It was up to him to get the ball rolling, and hopefully elicit a murder confession, before he let the detectives from the robbery unit have their crack at the suspect.
Sitting across from him, Seymour peered at the suspect and said: "You're in a lot of trouble, Gifford, there's no way around that."
"I didn't do anything," he hissed.
"Right," Seymour said sarcastically, "and the sun didn't rise this morning either. We have the items you stole from the house with your prints all over them, and the victims have positively identified you—so your words don't carry much weight."
Gifford frowned. "So why am I here?"
Seymour paused, and then grabbed the evidence bag containing Parker Breslin's cell phone and slid it toward the suspect. "I want to talk about this."
"What about it?"
"Why don't you tell me where you got it?"
Gifford wrinkled his nose. "What difference does it make?"
"Actually, quite a bit," Seymour said. "It was stolen from a man who was shot to death in front of his home. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
His demeanor instantly changed. "Hey, I didn't have anything to do with a murder! I found the cell phone."
Yeah, that's what they all say, Seymour thought, especially when facing a murder charge. "Where?" he asked, unconvinced.
"In a dumpster."
"You expect me to believe that you went dumpster diving and just happened to find a smart phone for your trouble?"
"It's the truth! I was tossing something when I spotted it. I figured since the phone worked, I might as well use it."
"Where is this dumpster?" Seymour pressed.
"Behind some stores at the Kihei Town Shopping Center," Gifford said. "I swear."
"Excuse me if I have trouble believing your story." Seymour flashed him a nasty look. "Why don't you just man up and admit that you pumped three bullets into Parker Breslin—then tell me why you did it. Was it another home invasion gone wrong because the home owner showed up?"
"It wasn't me!" Gifford maintained. "I have no idea who he is and I never broke into his house!"
"Where's the gun you shot Breslin with?" Seymour kept the pressure on, hoping he would buckle. Never mind the fact that a search of his vehicle and apartment had failed to locate the .45-caliber handgun used to murder Parker Breslin.
"I didn't shoot the dude!" Gifford insisted, raising his voice. "I'm not going down for something I didn't do. That ain't my cell phone. Or at least it wasn't till I found it in that dumpster. Someone else killed him."
Seymour sucked in a deep breath. "Are you willing to take a lie detector test?"
Gifford didn't hesitate. "Yeah, I'll take it."
Seymour wondered if he was that arrogant. Or could he be telling the truth?
An hour later, Seymour and Detectives Ferguson and Lancaster watched through the one-way window as the test was administered to Aaron Gifford by the department's polygraph examiner, Zack Poouahi.
When it was finished, he came out and said: "He passed it. Gifford did not murder Parker Breslin."
Seymour was disappointed, as were the two detectives, for it meant the true killer had likely dumped the cell phone with apparently no intention of using it. Or could Breslin have tossed his phone in the trash for his own reasons?
Whatever the case, the search would continue to find his killer, as their job demanded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Detective Ferguson studied the suspect, Vincente Miyake, as he sat across from him in the interrogation room. He looked to be in his late forties and was short with black hair combed backwards that was starting to recede. Ferguson always wondered early in an investigation who would prove to be a distraction and who would wind up having the cuffs put on them as a killer. He wasn't sure which way it would go with Parker Breslin's business partner, but would keep an open mind.
"Thanks for coming," Ferguson said evenly. "I just have a few questions and then you can be on your way."
"No problem, though I'm not sure I can provide you with much regarding Parker's death."
"You'd be surprised," Ferguson said, pausing for a moment to let that notion sink in. "Why don't you start by telling me about the nature of the business you co-owned with Breslin?"
"Sure. It's a landscaping company. We do everything, including architecture, consulting, design, lighting, maintenance, and hardscape services."
Ferguson met his eyes. "From what I understand, you and Breslin didn't always get along."
Miyake winced. "Do you always get along with your partner, Detective? It comes with the territory."
"You're right, it does," Ferguson allowed. "Unfortunately, murder doesn't."
"Are you suggesting that I had something to do with Parker's death?"
"Did you?"
"Absolutely not!" Miyake insisted. "Parker was not only my business partner, he was a good friend. I had no reason to want him dead."
"How about money? That's usually a powerful motive, especially if a company was struggling and better off with only one captain to steer the ship."
Miyake's thick brows knitted. "We were not struggling financially," he claimed. "Yes, things were tight from time to time, but we worked our way out of it."
Ferguson knew it would be easy enough to check out, if it came to that. "Tell me about your crew. Did any of them have a problem with Breslin?"
"Nothing that couldn't be talked through. Most of them believe in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay."
"Had anyone been let go recently?"
Miyake paused and then nodded. "Yes, come to think of it, Larry Stolberg was fired a couple of weeks ago for drinking on the job. He didn't take it very well."
Ferguson wondered if his anger rose to the level of murder. "What about people you worked for? Did any of them have a beef with Breslin or the company?"
"Nothing that jumps out at me. We take pride in our work and usually come away with pleased customers." Miyake took a breath. "We do some jobs for the Aloha Architectural Group. At times, we've clashed with their management over everything from work performance to expectations. Parker was often the point man in our dealings, so he took the brunt of any disagreements. If he was threatened with bodily harm from them or anyone else, he never told me about it."
"Maybe he chose to keep it to himself," suggested Ferguson, "figuring he could work it out."
"I guess it's possible."
Ferguson propped his arms on the table. "Did Breslin ever talk to you about his personal life and custody battle?" If they really were good friends, this seemed a given.
"Yeah, we talked. He dated, but he wasn't serious about anyone right now, as far as I know. Regarding the custody battle, he was determined to win full custody of his daughter, believing his ex-wife was incapable of caring for her properly."
"You mean financially?"
"I mean in every way. Parker thought she was a bad role model and felt his daughter deserved better."
Ferguson took note of this. "What did he mean by bad role model?"
Miyake shrugged. "He didn't like the company she kept. That's all I know."
Ferguson mused over that, wondering if someone the ex-wife was involved with could have taken him out on her behalf. It was certainly worth looking into. He gazed at Miyake. "I need an address for Larry Stolberg and the names and addresses of everyone on your crew, along with your contacts at the architectural firm."
He nodded. "I can do that."
"Also," added Ferguson, "I need to know where you were last Tuesday around six p.m."
Miyake cocked a brow. "That's easy. I was having dinner with a client and her husband at a restaurant in Wailea. I'm sure they can vouch for me."
Ferguson took him at his word till proven otherwise and finished the interview. At this point, Vincente Miyake didn't appear to be involved in the death of Parker Breslin. But, as Ferguson knew all too well in his line of work, looks could always be deceiving.
* * *
<
br /> Larry Stolberg lived in an apartment on Lower Honoapiilani Highway in Lahaina. Rachel stood at the door and looked over her shoulder at Ferguson. He nodded, indicating he had her back in case there was trouble.
With that reassurance in mind, she knocked on the door, eager to size up the possible suspect in Parker Breslin's murder.
The door opened and a man in his late twenties with dirty blond hair and a goatee stood there. "Yeah?" he said lazily.
"Are you Larry Stolberg?"
"Who's asking?"
"Detective Lancaster, Maui PD." She flashed her identification. "And this is Detective Ferguson. We'd like to talk to you about Parker Breslin."
"What about him?"
"Mind if we come in?" Ferguson asked in a tough voice.
Stolberg eyed them suspiciously, but relented. "Why not? I have nothing to hide..."
The moment they stepped inside a messy living room, Rachel detected the distinct odor of marijuana. She glanced at Ferguson. They were not interested in drug crimes, but it could be a factor in committing other crimes, such as murder.
"I have a prescription for medical marijuana," Stolberg said defensively. "To control my severe muscle spasms."
Rachel regarded him skeptically, while at the same time wondering if such a condition could affect his ability to use a firearm effectively. "We're not after you for smoking pot," she told him.
He sighed. "Sorry to hear about what happened to Parker Breslin. But what's it got to do with me?"
"He fired you," Ferguson said bluntly. "According to his partner, Vincente Miyake, you were none too pleased about it."
Stolberg ran his hand over his mouth. "Sure, I was pissed. He let me go without cause."
"I thought you were caught drinking on the job?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, I had a beer. So what? It's not like other crew members weren't doing the same thing. I needed that job."
"So maybe because you felt cheated out of the job, you decided to pay the man back by killing him," Rachel suggested.
"Hey, I'm not stupid. Killing Breslin wouldn't get me my job back. I don't wanna go to prison for murder."
"Few people do," she said. "But it doesn't stop them from committing the crime."
"So go after one of them," Stolberg snapped. "I'm not your man!"
Ferguson peered at him. "In that case, I'm sure you have a solid alibi for last Tuesday between six and seven p.m."
"Yeah, I do," he claimed. "I was at the Sunset Bar just down the street, drinking and playing pool. Plenty of people saw me."
"We'll check it out," Rachel said. She eyed Ferguson as the cue that it was time to leave.
"We'll be in touch," Ferguson told him.
Outside, Rachel commented: "You really expect to be back in touch with him?"
"Probably not—if he's as innocent as he proclaims. In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to ruffle his feathers a little, just in case."
"We need to ruffle some other feathers now..."
"I agree. The question is: who would most want Breslin out of the picture?"
If Rachel had the answer to that, they would be making an arrest right now instead of continuing to track down suspects. But murder investigations were rarely cut and dry. Meaning they would have to play this out one day at a time until the case was solved and Parker Breslin's killer apprehended.
* * *
That afternoon, Ferguson drove to the small bungalow he called home on Kupono Street in Paia on the island's northern coast. It was the last town before heading toward the community of Hana in East Maui. Until five months ago, he had lived there with his wife, Brenda. But that ended when she fell in love with a doctor and decided their marriage wasn't worth trying to save.
Ferguson owned up to his role in her departure. He hadn't been paying much attention to his wife at the time, having developed a predilection for a prostitute named Gina. A couple of months ago, he had gotten her off the streets and moved her into his house as his girlfriend. Though she had initially been reluctant to give up her freedom to be with whomever she wished, the mutual attraction and chance to make something of her life were too much to pass up.
He found her in the master bedroom. She was lying on her stomach on the bed reading a textbook, as she had recently begun taking classes at the College of Maui.
"Hey," he said, getting turned on as he gazed at her long blonde hair, sexy bare legs, and ample chest.
"Hey," she said, smiling at him. "You're home early."
"I needed a break from the routine." And an excuse to see you, Ferguson mused, sitting beside her.
Gina eyed him. "Tired of chasing the bad guys, huh?"
He ran a hand along her smooth leg. "Better to chase one good girl."
"You think I'm good?" She licked her full lips. "I thought you preferred the bad girl in me?"
Ferguson grinned lasciviously. "Maybe I like a little of both."
She sat up and caressed his face. "Then that's what you'll get."
He was hoping she would say that. Now it was time to put that into practice, leaning more toward her naughty side at the moment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Renee heard through the grogginess of her mind.
She opened her eyes to stare into the face of Franco, who was smiling brightly. They had spent the night together and seemed to be back on the right track though, admittedly, she wasn't sure what that track even was. Officially, they remained friends with great benefits in bed. She didn't want to push it beyond that, fearing that whatever it was they had might end prematurely.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked.
"Long enough to make you breakfast."
Only then did Renee notice the tray he had set on the bed.
"How does pancakes with maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and papaya juice sound?"
"Sounds wonderful," she had to admit. "But you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he broke in. "Besides, it gave me a chance to work on my cooking skills."
Renee looked at him. "I didn't realize you had any."
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
"I guess." It made her wonder what other things he was hiding from her. She looked forward to finding out as things continued to develop between them.
Franco flashed his teeth. "So eat up..." He scooped some eggs onto a fork and actually fed it to her.
She giggled, finding it sexy, as no man had ever taken the time to feed her.
"So what are your plans for today?" he asked, licking syrup from his thumb.
"I plan to interview the next door neighbor of the woman murdered on the beach," Renee said, sitting up and bringing the tray closer.
"Do neighbors ever really yield any useful information, other than what they actually witness in a crime?"
She sipped the juice. "Sometimes. You'd be surprised just how much neighbors observe, overhear, and take in. Since the authorities think the victim was probably killed by someone she knew—maybe even a family member—picking the brain of someone close by seems like a good idea to get as much information as I can to write about the crime."
"Good luck with that."
She frowned. "Truthfully, it was a much scarier storyline when it seemed like the murder was committed by the Zip Line Killer."
Franco laughed. "So serial killers make better press than your run-of-the-mill domestic murders?"
Renee chuckled, not meaning to suggest any murder was more unsettling and newsworthy than another, even if that was the case. "Any murders on Maui are newsworthy," she said. "After all, this is supposed to be paradise."
He scooped some syrup onto his finger and smeared it across her lips. "Who says it isn't?"
She tasted the syrup, licking her lips, and suddenly found his mouth on hers, sensual and exciting. Yes, paradise it is, she thought.
* * *
Leila and Chung entered the West Maui Animal Care & Services clinic in Lahaina. It was where Joyce Yashiro's dog named Seiji had been taken s
o they could test him for poisoning. Careful not to tip their hand or suspicions, Joyce's son had simply been told that the dog was being treated for an upset stomach. In the meantime, after confirming it was his backpack, Ayato Yashiro was arrested on suspicion of drug possession.
"Do you still think the dog was poisoned?" Chung asked Leila skeptically.
"Until the vet says otherwise," she told him. "All the signs were there." To her, it would be a potentially strong and incriminating piece of the puzzle, indicating that the dog was intentionally fed rat poisoning by someone close to it as a means to give Joyce Yashiro's murderer the ability to attack her without fear of being attacked by her protector.
After flashing their badges at the front desk, the detectives were taken to a room where the dog was being treated. The veterinarian, Doctor Carolyn Narlikar, was in her forties with short black hair and silver-rimmed glasses. Leila noted that Seiji seemed to be resting, though his eyes were open.
"What's the good word, Doc?" Chung asked impatiently.
She ran a hand across the dog's head and frowned. "I'm afraid tests have confirmed that he was poisoned."
"How?" Leila asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the source.
"Toxic meatballs that were laced with something called brodifacoum, which is the active ingredient in most rat poison."
Leila reacted to the news and glanced at Chung, who said: "This is probably a stupid question, but I'll ask anyway. Is it possible the dog could have somehow accidentally gotten into the box of poison while he was eating the meatballs?"
Carolyn shook her head. "It's highly unlikely. The amount of brodifacoum found in the meatballs was a high enough concentration to indicate that it had been mixed into the hamburger maliciously by someone."
Leila sucked in a deep breath. Aside from gross animal cruelty, the guilty party may well have committed murder. Two suspects immediately came to mind. "Is the dog going to make it?"
For the first time, Carolyn smiled. "Yes. Other than probably feeling nauseous for a bit longer, he'll be fine."
Murder on Kaanapali Beach Page 9