Black Jasmine (2012)

by Toby Neal

  “I can’t believe the police have had to be called. This is a nightmare.” The newly wedded Mrs. Simmons waved the hankie wadded in her hand. “Where could Robert be?”

  “Ma’am, we’ll do all we can to find your husband.” A suspicion niggled at Lei’s mind as she looked down at the photo taken of the happy couple when they’d come on board, handed to her by the purser. Clara Simmons, looking almost pretty, embraced a muscle-bound spray-tanned man with a head of Fabio-like wavy locks.

  After a few warm-up questions, Lei followed her hunch. “After your wedding, did any money change hands between the two of you?”

  “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. I’m just asking, did you pool or exchange any money?”

  “He signed a prenup, if that’s what you’re asking.” Clara sniffed, gathering her dignity. “That’s what all my friends insisted on. I mean, why else would a man like Robert be with a woman like me—at least according to my friends.” She shook her head. “I did transfer a hundred thousand for the down payment on our house in Napili into our joint account. We shopped for it for weeks before the wedding, and it’s going to close now that we’ve returned.”

  “What bank?”

  “Bank of Hawaii. But I’m sure—that can’t be it.” Tears threatened again. Lei turned to Pono, who was already standing up and dialing his phone.

  A few minutes later, he had the bank manager on the phone, wanting confirmation from Clara, who gave it. The bank manager must have told her what was left in the account, because she gave a ululating cry of mortal pain and sat down abruptly on one of the cushy chairs.

  The coordinator hurried forward, soothing, patting, and waving tissues.

  “I think it would be best if we get Mrs. Simmons installed in a hotel, and we continue our investigation in Kahului after a quick check belowdecks, in case he’s still hiding on board.” Lei gestured toward the door, and the coordinator escorted the weeping woman out.

  Pono was already calling the airport and Dispatch to put out an alert on one Robert Simmons, age thirty-two, six foot two, muscular build, wavy blond hair, probably traveling under an alias—if his name was Robert Simmons at all.

  Lei went down to the cabin the honeymoon couple had stayed in. Empty, but for a set of matched Louis Vuitton luggage. Clara Simmons would have been good for more if he’d waited awhile, but apparently the honeymoon had been all that he could handle.

  A staffer took them below and unlocked doors for them. After they’d done a sweep of the most likely hiding places, Lei glanced at her phone. It was eleven a.m., and the ship had already been delayed two hours. It was unlikely Robert Simmons was still on board; he’d probably hopped a plane yesterday. She signaled Pono.

  “Check with the lieutenant, but I think we should let the ship go and focus on trying to catch Simmons at the airport.”

  Pono nodded and made the call, then motioned toward the metal ladder back up to the next level, far from the luxurious upper decks.

  They said respectful goodbyes to the captain. Clara Simmons had been taken in a cab to the nearby Maui Beach Hotel. Lei followed Pono off the ship with an echoing clang of footsteps on the metal gangplank, holding on to the rope baluster as the giant engines fired up for departure.

  “Want to get lunch?” she asked Pono. “I need to tell you about the interview with Silva and what Bunuelos and I found out about Jane Doe.”

  They pulled into Pinatas on Dairy Road in downtown Kahului and took a corner table with their burritos. Lei told Pono about the “House,” mysterious organizer of the cockfighting ring, and the white-robed hookers, including the name of the developer who’d bought hookers for his construction wrap party.

  “I gotta follow up on that next,” Lei said, taking a bite of her kitchen sink burrito, the size of a small coconut. Pinatas didn’t stint on portions.

  “I don’t think he’s going to just tell you who he ordered hookers from over the phone,” Pono said. “We should drive out there. Get eyes on him. What if he has a hand in it somehow?”

  They flipped a coin, and it was the purple truck this time for the ride to Lahaina, where Wylie’s construction offices were located. Lei called back to the station and checked in with Dispatch as they drove along the Pali, asking if the lieutenant could send someone to work the meth house case that had shown up on her desk that morning.

  She put her head back against Pono’s sheepskin-covered seat, surprisingly comfortable even in hot Hawaii. A tiny imitation Hawaiian war helmet decked with red and yellow feathers dangled from the mirror, and Pono’s gearshift was a chrome skull. Riding in Pono’s truck was always interesting.

  “How are we going to do good work with so many cases? That’s not to mention the ones we had before these new ones started piling on.” Lei unscrewed a water bottle and sipped.

  “Well, at least the cruise ship one isn’t a homicide.”

  “We don’t know that. What if Clara found out Robert ripped her off, and she pushed him overboard? Ships are a great place for a homicide, actually. I’m surprised we haven’t had more cases involving the cruise lines.”

  “That’s you, Sweets, always seeing more than the obvious. Why don’t you look up Wylie Construction, see what you can find out?” Pono had a line between his brows. Lei extracted the Toughbook from its stowage under the glove box, unfolded the retractable arm, and punched up the company. It was time to focus on the task at hand.

  Wylie Construction was a big operation, according to their website. They were at the forefront of “gracious, custom, green living” on Maui, and planning a new self-contained community in West Maui, “where everything you need for life and living is in one piece of paradise.”

  Lei snorted. “Sounds like a petri dish,” she muttered.

  Pono glanced over. “What’s that around your neck?”

  “Oh.” Lei reached up to touch the ring. It was surprisingly bulky and refused to stay tucked into the neck of her shirt. “Just a gift.”

  “Uh-huh. It’s a diamond ring.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Looks like Stevens made his move.” Pono shook his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gotta give the guy points for trying.”

  “Hey, what if I want to get married? We’re good together.”

  “Then why isn’t the ring on your finger?”

  He had her there.

  “None of your business.” Distraction was called for. “Says John Wylie came to Maui ten years ago with a vision to bring ‘gracious, affordable, green construction’ to the island. Nothing about him being married. I’m trolling through some Google articles—he appears to be a bit of a player. Lots of different women on his arm. Charity events, things like that. Seems involved with the arts.”

  Wylie looked like a typical middle-aged transplant haole: thinning blond hair brushed to look fuller over a weathered ruddy complexion, rugged build. “Look at this one—‘Millionaire Developer John Wylie brings Gallery Owner to Opening Night of the Maui Film Festival.’ Seems like a real high maka-maka type.” Lei used the pidgin expression for society. She swiveled the screen so Pono could glance at the photo of a striking blue-eyed, black-haired woman on Wylie’s arm.

  They drove into the outskirts of Lahaina, the “blazing sun” the town was named for already high and hot, the ocean a glittering blue plate glass off to the left. Pono pulled into the Wylie Construction offices in a handsome strip mall off the main shopping area of Front Street. Lei took a minute to put on some lip gloss, straighten her rumpled jacket, and fluff her hair, which had seen more cooperative days. Too long to be short and too short to pull back, her curls were really driving her crazy.

  “Enough with the fussing,” Pono said, hopping out of the cab. Lei gave one last pat to her hair, to no visible effect. The detectives walked into a beautifully appointed reception area.

  Wylie Construction’s stylized logo hung over the glossy desk of a decorative receptionist. Original oils and sculp
tures stood out from neutral gray watered-silk walls with skillful lighting.

  “We’re here to see John Wylie.” Lei and Pono held up their badges. The receptionist inspected them carefully, looking flustered, and picked up the interoffice phone. Apparently the great man was in a meeting.

  “If you could wait a few minutes, please.”

  They sat. The furniture was exquisitely comfortable and simple, silver suede couches arranged around a square coffee table covered in a fan of magazines. Pono found a golf magazine and settled in with deceptive ease. Only Lei knew his ears were tuned to anything unusual and his eyes were checking unobtrusively.

  Lei browsed an O magazine, terrified herself with a brief foray into Parents, and finally stood up and paced. Went back to the receptionist.

  “Tell Wylie to wrap it up or we’re going in. I guarantee that he’ll be embarrassed.” Lei’s tilted brown eyes must have said she meant business, because the woman picked up the phone and shortly thereafter, a gaggle of golf-shirted haoles exited, giving curious glances. Lei led the way into the inner sanctum.

  Chapter 8

  John Wylie got up from a traditional red leather, tufted office chair. “Aloha, Detectives. What can I do for you?”

  Lei opened her mouth, and Pono put his hand on her arm, stepping in to shake the man’s hand. “Pono Kaihale of Maui Police Department. This is my partner, Lei Texeira. We are investigating a homicide.”

  “My goodness, that sounds serious.” Wylie’s wind-chapped cheeks went a bit paler. He stayed ensconced behind his vast walnut desk. “Please, sit.”

  They took the supplicant chairs in front as Wylie resettled himself.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Well, the young woman in question is still unidentified. The focus of our investigation is finding out who she is.” Wylie nodded, a furrow of faux concern stitched between his brows, and Pono went on. “She was recognized by someone from a ‘lineup’ of women procured for escort services. By you.”

  This bombshell was delivered in calm, measured tones. Pono could still surprise Lei.

  Wylie shot up. Color flooded up his neck like mercury rising in a thermometer. “Who said that? I demand to know who would make such an accusation!”

  “Not gonna happen.” Pono sat back, laced beefy fingers over his muscular midsection, blinked as slow as an owl in the sun. “Not relevant. What we want to know is, who sent you those whores? Who’d you call? We aren’t looking to prosecute you for that at this time.”

  The threat was in the delicate emphasis of the last sentence.

  “Well. Well.” Wylie huffed. He turned to a decanter on the credenza behind his desk, poured some amber liquid into a highball glass. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He tossed the drink back. “When was this?”

  “So you make a habit of calling for a lineup of whores?” Lei’s first contribution to the discussion was acidic and seemed to rattle him further, and he splashed more alcohol into the glass.

  “I’m just trying to establish a framework for these questions,” Wylie said. He resumed his seat. “I have to put it in context.”

  “It was a construction wrap party a month or so ago.”

  “Ah.” Wylie sipped. “One of the guys talked. Knew I was taking a chance.” He set the glass down. “I’d like you to know that calling an escort service is not illegal. What the girls do with the guys they are escorting is their business.”

  “Of course,” Pono said.

  Lei rolled her eyes but restrained herself. She could tell this was the kind of guy who kept a lawyer on speed dial.

  “I use this service when I want to entertain.” He opened a drawer in his desk with a little gold key on a key ring, shuffled a bit, and pushed a card over to them. It was glossy white with a satin-embossed edge and nothing on it but a phone number in crisp black Gothic script.

  “Now, anything further and I must insist my lawyer be present.” He took his BlackBerry out, finger poised. Yep, speed dial. Lei was irritated to be right.

  “One more question—did you know anything about a girl at that party, long red hair, blue eyes, a tattoo of a butterfly on her ankle?” Lei slid the photo of Jane Doe across the desk to Wylie. He did not look at it; instead he pushed a button on the phone and they heard it dialing. He held up a finger toward them as the phone was answered.

  “Kevin, this is John. Can you come right over? Some detectives are in my office, harassing me about an escort service. Oh. Okay.” He pressed End and looked up with a smile straight out of a denture commercial. “My attorney has instructed me not to answer any further questions until he gets here.”

  Pono stood up, put the white card in his pocket. “Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Wylie. MPD appreciates it.”

  Lei had spotted a picture behind Wylie on the credenza. A pair of blond, orthodontia- wrapped teen girls flanked him in a formal portrait. Lei tapped Jane Doe’s photo, forcing his eyes down to look at it. “This young girl, same age as your daughters, was murdered ,and all you can do is dial your phone and hide behind your lawyer. Nice.”

  She waited a long moment, but he didn’t look up from the beautiful dead face. She stood and turned away, following Pono. Wylie’s voice came as she was almost at the door.

  “I recognize her. She had an accent.”

  Lei moved alongside the desk to align with him. “What kind?”

  “Well. I don’t know. Seemed European.” He harrumphed, as if remembering he wasn’t supposed to speak, and then said, “I think all the girls are foreign. I’ve never seen the same ones twice.”

  “Anything else stand out about her?”

  “No. Other than she was a little younger than the others. I didn’t see who she ended up with that evening.”

  “Do you know anything more about the escort service than just that number?”

  “No. But I know who I got the card from.” He opened the drawer again, took out another card. “I can’t be linked to giving you this information in any way, but I want that girl to get some justice.” His pale eyes seemed to be trying to convince her what a good guy he was, and hell, maybe he was a good guy, at least by his own standards. He did try to build “green” after all.

  Lei picked up the card. This one was printed on opalescent card stock with a name and address picked out in raised silver lettering.

  “Thank you.” She reached over to shake his hand. “Takes a real man to take a risk for justice.”

  Out at the purple truck, Pono shook his head. “That last line was laying it on a bit thick, but he seemed to buy it.”

  “We might need him again, and I don’t want to burn any bridges.”

  Pono snorted. “That’s a first.” They pulled out as a cream-colored Mercedes pulled in with a squeal of brakes. “Just dodged the lawyer.”

  They drove back toward Lahaina’s main shopping and art route on a busy four-lane, tree-lined boulevard. Lei chewed her bottom lip, fiddling with the opalescent card that listed a Pacific Treasures Gallery with a Front Street address.

  “Let’s follow up and hit the address, since we’re out here—before he has a chance to give this gallery a heads-up.”

  Front Street had maintained its former whaling-village charm, and the narrow shop-lined street, facing the glittering ocean and a vista of the tiny island of Lana`i, was jammed with tourists and sightseers. Pono squeezed the oversized truck in between a pair of Hyundai rentals with the ease of practice. Lei jumped down onto the sidewalk and turned to her partner.

  “Just scope the place, do the happy tourist thing. I don’t want to spook whoever it is until we have a little more to go on.” She buttoned her light jacket over her gun and slid her badge into her pocket.

  “Right on, Sweets. We can be a honeymoon couple.” Pono gave her an exaggerated wink and made a pretend ass grab, which she froze with a look. They fell into character, meandering down the sidewalk with the rest of the tourists, leaning to look into displays of Tahitian pearls, racks of colorful pareu, and even a portable stand
of parrots that people could pose with.

  Eventually they came to the address. Everything about Pacific Treasures Gallery sent a message of upscale elegance, beginning with the pneumatic sliding glass door that ushered them into air-conditioned comfort seasoned with classical music.

  Creamy white walls, white marble floors, and well-designed lighting highlighted a range of dramatic artwork. Lei circled around a sculpture inside a block of Lucite that appealed to her, an angel that appeared to float in three dimensions.

  A statuesque blond saleswoman in a white Grecian-style dress approached as Lei dragged Pono over to look at the Lucite blocks. “Oh, honey! How do they do that?”

  “It’s done with lasers,” the saleswoman said. “Each one is signed and numbered.”

  Lighting from below made the angel glow, and Lei suddenly remembered one much like it, wings outstretched, that she’d had as a night-light when she was a child. That angel night-light had failed her. It had smiled a plastic smile as Charlie Kwon came into her room. Her eyes were on it as she begged him to stop, and as she gave up and waited for him to be done with her, his little “damaged goods,” the angel watched, and smiled, and did nothing.

  Lei felt her chest tighten, her throat close. Her vision telescoped, black encircling the edges, as she focused on the floating angel. Her hand crept down to her side, and she pinched her leg viciously through her pants. Sucking relaxation breaths, she grabbed Pono’s big hand. She towed him into the main gallery area. Another Grecian-gowned saleswoman, a redhead this time, watched them from the back of the room. Lei hated it when memories ambushed her like this; she almost preferred the fog of memory loss she’d struggled with years ago.

  “This is so beautiful,” Lei said breathlessly, the dark around her vision retreating in front of a stretch of canvas crammed with every fantastical ocean creature that could be imagined. She turned back to the saleswoman who had followed them. “We’re on our honeymoon. We want something to remember it by.”