by Toby Neal
At the sink, Lei reached up to touch the ring on its chain around her neck. Suddenly claustrophobic, she took the chain off and slipped the ring into one of the drawers, slamming it shut.
Marcella came back in.
“Yeah, I can give you partial disclosure in return for meeting with your commanding officer and taking over the smuggling and human trafficking part of the case. We’re going to do the interagency cooperation thing, baby!” She high-fived Lei.
“I can’t wait for you to meet my lieutenant.” Lei glanced at the door where Marcella had toed out of her shoes—they were Louboutins, with trademark red heels. Marcella and Omura were bound to strike sparks and might even have a lot in common. “So, you gonna tell me anything now?”
“If I must,” Marcella said as she sat. “More coffee?”
“If I must.” Lei fetched it, and Marcella went on.
“We know about the House. He’s serious organized crime: heroin, coke, meth, pot—the whole range of drugs. Which isn’t an FBI focus. He also has a whole gambling network across the islands—cockfighting, dogfighting, parlors with cards, mah-jongg, all that. Still not our focus. Then there are the whores—lots of them. We were already aware there was something going on with some sort of imported hooker ring—but we don’t have anything hard on that. Human trafficking is an FBI priority—as are the weapons.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. The Bureau’s been directed to stay away from any cases local PD can handle, like drugs, hookers, and gambling. But when he started bringing in guns, and now it looks like sex slaves, we’re on it. We also look hard at anything that could contribute to domestic terrorism.” Marcella sipped her coffee. “I’ve been thinking the priorities have been screwed up for a while, but ever since nine eleven and all the budget cuts, we really focus on cases that could have terrorist implications.”
“What about ATF? Thought they did investigations with guns and armaments.”
“Usually, but the agency is small out here, and once we knew this one was leading to the House, we knew that was way too big a case for them. More interagency cooperation.” She grinned, a dazzling display. “The House has his headquarters on Oahu, so it’s a surprise that Maui is the place where we may finally get some momentum on this case. I want to interview both your witnesses—the witness from the cockfight and the runaway.”
“I’ll call Bunuelos down at Kahului Station and have him bring in Silva for you. I can take you out to interview the Thai girl. Maybe the safe house will be available and we can kill two birds with one stone and take her there. My lieutenant was going to try and get that authorized today.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be off today?”
“Yeah, well, this is my case, and with you here, I’ll be well escorted.”
“I think we’re going to find that the art gallery owner is a little more than she at first appears. What we’ve been observing is that the House has cultivated contacts in some of the most affluent levels of society throughout the islands. They never get their hands dirty, but they help him launder all that gambling, drug, and hooker money through shell corporations.”
Lei shook her head at the magnitude of the case, instantly regretting it. She touched the bandage again. Marcella leaned over, concerned.
“You okay? I never asked.”
Lei showed her the bruises on her legs, arms, and hip. “Car hit me here, and I rolled off the road twice. Concussion. Bumps and bruises otherwise.”
“Damn.” Marcella extended her left arm, pushed up her sleeve. A deep red mark transected the exterior of her biceps. “Got shot for the first time six months ago.”
“Nice. You’ll have a good scar from that. How’d you get it?”
“Bank robbery. You’d be surprised the shit they get up to on Oahu. This idiot robbed the downtown Waikiki branch of Bank of Hawaii. Took a shot at me as he was running away.”
“Holy crap. Did you get him?”
“Stupid dude ran right into a newspaper kiosk. I was so hopped up on adrenaline, I didn’t even know I was shot until blood got on my hands as I was cuffing him.”
“War stories. One for every mark.” Lei clinked her mug against Marcella’s. “Better than nail polish any day, right? Let’s make some calls, get this thing going with the witnesses.”
Lei called Stevens from the back of the Acura SUV as Matt Rogers, Marcella’s partner, drove them out to Pauwela Lighthouse. Rogers’s broad shoulders filled the cab as he drove. He hadn’t changed his military style, sporting a buzz so short she could see that his scalp was a little freckled. The SUV had a Plexiglas panel up between her and the agents.
Stevens wasn’t pleased to hear the plan. “You were supposed to be off today. Lieutenant’s orders. You have a concussion!”
“I feel fine,” Lei lied. Actually, she felt queasy, and the headache was calling for Vicodin again. “Anyway, how is Marcella going to find this girl without me?”
“You could have called me. I’d take her out there.”
“True. But where’s the fun in that? Lieutenant knows I’m going. I’m just going to direct them to the camp and stay in the car. I’ll ride in the back with Anchara and reassure her she’s not in trouble. The safe house has been cleared for us to stash her there.”
A long silence. Lei rubbed the black stone in her pocket as she looked out the window at the passing scenery. This was the part she didn’t like about being in a relationship—always having to account for her actions and whereabouts. “Well, anyway. Just thought I’d keep you posted.”
“Thanks.” He hung up.
Marcella glanced back, pushed a button that lowered the panel. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” Marcella turned back. “Not much room at the Academy for the ol’ ball and chain.”
“Hey, Stevens is hardly a ball and chain!”
“I didn’t mean him in particular, just relationships in general. They only hold you back.”
Rogers snorted. “Don’t listen to her. I’m married and the Bureau life is fine, as long as your spouse doesn’t mind long hours, frequent moves, and a few PTSD symptoms on the weekends.”
“It’s just that while you’re a field agent there’s so much to do, and you don’t want anything to get in the way of your cases. I stay out of entanglements—but I don’t say no to a little bounce now and again.” Marcella smiled at Lei over her shoulder. “A woman has needs.”
Lei looked out the window at the lush, rugged coastline. The ocean was bright and sparkling today, and she gazed at it unseeing. She preferred to let things unfold and try to make the best of them—making plans too far in advance only led to disappointment, in her experience as the child of a drug addict. She had to consciously work to make her mind assess the future, and dealing with the engagement ring, deciding about the Academy—it was just too scary to try to figure out.
“There it is.” Lei pointed to the narrow, unmarked turn into ten-foot, waving guinea grass, and Rogers cranked a hard left.
The black Acura SUV bounced down the rutted road, red dust rising around them to coat the shiny finish. “Yeah, Hawaii Land and Pine stopped working this field about ten years ago, but the irrigation system was still in place. After the field went to seed, the homeless found a place to get shelter in the brush on the bluff, and they tapped into the irrigation system.” Lei held on to the back of the panel for support as the SUV crawled along.
“At least they’re not right in your face, living in the public parks. We have quite an issue in Honolulu and nowhere to put them.” Marcella hung on to the dash and sissy handle.
“Not very picturesque for the tourists,” Rogers said as they bumped to a halt in front of the unprepossessing steel light tower with its glorious ocean view and grim human aspect. Lei got out of the Acura as the FBI agents did a quick survey of the area. Marcella took 360 degrees’ worth of reference photos, clicking the tiny, high-tech camera no bigger than her thumb as they approached Ramona’s tent.
&nbs
p; The older Hawaiian woman stood up when she saw them coming but didn’t speak until the three of them faced her.
“She’s gone.”
Chapter Seventeen
“When? How?” Lei stammered, as the two FBI agents immediately approached the tent, unzipping it.
“After you left, that afternoon a man and a woman came. I saw the car they were driving, looked too rich for this neighborhood; I hid her in a place we’d talked about. They searched every tent in the camp. They had guns.” She shook her head. “They show no respect. They left when they didn’t find her. Everyone said they hadn’t seen her. They asked about you, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“They asked if any cops came out here, showing a photo of the dead girl. We said yes, cuz what else was we supposed to say?”
“You did right,” Lei said, even as the agents spread apart and began looking all around the tents.
“So then what happened?”
“I went back to get her, and she was gone. She must have run.”
Lei’s heart squeezed. Where could the young Thai go to hide? “Why didn’t you call us?”
Ramona pointed to her swollen ankles. “Long walk to the phone, and my feet were killing me. Beside, what could you do?” Ramona sat back down, picked up a hala leaf, gesturing to the agents. “Who these people stay?”
“Special Agents. They want to help Anchara, keep her safe.” Marcella and Rogers had begun systematically canvassing the encampment. To Lei, their buttoned-down efficiency reminded her of a pair of Dobermans in work mode. Lei settled in beside the older woman to work the hala leaves.
Marcella eventually came back, stood in front of Ramona. She gentled her voice and extended her hand to shake the older woman’s weathered one.
“Special Agent Marcella Scott. It’s very important we find your young friend.”
“I know, and I don’t know where she is.”
“Can you show me where her hiding place was?”
Ramona pulled herself up carefully, leaning on a gnarled kiawe staff, and hobbled to the edge of the nearby cliff. A rope tied to a good-sized guava bush dangled down to a ledge several feet below.
“There’s a little cave down there. I hide stuff there when I need to.”
Marcella grasped the tree and the rope, swung herself down onto the ledge in a couple of quick hops. She looked back up at them.
“Nope. Shallow declivity here; no room to do anything more than hunker down out of sight of above.”
They did one more sweep through the camp. As they headed back to the SUV, Lei swept her arm to gesture out over the acres of long grass. “She could be hiding anywhere out here.”
“We’ll have to rely on Ramona to let us know.” Marcella dusted a little red dirt off her black pants.
“You saw her feet. She’s not going to hike a mile up to the community center to use the pay phone.”
“Just might have something for that.” Rogers rummaged in a duffel bag beside his seat and pulled up a burner phone, still in its package. “Agents are like Boy Scouts—always prepared. Let’s preprogram this with our numbers and leave it for her.”
Marcella took the phone and removed several bills from a wallet she kept in her shoulder pack.
“A little insurance money to make it worth her while.” She strode off with the phone and money to ensure Ramona called them if Anchara came back. They got on the road to Kahului Station shortly after.
“Let’s get this interview with Silva going and get a BOLO out on the girl and the car the people were driving,” Marcella said. “We need to find her before they do.”
Chapter Eighteen
The gallery’s always busy on weekends, so Monday is my day off. I usually exercise, shop, and train some of the merchandise.
This morning I sit on the balcony and sip my coffee, reading the paper. I like the way the sun on the horizon lights my paper from beneath, and the far blue-purple smudge of Lana`i on the horizon, dressed in cloud, keeps me company. Waxing lyrical. It’s my creative side, the part that has built the business and knows beauty is worthwhile for its own sake.
John Wylie, that golf-loving scumbag, called me Saturday, wanting to go to some Rotary Club mock-gambling function. The one time I bent my rules and slept with him (though you couldn’t call what we did sleeping) keeps him coming back, hoping for more.
It’s always the people you least expect who like a taste of the whip.
I turned him down, but in the course of his bumbling begging he told me he’d given out my card to the cops—he’d been the leak to my gallery. He’s been cut off from goodies of all kinds for the foreseeable future.
I scan the paper, looking for the demise of Texeira, but there’s nothing. Surely the accidental death of a cop would make the paper. The job must not be done yet, but why?
Healani is usually more efficient. Well, perhaps arranging the right accident is taking some time. I need to call House and make sure he’s okay with all of this.
Calling House is a double-edged sword. It might piss him off, and then it could as easily be me falling ten stories off my own railing. That danger makes calling him irresistible. I settle myself on the lounge chair, coffee and papaya on the little glass table beside me, and dial the work phone.
“Hello, House.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Do you say that to all the ladies?”
His voice. Just that makes me reach down between my legs. I don’t have anything on but my white silk robe.
“I know why you’re calling me. You want to know why the trash hasn’t been taken out.”
“Well, yes. Just checking that you’re okay with Healani’s arrangement?”
“Accidents happen, as they say.”
I smile. I love listening to that rough voice. My hand moves faster, imagining all I’d like to do to him. “You know how to make me hot.”
First time I’ve taken a chance like that, letting him know he affects me. I part my legs, naked under the white silk robe, the wind off the ocean ruffling over my skin. I’m getting there, can feel it building, a coiling deep inside punctuated by stabs of pleasure almost like pain.
“What are you doing?” He sounds suspicious, and best yet, curious.
“Wouldn’t you like to know. I told you, you make me hot.” I’m panting a bit.
“Describe it.”
“I’m on my deck. Only wearing my robe, nothing underneath. I’m ten stories up, so unless someone’s in a helicopter, no one can see what I’m doing. You already guessed what I’m doing.”
“Take the robe off.”
“Why?”
“I told you to.”
He’s into this. Arousal sweeps over me in the first mini wave of what promises to be a very nice orgasm.
“Okay. Because you’re telling me to. Because it’s you, House.” I usually don’t like taking orders, but I slide out of the robe. It puddles on the floor, and I stretch out on the lounge chair, enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the pleasure building.
“Oh, this is good,” I pant. I haven’t been this turned on by any of the merchandise, no matter how good they look. It’s power that turns me on. Mine. His. Ours together.
He gives me more directions. I do everything he asks, including something inventive with the papaya and the spoon.
When I come, it’s explosive, mind-bending. I’m sure he’s with me.
Sweat cooling on my skin gives me a shiver a few minutes later. I still hold the phone, and I can hear his deep breathing. I shrug back into the robe. My delicate skin’s picking up a touch of pink, which won’t do. I go back into the penthouse, walking across the white carpet. It feels wonderful to sensitized nerve endings.
I feel amazing, and amazed. I didn’t know there was anything sexual left for me to discover, but House has taken me to a whole new place, just with phone sex.
What could he do to me in person?
“I want to meet you.” I know my voice is small. I hadn’t done anythi
ng but give orders for more years than I can count. I don’t like asking, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“When you’ve earned it,” he says. The phone goes dead.
I feel bereft, abandoned. A puppy dropped off at the curb of nowhere. These feelings make me angry, and I need to get rid of that unhealthy anger. I take a shower and go downstairs to find someone to take it out on.
Chapter Nineteen
Lei and Captain Corpuz sat in the molded plastic chairs outside a window into the interview room at Kahului Station. Gerry Bunuelos and Abe Torufu had been officially assigned to help with the investigation and sat with Lei to observe the interview. Inside, seated at a shiny steel table, hunched James Silva.
He was wearing a toupee, and he stole a finger up to scratch under the rug. A Primo Beer shirt, weather-beaten Dockers, and rubber slippers on feet that could have used a wash completed his ensemble.
“He didn’t want to come in,” Bunuelos said. “I had to threaten to press charges on the cockfight, which we’d let him off of before in exchange for info on the girl.”
“Don’t really blame him,” Lei said. “Now that I’m hearing a little more about the House.”
Marcella and Rogers, in full buttoned-down FBI glory, entered the interview room.
“Hey, who are you? What’s going on?” Silva cried. They didn’t answer as they set up a video camera on a tripod (they’d declined to use the station’s equipment) and an audio recorder. They took seats across from Silva.
“What’s going on?” he asked again.
“What do you think is going on?” Rogers flipped open his cred wallet. “Special Agent Rogers, FBI.”
Marcella opened hers as well. Silva, not handcuffed this time, jumped to his feet and ran to the door, yanking at the handle—locked of course.
“I suggest you have a seat, Mr. Silva.” Marcella patted the table invitingly. “You aren’t in trouble. We’re just looking for some information.”