by Toby Neal
She’d made a decision. She dialed a contact on her phone.
Marcus Kamuela’s voice was surprised. “Lei! To what do I owe the pleasure? Is this about your art thief murder?”
“No. It’s something else entirely—though I think Stevens has some developments over on Maui to catch you up on. I have a situation. A hypothetical situation.”
“Okay.” His voice had gone cautious.
“Remember how Bozeman’s phone number had turned up in my grandmother’s things?”
“How could I forget?”
Lei paced, rubbing the pendant at her throat. She looked up at the sky, down at the cracks in the cement, over at the little house. The junipers beside the stoop were getting long; she should remind her dad about cutting them. “Suppose I found out how that phone number got there, and it implicated someone very close to me—who’s dying. Would that person be under investigation for obtaining Bozeman’s services?”
“I need more information.” His voice was brisk.
“This person is definitely dying.” Lei pressed the medallion at her throat, the roughness of embedded diamonds digging into her skin as she forced the words out. “Got a few days, maybe a week, to live. And as a sort of conscience-clearing deathbed confession, this person told me that, together with my grandmother who is now deceased, she obtained Bozeman’s services to kill Kwon.”
A long pause and then Kamuela gave a rough bark of a laugh. “Never a dull moment with you, Texeira. I don’t see this moving forward at all with the district attorney. Why waste the state’s money prosecuting someone who won’t be alive for the trial? Not to mention the case itself—a dying person hired a hit man, now dead, to shoot a child molester. No one would touch the case with a ten-foot pole—no one benefits from it.”
“What are you saying? That you don’t want to charge the dying person?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Bozeman’s murder is closed. Kwon’s murder is closed. I got to put them in my solved stats, and I can guarantee the DA will not want to reopen either one just on a deathbed confession. Who would it serve?”
“It would be the right thing to do,” Lei said, closing her eyes.
“Well, I can run it up the flagpole, if you insist.”
“I’d like to leave this up to your professional judgment.”
“Then my professional judgment is, let sleeping dogs lie. Both cases are closed and tied up with a nice little bow. Prosecuting a deathbed confession is a waste of time and money.”
Let sleeping dogs lie. That phrase had come up a lot in Lei’s life, and she’d never been much good at it. Relief made her smile. “Thanks, Marcus. That’s how I would have handled it if this came across my desk, but I can’t be responsible for suppressing information like this. It just wouldn’t have been right to decide on it myself.”
“I’m sorry you’re going through this, but on a personal note—I think your family is badass.”
“I guess they are,” Lei said, trying to imagine the conversation between Rosario and Yumi, the lengths the two women had gone to avenge Lei. “It’s a little scary.”
“You stack right up with the rest of your family,” Kamuela said. “Looking forward to getting together with you guys soon—Marcella and I are overdue for that Maui R and R.”
“Our door is open.” Lei wrapped up the call and tucked the phone into the pocket of her running shorts with relief. She’d done the right thing and could sleep better knowing that—and also knowing that she wasn’t going to have to turn her beloved Aunty Rosario in.
Lei went into the silent house and cleared the beef stew bowls off the table and washed up. As she was finishing, the front doorbell rang. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she went to the door and peeked through the peephole.
A woman dressed in green scrubs with a floral apron over them stood on the porch, holding a white briefcase.
Lei glanced at the clock above the sink—two p.m. This must be the nurse who was scheduled to do her aunt’s home care. Lei opened the door. “Hello.”
“Hi. I’m Sylvia.” The woman held up an ID badge that hung around her neck. Sylvia Crypton, Home Health Marin County was emblazoned on the plastic badge. “I’m here to work with Rosario Texeira.”
“Sure, of course. I think she might still be sleeping. I wore her out this morning.” Lei led the nurse down the hall to Rosario’s room. “Are you from hospice?”
“Yes. We contract services with them.”
Lei eased open her aunt’s door gently. Rosario was sleeping, still as a wax doll on the bed.
Lei frowned. “She was looking better earlier in the day,” she whispered to the nurse. “She ate a little breakfast and half a bowl of beef stew. Had some good color in her face.”
The nurse focused all her attention on Rosario, picking up the fragile wrist and feeling for a pulse. “Looks like she must have been a little pooped out. I’m going to have to wake her up. I plan to give her a sponge bath today.”
“Oh. All right. Do you need me to do anything?”
“Sure. Why don’t you fill me up a bowl with warm water, and bring a washcloth, some soap, and a second bowl of clear warm water. I’ll check all her vitals now. Come back in fifteen minutes.”
“Sounds good.” Lei went back into the kitchen. She finished tidying up. She felt so relieved by what Marcus had said about Aunty. As disturbing as it was to realize her aunt had been capable of paying for a hit on another human being, on some level she wasn’t surprised. She’d always thought her dad might be behind Kwon’s slaying. Rosario was his sister, and not nearly as religious—a branch from the same rugged tree.
Her grandmother Yumi, according to her grandfather, whom she’d reconnected with while living on Oahu, was a bitter and angry woman. A woman whose expression of support for family wouldn’t be something obvious, like sending a greeting card. No, her grandmother had procured a hit man. Lei wondered why Yumi had approached Rosario with the idea and hadn’t just done it herself. Perhaps she couldn’t have explained the money expenditure to Soga. Her grandfather had a samurai side, but it was honorable. She couldn’t see him going along with such a devious plan.
Lei filled the biggest bowl in the kitchen with warm water, dropping a snow-white washcloth into it. Then she draped a clean towel over her shoulder and dropped a white square of soap into the water.
She’d bring the rinse water next, when her hands weren’t full. Lei checked the clock. Only ten minutes had passed, but maybe they needed the water now, or she could help with something. Lei walked down the hall and pushed the bedroom door open sideways with her hip, her hands occupied with the bowl.
A white sheet was pulled up and over Rosario’s head. The sight struck Lei with all the force of blow. Her mouth fell open, and she spun to where the nurse had been sitting beside the bed, spilling water on the floor in her abrupt movement.
The nurse was gone. The window was open, the screen had disappeared, and the curtains, which had been shut to shield Rosario’s sensitive eyes, billowed inward in a mocking suggestion of flight.
“Aunty!” Lei cried, and set the slopping bowl on the dresser. She lunged forward to grab the sheet, stopping herself by sheer act of will. If the nurse had killed her aunt, as it appeared she might have, this was now a crime scene. Lei had better not mess with it. She grabbed a tissue from the nearby box and used it to lift the sheet off her aunt, feeling grief strangle her breath and turn her stomach inside out.
Her aunt looked utterly peaceful, and just as when Lei entered the room with the nurse. She had a gentle curve to her mouth, as if she were dreaming. Her thick white braids lay undisturbed on her shoulders—and on her aunt’s belly rested a bomb.
Lei recognized the device instantly, even as she registered that a timer was counting down, a round plastic kitchen timer whose loud ticking seemed to echo in her ears. “Aunty!” Lei cried loudly, hoping her aunt was just somehow asleep, but her aunt didn’t move.
She focused on the dial—it was counting down five minu
tes.
“Oh, shit,” Lei muttered, leaning in to assess the threat. A brick-sized chunk of gray C-4 was visible between wires wrapping it so deep it dented the claylike explosive. Probably had a blasting cap embedded in it, and there might even be a trip wire or pressure switch that would prevent her from just throwing it out into the backyard.
First things first—maybe she could reset the timer and get longer to deal with the explosive. She scanned around the device and couldn’t see anything—but her recent brush with motion-sensor activation made her wary of touching the bomb. She used a tissue to try to turn the dial, but it wouldn’t budge backward, clicking relentlessly on.
This had been set to go off when she returned to the room in fifteen minutes, and if she’d been late, this much C-4 was still enough to blow the house apart, splattering her aunt to kingdom come and killing Lei. Even in another room.
Lei whirled and ran back into the kitchen, scrabbling through the utility drawer for the pair of heavy poultry scissors she’d spotted there. Running back, she leaned down carefully, dismayed to see her hands trembling. Shaky hands—this was why she wasn’t the right pick for bomb squad, Lei thought. She dug the heavy utility scissors into the clay, the wires wrapping the bundle—wire that would become deadly shrapnel upon detonation. She cut all the way around the ticking timer, one eye on its countdown as she tried not to apply too much pressure in case of a pressure switch underneath.
The scissors caught on something: the blasting cap, a small, tube-like explosive device that, when triggered, ignited the C-4. Lei clipped the wire leading to it and, using her hand and the scissors, pried it gently out of the clay. This one was a three-inch metal rod, which could still go off and take off one of her hands with it.
She hurled it out the window. Separated from the timer, it should be neutralized, but she didn’t want it anywhere near her, her aunt’s body, or the menacing block of wire-wrapped C-4. She was shaking and soaked with sweat as she turned back to the remains of the bomb. She still couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a pressure switch linked to a second blasting cap on the bottom of the block—but even as she considered what to do, the timer went off with a cheerful ding!
Lei jumped and shut her eyes involuntarily.
Nothing happened. It appeared there was no secondary trigger, but she still didn’t want to move the device.
Lei put two fingers on her aunt’s throat, feeling for a pulse, shock and grief making every movement jerky. She couldn’t feel anything. She leaned down and put her ear on her aunt’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, for a breath.
Nothing.
Lei straightened up and pulled her phone out, dialing 911. “I need to report a bomb and a homicide.”
Only when the first responders were on their way did Lei throw back her head and let out a terrible cry of anguish. Holding the sheet away from her aunt with the tissue, tears rolling down her cheeks, Lei noticed the rough quality of the sheet. It had a loose weave, a nubbly texture to it, and the threads were creamy natural linen.
Lei was holding a shroud.
Chapter 25
Awapuhi’s house was a modest ranch at the end of a quiet road, sheltered by towering kukui nut trees, their palmate, light green leaves casting dappled shade over the house and yard. The front door was reinforced by a steel-grilled security exterior door, and a ten-foot chain-link fence surrounded the house. The one large picture window was curtained.
Stevens parked behind two squad cars. Gerry, Pono, and Torufu leaped out of Torufu’s black Escalade as the officers parked the squad cars to block the driveway, where several trucks were parked. “Let’s hope he comes quietly,” Stevens said to the other team members. “But be ready for anything.”
Steven led the approach, using the cars for cover, darting from one defensive point to the next. As he climbed the steps quickly and stood to the side of the door, he could hear voices inside—and someone began playing ukulele. The distinctive smell of barbeque wafted to his nostrils.
Stevens straightened up from his defensive position. This should be a peaceful takedown; no one was expecting them. He rang the doorbell, realizing as he did so, how much he loved what he did. Being what he was. These charged moments, when anything could happen. The other officers ranged along the stairs, a few still positioned by the cars. Stevens heard the sound of footsteps, and someone checked the peephole.
The wooden inner door opened suddenly, reminding him of opening the motel door to see Anchara. The terrible flashback tightened his chest. Charles Awapuhi, his frown fierce and his tattooed head like some otherworldly demon, confronted him from the other side of the grilled door, holding a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. The gun was theatrically huge in the dim light of the house’s interior, the black bores like twin empty eyes.
“Gun!” Stevens yelled, and dove to the side as the shotgun tore a hole the size of a grapefruit in the steel-grille door. He hadn’t had time to identify them as MPD, he thought, as he smashed into the metal porch surround and flipped over it into the yard on the other side, landing awkwardly. His ankle gave with a crunch that sent a spike of fire up his leg—but that would be nothing compared to the holes the shotgun would leave. Stevens swung himself sideways to flatten against the house.
The air erupted in gunfire as officers returned fire. Awapuhi’s cannon replied, and Stevens crouched, making himself as small as possible.
“Maui Police Department! Hold your fire!” he yelled. “Pull back!” Who knew how many people were inside the house? They needed to retreat and get a plan. His detectives and the officers managed to withdraw back to the vehicles, but Stevens was still pinned against the house with no cover.
The gunfire stopped.
“Charles Awapuhi!” Stevens bellowed. “This is the MPD! Put down your weapon and come out peacefully! You are endangering everyone in your house!”
“What the hell are you cops doing here?” Awapuhi’s voice sounded jittery with adrenaline.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Norm Jorgenson,” Stevens called. “Come out with your hands on your head and you will not be harmed.”
“Norm who?” Awapuhi sounded angry and confused. “I never murdered nobody!”
Stevens persevered. Talking the man into surrendering was by far the best scenario. “Come out and we’ll sort this out. Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
A long pause. “Who told you I killed someone?”
“You’ll be able to ask all the questions you want down at the station. Now, drop that weapon outside the door and come out with your hands on your head, and we’ll figure this out.”
Another long pause, and then Stevens was surprised to see a gleam off the shotgun’s barrel as the man set it on the welcome mat. Awapuhi followed it out onto the porch, his hands interlaced on that gleaming, tattooed head.
Torufu made it to the man first, pulling his hands behind his back and cuffing him as the doorway filled with Awapuhi’s guests, yelling and demanding answers.
Stevens pushed away from the wall of the house. His ankle buckled. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, limping quickly across the lawn, highly aware of his exposed back and head, and not taking a deep breath until he’d made it behind the squad cars.
“Take Awapuhi down to the station and put him in an interview room,” he told the two officers driving the vehicle in which the Hui leader had been stowed. “The rest of you, clear the people out of this house. I want to search it. We have warrants on the way.” He got on the radio and updated Omura of developments. “I’m going to search for evidence related to the Norwegian’s murder and anything to do with the artifacts,” he told her. “I had a tip-off phone call on my way here.” He told her what Esther Ka`awai had shared—everything but her description of where the artifacts were hidden.
“Go for it, and get back here ASAP. I want to interview Awapuhi with you present. And send a team to pick up Mana Guinamo and his friend Red. Maybe we can flush out ‘the Man’ between the three of them.”
�
��On it. I’ll let you know when the search is completed.” Stevens hung up the radio in his truck and winced as he set his foot on the ground.
Torufu, Pono, and Gerry came toward him. “We’ve got the house clear.”
“Call a few more units and go pick up Mana Guinamo and his friend Red Toaman. We need them down at the station for questioning in the Norwegian’s murder. I’m going to search the house. Pono, you’re with me.”
“You got it,” Gerry said. He and Torufu peeled off.
Stevens’s phone buzzed again and he looked down—it was Lei. He didn’t have time to talk to her right now. He snapped on a pair of gloves, picked up a crime kit and a box of evidence bags, and headed for the house with Pono and a couple of officers in tow.
Chapter 26
Lei hung up on Stevens’s voicemail in frustration. Things must be really hot on the Hui case if he wasn’t taking her call.
The response team officers who’d responded to her 911 call had been skeptical of her claim that the nurse had killed her aunt, though the bomb on Rosario’s body, disposed of by their explosive disposal team, lent credibility. She’d known it would take some convincing because her aunt was so clearly very ill, even on the hospice services list. Lei had shown her badge and endured their verification calls home to speak to Omura, but she resented the implication one of the young officers had made, that this had been a good thing, sparing her aunt further suffering.
Bullshit. Her aunt might have had only a few more days, but they were days she was entitled to. The bastard doing this to Lei and Stevens had stolen those days from her.
Lei dashed tears off her cheeks, waiting in the kitchen as they searched the scene and the ME worked on her aunt’s body. She’d called her dad and he’d told Momi; they were on their way home.
And still, tears kept welling up.