Dead On Arrival (A Malia Fern Mystery)

by Kym Roberts

  “Great. My cousin was the last person to see him alive. What do you want me to do about it?”

  He was watching me, waiting for my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch on quick enough. My lack of reaction told him I knew Pai was the last one to see Peter Johnson alive.

  Makaio’s eyes narrowed. A vein on his forehead pulsated.

  Hua. I turned and opened my apartment.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up his phone and followed me inside.

  I put the bag of my oily belongings on the counter and grabbed a bottle of dishwashing soap and rubber gloves from under the sink, hoping to salvage what I could — credit cards, driver’s license, a pair of earrings.

  Makaio took a deep breath behind me. “What are you doing with this stuff on your board?”

  I glanced backward and saw him staring at my dry-erase board that hadn’t been updated. “Nothing.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

  Makaio studied it without saying a word.

  “What did John want?” Even though I wasn’t afraid of Makaio, the silence filled with sounds of him breathing directly behind me, put my nerves on edge.

  “Peter Johnson was murdered after all. It looks like Pai was the last person to see him alive and John wants him in his office…now.”

  “Pai was awake all night. His phone is turned off, because he needs some rest. He’ll talk to John this evening when I wake him up for our appointment.” I turned on the water and looked in the bag containing my sludgy purse, the files, the binoculars and my purse. Ewww.

  “What appointment?”

  “We’re supposed to meet with…a witness.” I filled the sink with soapy water.

  Makaio grabbed my arm and turned me around. “This is a murder investigation, Malia. It doesn’t wait for other people’s schedules. Time is important and I need to get Pai to your brother. Now. He can sleep later.”

  “But—”

  “Did John ask you if you knew where Pai was?” It sounded like an accusation.

  I averted my eyes, looked at the sink filling with water. “Pai’s innocent. You know it and I know it. You have to help him. You owe him that much.”

  “I owe him? He’s this close,” his fingers appeared in front of my face with less than an inch of distance between his thumb and index finger, “to being arrested for murder.” Makaio no longer had the patience for twenty questions, he demanded. “Where is he?”

  I bit my lip, which was turning into hamburger. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

  Makaio shook his head, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His expression was beyond my ability to understand. Which didn’t say much for our relationship or my ability to hear his thoughts. I paused and stared at him, trying to read his thoughts before I gave him the address. He had that same stoic gaze my father and brother mastered. They must teach Deadpan 101 at the police academy.

  “Promise me, you won’t hurt him.”

  “Malia…” Makaio sighed and rubbed his hand against his scalp, his short hair looked untouched.

  I knew I was back in the middle where I didn’t belong, but I refused to let violence break out between the two of them. “Promise me.”

  He grunted the words, “I promise.”

  I buckled and gave the address.

  Makaio typed the address in his phone. “Is there a gate?” He looked like he hoped I didn’t know.

  I gave him the code. “13-6-22-25. He probably won’t answer the door, he hasn’t been sleeping very long.”

  His interrogation didn’t stop. “Do you have a key?”

  I shook my head.

  He figured out what to ask next. “Is there a key somewhere?”

  I gave in. “On the back patio under a rock with the inscription ‘Pelé Rocks’ engraved on it.” I really needed to study up on the whole investigative technique thing. I always seemed to be giving more answers than I receive.

  I turned off the water. “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

  “No.” Makaio turned and headed toward the door. “If Pai can’t make your appointment, I’ll go with you.”

  “Pai’s innocent. It won’t take long for John to recognize that. Tell Pai to call me when he’s done and I’ll let…our witness know we’ve been delayed.”

  Makaio walked out the door without another word. I immediately picked up my phone and called his cousin. My loyalty…divided.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Waiting around for John to figure out Pai was innocent didn’t really sit well with me. I needed to do something, and it was time to conduct an interview — all by myself — with Mutt. I hadn’t forgotten about him witnessing the payment between Pai and Daven Raines. He thought it was a drug deal at The Garden of the Gods, which was understandable considering the time and location. But I also knew Pai was holding something back. Something he thought was important.

  It was time to find out what that was, before it was too late. I also needed to find out how Mutt knew Peter Johnson’s identity before anyone else.

  I spent the better part of the afternoon calling everyone I knew in an attempt to locate Mutt. Nothing. It was just as I suspected, no one knew his real name.

  I even tried Lena, an ex-girlfriend of Kionni’s who worked in the records department at KPD. Luckily for me, her broken heart didn’t last long since she met her current boyfriend the same day of the breakup. That relationship was now on its second year of monogamous bliss, and Lena was actually grateful to Kionni. Go figure.

  Too bad her computer checks of the moniker ‘Mutt’ went nowhere. She got absolutely zilch. Without a name, I couldn’t even google him. The only place I’d be able to find Mutt was at the Lawa’i Bay, the beach where I lost my top.

  Hua.

  I glanced at my wall clock and realized I didn’t have enough time to get to Poipu before our interview with Misty Johnson. And I hadn’t heard from Pai, which meant my brother still had him in police custody. I would have to conduct the interview of Peter Johnson’s widow by myself. Solo.

  Desperate to look, and act more like an investigator and less like a beach bum, I ransacked my closet for something professional. As a surf instructor, my required dress-for-success attire was a wet suit. I had two of those but not much else. I emptied at least half of my clothes on my sofa bed, and finally came up with a black strappy jumpsuit. To make it look less club-ish and more I’m-a-grown-up-with-a-career, I added a sweater with multiple shades of blue. (My mom and dad had given it to me for Christmas. At the time I smiled and thanked them, internally swearing that I’d never be caught dead wearing it — hopefully, that was true.) The outfit was completed with a pair of silver earrings and some sensible flats that looked more businesslike than the five-inch hooker stilettos I normally wore with the jumpsuit. I grabbed a clip for my hair and took one last look in the mirror.

  I looked exactly like what I was — a twenty-year-old trying to look forty, who hadn’t slept or eaten properly in a week. Ugh.

  I quickly snarfed down my dinner — a spam sandwich and a taro turnover — then grabbed my purse, cringed when I picked up the bright orange helmet and headed out the door.

  The night sky was clear. Diamond shaped stars sparkled in a deep black backdrop — it was heavenly. Purse strapped over my shoulder, I rode the scooter to Ms. Johnson’s condo at Kukuiula Bay along the southern shore, where high-end condos stretched along the beach. It was also half an island away from where her husband had stayed with Daven Raines.

  I parked the scooter and realized I actually found the ride on my little orange monster fairly enjoyable. Go figure. I scoped out the property; each unit appeared to have a variety of condos of different sizes. Pulling my hair into the clip I’d stashed in my purse, I walked to where I thought number 702 would be located. My first guess was wrong; 802 was marked on the side of the building.

  Danger! Peter yelled in my head.

  My heartbeat kicked up about a thousand notches. Yes, it was his voice in my head, again. I tur
ned to check out the opposite site of the complex, thinking I’d spot 702, and I could have sworn I saw a figure move away from the condo across the grass. I stepped into the shadows, scanned the area for further movement and found nothing. The only noise was the beat of island rap music slipping out into the night from the condo on the opposite end. And strangely, the blood in my ears pounded along with the beat of the music.

  Convinced I was just freaking myself out, I made my way across the grass to 702 and rang the bell, glancing over my shoulder the entire time. I heard movement on the other side of the door, and a few seconds passed while someone obviously peered through the eyehole. Finally, a timid, “Who is it?”

  “Aloha, I’m Malia Fern with Lincoln Security. Mrs. Johnson, could I speak with you for a moment?” Knowing I’d made the appropriate introduction, I still jumped a little when the door opened. A tall, willowy blonde, she wore a shabby chic dress of peach floral and off white lace. Her feet were bare, and her hair was tied back with a long scarf that extended down her back. Her shoulder bones jutted out with the angular look of a Hollywood starlet with an eating disorder. She had a frail beauty, marred only by the tight lines of stress and grief on her otherwise perfect features. She was at least a decade younger than her husband was. In fact, I was pretty sure she was my age.

  She shook my hand timidly, giving me a small smile of welcome as she introduced herself and asked me to come in.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  I sat down on a bamboo-framed sofa with fern print cushions. Ms. Johnson then sat in the matching chair off to my right, sheer curtains billowing from the open patio door. I could hear tinkly music playing in one of the bedrooms down the hall and imagined a baby sound asleep, oblivious to the vicious reality of his father’s death. (I dearly hoped that child never learned how his father’s body had been desecrated when someone (me) pulled off his arm.) Guiltily, I gazed at Ms. Johnson, waiting for some sort of sign that would give away her knowledge of my crime.

  The only thing I saw was unbearable grief.

  “Is Mr. Lincoln coming?”

  “Ahhh… Mr. Lincoln is actually working the case with the police as we speak.” (Technically, that wasn’t a lie.)

  Ms. Johnson nodded.

  I pulled a pad and pen out of my purse and pushed forward into the interview. “Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?”

  “He came to Hawai’i on the thirteenth, right after our new foreman for the construction site at The Garden of the Gods showed up unexpectedly at our house in New Mexico.” She paused and looked at me. “Are you related to Kionni Fern?”

  “Yes, he’s my younger brother.”

  “I see.” A hint of wariness crossed her face.

  “I can assure you if Kionni or I had done anything wrong, our older brother, Detective Sergeant John Kumu wouldn’t hesitate to put us in jail.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t aware of the relationships between the three of you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I sat there smiling sympathetically (hopefully). I suppose from the outside looking in, our relationships might taint your impression of our impartiality. To a certain extent, I would protect my brothers, and they would protect me, but I’m pretty sure none of us wanted to do jail time for the other. And it wasn’t like we wanted to work together. We didn’t.

  Ms. Johnson closed her eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My husband and I started this business venture about two years ago. It was my dream to return to Hawai’i. My dad was stationed here when I was a kid, but like most military families, we moved around a bunch. It was my husband’s dream to build and sell condos, and then live in our own condo at the complex he built. We met Daven in Albuquerque, and they hit it off immediately. They formed a company and bought the property where The Garden of the Gods is located. Everything was going fine, until my husband broke his back in a hit-and-run car accident and had to have surgery. He was in so much pain all the time, but he never showed it to me. He always tried to maintain high spirits and a positive outlook toward our future here.”

  She smiled in remembrance of her dead husband. From the dreamy expression on her face, it sounded and looked like they had a marriage made in heaven.

  Love. Peter interjected.

  A lump formed in my throat. Pai was right. Peter was here with us, and he was dying to communicate with his wife.

  “He became addicted to the pain medicine and it changed him. He started to lose his positive outlook and became paranoid. He began to hint about his lack of trust in Daven. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.” She grimaced in self-admonition. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to see my husband as anything but the indestructible force I imagined him to be.

  “Daven had been so supportive during Peter’s surgery, his recovery and then through the rehab. He’d done everything with the business and he’d been there for me, as well. He took the baby to daycare for me and stayed with Peter while I worked. He actually did some repairs on our house. We couldn’t ask for a better friend in our time of need. Then Peter started getting jealous and saying weird things like Daven was trying to take over his life. He even blamed his car accident on Daven…and said Daven was trying to get him out of the way so he could marry me.

  Traitor. Peter’s feeling of betrayal tore at my gut. I couldn’t tell if it was from when he believed his partner was hitting on his wife, or now.

  Misty continued. “The self-confident man I adored was suddenly a complete stranger. By then, I was desperate to save my marriage. I didn’t think Daven was the problem, but Peter did, so I sent Daven back here to handle the business. Things got a little better, but something was still drastically wrong with my husband.”

  A tear rolled down her face as she stared off in the distance, reliving the moment when her world changed.

  “I’d never seen him weak. He’d always been my rock. I was the emotional one, but Peter’s mood swings became unbearable. I tried to explain it away because of the pain, but our relationship was changing into something ugly.” Her lip curled up as if she could still taste the sourness of their rotting relationship.

  “He became unrelenting in his demands for perfection. I think his need for excellence finally defined the problem for him. Before his accident, he was an easy going man who encouraged and nurtured.” She took another deep breath to calm herself and I waited for her to continue. Her grief so incredibly raw, I could almost see her heart bleeding.

  I felt Peter’s heart. It poured with sorrow and the need to beg for forgiveness. I wiped the tear that spilled from my eye as Misty continued.

  “Then Peter told me he was addicted to his pain medicine. He said he needed help. He couldn’t do it on his own. When we walked him into the rehab center the next day, I have to say, I’ve never seen such strength of character as Peter displayed at that moment. I was so proud of him.”

  Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she described a man I hadn’t known but wished I had. This family had lost more than a husband and a father. They had lost hope for the future. With the death of this one man, their world was now a shadow of what it had been. She sniffed and refocused her story.

  “Peter came out of rehab stronger than ever. We still had bumps to get over and wounds to heal, but I totally believed in my husband again. I began to wonder if what Peter suspected about Daven was true.”

  Fresh tears brimmed her eyes. Misty paused and grabbed a tissue from the table next to her. She turned away, a new grief reaching her core. I stared at the wood grained floor, wanting to sink into its depths. (Was this the way all interviews went?)

  “Excuse me a moment. I’m going to make some tea, would you like some?” Misty asked.

  “That would be great.” (A Long Island tea would be too much to hope for.)

  Misty left the room and all I wanted to do was run. I hated dealing with other people’s grief. I tend to internalize it and feel it, which is totally unprofessional, just ask my brother John.

  The clink of
ice in a glass announced Ms. Johnson’s return with our tea. She’d washed her face clean of any sign of her tears, the slight puffiness around her eyes the only hint of her sorrow. Gone with the tears was her desire to talk about her loss. She moved onto the reason for our business as she handed me a blue tumbler filled with unsweetened tea.

  “My husband came here to ensure the Heiau was protected, and because the funds for the condos were disappearing faster than the condos were being built. Daven appeared oblivious to the problem but said he’d look into it. Then the site became plagued with thieves and vandals. When Peter asked Daven for receipts, he always promised to send them, but never followed through. Peter explained he needed the paper work to make insurance claims, but by then, Daven couldn’t find the receipts. He said he was having problems with the bookkeeping. Then Daven admitted he hadn’t made police reports either. So without the receipts and the police reports, we couldn’t recoup the thousands of dollars in losses we’d incurred.

  “Daven wasn’t the business manager we believed him to be, and my husband and I decided he should be here. Peter stayed with Daven at the condo rented by the company. They seemed to be getting along fine, and Peter was happy with the way they were working together to make things right since the construction had not progressed as planned. It was supposed to start nine months ago, but was delayed for six months.”

  I continued writing as Ms. Johnson took a drink of her tea.

  “I understand your husband didn’t want to hire more guards from Lincoln Security Associates. Can you tell me why?”

  Ms. Johnson fiddled with her coaster on the table. “Peter wasn’t against hiring more guards. He just wanted to wait until after they met with an accountant to have the books reviewed. Daven paid Mr. Lincoln with the last of the petty cash fund.”

  ‘Do you believe Mr. Raines was stealing funds from the business?”

  “I honestly don’t know. It could be he was just a lousy manager, but I have my doubts.”

  “Were the books ever audited?”