He reached for her hand. “You can’t do this, Miranda.”
Those blue eyes flashed at him. “Are you getting all macho again? I don’t really need your permission, you know.”
He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t seem to stop making her angry when it came to this matter. “I’m simply trying to interject some rationality.”
“I’m being plenty rational. It’s you who’s going bonkers. This is how you investigate a case, right? Or did I just dream everything I learned at the Agency? Are you going to take me to the tiki bar or not?”
“I can’t do that.” If she asked him why, he’d tell her. He’d have no choice. But she didn’t.
“Okay, I’ll get there on my own.” Her face aflame, she got out of the convertible and slammed the door. Then she reached into the backseat for her suitcase.
“What do you intend to do? Walk there carrying that case?”
She strolled to the front of the car and gave him a sarcastic smile. “I’m not too frail to do that. But there is such a thing as a taxi. It’s not that primitive here. I think they have them.”
“Miranda.”
Ignoring him, she glanced past the coffee trees to the street corner, pointed toward it. “In fact, I’ll call one from that place over there. It’s a restaurant. Imagine that.”
“Miranda, please don’t do this.”
“Leave me alone, Parker.”
His whole body froze behind the steering wheel as he watched her walk away. He should jump out, run after her. He should take her by the shoulders and blurt out the harsh truth. But he couldn’t. There was still a chance he could save her that pain. The tiki bar would be closed, wouldn’t it?
Almost to the restaurant, she spotted a taxi cruising down the road and hailed it. It pulled over to the side and she leaned in to speak to the driver. After a moment, she got inside.
Damn. Parker put the BMW in gear and followed the cab. Maybe he’d think of something more convincing on the way.
Chapter Seventeen
Miranda was still shivering with anger when the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Coconut Rum.
What in the hell did Parker think he was doing? He was treating her like a child. Worse than when she started at the Agency. It was obvious he had no respect for her abilities at all. He was too damn arrogant. He thought he knew everything. Thought he knew how to handle a case better than anyone. She’d show him.
She’d find Keola’s killer, see that he was locked up and give the all-knowing Wade Parker the boot.
The thought made her stomach sick, but she shook it off.
Reaching into her wallet for some cash, she handed it to the driver, glad the ride had only been a few blocks and didn’t cost all she had. She climbed out of the cab with her suitcase and headed for the bar.
The wind rustled through palm fronds on the roof and the sun made the lacquer on the bamboo exterior glisten. On either side of the entrance two of those poles with the strangely carved faces stood guard. Just under the roof a set of unlit neon letters spelled out the establishment’s name. Below that hung a red sign stating, “Sorry, We’re Closed.”
She ignored the sign and strode through the open entryway.
A bamboo divider separated the lobby from the main room. She set her suitcase down and stepped around the divider to take in the place.
Inside it was silent and dark except for the sunlight streaming in through open blinds along the far wall. The luscious view of the ocean from the tables must bring in a lot of business. The walls were decorated with painted wooden pineapples, starfish and, of course, coconuts. Thick support columns sported masks and grass skirts and leis.
Past the hostess stand, a pineapple-and-coconut fountain bordered with surfboards stood in a corner. It was dry. A nearby chalkboard boasted the best Bikini Martinis on the island. Over the bar a palm canopy featured coconut-breasted hula girls and a sign that declared, “Life is better in flip flops.”
Just what you’d expect a place in Maui called Coconut Rum to look like.
She scanned the bar and saw no one until her gaze focused on a dark corner in the back. There stood a broad-shouldered, heavyset man in a bright blue flowered shirt. He had his back to her.
She stepped up to a barstool and took a seat.
After a moment, she realized the man was standing at a grill. From the counter beside it, he took a patty, unwrapped it and tossed it onto the hot surface. It began to cook, filling the noiseless place with its sizzle and the delicious aroma of seared beef.
Miranda cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
It took a moment for him to answer. “We’re closed,” he called over his shoulder. She noted his voice was deep and bassy and lacked the Polynesian accent. That was curious.
“I know. I was wondering if I could speak with the owner.”
“We’ve had a death in the family. We’re not open for business.” He picked up a spatula and turned the patty over. Steam rose over his head.
“I understand that.”
“Then go away. Please.”
A flash of sympathy flooded her, more powerful than before. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, meaning it sincerely, though the words were trite and never did much good.
“Thank you. Now please leave. We won’t be open again for…a while.” His voice broke and took her heart along with it.
“Are you Pumehana?” she asked softly.
“Who wants to know?” He took the patty off the grill, laid it carefully on a bun that sat on a small plate, then turned off the heat. He turned to a small sink to wash his hands.
She had to say something that would get his attention, make him talk to her. She decided to go for blunt. “Pumehana, I’m the woman who found your son on the beach last night.”
He turned off the water, dried his hands and turned to her. The shadows still hid his features. “What?”
“Late last night I went for a walk on the beach. I ended up at the blowhole about nine miles north of here. I saw something that didn’t look right. I went in to see what it was and found a young man in the water. I thought he was alive, so I pulled him out. I tried to save him, give him CPR. But he was already gone. I called the police.”
He stood there a while, as if he was having trouble taking in her words. He was probably still in denial. “Thank you for trying to help,” he said at last, his voice a harsh croak. Something in it sounded vaguely familiar. He ran a hand through his hair. “But what do you want from me?”
She picked up a coaster from a stack and turned it over in her hands. “I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out what happened to Keola.”
He took a step closer, but his face remained in shadow. “Aren’t the police already doing that?” He sounded like he was from the mainland. The Midwest.
She flicked a nail against the surfboard on the cardboard coaster. “In my experience, sometimes the police don’t act quickly enough. I know it seems strange, but I felt a sort of…connection with him.”
He folded his arms. “You want money?”
“No. I just want to help, if I can.” She put the coaster back on the stack.
“My son is gone. No one can help that.” He stepped out of the shadows with a sad laugh.
That laugh. She knew that laugh.
She could see his face now. She sat stock-still and took in his features. As her mind processed them, the jolt she felt was like an electrified punch in the gut.
Round cheeks, round nose. Thick, wavy black hair that was now going gray at the temples. He’d grown it to his shoulders. His skin was dark and tan, and the furrows in his face were deeper than she remembered. He was the right height, too.
His body was still bulky, though more muscular. But other than that and a little aging, he was just like the picture she’d found in that attic in Chicago. And then she saw the mark on the side of his neck.
It was him, all right. Pumehana, her ass.
They stared at each other awhile, as her heart thump
ed away in her chest, aching more with each hammering beat. Her gaze fixated on the side of his neck. That birthmark. Like the one her baby Amy had been born with.
Like the one on Keola’s neck—the one she’d forced out of her mind. Her stomach roiled. She felt dizzy. She wanted to throw up.
“Keola was…Polynesian,” she managed to get out.
He frowned at her, as perplexed by her change in tone as by the question. “Part Samoan. Part Hawaiian.”
“You’re not either. Was he adopted?”
“No, my wife’s part Samoan and part Hawaiian.”
Wife, he had a wife.
“Why?” He studied her as if he hadn’t seen her before.
She gripped the bar as every muscle in her body went taut. It felt like rats were gnawing the lining of her stomach. Oh my God, she thought. Keola was…her brother.
Half brother. Half brother, she told herself, forcing herself to breathe. As if that made a difference.
She thought of Parker and how he’d demanded, begged her not to come here. He’d known. She’d used the nickname—Pumehana. He’d known about that, too. No wonder he’d been acting so weird.
She took another couple of deep breaths and her mind started to clear. So far, “Pumehana” hadn’t recognized her. If she hadn’t found that picture of him recently, she might not have recognized him, either. And she’d grown up since he’d last seen her. Maybe she could get out of here before he figured out who she was.
But she couldn’t drop the case. Not now. Brother. She needed to talk to Keola’s brother.
“You have another son?” she forced herself to ask.
“Yes and a daughter. What do they have to do with anything?” He sounded defensive now.
A daughter, too? A half-sister. And the other son, another half-brother. The room started to swirl. Stubbornly she cleared her throat and pressed on. “The creative director at the luau where Keola worked said he was going to see his brother after the show.”
He stared again, mulling over what that might mean. Then he took a step toward her and peered at her again. She eyed his thick, muscular arms. Strong arms that used to swing her up and into the air, making her giggle uncontrollably.
She watched his eyes study her. Blue eyes that had always had a smile in them, now red and swollen with grief. They moved over her face, her frame, then back to her face.
His expression turned to disbelief and suspicion. “Do I know you?”
She could lie. But he’d probably figure it out in a minute or two. She’d never thought he was stupid. Irresponsible and reckless, but not stupid. Might as well get it over with.
“Is Pumehana your real name?”
“No. It’s a nickname. Why?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself.” She took a deep, cleansing breath to steady herself and held out a hand. “My name is Miranda Steele.”
She watched him stare at the gesture. He didn’t take her hand. “My…last name is Steele.”
She forced out the next words in a whispered croak. “I know, Dad.”
His eyes went wild. “Miranda?”
“So you remember the little girl you left in Chicago?”
“Miranda?” he said again, coming closer. “Is it really you?” He opened his arms.
She held up her palms. The last thing she wanted was a hug. “I didn’t come here for a reunion. I meant what I said. I’m here to investigate Keola’s death.”
He came around the bar and she saw he was in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. The style fit him. “My little girl grew up to be a private investigator?” There was a smile on his face now. That big, gregarious smile she used to love so much, though it was still tinged with sorrow.
She turned her palms toward him before he could reach her. “I need to speak to your son. I was told he’s staying with you.”
Resignation in his eyes, he stopped and his face went grim again.
###
Parker sat staring at the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign, gripping the steering wheel of the BMW so tightly, he thought he might break it in two. He tried in vain to concentrate on the sound of the everlasting sea in his ears. The rising tide, the trade wind that was picking up.
He’d arrived just in time to watch Miranda slip into the bar. His heart filled with dread, he’d jumped out and rushed to the door.
At the threshold, he’d forced himself to stop. It was too late now.
She wouldn’t want him barging into the place, trying to save her. She wouldn’t understand. And perhaps she was right.
He had to stop smothering her. He had to stop trying to protect her. She didn’t want that. She wanted to call her own shots, to be the one to deal with the consequences. He had to respect that.
He had gone back to the car. He’d wait for her. Perhaps she’d let him comfort her when she was finished in there. If she’d still speak to him.
But she’d gone in a good fifteen minutes ago. That couldn’t bode well. It took all the strength he had to just sit here.
She was suffering. He could feel it. And he ached along with her and longed to hold her in his arms and soothe her pain. Perhaps he could stroll in, pretending to be a tourist in need of a drink. Lord knew he did need one. He considered going round the side to peer into a window.
Another urge came over him. The urge to rush into that tiki bar and give the man who’d deserted his wife as a child the beating of his life. But how could he attack a man who’d just lost his son? Who was now seeing his daughter after thirty years?
He studied the bar’s exterior, wishing he could have bugged the place. The building was dead still. If he knew Miranda, there was no tearful reunion going on behind those walls. And yet there was no rumbling, no earth tremors. The bar’s roof hadn’t blown off. If he knew Miranda…she was sticking to the job. Even through this. Admiration for her swelled in his chest. What a woman she was.
He had to let her be. He had to let her handle this on her own. That’s what any reasonable adult would want. He should have seen that from the start. He should have laid his cards out on the table to begin with. He never should have tried to find her father behind her back. He’d been too sure of himself. So certain he could make it all work. Blind to what might happen if something went awry.
In sum…he’d been wrong. And it might cost him dearly.
If she gave him another chance, if she came back to him, he’d never hide anything from her again. No more secrets.
He took his hands off the steering wheel and laid them in his lap, fisted. It was time he gave her the space and the respect she deserved.
And that meant all he could do right now…was wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Miranda watched Edward Steele, a.k.a. Pumehana, ease his heavy body onto a barstool a few seats away from her. He looked like he didn’t know what to make of the situation any more than she did.
“You want to talk to my son, Mikaele?” he said at last, still eyeing her in disbelief.
Her stomach felt like lead. She hadn’t gotten a name. “Do you have any other sons?”
“No, just Mikaele and another daughter.”
Once more, her mind reeled. Three children. Two half-brothers and a half-sister. And a step-mother. None of which she’d known existed. Anger bubbled up in her throat like witch’s brew. Swallowing, she forced it back down. Suck it up.
“I think your son might know why Keola went to the blowhole last night.”
Fresh pain washed over his face as he nodded. He straightened and called toward the back. “Mikaele. Your burger’s getting cold.”
Nothing stirred.
“I let him sleep here,” he explained.
“I heard he was in trouble.”
“He’s a good kid, but he’s fallen in with the wrong crowd. His mother won’t let him back in the house. I don’t know what we’re going to do about school.”
“School?”
“He’s been suspended.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.” He shook his head. “One son in trouble, the other dead. I guess I’ve never been much of a father.” He eyed her sadly. “I don’t suppose you’d contest that.”
Miranda shifted her weight. Now there was an opportunity to let loose with all the anger and resentment that had built up inside her since she was five. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold it in a second longer, a door opened in the back and a figure shuffled out.
The scrawny, bare-chested young man dressed in baggy swim trunks moved over to the counter and picked up the plate Pumehana had prepared for him. He turned to take it back to his room without a word.
“Mikaele, there’s someone here to see you.”
The boy glanced back without enthusiasm. His black hair was short in the back, but fell over his eyes in the front. “Who?”
“Come over here and see.”
He half rolled his eyes as if it was all too much effort and sauntered toward the bar.
“This is, uh—”
“Miranda Parker of the Parker Investigative Agency. I’m looking into your brother’s death.” No need for messy explanations.
Her father stared at her again. “You’re married?”
“Yes.” Yes, I married the boss, she wanted to sneer at him.
Mikaele set down his plate and eyed her through strands of his dark hair. His face had the same angles hers had. “Why do you want to talk to me?” There was distrust in his tone.
She forced a pleasant look and softened her voice. “I heard Keola came to see you last night. Is that true?”
Wriggling with discomfort, he turned to his father. “Do I have to talk to her?”
“Answer the lady’s question, son.”
With a sullen look, the boy picked up his burger and took a big bite. To give himself time to think of a good reply, Miranda surmised. She was onto something here.
“Can I have a soda?”
The big man grunted, got up and came around the bar. He retrieved a glass from under a counter, pulled a few handles and filled it with ice and frothy liquid. He set the drink down in front of his son. “Now answer the question. Did you see Keola last night?”
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