"You're damned right," she blasted, her voice coming alive, "and you made it when you started sleeping with my husband!"
"Now wait just a minute—" I said and actually felt some relief that her anger was misplaced. "I don't know who you think I am, but I guarantee you I wasn't your husband's mistress. I'm a private investigator—"
Isabella Axelrod sighed while checking me out. She seemed less interested in my casual outfit of shirt and shorts than my overall physical appearance in deciding if I fit the bill as the possible mistress. Evidently she knew her husband was fooling around, if not with whom.
A moment or two passed before she asked suspiciously: "What do you want?"
"I'm investigating the death of Carter Delaney," I told her. "He was..."
"I know who he was," she interjected.
In that case, I got right to the point. "I think his murder might somehow be connected to your husband's death—"
Isabella stared at me for a full minute before saying: "Come in."
I was led through the foyer to a spacious living room filled with traditional furnishings and exotic art. A carafe of brandy sat on a table beside a half-filled glass. Isabella picked it up and sipped mechanically.
"Would you like some?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No thanks. I need to keep a clear head during my investigation."
She shrugged and sat on the sofa, folding her legs beneath her. I took the liberty of sitting in the chair closest to me.
"They said it would never work," she said reflectively. "A young, good-looking runway model and an older, handsome criminal defense attorney. I mean, what did we have in common, right? Well, we proved them wrong—at least in the beginning..." She wet her lips with brandy.
My insatiable curiosity about people and places from all walks of life prevented me from saying do us both a favor and keep your personal trials and tribulations to yourself. After all, I knew a little something about becoming involved with the wrong man who seemed right at the time. Obviously, it helped her to have someone to talk to about this.
"I'm a very jealous woman," Isabella freely admitted. "I've been with men who had other women hanging all over them. I couldn't deal with it. Edwin knew this when we got married. All I ever wanted from him was to be honest with me...no secrets and no affairs. I deserved to be respected. Having very different careers and working hours made it easy for him to cheat on me. I actually thought our love and trust would keep him faithful." She laughed cynically and sipped her drink. "Then I overheard Edwin on the phone one day talking to some bitch who talked about how good he was in bed. I wanted to kill him—and her!"
It was a feeling I could very much relate to—at least in theory, I thought. I hoped that was the extent of her pain and resentment as well.
"Edwin swore to me it was over," Isabella continued, "and I believed him." She sneered. "What a fool I was to think that he was any different from other men who only cared about what was in their pants—"
"Maybe he was telling the truth—about it being over," I offered, trying to give Edwin Axelrod the benefit of the doubt for her sake.
"When I saw you at his office, I thought you were the bitch he was sleeping with." She gazed at me with lingering suspicions. "Of course, he denied it. Then you show up here today now that Edwin's dead. What else could I think?"
"I'm very sorry about your husband's death," I told her compassionately. "I went to see him regarding the case I'm working on."
Her eyes narrowed. "What did Edwin have to do with the death of Carter Delaney?"
I had to be careful here. Both men were dead. There was no reason to bring more pain to the living if it could be avoided. Yet I couldn't escape the thought that these deaths were related in some way.
"One of your husband's clients was a man named Kazuo Pelekai," I said. "He was found dead last night in his car—the apparent victim of foul play. Before that, he was being investigated by the P.A.'s office for everything from drug trafficking to the murder of Carter Delaney..." I shifted my body and looked at her face. "I think your husband may have put himself in danger by working for Pelekai—"
Isabella's lower lip trembled. "Are you saying Edwin was killed by this man...Pelekai?"
"Or maybe one of his associates," I suggested, feeling there was no other way to put it. "I believe there's a good possibility that your husband's doings may not only have cost him his life, but Carter Delaney's as well."
Isabella frowned and drank more brandy. "I once told Edwin his drive and ambition would get him killed," she said, teary-eyed. "But I was only kidding—"
"The police think your husband's wound may have been self-inflicted—" I told her frankly, noting that a gun he owned was found near the body.
"No way—" she insisted. "Edwin was not suicidal. He wouldn't have taken his life—not without any warning..."
Maybe you just didn't know your husband as well as you think you did, I mused, immediately realizing the irony of that thought, as I had apparently fallen into the same trap with Carter. Join the club.
But that hardly meant I believed Axelrod killed himself any more than I believed Carter had, even though it appeared that they had.
If Isabella Axelrod knew anything more, she was in no condition or frame of mind to divulge it. I left her to her mourning and went from one recent widow to another.
* * *
I caught Darlene just as she and Ivy were leaving the house in what appeared to be a big hurry. Darlene was carrying a duffel bag that looked overstuffed. I honked my horn to get their attention. It did, and probably the whole neighborhood as well.
I wasn't about to let Darlene skip town before this thing had been resolved.
"Going somewhere?" I asked, placing myself between them and the BMW.
"Skye," Darlene said in a jittery voice. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you." It seemed obvious enough to me.
"What for?" she asked innocently.
I looked at Ivy, who smiled up at me as her pigtails bounced against her ears. It was my first good look at the little girl who, under vastly different circumstances, could have been my own.
I smiled back just as her mother said: "This is my daughter, Ivy—"
"Hi, Ivy," I said sweetly, trying to hide the awkwardness I felt and Darlene was no doubt enjoying. Ivy had Carter's eyes and smile as well as a more dainty version of his nose.
"Skye is someone your father knew a long time ago," Darlene told her, making me seem older than I was. I wondered if Carter had ever planned to tell his daughter about our life together as husband and wife that had once been just as important to him. Or had he planned to pretend that part of his history never existed, except for when it suited him to remember?
"Hi, Skye," Ivy said politely.
I looked at Darlene and said: "I need to talk to you about a certain defense attorney—"
Her brow creased with uneasiness. "Wait in the car for me, honey," she told Ivy. "I'll be just a few minutes—"
I watched Carter's daughter skip to the BMW as if not a care in the world, and couldn't help but wonder what this entire mess would do to her over the long haul. Particularly as she learned more about her father—and mother.
Speaking of which, Darlene looked about as fearful as I had ever seen her. "I heard about Edwin," she muttered while moving away from the car toward the house. "It's starting to get creepy. I'm mostly scared for Ivy. That's why I'm taking her to stay with my sister for a while—"
"Do you know anyone who would want to kill Carter, Kalolo, and Edwin?" I asked point-blank. Not to mention Pelekai, I thought.
She sighed. "I've thought about it. But I honestly can't say anyone comes to mind who would have reason to do such a thing."
"Were you still seeing Edwin Axelrod after Carter died?" I asked, locking eyes with her in assessing whether or not there were possibly further implications from the affair—such as murder.
Darlene flashed me an annoyed look. "Absolutely not!" she said. "W
e both agreed it was best to end it as quietly and painlessly as possible."
"Did anyone else know about your affair?"
Darlene fluttered her lashes. "You mean like his wife?"
"I mean anyone," I reiterated, as the reporter Liam Pratt came to mind.
She pursed her lips and said: "Just you—" She paused and added: "It wasn't exactly something to brag about..."
I considered that maybe I was way off base here. Despite Darlene being the common link between the victims, each could have easily died independent of one another. But did they?
I asked her: "Did Axelrod ever ask you about Carter the businessman...or former prosecutor?"
Darlene stared at the question before responding. "He might have. Why?"
"Did you ever give him any information you had on Kazuo Pelekai?" I asked.
Darlene shot me a cold stare. "Are you suggesting Edwin was using me to get information from my husband?"
I nodded. "It's a very good possibility," I told her.
She did not take the news well. "Look, Carter and I may have had our problems—okay, we had some big problems—but I would never have sold him out by giving away any tidbits concerning his professional life, past or present. Besides, Carter didn't believe in bringing his work home—figuratively or literally. And I never encouraged it."
"I had to ask," I said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.
She studied me. "Why?"
"Because people are dying all around us, Darlene," I pointed out, "and I have a vested interest in making sure that we don't end up on that list, too—"
That was at least partially true. The other part had to do with solving Carter's murder—the first murder that tied us together. I was pretty sure Darlene knew more about it than she was letting on.
She sighed and said: "I made a mistake—maybe a few—and I'll pay for it for the rest of my life. But I never knowingly did anything that I thought might get Carter or anyone else killed."
Knowingly? I thought. What about unknowingly? I couldn't help but wonder.
I told her: "It's probably a wise move to get your daughter out of harm's way. And if I were you, I think I'd seriously consider hiring a body guard, just until you can be sure you're not on someone's hit list."
Darlene raised a brow. "Are you offering your services?"
"No," I responded without hesitation. "I'm a security consultant and private investigator, not a bodyguard. Sorry."
"And I'm a woman trying to put her life back together," she stated with determination. "I'm not going to give in to fear and things I can't control—at least where it concerns my health and well-being." Her look of defiance weakened. "But protecting my daughter is a different story—"
"Then think of your daughter," I urged, "and protect yourself. She'll thank you someday."
Darlene gave me a look of resignation. "If there's someone out there who wants me dead, there probably isn't much I can do to prevent it," she said. "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder." She smiled faintly before saying: "Maybe we'll both get lucky and you'll catch whoever is committing these murders before either of us is targeted—"
"I wouldn't count on that," I told her. "Luck doesn't apprehend murderers. Private investigators don't either, for the most part, though not necessarily for lack of trying." My pessimism gave way to motivation in catching a killer, and I told her, for both our sakes: "I won't stop trying to do right by Carter, even if he didn't always do right by us—"
I left Darlene to carry on with her plans and went to the office for a short time, then home. My tropical fire ant problem had apparently gone the way of the dinosaur and I hoped to keep them at bay, certain that Ollie was in complete agreement.
I eased my stress and strain by running with him and, later, soothing my body in the bathtub. It was the first time I had been able to bring myself to use it since Carter's corpse was left there for me to find. I decided it was time to conquer the distaste it left in my mouth and try to enjoy the things I'd worked hard to achieve.
In bed, I watched a DVD. It was a suspense thriller that often showed the killer's viewpoint. He enjoyed playing mind games with his victims before he killed them.
I couldn't help but wonder if I was dealing with a similar scary villain in real life...
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The following day, I left home just before noon and drove the short distance to the Waikiki Shopping Plaza on Kalakaua Avenue to pick up some office supplies.
After that, I stopped by the post office. No sooner had I headed to my car, which was parked on the street, when I heard the rev of an engine. I turned just in time to see a vehicle barreling toward me at a high rate of speed. It took only a second to realize that this was not a driver out of control, but one who knew exactly what he or she was doing.
Someone was trying to run me down!
I barely had time to dive out of the way, much less see who the driver was, or go for my .40 caliber revolver that was safely tucked away in my purse.
At the last possible moment before impact, I lifted myself off the ground and hurdled atop my hood as the car raced past me with tires screeching. Unable to brace myself or grab onto anything, I bounced against the windshield then fell back onto the street, hitting my head on the pavement. The last thing I remember was seeing a grayish black cloud of pollution trailing the car and the license plate number RKL 497, before blacking out...
I awoke with a splitting headache to Ridge's smiling face. "Welcome back, Skye—" His smile was replaced with a scowl. "You gave me one hell of a scare there!"
"What happened?" I asked groggily before I realized I was in a hospital bed.
"You tell me," he said.
Another voice to my left said: "You suffered a nasty bump on the head, Ms. Delaney—"
With a great deal of discomfort from the neck up, along with other aches and pains, I swiveled my face to see the person behind the voice was a middle-aged African American man wearing standard hospital garb. A stethoscope hung from his neck and he was holding a chart.
"I'm Doctor Ellison," he said, crinkling his black eyes. "A passerby saw you on the street and called 911. An ambulance brought you here to the Waikiki Medical Center ER. We called Mr. Larsen as the person you asked to notify if something happened to you—"
I was glad to know that Ridge was there to offer comfort and support. I put a hand to my throbbing temple. "Just tell me, Doctor," I moaned, "will this headache get better before it gets worse?"
"Yes," he assured me. "You were very fortunate. A mild concussion is the official diagnosis. Hopefully, you'll be back on your feet in no time." His expression changed. "As a precautionary measure, we're going to keep you here overnight for observation. I'll give you something to ease the pain..."
He did, and it seemed to be working.
Ridge grabbed my hand, getting my attention. "Was it a hit and run, Skye?"
I swallowed, nodding. "I think someone tried to kill me—"
His brows furrowed. "Who?"
"I don't know," I managed. "The car was...a dark color, older model—"
"Did you see who was in it?" Ridge persisted. "Male? Female...?"
"Never saw the driver—" I hated to say, feeling as if I had somehow let him and myself down.
"She should get some rest now," the doctor intervened politely.
"This is official police business," Ridge told him, and flashed his I.D. for apparently the first time. "Whoever did this will probably try again—unless we get to the bastard first."
"Put a police guard on her if you want," Ellison said, "but I must insist that you come back later if you want to ask her more questions—"
While they argued, something inside my head clicked. One of the first things I learned at the Academy was memorizing license plate numbers.
"Ridge—" I squeezed his hand and muttered: "RKL 497."
* * *
"Looks like that son of a bitch Antonio Ramirez was the one who tried to run you
down," Ridge said angrily after picking me up the next day. "We traced the plate number to a car he owns. That's the good news. The bad news is that Ramirez is still on the loose. We put out an APB. We'll get him—"
"But why would Antonio Ramirez try to kill me?" I asked, surprised at this revelation. His alibi for Carter's death had checked out. I looked out the car window at the passing palm trees and businesses and then turned to Ridge's profile.
"I don't know. Maybe you rubbed him the wrong way during our visit to the construction site," he suggested. "Or it could be that Ramirez was using you to get even with Delaney for putting his brother away. Who knows what set him off to go after you."
I tried to picture Antonio Ramirez, but my head was still throbbing despite the effects of extra strength Tylenol. Given his size and muscular build, it didn't seem like he would choose a car as his method for attacking me. Besides, killing me would seem to go against the grain of the Jesus and church theme he had spouted. While I hardly considered myself to be a pushover, if Ramirez had wanted me dead, he probably could have gotten the job done with his bare hands much more efficiently than the hit and run method. So why didn't he try? I asked myself before asking Ridge the same question.
"We'll ask him when we pick up," he said simply. "My guess is that when it got right down to it, Ramirez didn't have the balls to take you on without the protection of a car while he did his dirty work."
"Perhaps," I said thoughtfully. "Or maybe he's not the person who tried to run me down."
Ridge made it clear that he didn't want to hear a point of view that could let Antonio Ramirez off the hook. "Are you saying you think we're after the wrong man?"
I pondered the question. No one would have faulted me if I'd accepted that my assailant had been quickly uncovered, if not yet apprehended. But the more I thought about it, the less I believed Antonio Ramirez was the person who nearly put me out of commission for good even though it contradicted my memory of his license plate number.
I was now starting to question my memory. "You know it's possible," I told Ridge, "that I may have gotten the plate number wrong. Maybe the L was really an I or the 9 a 6—"
Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 20