from Carter's presumed killer."

  "Yeah, well, homicides are never that cut and dry," Ridge muttered, sidestepping a clump of seaweed.

  I yanked on Ollie's leash, pulling him away from the seaweed he suddenly seemed very interested in. Then I told Ridge: "If you're still interested in what my women's intuition is telling me, I'd say that Kalolo was somehow involved in Carter's death, and it may have cost him his life—"

  "We're double and triple checking every possibility surrounding Delaney's murder," Ridge assured me. "That means we're not eliminating any suspects, including Kalolo Nawahi."

  Ridge was beginning to huff and puff. Jogging was not his forte; he preferred the gym, lifting weights, or getting his workout making love. I had no problem with any of those where he was concerned.

  He looked at me and said: "I don't think I'm giving anything away by telling you that there are others who may have had a stronger motive than Nawahi for wanting to see your ex dead..."

  "You mean like Darlene?" I asked, perspiring in a sports bra and matching shorts.

  He wiped his brow. "Yeah, like Darlene. Strictly from a financial point of view, she had at least a couple million reasons that we know of to benefit from the death of her dearly beloved."

  I regarded Ridge as if I hadn't heard him correctly. "What are you saying...?"

  "Darlene took out a two million dollar insurance policy on Delaney just a month before he died," Ridge informed me. "Either she's psychic or the lady had good reason to believe Delaney might not be around for long—"

  "Hmm..." I mumbled aloud while thinking about the million d
ollars Darlene said she raised through liquidating assets and her daughter's trust fund to pay off Carter's mounting gambling debts. Obviously his business fortunes had taken a serious hit along the way, making the hefty insurance policy all the more unnerving.

  I was still split on my feelings about Darlene Delaney. While she was clearly no saint with more than a few skeletons in her closet, there was still a big stretch between infidelity and drug abuse and cold-blooded murder. Frankly, it was hard for me to imagine that Darlene could have masterminded Carter's murder for the love of money. I wanted to believe, if only for the sake of their child, that Darlene wouldn't have knowingly conspired to kill Carter.

  But that was not a declaration of innocence, I thought. Money had a strange way of corrupting even the noblest person, which Darlene clearly was not. It also represented just one reason why people committed murder. That seemed especially true when talking about the man who, two weeks ago, had the world—or at least Honolulu—believing he walked on water and was drowning in success.

  Now it was evident that both were far from the truth, which still had to be sorted out and a killer apprehended.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  He watched as they jogged along the beach: Skye Delaney and Ridge Larsen, along with her dog. They seemed to be caught up in their own little world. He imagined that they were comparing notes on their respective investigations into the death of Carter Delaney, under the guise of a leisurely jaunt.

  Well let them try to put the pieces together all they want, he thought. It wouldn't get them anywhere, except maybe in their own graves...right beside Delaney.

  He continued to stare at the private eye and police detective as they moved farther away. The dog was practically running around them in circles, as though he had lost his sense of direction. He should've killed that damned mutt when he had the chance. Instead, it had nearly killed him. Or so it seemed when the dog lunged at him, looking for blood. But he'd managed to fight back and overpower it enough to force the dog into the utility room, while keeping his eye on the primary objective: making sure Carter Delaney got everything he had coming to him.

  He took a few more pictures of Skye Delaney and the detective, before heading to his car.

  He had to be very careful these days, even more than usual. They could be on to him quicker than he was on to Delaney that day if he did something dumb. He couldn't allow them that satisfaction.

  In the car, he sat there for a couple of minutes plotting his strategy, knowing there was still work to be done. He put the car in drive and took off, still thinking about Skye. That was replaced by the real deal as he actually passed by her, Larsen, and the mutt, who were now on the street. He was careful not to make eye contact, but watched them through his rear view mirror. As far as they knew, he was just another driver on his way somewhere, having nothing to do with Carter Delaney.

  Well, think and think again.

  He wondered if he'd thrown them off sufficiently by killing Kalolo Nawahi. Would that drug freak's death satisfy them that they had Delaney's killer? Or would they force him to take out more deserving assholes to cover his tracks?

  See, Delaney, he thought, this is what happens when you renege on a deal, man. People die. But you already know about that, don't you?

  His lips curved into a self-satisfied grin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Darlene Delaney walked into my office wearing dark sunglasses, a red, short-sleeved dress that contoured to every curve on her body, and white pointed-toe mules.

  She looked around in no particular direction. "This place was really hard to find," she complained.

  "I would've been happy to give you directions if I'd known you were coming," I said dryly from my desk, barely able to hide my surprise at this unexpected visit.

  "It was impromptu," she said nervously, licking her ruby lips, before asking: "Mind if I sit?" She answered her own question as she planted herself in a chair.

  It was our fourth face-to-face encounter since Carter's death. In spite of the fact that we happened to have married the same man, I saw no reason why we should be acquaintances, much less friends. This was particularly true while she remained a bona fide suspect in playing some role in Carter's murder.

  Physically, I doubted Darlene was capable of killing Carter all by herself. But that didn't rule out her involvement, if not direct participation, I thought, in spite of her alibi that suggested otherwise.

  Which brought me to why she had decided to pay me a visit in the middle of the week on a hot, humid afternoon. Was she on a guilt trip? Maybe she wanted to confess to something...like how two million dollars can pay for a lot of tears.

  "I need your help—" she said finally.

  "Excuse me?" I let my mouth hang open for effect.

  She removed the sunglasses and rolled her eyes. "I want to hire you. Or do you only work for people who didn't happen to steal your man?"

  I was stung by those last words, as if I needed to be reminded that she was the cause of my breakup with Carter. Of course, deep down inside, I knew that it took two to unravel a relationship. It didn't include the faithful spouse. I doubt that she'd had to put a gun to Carter's head to get him to cheat on me. Just as Darlene got to see the shoe on the other foot of betrayal when Carter turned his attention to Leilani Mahaulu.

  But none of that seemed to matter at the moment. Admittedly, I was curious as to why Darlene needed my services.

  I kept my cool as I responded: "What can I do for you?" This ought to be good, I thought.

  She squirmed and took a deep breath. "I want you to find out who murdered Carter—"

  I cocked a brow at the odd request, especially considering that I had already made this my personal mission, much to the chagrin of Ridge and those he worked for.

  "That's a police matter," I responded nevertheless, hoping to draw much more out of her. "And my cop days are long over—"

  "Oh, don't give me that—" Darlene snapped. "This is a private matter to me, and you're a private cop. Whether you approve of my life or not, I'm asking for the sake of whatever Carter once meant to you to take the case..."

  I could feel my nostrils grow with vexation, even as my mind noted the irony of the request. It seemed as if I'd been down this road once before with her husband, who had sat in that very seat. I'd had nothing but grief since making the mistake of taking on a client whose personal life I wanted no part of. So why in the hell would I want to make the same mistake twice? I asked myself.

  "Whether I approve of your personal life or not is beside the point," I stressed, knowing that was very much at issue in the scheme of things. "Murder investigations are outside of my jurisdiction, especially when the victim happened to be my ex."

  "And my late husband," Darlene said, seeming to take pleasure in reminding me. "Carter came to you when he needed help. And now he's dead, and they'd like nothing better than to lay the entire thing on my lap—"

  "Who are they?" I asked pointedly.

  She sighed. "I think you know. The police—"

  I knew nothing of the sort, and told her so, leaving out the reality that she remained a person of interest in the case for obvious reasons. "I doubt very much the police are interested in anything but—"

  Darlene broke in: "Trying to make me a scapegoat for something I didn't have anything to do with—other than being married to the man. You aren't being hounded by the cops at every turn..." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But why would you be—when the man you're sleeping with is heading the investigation into Carter's death?"

  The fact that she knew about my relationship with Ridge was less surprising than her insinuation. I drew in a deep breath and said tartly: "I'm not even going to dignify that last comment—"

  Again, she interpolated with: "Carter kept a file on you—" She hung onto to that last word long enough to watch the obvious shock written across my face. "He liked to think that in some strange way you were still his private property. He had to know who you dated, socialize
d with, even what time you went to bed—and who with... One of his fetishes was comparing himself sexually to the men in your life since you kicked him to the curb. Of course, Carter always rated himself superior in that department."

  I shivered with embarrassment, disbelief, and, frankly, disgust. "Even if Carter did keep this so-called file," I sputtered at her, finding it hard to accept, "what the hell possible difference does it make now? Especially when Carter can't defend himself from this crap."

  Darlene stiffened. "I just thought you'd like to know what type of man you divorced and I married," she stated simply. "Yes, I probably should've divorced Carter and, yes, maybe sometimes I wished him dead because of the way he treated me..." Her voice broke. "But I also loved him and really wanted to try and make our marriage work."

  "Is that why you had Carter insured for two million dollars one month before his death?" I asked bluntly. "Out of love and devotion?"

  She shook her head. "It was his idea. He had me insured for the same amount. That was on top of a million dollar policy Carter already had on himself. He said the additional amounts were a hedge against what he called the laws of nature. He wanted to make sure neither of us would suffer greatly financially if either died prematurely—"

  If what she said was true, could Carter have somehow anticipated his death a month before, prompting him to put an additional two million on his life? Equally baffling was why he would want a woman he suspected of cheating on him, and probably would have divorced had he lived long enough, as his beneficiary.

  I gazed at Darlene with a great deal of uncertainty. "Have you told this to the police?"

  "I'm telling it to you," she snapped. "They hear only what they want to. There seems to be a well orchestrated effort by the authorities to make me out to be my husband's executioner."