by Toby Neal
“Nice. Thanks for sharing.”
“Just find the guys who fit the profile, print their pictures and make me a folder.” He shrugged into the jacket.
“For giving up my Sunday I expect to be at the interview,” she said, giving him her best stare. Arrogant asshole, she thought—not for the first time.
“Fine. I’ll check in later.”
She watched him go, enjoying her tiny victory. It was a nice view, and she grinned as she spun her chair back around and got on with the boredom. A thought occurred—she opened another window and tapped in Kelly’s stepdad’s name and a second later, stared in astonishment.
James Reynolds drove a 2007 charcoal Toyota Tacoma. She hit PRINT and pulled the page out of the laser. Heavy brows and a receding hairline bracketed a square jaw; dark eyes looked truculently at her. She threw the page into the growing pile, then fished the dog-eared card out of her pocket and punched in the number.
“Stevens.”
“Stevens, the stepdad drives a dark Tacoma!”
“I know. We’re looking at him pretty hard. Alibi’s holding up though.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? He doesn’t fit the profile, too old.”
“Sorry, I meant to. I’ve been pretty damn busy,” Stevens said. “That’s what I have you for now. Thanks for checking.”
“I’m putting him in the pile with the others.”
“Why don’t you expand the search, add navy blue, charcoal? Maybe our witness was confused on the color. We’ll be bringing Reynolds in again.”
“What’s the alibi?”
“Tell you later,” he said, and rang off.
She snapped her phone shut, rubbed her chest briskly.
That’s what I have you for now. The butterflies or bubbles or whatever they were that had flown up at those words were still there. They were enough to fuel the long day of poring over records, and at the end of it she had a folder of fifty-seven printed license photos, one of whom was James Reynolds. She set it on Stevens’s desk, leaving a note on the front:
Looking forward to the interview.
Monday came too soon. She had Criminology class that night, and hadn’t studied. She let Pono drive and she read factoids aloud to him from her textbook, one ear tuned for a call from Stevens to help with the case.
“Did you know seventy-nine percent of long-term prisoners have at least one diagnosed mental health disorder?”
“Maybe we should be spending a little more on treatment and less on punishment,” Pono said.
“Now you’re sounding like a Democrat. I don’t give a shit why they do what they do—dysfunctional childhoods, economic challenges—whatever. Criminals should be locked up where they can’t hurt anybody.” The words came out more heated than she meant them to as she thought of her father, incarcerated for dealing. She hated him for what he’d done: first for being taken from her, and then for forgetting about her after he was gone.
“C’mon, you know better. Mostly victimless crime like drugs around here.”
Even in Hawaii where they tried for a more rehabilitative approach with innovations like Drug Court where a defendant completed incarcerated rehab in lieu of a sentence, the jails were overflowing.
“You do the crime, you do the time.” Lei flipped the page.
“I just wish the stats were better for Hawaiians,” Pono said. “There’s got to be a reason so many of our people end up in prison.”
“It’s the cycle of addiction, they call it.”
“We need more things fo’ the young people, so they no go into the game,” Pono said. The topic was getting him down. He’d slipped into pidgin, and he absently rubbed his lips with a forefinger.
“Hey, did I tell you Stevens came by? He roped me in to helping him on the case Sunday.”
“Seriously? Did he kiss your ass to get you to do it?”
“Properly, thank you.”
“Glad you’re on the case. You wanted it bad enough.”
Lei looked up. They were in Haunani’s neighborhood, as if the discussion on drugs had led them there. Lei wondered if Stevens had ever got back to re-interview Haunani’s mother.
“Slow down.”
Pono did, and they rolled along the cracking road until they came to the plywood door in the shadow of an extravagant plumeria tree. Sure enough, Nani sat there, cigarette smoke curling upward in a ribbon around her head.
Lei held her hand up, the small circular burn on it suddenly itchy.
“I need a minute.”
“Here we go again,” Pono groaned, but pulled over. Lei got out, straightening her duty belt with its heavy accoutrements, and strode across the tufted grass. Without a word she took one of the beach chairs from its leaning position against the wall, flipped it open, and sat down next to Nani.
“How you stay?” she asked in pidgin.
A shrug of the narrow shoulders, a heavy drag on the cigarette, but Nani’s eyes looked clear if sunken.
“I’m sorry about your daughter.”
Again the shrug.
“Did the detectives ever come back and talk to you?”
Slight shake of the head.
“We need to know anything we can about who might have done this. Who was Haunani seeing?”
“Someone she shouldn’t have been.” Nani’s voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a rusty metal bucket. “She wouldn’t tell me. Had that damn cell phone going all the time, got her pot for free and never gave me notting.”
“What kind of vehicle did he drive?”
“Black Toyota truck.” Another drag. This time she let the smoke curl up from her bottom lip, inhaling it into her nostrils. “I could tell he was too old for her, I told her not to see him, but I never could do notting with that girl. I told you, she get one hard head.”
“So how old was he? Did you ever get a look at him?”
“Saw him one time, picking her up. Not too tall, dark hair. That’s all.”
Lei thought of Reynolds, who was 6’3” and on the bulky side. But, his hair was dark and it would be hard to judge height sitting down in the cab of a truck.
“Did she have any special jewelry or clothing on her the day she disappeared?”
“Nothing special. Just her gold ring—had an initial H on it. Her grandma gave it to her.”
“Anyone else who might want to—hurt her? What about her father?”
“Haven’t seen his sorry ass in ten years. Never gave me one dime of child support.”
“So where is he?”
“I told you, ten years since he got popped.”
Lei sat with that a minute. Another father incarcerated and gone from a child’s life, abandoning her to a druggie mother. Too much of a theme. Well, so much for the theory of a vengeful father. That left the questionable boyfriend, mysterious enough to be a candidate.
“Well, thanks for talking with me. Detective Stevens may be back by to talk to you again.”
“Probably won’t be here.” She dropped her butt into the cigarette-clogged water jar, stood up and went back into the house.
Lei got out of the chair and headed back to the cruiser, speed-dialing Stevens on her cell.
He hadn’t been back to talk to Nani, and after grilling her for details, he thanked her.
“You’re good at taking initiative. Just check with me first next time, okay?”
“Got it,” Lei said. “We were just in the neighborhood, thought we’d just try, save you some time.” She closed the phone, got in the cruiser and slammed the door, putting on her seatbelt.
“We?” Pono rolled his eyes, and dropped the Oakleys down over them. “‘We nothing.”
“Well it worked out okay, didn’t it?”
“Just because she didn’t get you with her cigarette this time?” He shook his head. “You got lucky she wasn’t high at the moment, is all.”
“Well, if I keep getting lucky, I might just catch this killer.”
Chapter Ten
Lei drove to the University
of Hawaii campus at the end of the day, eating her favorite Whopper Junior in the car. She pulled in under the spreading African tulip tree next to the Social Sciences building and retrieved her book bag from the backseat, glad to have a distraction from her obsession with the Mohuli`i case. All day she’d been thinking about the trash, the stepdad, Kelly’s clothes—in part to keep from remembering Haunani’s empty white stare and the smoke curling up into Nani’s nostrils. Driving around on patrol with Pono just didn’t feel like she was doing enough, and Stevens hadn’t called her back.
Once in class, she got caught up in the lecture on social control theory and the factors that tend to predict criminal behavior. Lei hadn’t finished her reading, so she skimmed as the lecture progressed and took notes in the margins of her book. She couldn’t help noticing she had most of the “risk factors” herself: child of parents with addictions, father incarcerated, victim of abuse and neglect. The only reason, according to the research, she wasn’t a criminal herself was her Aunty Rosario taking her in and providing a stable home.
At the break, she got up and stretched. Her uniform was one of several in the room. Most of the criminal justice majors were law enforcement or parole officers. She headed over to say hi to her friend from Pahoa station.
“Hey, Mary.”
Mary swiveled away from the guy she was talking to. She was a tall, shapely girl, her hair a black waterfall over her police uniform. Her big dark eyes glittered, mischievous.
“If it isn’t Texeira! Lei, this is Ray Solomon.”
“Howzit,” Ray said, shaking her hand. He had the smooth brown skin of mixed, hapa, Hawaiian blood.
“Good to meet you,” she said. His grip was solid, and she smiled up at him.
“My pleasure. I love women in uniform.”
“What about out of uniform?” Mary teased, flicking her stiff navy lapel.
He laughed. “If I can get you there.”
“This is too rich for me. Mary, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Don’t run off, shy girl,” Mary teased, pulling one of Lei’s curls. “Lei’s a local but grew up on the Mainland. Kinda like you, Ray.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you end up?”
“San Rafael, California. From Oahu before that.”
“I did my mainland time in Riverside,” he said. “Solomon’s a Kaua`i family. You know them?”
“No, sorry,” Lei said. This was part of the ritual of meeting someone in the Islands—telling where you were from, who your people were.
“Lei was hanai’ed to her aunty in California,” said Mary. Hanai was the informal adoption practice used by Hawaiian families—when a family had challenges or problems, children were raised by relatives in an open-ended but committed relationship.
“What you telling him my business for?” Lei punched Mary’s arm.
“Well, Ray get same kind story,” said Mary, falling into pidgin. “Family problems, the uncle wen’ take him in . . .”
Ray’s face seemed to shut down, his hazel eyes going opaque.
“Boring stuff,” he said.
“She never stop running her mout,’” Lei said. “Come, I keep you out of trouble.” She pulled Mary off to the side. “He’s cute, but quit trying to set me up. Anyway, he seems pretty into you.”
“I wouldn’t mind a piece of that, but Roland and I are pretty serious,” Mary said. “You’re the one who needs some action. Why don’t we all go out to Pahoa Music Club tonight, have a few beers, listen to some music?”
“I’ve got work and so do you. And Keiki’s waiting for me.”
Mary rolled her eyes as they went back to their seats. After class Ray fell into step beside Lei as she headed down the hall.
“More theories about what makes a criminal.”
“I’m not buying it all. There’s no excuse. People make choices.”
“Texeira’s Choice Theory,” he said. “I’m sure it’s out there. So, working on anything interesting?”
“Yeah, but you know I can’t discuss an open investigation,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her words. He cocked his head, a glint of interest in his eyes.
“C’mon. I’ve got an application in to the academy myself. Maybe another perspective could crack open the case.”
“Sorry, but good luck with your application. They should snap up a smart Hawaii boy like you.”
“Maybe not,” he said, still smiling, but his gold-hazel eyes had gone opaque again. How did he do that? “I got into a little trouble in my youth,” he said.
“Didn’t we all.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve got a record. I’m hoping the Criminal Justice degree will tip the balance.”
“It’s worth a try, if you really want it,” she said. “You could always work for a law office, be a private investigator or something, if it doesn’t.”
“I guess,” he said. They had arrived at her old Honda, and Ray lifted a hand in a wave as he headed across the parking lot.
After class, Lei drove home, preoccupied. She wished that for once in her life she could just go out with an attractive guy without getting all wound up and paranoid. Life was short—Kelly and Haunani reminded her of that, and maybe she owed it to them to learn to live a little. She glanced in her rearview mirror—the headlights behind her loomed uncomfortably close. She sped up. The tailgater sped up too, and finally pulled around her, cutting her off.
It was a black Toyota truck.
Adrenaline hit her bloodstream and her foot hit the gas, an automatic reaction. She accelerated, trying to get a look at the license plate. The two-lane road they were on was dim, and the truck surged ahead, streaking around a slower-moving Camry. Lei wished she had a cop light to put on her dash. It might be interesting to pull this jerk over.
She gunned the Honda and the elderly four-cylinder engine burped in protest.
“Come on,” she urged, wishing for the roar of the Crown Vic. She made it around the Camry but the Toyota was really flying now, its taillights disappearing over a rise. She floored it and nothing much happened. Next order of business—get a car with some juice. She hit the steering wheel in frustration as the Toyota peeled off to the right. She made the turn without ever hitting the brakes, the whole car shuddering and tires squealing at the abuse.
They reached an open stretch of country road. They’d left the residential area behind, and the Toyota poured it on, surging ahead. Lei held the steering wheel with both hands as it vibrated, the needle creeping to 75, 80, 85. The pickup truck was still accelerating. It disappeared over another rise, and by the time the Honda careened over the hill, it was gone.
The road had forked, and as she got to the intersection, there was nothing left to see but the moon shining on an ocean of waving pili grass, glimmering off the empty black asphalt leading away in either direction. The Honda glided to a stop, thoroughly smoked. It seemed like she was always too little, too late.
Chapter Eleven
Lei was curled up on the couch later, eating her Hot Pocket, when her cell rang. She thumbed it open.
“Hello?”
“Lei? It’s Michael.”
“Hey Stevens,” she said.
“Quit calling me that. I just wanted to check in with you, give you an update. Nice work on the folder.”
“Thanks.”
“We’ve been running down some calls on Reynolds’s cell, re-canvassing the girls’ neighborhoods, and setting up the interview with the witness. Doing it tomorrow—still want to come?”
“Of course. When and where?”
“I thought we’d try to be less intimidating, so it’s at Hilo High School library at 10 a.m. Wear civvies.”
“Okay. Hey, a little something I think you should know,” she said, and told him about the car chase.
“Could be related, but it’s a stretch. You probably freaked some poor guy out.”
“In my old granny car? C’mon, he was laughing as he dusted me. I really need some decent wheels.”
“Why don’t you g
et some?”
“Right,” she said, playing with Keiki’s ear. “Ha, ha.”
“No, really, I’ve got a friend who works at the dealership downtown…he’ll find a good deal for you. Let’s go tomorrow after the interview.”
Lei felt that bubble again, something reckless and wild, something like joy.
“What the hell. Let him know we’re coming,” she said, and said goodbye. She turned to Keiki. “We’re going car shopping, baby.”
She had always been careful with money, going to community college in California, being thrifty, and making do. When she arrived in Hilo two years ago, it was with savings she had built up. She’d bought the 1989 Civic for $1500.00 cash and, other than her dog, had no major expenses.
I really can afford to get a new car, she thought, and grinned.
Suddenly Keiki barked in the living room, the full-throated baying that signaled a stranger.
“Keiki! Come!”
The big Rottweiler continued to bark, her ruff distended, the boom of the dog’s voice almost shaking the walls. Lei grabbed her Glock out of the holster on the headboard, bolted up from her bed, and ran into the room, her gun out.
“Hello?” she called, but there was no answer except Keiki’s snarling as the dog faced the front door. She signaled Keiki back and put her eye to the peephole.
There was no one on the little porch. She opened the door and saw the gleam of paper, and bent down to retrieve the note that had been slipped partially under the mat, carefully holding it by a corner.
“Patrol,” she told Keiki, giving her a hand signal. The dog went silent and trotted around the house, sniffing at the windows, and finally whisked through the dog door to do her circuit outside. Lei knew she would bark if there was anything there. She retrieved a pair of gloves and snapped them on. She sat down at the table and slit the envelope with a steak knife. It was the same computer paper, folded twice around a single sentence:
I’M THINKING ABOUT YOU. IT BRINGS BACK MEMORIES.
What the hell did that mean? She battled the urge to crumple the paper and throw it as far away as she could. Instead she slipped it and the envelope into a Ziploc bag. Adrenaline buzzed through her. She hadn’t become a cop so she could sit around waiting to be a victim again and she was sick of being too little, too late. Damn if I’m going to sit here and let him scare me. He must still be nearby.