Murder on Kaanapali Beach

by R. Barri Flowers

  She dribbled her fingers across the desk pad thoughtfully before building up her nerve to give Maxwell Kishimoto a call. Grabbing her cell phone, she decided to put trepidation away and just go for it. The worst he could say was too little, too late, and it would be on her.

  She dialed his number. He responded on the second ring. "Aloha, Maxwell," she said.

  "Aloha, Leila. I was hoping you'd call."

  She smiled in hearing those words. "I was wondering if you were free for lunch today."

  She imagined that he would be busy at his restaurant as the owner, but he replied: "As a matter of fact, I am. We can meet here or—"

  "There is fine," Leila said, thinking that if things worked out, she could cook him dinner sometime. "How does one o'clock sound?"

  "Perfect. I look forward to seeing you then."

  "Same here," she said. "Aloha."

  When she disconnected, Leila couldn't help but grin. She'd made the first move and now the ball was in his court—literally, considering they were having their initial date at his restaurant.

  She just wished it wasn't happening in the middle of her work day. But if anything were to develop between them, it was something he would have to get used to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "We've got a match," forensic investigator David Lovato told Rachel and Ferguson.

  "Oh, really?" Rachel rolled her eyes with surprise. It wasn't that she didn't fully believe in Leila's capabilities as a composite sketch artist; it was just that, more often than not, the system was slow to match images with mugshots of offenders.

  "Yeah, really. The FBI's Interstate Photo System did all the work. It was able to successfully cross reference the sketch with a mugshot in its criminal database belonging to Howard McCloskey, a white male, age thirty-six. He's on parole after serving time for nearly beating a man to death that he got into an argument with at a nightclub. See for yourself—"

  Rachel looked at the computer screen with Ferguson over her shoulder.

  "Damn if it isn't him," Ferguson remarked.

  She had to agree. "Now we need to locate McCloskey and see if he'll repeat to us what he told Kimiko Keomaka."

  "Good luck with that," Lovato muttered. "If he thinks you're onto him, he could make a run for it."

  "There's nowhere to run," she quipped, "unless he's a great swimmer. I'm guessing he'll never see us coming, believing that what he told Keomaka went no further."

  They learned from Howard McCloskey's parole officer, Chet Okuni, that he was employed as a shelf stocker at a supermarket in Kahului.

  Twenty minutes later, Rachel and Ferguson went to question the suspect at his place of employ.

  Flashing her badge at the store manager, Rachel said: "We need to talk to one of your employees, Howard McCloskey."

  The manager nodded and said: "Sure—he's in aisle five stocking cereal."

  Ferguson said: "Mahalo," without explanation and they split up to approach him in opposite directions.

  When Rachel entered the aisle, she spotted the suspect. He spotted her as well and, when she called out his name, he bolted.

  "He's making a run for it," she called out to Ferguson, who had yet to reach the aisle.

  Rachel went after him. She resisted the temptation to remove her firearm, not wanting to see any innocent people hurt. Not to mention, there was no indication the suspect was armed, though if he was guilty of murder, he still had to be considered dangerous.

  She chased him through the store, while Ferguson attempted to cut McCloskey off. But he managed to dart and dodge, tossing items at them, as if to slow them down.

  Finally, before he could make it to the exit, Rachel got close enough and literally dove at him, landing on top of the suspect. Before he could make a move, she had twisted his right arm behind his back and placed a cuff on him. The other cuff followed as Ferguson caught up.

  "Good job, Lancaster."

  "I needed my exercise for today," she quipped, before he helped get McCloskey to his feet.

  "What is this?" he asked as if he had no clue.

  "Why did you run?" Ferguson asked sharply.

  "I didn't do anything," claimed McCloskey.

  "Yeah, right." Rachel made a face. "That's not what you said last night when you confessed to killing a man—"

  McCloskey lowered his head, as if he knew his own words had come back to haunt him.

  Ferguson faced onlookers and said calmly: "This is police business. Go back to your shopping. Everything's okay."

  Rachel followed that up by advising the suspect: "We're bringing you in, Howard McCloskey, to question you about a murder..."

  * * *

  Once they had him in an interrogation room, Ferguson wasted little time grilling Howard McCloskey.

  "Why don't you tell us about the murder you committed in Kihei," he said tartly to the cuffed suspect sitting across from him.

  McCloskey's head snapped back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do. We have a witness who recorded in his mind every nasty detail of your confession. He also described you to a tee, which is why we're here right now."

  Rachel, who was standing, took over. "So who did you kill, McCloskey?"

  "No one," he insisted, darting his eyes. "This is a mistake..."

  "The only one making a mistake here is you," she said sternly. "Not fessing up to what you did will only land you in more hot water. We know the man you killed was Parker Breslin. We have video surveillance that places you at the scene of the crime," she lied. "We also know that you were hired by the victim's ex-wife, Willa Takeyama, to murder him after the first guy she hired changed his mind. Any of this sound familiar? And don't even think about sticking to your play dumb story, as it won't work. It's time to get this off your chest..."

  Ferguson watched with interest as McCloskey dropped his head in defeat. Rachel had gotten to him.

  McCloskey lifted his head and sighed. "Yeah, I did it."

  "Did what?" pressed Ferguson.

  He paused. "I killed Breslin."

  Ferguson and Rachel exchanged looks, as things finally appeared to be falling into place. But they needed more from the suspect to make it stick.

  "How did you kill him?"

  "I shot him to death," he admitted.

  "With what type of gun?" Ferguson asked, peering at him.

  McCloskey didn't hesitate when he responded: "It was a .45."

  Rachel leaned forward, demanding: "Where is the weapon now?"

  "At my place."

  She looked at the mirror, which Ferguson knew was a signal to Lieutenant Seymour to start the process of seeking a search warrant to locate the weapon.

  "Why did you do it?" Ferguson asked the suspect. He wanted to hear it in his own words.

  "She offered to pay me ten grand. I needed the money."

  Ferguson couldn't help but think that his employer had gotten him on the cheap, after being willing to shell out twenty thousand to the first hitman she recruited. "Who is she?" he asked to make sure they were on the same page here.

  "Breslin's ex-wife, Willa Takeyama—"

  Ferguson eyed Rachel, feeling they had her now—or just about. They also had the killer in custody. Once they had the weapon, things could move forward rapidly.

  "Did you receive the money?" Rachel asked.

  "Yeah," McCloskey said. "She paid me."

  Ferguson stared at him thoughtfully. It shouldn't be too difficult to follow the money trail from Takeyama's bank account, or other sources of money, right into the hands of the man she paid to take out Parker Breslin.

  But was he also responsible for the murder of Joyce Yashiro?

  Ferguson wanted to find out. "What about the other murder?" he tossed out.

  McCloskey cocked a brow. "What other murder?"

  "The murder of Joyce Yashiro, the wife of Takeyama's lover, Verlin Yashiro. Did you kill her too for them?"

  "I had nothing to do with killing anyone else," he insisted fla
tly. "Willa only paid me to kill her ex."

  "You're sure about that?" pressed Rachel. "If you're lying, it will only get a lot harder for you."

  "I'm not lying!" McCloskey insisted. "I don't know anything about another murder. Whoever killed that lady, it wasn't me..."

  Ferguson met Rachel's eyes. He was inclined to believe McCloskey, if only because it made sense to separate the two murders in order to keep the police from too easily tying the murders together to the two main suspects. Ferguson suspected that Verlin Yashiro could have killed his own wife, especially since his alibi had now been implicated in a murder-for-hire plot. But before they leaned on Willa Takeyama, they had to connect her to McCloskey directly. And they also needed to gain possession of the murder weapon.

  * * *

  Leila felt a little nervous as she walked inside the restaurant. This time she wasn't there with Jan. She was all by her lonesome, but not for long, as her date was the place's proprietor. Coming there straight from work, she was wearing her usual business casual detective attire: a sleeveless yellow top with brown pants, an open front black stretch jacket, and dark slip-on flats. She hoped she wasn't underdressed. Or was there such a thing these days with outfits so interchangeable for all occasions?

  "Aloha 'auinalā," Maxwell greeted her, looking resplendent in a navy suit.

  "Good afternoon to you," Leila responded, happy to mix Hawaiian and English pleasantries with him.

  "Nice to see you again," he said, flashing a smile.

  She smiled back. "You too."

  "Our table is ready."

  "That's great," she said, "because I'm starving."

  "Then you definitely picked the right place for our date. Our motto here is to never let anyone leave hungry, especially a beautiful woman like you."

  Leila blushed. She wasn't sure if he was real or playing the charm game. She supposed she would find out sooner than later.

  They sat in an area away from other guests—probably reserved for VIPs, Leila suspected. Or, in this case, first dates.

  "I took the liberty to order for us," Maxwell said. "I hope you don't mind?"

  A man not afraid to take charge, she mused. Why should she mind? She responded: "Not at all."

  "Good. The main dish is chicken teriyaki, deep fried shrimp, and vegetables. It's served with Japanese potato salad and tuna rolls. Dessert will be green tea cheese cake. And you also have your choice of the house lunchtime beverages of banana mango smoothie; Sunny Hawaii, which is a mixture of orange, pineapple, and coconut juices with a splash of lime; or Blue Hawaii punch, which is just blue-colored Kool Aid, club soda, and a little pineapple juice."

  Suitably impressed with the forethought he'd obviously given to their meal, Leila said: "I'll go with the Sunny Hawaii and what looks like a delicious meal."

  Maxwell chuckled. "Sunny Hawaii is a great choice—for both of us."

  "Mahalo," she said, smiling.

  "So tell me about yourself," Maxwell said a little later as they began to eat.

  Leila met his eyes. "What do want to know?"

  "What do you do for a living?"

  I knew that was coming, she thought. It's probably best if I get it over with and hope he's not scared off.

  "I'm a cop..."

  His eyes registered clear surprise. "Really?"

  "Yes." She tried to detect whether or not this was a deal breaker.

  He chuckled. "That's very interesting. What type of cop are you?"

  "I work homicide for the Maui PD," she admitted, as if it was something to be ashamed of, when it was really just the opposite. Except when it came to impressing dates. Maybe this one would be different.

  "So you help get killers off the street?"

  She put a fork into the potato salad. "I try."

  "Are you working on anything now?" he asked curiously.

  "I'm always working on cases," she told him. "Not all cases are solved overnight. In fact, few are. That means detectives can be at it for years, aside from new cases cropping up."

  He furrowed his brow. "Are there that many homicides on Maui?"

  She chuckled. "No, thank goodness. But sometimes it seems that way when you're caught up in investigations."

  Maxwell took a bite of chicken. "Have you always wanted to be in law enforcement?"

  "When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina," Leila said, smiling playfully. "When I got older, I was fascinated by law and order—especially since my father and grandfather were both cops."

  "Yes, I can see why that would intrigue you."

  "What about you?" she asked, diverting the conversation away from her. "Have you always been in the restaurant business?"

  "Not always. In my teens, I wanted to be a cowboy." He laughed, prompting her to do the same in picturing him riding into town as an Old West gunslinger. "But practicality forced me to put that on hold. I went to college and then started working in restaurants in every capacity from busboy to manager to owner. That pretty much brings me to where I am today."

  Leila felt a bit guilty that she had already checked him out. But it was for peace of mind, which brought them to this moment.

  "It looks like you chose the right profession," she told him intuitively.

  "I'd say the same for you."

  She agreed with him, but it didn't mean she wasn't open to changing courses when the time was right.

  Maxwell tasted his drink. "So how did your friend's showing go at the Maui Friday Town Party?"

  "It went very well. She won some new admirers and continues to wow the old ones."

  "Count me in as one of the new admirers." He looked at her. "I admire you even more."

  "Why?" she couldn't help but ask.

  He grinned. "What's not to admire? You're hot, successful at what you do I'm sure, and you're good company."

  She flashed her teeth. "Nice answer all the way around." I'm starting to like him, Leila thought. Or was it too soon to feel that way?

  "Do you ride horses?" Maxwell asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  "Yes. My grandparents on my mother's side lived on a farm with horses and cattle. My granddad taught me how to ride. But I don't get to ride very often these days."

  "Maybe we can change that," he said. "I have a few horses on my ranch. We could go riding sometime."

  "I'd like that," she told him. The thought of spending time with him in any capacity sounded good, but especially one that put her back in touch with nature. "So it looks like you became a cowboy after all."

  He laughed. "Yes, I guess you could say that."

  Leila's cell phone rang. She debated whether or not to answer, but saw the caller was Blake Seymour. Since they were no longer seeing each other personally, she was sure it pertained to work. "I have to get this," she apologized.

  "Please do," he said.

  "Hey," she told Seymour. "What's up?"

  "There's been a development in the Parker Breslin investigation, with possible implications for the Joyce Yashiro case."

  "I'll be right there," Leila said reluctantly, disconnecting. She looked at her date. "I have to go," she hated to tell him.

  He looked disappointed, and then nodded respectfully. "I understand."

  "Mahalo for that."

  "When can I see you again?" he asked.

  Leila didn't want to make any promises she couldn't keep. But she also didn't want him to think she wasn't interested in him.

  "How about this weekend?" she suggested. "I'd love to take you up on your horseback riding offer."

  Maxwell grinned. "It's a date."

  Leila told him she would call to finalize things, determined to not let what seemed promising slip by the wayside.

  He walked her to the door and gave her a nice kiss on the cheek. A gentleman too, which drew her to him all the more.

  * * *

  Armed with a search warrant, Rachel and Ferguson, along with a few uniformed officers, descended upon a plantation home on Vineyard Street in Wailuku.

  R
achel did the honors of ringing the bell. She hoped against hope that Howard McCloskey was on the level about holding onto the gun he used to shoot Parker Breslin, even though it wasn't a smart move to keep evidence tied to a murder, incriminating yourself in the process. But this was a way for him to make things right, to some extent, for Breslin's daughter if no one else.

  The door was opened by a tall, thin Hispanic woman with short brown hair.

  "Maui Police Department," announced Rachel. "We have a warrant to search the premises—"

  The woman, who identified herself as Pamela Medeiros, McCloskey's live-in girlfriend, did not stand in the way.

  Slipping on latex gloves, Rachel led the way to a back room, where McCloskey claimed he'd hidden the gun. The room was small and cluttered. She spotted a cabinet in a corner and went to it, opening the bottom drawer. Pushing aside some junk, she spotted a dirty cloth obviously wrapped around something. She lifted the object and carefully removed the cloth. It was a .45-caliber handgun.

  "This could be the smoking gun, no pun intended," she said.

  "And this looks like our box of bullets," Ferguson told her, removing a box from a shelf under a small wooden table. "Ballistics should be able to verify if they are the same lot as the ones pumped into Breslin."

  Rachel looked at him. "I can't wait to see if we have a match on these and if we can connect McCloskey to Willa Takeyama through the payoff and phone calls made between the two." For the latter, they had obtained a second warrant to search the cell phone records of Howard McCloskey; while a separate warrant had been issued to search the financial records of Willa Takeyama in association with the murder-for-hire scheme.

  "It would be even better if we can tie the murder of Parker Breslin to Joyce Yashiro's murder," remarked Ferguson, "given the relationship between Takeyama and Verlin Yashiro."

  "I'm all for killing two murderers with one slingshot," Rachel said. She knew neither suspect would break easily in fingering the other, unless it meant saving his or her own neck. At which point, anything was possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Leila looked at the suspect through the one-way window, as she stood beside Seymour and Chung. Howard McCloskey didn't exactly look like a killer for hire. But no one really did, until becoming such.