“You try being trussed up like a turkey for six hours. Yeah, my back.”
Ouch. Talk about snippy. “How come nobody in your data center noticed the feed was out?”
Hattenread glared at me. “There's only one guy on duty for the entire data center, so reporting is up to the on-site guard. It was my job to call 911 if there was an emergency.”
Chance gestured at Hattenread's wrists. “It looks like you needed medical attention.”
Hattenread set his mug on the table. Held out his bandaged wrists. “The doc did this so the rope burns don't get infected. Harry Houdini himself couldn't have escaped those knots. Somewhere in the wee hours, I came to, but I wasn't able to move, stretch, or do anything—much as I would have liked to.”
“We only saw part of the video. Do you know what time this was?”
“I couldn't see a clock.” His eyes flashed, dark and piercing, beneath thick brows. He focused on something across the room, and after a few seconds, shook his head. “If you've seen the footage, you know what a predicament I was in.”
He certainly had a good story, but if he was the inside man, this is exactly what he would have done. Created the perfect alibi. Had he staged his victimhood?
“Was this your normal shift, Mr. Hattenread?” Chance asked.
“No. I'm actually the CFO at Red Hat, but I was brought in when Lockhart called in sick. We have a back-up list for last-minute replacements, but we had two guys call off that night. Dispatch assigned our back-up to another client. He's done some work over there before, so it made sense. They couldn't reach the number two guy, and I was third on the list. It was just my bad luck to be the one on duty.”
So much for the conspiracy theory—at least as far as this guy went. I eyed Hattenread. “Pretty convenient that Lockhart took ill on the night of the robbery.”
He pursed his lips. “More like suspicious. I'm having a long talk with him when he comes back to work. And believe me, there will be an investigation.”
Chance pulled his little notebook and jotted a note. “What's Mr. Lockhart's first name and can you tell us where to find him?”
“B.R., but everyone calls him Bo. He's got some weird name nobody can pronounce. I can give you his address, but it's all the way over in Mānoa. The guy's a student at U of H. From what I hear, he's just barely getting by…grade-wise, anyway.”
Hattenread gave us the information, we thanked him for his cooperation, and left. More road time. I was glad I wasn't driving. We arrived at Bo Lockhart's apartment before three. At this rate, Halloween and the grand opening would be a distant memory, and we'd have nothing to show for our day.
Unlike Hattenread's complex, Lockhart's building was a single story. Four units faced the street like little men-at-arms. The architecture was strictly uninspired 1950s, but at least the owners had chosen to liven things up with a bit of color. The white exterior paint had been accented with forest green trim. Call it an occupational hazard, but I couldn't help notice the owners had kept up with the maintenance.
The front door to Lockhart's unit stood open behind a screen door with material so new it still had a glossy appearance. Indie rock music blared inside.
Chance knocked, but there was no response. He called out. “Mr. Lockhart?”
No answer.
“He probably can't hear you over the…music…if you can call it that.”
Chance glanced sideways at me. “You need to broaden your musical appreciation repertoire.” He winked before knocking again. “Mr. Lockhart?”
We were getting nowhere.
I reached out and pulled on the door handle. Eyed Chance. “It's unlocked.”
“The last time we did a B&E the landlord caught us.”
I shrugged. “This time the door's open. That's more of an invitation. Yah?”
It didn't take Chance long to succumb to the temptation. “We want to talk to this guy. What can he do? Call the cops?”
“He could, but we've been referred by his boss. Should be good enough reason to go in.”
Chance knocked again, opened the door, and we entered.
Chapter 6: Bo
We stood in a minuscule entryway in an apartment with the standard blah-white used everywhere these days. The tile beneath our feet had dulled with ground-in grime.
Chance bellowed, “Bo Lockhart, are you here?”
“Maybe he stepped out to do his laundry.”
After a few seconds, Chance frowned at me. We both shook our heads. “Very suspicious,” he said.
“It gives me the creeps to be inside a guy's home when he's not around.” I shuddered. “What if he shows up with a gun?”
Chance motioned for me to stay put while he crossed the room and turned off the audio system. With the noise gone, the room was deathly quiet. A subtle breeze wafted through the screen door. The faint odor of stale socks and something else I couldn’t identify permeated the room despite the fresh air.
I went to the kitchen while Chance headed to the open bedroom door and peered inside. He looked at me from across the room. “There's nobody here, McKenna.” He ducked into the bedroom.
There were a few dirty dishes in the sink—one coffee mug, a spoon, and a bowl. The mug was a popular tourist souvenir. I looked up when Chance returned and gestured at the few items I'd found. “He didn't do his breakfast dishes. Otherwise, the place is…well, almost clean. At least he picked up.”
Chance didn't say a word, but his face was grim. He motioned for me to follow with a crook of his neck. My pulse raced as I walked along behind him. Now what?
I gazed around the bedroom. Bed made. Closet open. One T-shirt on the bedspread. A small dresser, double bed, and a nightstand. “Looks like any guy's bedroom, I guess.”
“Check out the picture on the nightstand.” Chance crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
As I approached, I scanned the rest of the room. Everything was neat. Tidy. There was a lamp on the nightstand. A clock radio indicating the time was 3:10 p.m. There was also a photo of a couple. And the woman was—
“What the…? Is that who I think it is?” I wondered.
The photo had been taken at a lūʻau. It was one of those posed shots the event photographer takes on your way in and that you're encouraged to buy for too much money on the way out.
“It's Sandra, all right. And they look pretty chummy.” Chance's voice was tight. He didn't look the least bit happy. Disturbed might be a more apt description.
“You think they're involved?” I stuck my hands in my pockets to avoid touching anything. We'd already dropped enough DNA in this place without leaving fingerprints. “Maybe we found the source of Sandra's personal problems. Was there anything else?”
He nodded solemnly and gestured at the bathroom. “You may not want to enter, though.”
Something about the way he said the words told me it wasn't just a mess. “Bo's dead, isn't he?”
“Body's in the shower. Looks like he smacked his head on the way down. There's also a hair dryer in the shower.”
“Jeez. I guess somebody really wanted him gone.”
“McKenna, I think it's time we went back to the museum. We can call this in on the way.”
“I agree. And this time, Sandra's got some very personal questions to answer.”
It was nearly quarter-to-four when we arrived at the museum. Closing time was approaching all too quickly and all we'd done was accumulate questions and a dead body. What would happen tonight at midnight? Would my ghost-advisor lose his powers? How could that be? I had so many questions, and we were running out of time. I now felt better prepared to deal with the overwhelming sense of closeness inside the old Victorian, but it still weighed me down.
We found Sandra leading a tour with another group of keiki. They were all around six or seven and dressed in costumes ranging from elaborate to just plain sloppy. The worst was a dark-haired boy who wore his baseball cap backwards and was lost in his oversized T-shirt.
We waited until Sand
ra finished before approaching and asking if we could speak privately. She took us to her office, closed the door, and sat behind her koa wood desk. I hadn't noticed before, but she was either incredibly neat or she had found the secret to the paperless office.
I gestured at Chance. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks, McKenna.” He repositioned himself in the chair so he could lean forward with his elbows on his knees. “I'll come right to the point, Sandra. We went to Bo Lockhart's apartment.”
“Why did you do that?” she exploded. Her jaw fell and the color in her cheeks darkened from rosy pink to scarlet.
Chance narrowed his gaze at her. “Because you didn't tell us Art Hattenread was a last-minute substitution by the security company.” He paused for a moment and his voice hardened when he continued. “And your regular guard, Bo Lockhart, has a photo of you two at a lūʻau.”
“It was a mistake.” Her voice shook. “The lūʻau was supposed to be an opportunity to meet a couple of new investors.”
Her response seemed like total BS to me. I'd seen the photo. It was definitely not straight business. “It looked a lot like a date to me.”
“But…but I didn't…” she stammered.
“Didn't what?” Chance emphasized the last word. He leaned forward even more.
I had to give it to the kid. He hadn't yet revealed Bo was dead, and his intimidating interrogation method had torn away Sandra's aloofness. If she didn't get the message her little game was over, she wasn't as smart as I thought.
“You both had a drink in your hands,” Chance said. “You were smiling. Heads together. Looked like a romantic evening.”
Sandra blinked rapidly, and her eyes brimmed with tears. A moment later, one traced a line down her cheek. She dabbed at it with a tissue. “I knew that photo was a mistake. Let me explain.”
Her voice had escalated to a desperate plea. Unfortunately, this was the result we'd agreed we needed. We had to make her come clean, and this might be the only way.
“I'm listening, so's McKenna. We want the truth.”
“And the pōhaku,” I added.
Sandra blinked several more times and gazed at the ceiling. The move exposed her neck and reminded me of a swan stretching. In this case, this swan was in serious trouble unless she had a doozy of an explanation.
“Bo Lockhart came to me a couple of weeks ago, right before his shift was starting. He told me about this big fundraiser the university was putting on. He said he'd heard about it through one of the professors at U of H. I didn't know about the event, but thought it was a great opportunity.” She drew a long breath. “I made it clear I was going to the lūʻau to meet some of the higher-ups at the university. Bo said he only wanted to help us out. That night I found out he had other ideas.”
“He thought it was a date.”
It wasn't really an accusation, but the way Chance said the words had me wondering if he, himself, might not have had romantic intentions despite his earlier denial.
“Yes,” she said. “I only had one drink, but it hit me hard. I'm not even sure what I did at the lūʻau, but I guess I stopped worrying about business and…” She lowered her head and choked back a sob. “I don't know what happened to me. It was my fault. I wound up in bed with him.”
Chance's gaze was cold as steel, but I felt my brow tightening. I'd seen this before. “What do you mean you don't know what happened at the lūʻau?”
Her shoulders slumped and she leaned forward, planting both elbows on the desk. “I mean, I don't remember anything after the one drink.”
Could she have been drugged? “You've never behaved recklessly before?”
Sandra stared at me. “Of course not. Never. I built my entire career on a reputation of fairness and propriety. I…I honestly don't know what I did that night.”
“Have you seen your doctor?” I asked.
She closed her eyes and shivered. “I just want it all to go away.”
“It's probably way too late to determine if you were drugged, but…you should know…”
A few more tears traced pathways down Sandra's cheeks while she chewed on her lower lip. “I understand.”
“We need to talk to some of your staff,” Chance said. He stood and gazed at Sandra with sad eyes. “We'll need to talk to the employees privately. Without you.”
Sandra grimaced. “Of course.” She reached out, as though she were going to touch Chance's arm and then pulled back.
Half an hour later, I was ready to rule most of the interviews a waste of time. Between the kids running rampant, the noise, and party atmosphere in the museum, we got almost nothing. I say almost because the last person we interviewed was Sandra's assistant, Maile Sorensen. She was a young twenty-something with dark eyes and a killer Marie Antoinette costume. She explained she knew Sandra better than anyone else in the museum and had seen her talking several times with Bo Lockhart.
“There were a few times I had to go searching,” Maile said. “As we've gotten closer to the opening, we had decisions Sandra needed to make.” She hesitated, then added, “A couple of times I found her on the lānai with Bo having coffee.”
My pulse kicked up a notch at the news. Was Sandra still lying to us? “Was there anything going on between them?”
“All I know is Bo was always falling all over himself whenever she was around.”
Chance scratched his cheek and watched Maile for a few seconds. “But you never saw them doing anything you could interpret as romantic?”
She scrunched up her face and thought for a moment. “They were talking and laughing, but I never saw anything happen.” She shrugged. “At first I thought Bo just had the wrong idea. You know, Sandra's super-hot and Bo has a big ego. But, after she slept with him…now, I don't know.”
Chapter 7: The Wahine Pōhaku
I walked away from the conversation with Maile Sorensen more confused than ever. Maile knew about Sandra's one-night stand with Bo? How did she find out? It could only mean Sandra had told her. How many more secrets did we have to uncover?
“This is rapidly becoming the case of the missing everything,” I grumbled.
“I know. What I don't get is why the pōhaku was stolen in the first place. Do you suppose Sandra meant it was priceless because it can't be replaced? It certainly wasn't the most expensive piece in the museum. And the theft was so well orchestrated, why didn't the thieves take something else?” Chance shook his head and stared across the room. All of a sudden, he seemed lost in thought.
I followed his gaze. Why was he looking at the restrooms? The kid never had to… “Oh, no. I won't do it.”
“You have to McKenna. Maybe he knows something.”
“He? No way. You can't be serious. I won't, I won't do it.”
“Now you're sounding like Tommy.” Chance eyed me. “You don't look like you're eight.”
Heat surged through my veins. How dare he compare me to that little urchin. “Don't blame me if this goes badly.” I stormed off in the direction of the pōhaku's case with Chance following on my heels.
I stood staring down at the fake tiki and the note. “Ahem, Kimu?” Nothing. No voice. How stupid was this? I glared at Chance. “I can't just…summon him. Maybe you need to give him some space.”
“You want me to give a ghost…space. Sure.” He took a step backwards. “Is this enough?”
I cleared my throat. “How should I know?”
A woman with a little baseball player in tow came around the corner. “Excuse me.”
I moved to one side. My face felt like it was on fire. Standing here, expecting to talk to a dead guy, I felt like an idiot. “Kimu, please,” I whispered. Then, louder, I hissed, “If you want my help, you need to talk to me.”
Chance signaled I was doing well with a raised thumb. Why didn't he just invite the whole museum? We could have a show. McKenna and the Dead Surfer. Maybe I could even juggle…
“Stop feeling sorry fo' yourself. You ain't stuck in no wood box.”
Oh, crap, it
was him. “Kimu? Buddy? Listen, we have to work together if you want me to get you out of there.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Chance signaling me. I ignored him.
“I think maybe I made a bad choice wid you.”
Kimu's voice held a disappointed edge. It was the first time I'd heard him sound the least bit exasperated. I took two steps. Standing just inches from the case, I inhaled, closed my eyes, and laid my hands on the glass of the case.
The museum is gone. I'm falling head first into a world of water.
The ocean rages around me. Lightning flashes. There's a man clinging to a lifeboat below.
Thunder. Deafening, rolling waves of…
I jerked away. Stumbled backwards and slammed into the wall. “Christ.”
Chance rushed to my side. He took my arm. “Are you okay? What just happened?”
My heart was pounding a hundred miles an hour. I was still in the museum, but the world I'd just seen had been so real…so vivid. My eyes narrowed. I stared at the case and pushed Chance aside. “What just happened, Kimu?”
“Da spirits ain't happy wid dis, McKenna. Dis kinda mix-up ain't good fo' da order of things.”
As usual, Kimu the Obtuse. Now was not the time to be picky, however.
“What kind of mix-up are we talking about?” And how could there be an “order of things” in the afterlife?
“Clerical error,” Kimu said, matter-of-factly.
The woman and child came out of the restroom and squeezed between me and the case. I cocked my head to the side, indicating Chance should return to his spot at the end of the hall. Took another deep breath. Stepped up to the exhibit. “Do I have to, um, talk out loud?”
“Only if you want people thinking you crazy.”
Right. Sane people talked to ghosts all the time.
—Okay, how's this?
—Just don't be touchin' da case again. Bad juju.
—Juju? Is that a term you dead guys use?
—No, brah. Dat what you always callin' it. Yah?
—I don't even want to know how this works. Tell me about this clerical error.
—Da wahine pōhaku belonged to a surfing buddy from da olden days. Was in his family long time. Dat wahine, she da one got me caught in dis battle.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 52