by Toby Neal
Marcella eventually came back, stood in front of Ramona. She gentled her voice and extended her hand to shake the older woman’s weathered one.
“Special Agent Marcella Scott. It’s very important we find your young friend.”
“I know, and I don’t know where she is.”
“Can you show me where her hiding place was?”
Ramona pulled herself up carefully, leaning on a gnarled kiawe staff, and hobbled to the edge of the nearby cliff. A rope tied to a good-sized guava bush dangled down to a ledge several feet below.
“There’s a little cave down there. I hide stuff there when I need to.”
Marcella grasped the tree and the rope, swung herself down onto the ledge in a couple of quick hops. She looked back up at them.
“Nope. Shallow declivity here; no room to do anything more than hunker down out of sight of above.”
They did one more sweep through the camp. As they headed back to the SUV, Lei swept her arm to gesture out over the acres of long grass. “She could be hiding anywhere out here.”
“We’ll have to rely on Ramona to let us know.” Marcella dusted a little red dirt off her black pants.
“You saw her feet. She’s not going to hike a mile up to the community center to use the pay phone.”
“Just might have something for that.” Rogers rummaged in a duffel bag beside his seat and pulled up a burner phone, still in its package. “Agents are like Boy Scouts—always prepared. Let’s preprogram this with our numbers and leave it for her.”
Marcella took the phone and removed several bills from a wallet she kept in her shoulder pack.
“A little insurance money to make it worth her while.” She strode off with the phone and money to ensure Ramona called them if Anchara came back. They got on the road to Kahului Station shortly after.
“Let’s get this interview with Silva going and get a BOLO out on the girl and the car the people were driving,” Marcella said. “We need to find her before they do.”
Chapter 18
The gallery’s always busy on weekends, so Monday is my day off. I usually exercise, shop, and train some of the merchandise.
This morning I sit on the balcony and sip my coffee, reading the paper. I like the way the sun on the horizon lights my paper from beneath, and the far blue-purple smudge of Lana`i on the horizon, dressed in cloud, keeps me company. Waxing lyrical. It’s my creative side, the part that has built the business and knows beauty is worthwhile for its own sake.
John Wylie, that golf-loving scumbag, called me Saturday, wanting to go to some Rotary Club mock-gambling function. The one time I bent my rules and slept with him (though you couldn’t call what we did sleeping) keeps him coming back, hoping for more.
It’s always the people you least expect who like a taste of the whip.
I turned him down, but in the course of his bumbling begging he told me he’d given out my card to the cops—he’d been the leak to my gallery. He’s been cut off from goodies of all kinds for the foreseeable future.
I scan the paper, looking for the demise of Texeira, but there’s nothing. Surely the accidental death of a cop would make the paper. The job must not be done yet, but why?
Healani is usually more efficient. Well, perhaps arranging the right accident is taking some time. I need to call House and make sure he’s okay with all of this.
Calling House is a double-edged sword. It might piss him off, and then it could as easily be me falling ten stories off my own railing. That danger makes calling him irresistible. I settle myself on the lounge chair, coffee and papaya on the little glass table beside me, and dial the work phone.
“Hello, House.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Do you say that to all the ladies?”
His voice. Just that makes me reach down between my legs. I don’t have anything on but my white silk robe.
“I know why you’re calling me. You want to know why the trash hasn’t been taken out.”
“Well, yes. Just checking that you’re okay with Healani’s arrangement?”
“Accidents happen, as they say.”
I smile. I love listening to that rough voice. My hand moves faster, imagining all I’d like to do to him. “You know how to make me hot.”
First time I’ve taken a chance like that, letting him know he affects me. I part my legs, naked under the white silk robe, the wind off the ocean ruffling over my skin. I’m getting there, can feel it building, a coiling deep inside punctuated by stabs of pleasure almost like pain.
“What are you doing?” He sounds suspicious, and best yet, curious.
“Wouldn’t you like to know. I told you, you make me hot.” I’m panting a bit.
“Describe it.”
“I’m on my deck. Only wearing my robe, nothing underneath. I’m ten stories up, so unless someone’s in a helicopter, no one can see what I’m doing. You already guessed what I’m doing.”
“Take the robe off.”
“Why?”
“I told you to.”
He’s into this. Arousal sweeps over me in the first mini wave of what promises to be a very nice orgasm.
“Okay. Because you’re telling me to. Because it’s you, House.” I usually don’t like taking orders, but I slide out of the robe. It puddles on the floor, and I stretch out on the lounge chair, enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the pleasure building.
“Oh, this is good,” I pant. I haven’t been this turned on by any of the merchandise, no matter how good they look. It’s power that turns me on. Mine. His. Ours together.
He gives me more directions. I do everything he asks, including something inventive with the papaya and the spoon.
When I come, it’s explosive, mind-bending. I’m sure he’s with me.
Sweat cooling on my skin gives me a shiver a few minutes later. I still hold the phone, and I can hear his deep breathing. I shrug back into the robe. My delicate skin’s picking up a touch of pink, which won’t do. I go back into the penthouse, walking across the white carpet. It feels wonderful to sensitized nerve endings.
I feel amazing, and amazed. I didn’t know there was anything sexual left for me to discover, but House has taken me to a whole new place, just with phone sex.
What could he do to me in person?
“I want to meet you.” I know my voice is small. I hadn’t done anything but give orders for more years than I can count. I don’t like asking, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“When you’ve earned it,” he says. The phone goes dead.
I feel bereft, abandoned. A puppy dropped off at the curb of nowhere. These feelings make me angry, and I need to get rid of that unhealthy anger. I take a shower and go downstairs to find someone to take it out on.
Chapter 19
Lei and Captain Corpuz sat in the molded plastic chairs outside a window into the interview room at Kahului Station. Gerry Bunuelos and Abe Torufu had been officially assigned to help with the investigation and sat with Lei to observe the interview. Inside, seated at a shiny steel table, hunched James Silva.
He was wearing a toupee, and he stole a finger up to scratch under the rug. A Primo Beer shirt, weather-beaten Dockers, and rubber slippers on feet that could have used a wash completed his ensemble.
“He didn’t want to come in,” Bunuelos said. “I had to threaten to press charges on the cockfight, which we’d let him off of before in exchange for info on the girl.”
“Don’t really blame him,” Lei said. “Now that I’m hearing a little more about the House.”
Marcella and Rogers, in full buttoned-down FBI glory, entered the interview room.
“Hey, who are you? What’s going on?” Silva cried. They didn’t answer as they set up a video camera on a tripod (they’d declined to use the station’s equipment) and an audio recorder. They took seats across from Silva.
“What’s going on?” he asked again.
“What do you think is going on?” Rogers flipped open his cred wallet. �
�Special Agent Rogers, FBI.”
Marcella opened hers as well. Silva, not handcuffed this time, jumped to his feet and ran to the door, yanking at the handle—locked of course.
“I suggest you have a seat, Mr. Silva.” Marcella patted the table invitingly. “You aren’t in trouble. We’re just looking for some information.”
“I don’t know anything!”
“MPD seems to think you do. We’re investigating who’s behind the gambling and cockfights and hear you know a little something about betting against the House. You have a little bit of your own thing going, don’t you?”
Silva’s pallor went gray, and he sat abruptly in the remaining steel chair, clutching the back of it for support. Lei glanced at the guys. “What’s she talking about?”
“Don’t know,” Bunuelos said. The captain shook his head.
“How did you know?” Back in the hot seat, Silva scratched under the toupee, which slid to the left.
“You can bet that if we know, the House knows. You might as well help us take him down.”
“I just do a few local fights on my own. No threat to his operation. He won’t bother with me.”
“How do you know? We can help you. Protect you. He’s already put a contract out on a police officer who’s investigating.”
Lei flinched, and her hand crept up to fiddle with the bandage on her head. The guys swiveled to look at her.
“Yeah. Someone’s trying to kill me,” she said to Bunuelos and Torufu, who looked at her wide-eyed. “Don’t know if it’s the House, though. Seems like the Feds sure have a lot of intel.”
“The Feds have a lot of confidential informants. They’re in a position to pay them a lot more than we can,” Captain Corpuz said.
In the interview room, Silva appeared motivated by this information. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know—but only if I can have protection.”
“Done.” Marcella pushed a pad and paper over to Silva. “Who does the House run over here? Names and contact numbers.”
Over the next hour, they pried much more information out of Silva than Lei had imagined the man could possibly know. Apparently, he was running his own small-time cockfights and resented and feared the stranglehold the House had on the underground industry.
“What do you know about the House and guns?” Marcella asked.
“I know he brings them in. Supplies several pawnshops and dealers with whatever people want. That’s another reason I want to take him down,” Silva said, sucking in his paunch in righteous indignation. “Guns and drugs are bad for our community.”
They pried more names out of him—local gun and drug distributors. Captain Corpuz looked satisfied as Lei glanced over at him, and Lei knew Rogers and Marcella were doing this for their benefit—the information was exchange for pulling Silva in and using their facilities. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, the secret to interagency cooperation.
Silva finally left, half-moons of sweat darkening his shirt under the arms, and Bunuelos met him in the hall to tell him police protection was going to be a patrol car doing hourly sweeps by his house.
Lei, whose head had begun to throb in earnest, could hear him yelling that it wasn’t enough all the way down the hall as they escorted him to the front of the building. She rested her head on her arms as the interview room light went out and waited for Marcella to be done.
Stevens woke her with a hand on her shoulder.
“What’re you doing here?” His voice was cold. “You’re supposed to be home in bed.”
“Waiting for Marcella and Rogers. They did an awesome interview with that slimeball Silva. The FBI thing scared intel right out him like shit from a goose.” Lei got up with a boost under her arm from Stevens.
Marcella appeared in the doorway.
“There you are. Hey, Stevens.” They embraced. “Sorry, I had to borrow your girlfriend.”
“Some day off. She’s supposed to be resting,” he grumbled.
“Well, you know how she is—refused to be left home, and I figured I could keep an eye on her.” Marcella poked him in the chest. “Getting pretty attached, I see.”
“It’s a sickness,” he said, and gave Lei a little swat on the butt. “Get home and rest.”
Chapter 20
Lei lay in the dark beside Stevens, listening to his even breathing. It annoyed her how, no matter how mad they were at each other, he could always just get in bed and go to sleep like flicking a light switch, while she tossed and turned. They’d gone through a whole evening without saying much to each other.
For the first time, Lei wondered if it was a good idea for them to live together. Back when they had their own places, they’d just take a few days apart, start missing each other, and come back together. Now she felt trapped in an orbit, circling him, circling, circling, unable to get away when she needed to, unable to stop disappointing and irritating him, and vice versa. No point in talking about it anymore—this was the same fight they’d had a dozen times.
She studied the ceiling. The house, built in the thirties, had tongue-and-groove wood covered with plaster lining the ceiling. It was raining lightly outside as it often did in `Iao Valley, and the patter of water on the tin roof was a song she’d learned to love in Hanalei on Kaua`i, a place with more rainfall than most anywhere in the world.
Keiki slept at the foot of the king-sized bed she’d hauled to three islands, on her ratty old quilt. She’d been agitated when Marcella dropped Lei off that evening, running the fence and barking at nothing, but when Stevens got home and played with her a bit she’d finally settled down.
He was even stealing her dog.
Now Lei could hear a doggie version of a snore fluttering past Keiki’s wide black nose, and she couldn’t help smiling and giving the dog a little prod with her toe. Keiki sat up and looked around.
“Come here, baby.” Lei patted the comforter and Keiki belly crawled over, stretching out beside her. Lei stroked the big wide head, remembering the terrifying moment she’d almost lost the Rottweiler, shot on the Big Island. Lei stroked the deep groove of the scar where a bullet had exited Keiki’s shoulder and scored down her side, leaving a hairless line that would always remind Lei of how close she’d come to losing her companion.
Keiki whipped her head up and growled deep in her chest, a bass rumble.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Lei whispered, patting the dog as the animal’s ruff rose under her hand.
The big Rottweiler leapt out of bed. Lei heard a muffled whump! that sucked at her eardrums.
The dog ran into the living room, barking, as Lei reached over, shaking Stevens.
“Wake up! Something’s wrong!”
She grabbed her Glock out of the bedside table as he rolled up, reaching for his gun as well. The smell of smoke hit their nostrils.
Lei looked at Stevens. “Fire!”
They ran out of the bedroom into the living room, where Keiki stood, barking stiff-legged at the wall of flame engulfing the front door.
“Shit!” Lei ran to the phone on the kitchen counter and lifted it. Dead. She fumbled in her backpack for her cell phone, flipped it open. No signal.
Lei snapped her fingers and Keiki retreated to stand beside her, trembling and whimpering, ears flattened.
“Phone’s out. Cell signal must be jammed,” she yelled at Stevens, who had gone to the back door and was wrestling with the handle.
“Something’s wrong. It’s not opening,” he yelled back over the roar of flames that moved in a sheet, unbelievably fast, across the ceiling. “There must be some sort of accelerant. This shouldn’t be spreading so fast. Let’s get in the bedroom and break a window!”
They chased the dog back into the bedroom as the kitchen filled with choking smoke and billowing flame, glass bursting from the heat with shattering pops.
Lei shut the bedroom door to buy a few more minutes as Stevens yanked the comforter off the bed. She stuffed the rag rug into the crack under the door.
“Old house—it
’s a tinderbox even on a rainy day,” she yelled back. “I don’t like that the cell phones are jammed. Think he’s still out there? Whoever set the fire?”
“Only one way to find out.” Stevens wrapped the comforter over the straight chair from the desk and swung it up to hit the bedroom window, a plate-glass insert above a lower set of louvers for circulation.
The glass shattering was drowned out by the roar of the fire in the other room. He wrapped his fist in the comforter and knocked remaining shards of glass outside. They still had to get up to the chest-high window and jump out, a drop of ten feet or so with the elevation of the house. Stevens put the chair back down in front to use as a step to climb into the frame.
“Let’s put Keiki out first. Maybe she can flush him if he’s out there.” The dog was whimpering with terror and had crawled under the bed, so they wasted valuable minutes coaxing and dragging her out. By the time they got her onto the chair, the paint on the door was blistering and fingers of smoke had worked their way under the door, weaving a hypnotic spell against the bubbling paint. The fire was moving so fast there wasn’t much smoke, but breaking the window caused a sucking draft of oxygen that only fed the beast roaring in the other room.
“Hurry!” Lei screamed. They forced the big dog onto the sill by hauling her up by the scruff, boosting her haunches, and shoving her out. The framed picture on the wall behind Stevens seemed to explode and they both ducked.
“Just a second,” Stevens said, as Lei started to climb into the window. He pushed her back and grabbed a dark shirt out of the closet, throwing it over one of the pillows. He moved it up into the window and waved it.
The shot couldn’t be heard over the roar of the fire, but there was no mistaking the puff of back-blown feathers that floated down on them as he tossed the pillow out.
“Shit!” Lei cried, coughing. They hunkered down below the sill. Lei’s lungs burned. Every breath felt like she was sucking in fire. She reached up to yank a sheet off the bed, but she was getting too weak to rip it. Instead, she pulled down the other pillow and handed Stevens the pillowcase. They wrapped makeshift masks over their faces.