Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant

by Lee Goldberg

  "Fo' real? Cool!" Kealoha grinned like a child opening Christmas presents. "Go for it, bruddah!"

  Wyatt didn't bother following the two detectives when they left Danny Royal's house. He stayed behind in his parked car at the Kiahuna Poipu Shores because he knew all they'd found was what he'd intentionally left behind.

  The wallet and house keys.

  He'd copied the hard drive on Royal's computer and emptied the floor safe last night, keeping the $50,000 in cash and burning the two false passports he found inside. He sent the money this morning by Priority Mail to one of the many P0 boxes he kept under false names throughout the country. If he ever needed money, there were substantial amounts of cash available within a few hours' reach of most major American cities, and he didn't have to go into a bank or use an ATM to get it.

  Wyatt didn't erase Danny Royal's hard drive because he didn't want to raise any questions when somebody eventually showed up to settle Danny's affairs in the wake of his tragic, accidental death. He'd cleaned the safe out because he doubted Danny had told anyone the secrets it contained.

  But now things had changed. Wyatt would have to do a much more thorough, and permanent, cleansing tonight.

  In the meantime, he had to move forward. There was an urgency to his work now that didn't exist before.

  It had taken Wyatt years, and extraordinary patience, to find Danny Royal. But in the end, it was Danny who revealed himself. It always was.

  Royal's ex-wife and teenage son had been monitored electronically and visually from day one. Wyatt knew it was only a question of time before Royal contacted his kid again.

  It finally happened on the boy's sixteenth birthday. The kid got an e-mail from his dad. The simple message had been cleverly relayed through servers around the world before hitting the kid's AOL mailbox. But Wyatt was able to trace it back to an Internet café in Kauai.

  He'd fled to a tropical island. What a cliché. But it only made Wyatt's job easier. Searching for a small island certainly beat trying to find a guy in, say, France.

  So Wyatt went to Kauai and hunted. Going to the best restaurants. The nicest stores. The exclusive golf courses and the fanciest resorts. And he watched people.

  It was a given that Danny Royal had changed his face and identity. So Wyatt had studied videotapes of Danny Royal to memorize his body language, his gait, the way he used his hands when he spoke. He knew it was only a matter of time, skill, and luck before the paths of the hunter and the hunted would cross.

  In the end, it didn't take that long and wasn't very hard.

  Danny Royal had altered everything he could about his appearance, but it was the one thing he couldn't alter that gave him away.

  His gimp leg.

  Once Danny Royal was found, the question became the best way to kill him so that no one would suspect a murder. A shark attack in front of a couple hundred eyewitnesses was a true inspiration. Wyatt supposed he could have come up with something less elaborate, but one did have to find some pleasure in his profession or what was the point of doing it?

  Perhaps that had been his mistake.

  He couldn't afford any more. Nor could he afford the time and patience it took to find Danny Royal. There were new players involved now, creating a ticking clock.

  In a way, he was pleased about it. He found it energizing and somehow less lonely. Playing poker is always more fun than solitaire.

  He left his car in the lot, went into the hotel, and took the stairs to Mark Sloan's floor. It limited the number of people who'd see his face.

  Breaking into the room was simple. It was a nice ocean-view suite. Nothing fancy, but still expensive. He went through the suitcase, the drawers, and searched all the furniture, careful to leave no visible sign of his presence.

  There were a couple of grocery bags full of simple medical supplies and a doctor's bag containing a stethoscope, tongue depressors, an otoscope/ophthalmoscope, rubbing alcohol, ibuprofen tablets, steroid cream, antibiotic ointment, even a few Tootsie Roll suckers.

  Mark Sloan was either a throwback to an earlier era, when doctors still made house calls, or was so dedicated to his work he couldn't leave it behind.

  All he found that had anything to do with Danny Royal was a stack of souvenir recipe postcards from the restaurant, and they'd been in clear view on the writing table when Wyatt walked in. If Mark Sloan came here with the intention of meeting Royal, nothing in the room revealed it.

  It's what Wyatt didn't find that was useful. There were no books to read or magazines to flip through. Not even a Hawaii guidebook, beyond the advertising-laden, throw away crap the hotel left in every room. Wyatt concluded Mark was a man who didn't like distractions and who remained focused on his work, which explained the doctor's bag and the extra medical supplies. Mark couldn't leave the hospital behind, so he brought it with him.

  But now that Mark Sloan had a murder to investigate, Wyatt was certain it would be getting the doctor's complete attention, even if it wasn't any of his business. The man wouldn't be able to help himself.

  That was good to know.

  Perhaps, Wyatt thought, there might be a way to manipulate that to his benefit.

  The search of Steve Sloan's room took even less time than Mark's. There were guidebooks, magazines, and paper back books stacked on the nightstand. A six-pack of beer had been crammed into the tiny refrigerator. There was a bag of Doritos, some candy bars, and a bottle of Coca-Cola stashed on a shelf in the closet, along with souvenir shirts, caps, and flip-flops. And nothing in the room had anything to do with Danny Royal. Unlike his father, Steve Sloan was on vacation and open to any distraction that came along. Danny Royal wasn't one of them, and never would have been if not for Mark Sloan; Wyatt was certain of that.

  As Wyatt left the room and went down the stairs, he decided it had been bad luck after all. Mark Sloan stumbled into Danny Royal's life, and Wyatt's job, by accident.

  But the more Wyatt thought about it, the less it seemed like a problem In fact, it began to look like a great opportunity.

  By the time Wyatt reached the lobby, he knew exactly what to do.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kamalei Moala, the hostess at the Royal Hawaiian, lived in a tiny bungalow in Hanapepe on the same overgrown property as her impossibly old grandparents, who sold home made taro chips off their front porch to passing motorists, who were few and far between.

  The elder Moalas fried the chips, made from taro roots and lightly seasoned with garlic, and sold them hot and fresh for $3 a bag. They'd been doing it as long as Mark had been alive. And then some.

  Mark and Steve each bought a bag, just to be polite, but couldn't stop eating them as they talked to Kamalei, who sat at the picnic table in front of her bungalow.

  Kamalei Moala looked very different here, away from the seductively low lights of the restaurant, wearing a simple floral sundress, nursing a glass of iced tea. She wasn't quite as exotic. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, but she offered the Sloans a warm smile anyway.

  "These chips are wonderful." Mark held up a bag. "I've never had anything quite like them. What is a taro, any way?"

  "It's similar to a potato and is an important part of Hawaiian culture. We use it to make poi, kulolo, squid luau, lau lau, and chips," Kamalei said. "Like corn for the American Indians, it has great spiritual, historical, and ceremonial significance besides being good to eat."

  "Really?" Mark said, examining a chip. "Sounds much more interesting than a potato chip. And tastes better, too."

  He stuck the chip in his mouth, savoring it, then offered the bag to Kamalei. "Would you like one?"

  "No, thank you. I've had enough taro chips to last me a lifetime," she said. "I'm sure you didn't come all the way out here just to buy my tutu's chips, Dr. Sloan."

  "You remember us?" Steve asked.

  "You came to the restaurant for dinner the other night," she said. "You're Danny's friends."

  "Actually, we only met him on Saturday," Mark said. "We hardly knew him at
all, but we'd be interesting in talking to people who did."

  "You knew him as well as anybody," Kamalei said, with out a hint of bitterness or sarcasm in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. "Danny didn't like to talk about himself."

  "You didn't find that odd?" Mark said.

  "People talk about themselves way too much, especially men. Danny was different. He liked to listen. Danny cared more about what other people had to say. That was his secret."

  "We were wondering what it was," Steve said.

  "It wasn't the food that kept bringing the customers back, it was Danny. They loved him. He made everyone feel as if they were the most interesting people in the world."

  "Including you?" Mark asked.

  "Danny was a nice man to work for," she said defensively. "Why are you asking all these questions?"

  "Now that he's dead, we're trying to settle his affairs, contact his next of kin." Steve said. "But we don't have any thing to go on."

  "You're getting awfully involved for two people who never met him before," she said.

  "We witnessed his killing and identified his body for the police," Mark said. "We've sort of been drafted into this. Besides, we're on vacation. We have time. It's the least we can do to repay his hospitality. We'd really appreciate your help."

  "Did he have any close friends or lovers who might have known him better?" Steve asked.

  "I was his lover," she said matter-of-factly. "Off and on. So were lots of women."

  "Do you have their names?"

  She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't keep track of them. Why do you ask?"

  Steve shrugged. "Maybe one of them knows more about him than you do."

  "He didn't see many local girls. Most of them were tourists, single women only here for a week or two," she said. "Nothing serious. Vacation romance. You know how it is."

  "Oh yeah. Sure. Of course." Steve said in an offhand way, glancing at his dad. "Who doesn't?"

  "I've known Danny since he opened the restaurant four years ago," she said. "He started out renting the old Outrigger House after it went bust. I was his first hire. I've been his lover, off and on, ever since."

  "And you didn't mind sharing him?" Mark asked.

  "Danny never snuck around behind anyone's back," she said. "He always made it clear up front that his relationships were casual—no strings, no baggage, just good times. And that was okay, because they were. Great times. Danny knew how to treat a woman."

  "But it remained casual," Steve said. "You were never even tempted to leave your toothbrush?"

  "He's my comfort guy, the one I go to when my romances crash and burn, which they always do."

  The comfort guy. It sounded to Steve like something he could get into. He had a restaurant. He had beach house. How hard could it be? Steve wanted to ask Kamalei for some pointers, but instead he asked, "Did he ever talk about his past to you?"

  "All I know is that he came from somewhere in New Jersey, where he ran some burger joints, and that he hurt his knee playing high school football."

  "You weren't kidding when you said you knew him as well as we did," Steve said.

  "Who he is now is what matters," Kamalei said. "What difference does his past make?"

  "Interesting choice of words, considering..." Steve let his voice trail off, full of innuendo.

  "Considering what?" she asked.

  Steve just smiled. Unnervingly. Actually, he was still thinking about the possibilities of this Comfort Guy thing. But he doubted being the host of BBQ Bob's had the same allure as the Royal Hawaiian. Perhaps there was a recipe or two off those souvenir postcards he could re-create at his place.

  "Did you ever see Danny treat anybody else the way he treated us?" Mark asked. "Perhaps someone he might have known outside the restaurant?"

  "Besides the occasional liquor vendor or food rep? Just repeat customers, tourists visiting Kauai again and stopping in for another meal. Danny always made them feel like they were special guests who were sorely missed," she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

  Mark smiled reassuringly. "Like we said before, we're just looking for anyone who should be informed about his death, someone on the mainland, perhaps."

  "Didn't he have a will or something?" Kamalei asked.

  "Not that we know of," Mark said. "No lawyer or family members have come forward. Do you know who his attorney might be?"

  "No, but I know his accountant, Earl Ettinger up in Kapaa, and his banker, Arliss Brewer. They come in for dinner all the time."

  "Were they investors?" Mark asked.

  "Not Mr. Ettinger—he just likes to eat at a discount. But Mr. Brewer and the First Bank of Lihue held the mortgage on the restaurant," she said. "Probably on Danny's house, too. I think he liked to see how their money was doing."

  Steve tried to think of a way to ask his next question without putting Kamalei on guard, but there wasn't one, so he saved it for last. It was the question he asked so often in his work, he thought about having it printed on little cards to save him the trouble of asking it.

  "Danny seemed like a wonderful guy," Steve said. "But everybody's got enemies. He must have had at least one."

  "Just the shark," she said.

  It was a little after 2:00 A.M. when the sirens woke Mark Sloan from a deep sleep. He immediately became aware of the light flickering on the other side of his closed drapes and the smell of something burning.

  Mark got up, went to the window, and parted the drapes. A house on the beach was consumed by fire, flames licking out the windows and spitting embers into the night sky. Fire men were dousing the raging fire with multiple streams of water, but the house was a lost cause. The best they could hope to do now was stop the flames from spreading to other properties.

  The phone rang. Before he answered it, he knew it was Steve. And he knew what he was calling to tell him.

  Ten minutes later Mark and Steve were both dressed and hurrying across the parking lot toward the police line, where officers held back the distraught neighbors and a few hotel guests shaken from their sleep who came to watch Danny Royal's house burn.

  After this latest incident, Steve figured he and his dad would be the only guests left in the Kiahuna Poipu Shores tomorrow.

  Sgt. Kealoha spotted them immediately and waved them past the officers.

  "Guess we won't be needing the HPD big boys after all," Kealoha said bitterly.

  "I think that was the idea," Steve replied, noticing a grim smile on his father's face. "What are you smiling about?"

  "This is a message," Mark said. "The killer knows we weren't fooled and that an investigation has begun. He's telling us that he's not going to sit back and let us come after him. He's going to make it as difficult for us as possible, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind, literally and figuratively."

  Kealoha whistled. "The fire tells you all that?"

  "This fire," Mark said. "And the other one."

  "What other one?"

  Just then, Kealoha's cell phone trilled, but he didn't make a move to answer it. Instead he stared at Mark with a look that fell somewhere between awe and disbelief.

  "The restaurant, of course." Mark said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mark and Steve didn't bother to go see the Royal Hawaiian burn; instead they went back to their hotel rooms for a couple hours' more of sleep.

  They met for breakfast at a little after 8:00 A.M. and, as Steve had predicted, the hotel seemed even emptier than it had the previous morning. More guests had left and no one new was checking in.

  The news that Danny Royal's body had been found and identified was in the paper, but there was no mention of any police investigation.

  "I wonder how the killer found out," Mark mused aloud.

  Steve looked up from his stack of pancakes. "About what?"

  "That his ruse failed. The only ones who knew Danny Royal's death was actually a homicide are the two of us, Ben Kealoha, Veronica Klein, and the medical examiner," Mark
said. "Then again, news might have leaked when Ben asked the Honolulu Police Department to send a tech unit over here to crack Danny's safe and hack his computer. Anyone hearing about that could infer that an investigation had begun. Or perhaps Kamalei was involved in Danny's murder, and our questions spooked her."

  Steve set down his fork and tossed his napkin on the table. He was about to say something when his dad, lost in thought, spoke again.

  "There's another thing," Mark said.

  "There always is," Steve said wearily.

  "Maybe the killer burned down Danny Royal's house and his restaurant to send two messages. One to us, and one to someone else— a warning about what happens to people who do what Danny did. Or was doing. Or was about to do."

  Steve looked at Mark. "What are we doing?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, why are we investigating Danny Royal's murder?"

  "Why do we investigate anything?"

  "I know why I do it," Steve said. "It's my job. But I'm on vacation here, and I'm not on the Kauai Police force, and this is their case."

  "That never stopped you before."

  "No, that's never stopped you before," Steve said. "I have plenty of work waiting for me back home without looking for more. I'm on vacation, remember? So I'm asking myself, What am I doing?"

  "You're assisting the Kauai Police."

  "They haven't asked for my assistance," Steve said.

  "I distinctly heard Ben invite you to go search Danny Royal's house with him," Mark said.

  Steve held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, I admit I was curious. But I've had a chance to sleep on it. This is a local homicide; there's no reason for me or for you to be involved anymore."

  "I'm involved for the same reasons I get involved in any other homicide investigation," Mark said. "Either I'm asked for advice, or it's a case you're working on, or it involves one of my patients."