Paradise Crime Mysteries

by Toby Neal

  Lei pushed the button on the gate alarm several times and finally heard Max Smiley’s gruff voice, rendered tinny by the speaker. “Whaddaya want? Who is this?”

  “Special Agent Lei Texeira. Delivery related to your case.”

  Typical of Max Smiley’s style, he didn’t respond or thank her, but the black bars motored inward. She drove her Tacoma in and pulled up in front of the entrance, a spread of double doors marked by five-foot bronze Chinese dragon sculptures.

  Max opened the door clad in striped terry cloth. His wife, Emmeline, was behind him, and she gave a cry of delight, running forward to snatch Angel out of Lei’s arms. “Oh my God! My sweetheart! Angel!”

  The little dog appeared equally delighted, whimpering and wriggling, licking Emmeline.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” the older woman cried, throwing a free arm around Lei in a hug.

  Max’s face, a-bristle with white whiskers, had split down the middle with a wide grin. “Come in! Have some coffee. Thanks so much for bringing our Angel back!”

  “I can only stay a minute,” Lei said. “Got a briefing back in town.” She followed the couple, still emitting cries of delight, into the now-familiar kitchen. Max splashed a cup of coffee into a travel mug emblazoned with Paradise Air. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Cream, please.”

  Smiley dosed it liberally with half-and-half. “Keep the mug,” he said, handing it to her. “This must mean you have the Bandit in custody.”

  “We do. And I wanted to speak to you about that. Unofficially. Off the record.”

  Emmeline drew close to her husband, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He must have been very disturbed to do all he did.”

  “Yes. I’m giving you a little heads-up on all that’s coming.” Lei took a breath, knowing what a chance she was taking saying anything at all about the investigation—but she was thinking of all the unhappy employees at Paradise Air. It was a chance worth taking. “The Smiley Bandit is a girl. The sixteen-year-old daughter of one of your oldest employees, who’s deceased now. Constantino Aguilar.”

  Lei could see by the blood draining from Max Smiley’s florid face that he knew exactly who Constantino Aguilar was. Emmeline turned to him, the dog clutched her to pin-tucked breast. “Max! What did you do to that poor man! Constantino was a good employee, the best!”

  “It’s what your husband didn’t do that led to what Consuelo did,” Lei said. “Constantino was diagnosed with cancer too late for effective treatment. Your husband wouldn’t grant his medical leave and fired him for job abandonment when he became too sick to come to work. He lost his health insurance and his pension. He died at his sister’s house, with Consuelo dropping out of school to nurse him. She’s an orphan and penniless. And currently in the psych ward at Tripler Hospital on suicide watch.”

  “Max.” Emmeline moved away from her husband. “I can’t believe this. You aren’t pressing charges on that poor girl.”

  “I didn’t think.” Max’s face had gone gray, and Lei was a little alarmed as he folded and sat abruptly in a kitchen chair. “I didn’t think about anything but the bottom line, and Constantino was always nit-picking, trying to spend more in the engine-maintenance department. I didn’t know what was happening to him.” He turned to Lei. “I count on Reynalda Tamayose, my personnel manager, to run day-to-day operations. I knew we let him go, but I didn’t know he was sick.” He shook his head, looked at Emmeline. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m going to make it up to them. Been doing a lot of thinking since the Hummel disappeared.”

  “I heard rumors about how you were running the company, but I didn’t want to believe it. Not you, not my Max. That wasn’t how we started the company. We were a family in the early days. I never should have left you alone with it all.” She turned back to Lei, blue eyes showing steely resolve, Angel tucked under her arm. “He’ll make it right for that girl. Full pension benefits for her to inherit, to begin with. And we won’t press charges on the theft.”

  “It’s gone way beyond that now.” Lei shook her head. “Consuelo Aguilar is in a world of trouble—but she has a very good lawyer. That reporter Wendy Watanabe started a defense fund for her. The first priority is that she gets some mental health help, which is underway. Anyway, Mr. Smiley, I hope you and your wife will talk things over and consider some policy changes. In our investigation, it became evident your company is more troubled than you know. Much more than it appears on paper.”

  “I’m sorry it took this situation to give me a wake-up call. I’ll call a management team meeting right away.”

  “And I’ll be there, too,” Emmeline said. “Thanks again for bringing Angel back safely.”

  Lei thought of Consuelo tossing away the pistol and diving into the ocean to save the little dog—giving up her chance at death so Angel could live. She vividly remembered the moment she’d caught the little dog underwater and bore her to the surface—and the moment the dog fought her way back to life in Consuelo’s arms.

  “Do something for Consuelo Aguilar. That’s all the thanks I need.” Lei reached out to stroke the rounded head, and Angel closed her eyes, her wide bat ears sagging in bliss.

  Lei was speeding on the Pali Highway, headed for the Bureau briefing to review the case, when her cell beeped. She put the Bluetooth in and took a call from Ken.

  “The Smiley Bandit has struck again,” Ken said without greeting. “Get your ass into the office.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lei slid into one of the padded steel chairs around the Bureau’s fake-burled-wood conference table. Ken shot her his you’re-late-again glance, but she ignored it, intent on the screen behind Waxman’s head—Wendy Watanabe was ahead of them again, in front of a natural-stone mansion this time.

  “Kahala residents were shocked this morning to see the graffiti and destruction of this gracious home, owned by pharmaceutical executive Glenn Parry and his wife.” The camera panned the stone wall. The edifice of the home was marked with spray-painted graffiti, the distinctive smiley-face signature that Consuelo had left. Smoke belched from the front door, semiobscured by a fire truck. “Inside the home, the Smiley Bandit has apparently struck again, destroying the interior and taking off with several valuable objets d’art. The FBI will not return our calls to comment, but it appears that our initial story, that the Bandit was in custody, was in error.”

  Lei leaned over to Ken. “Why aren’t we out in Kahala with the case?”

  “Marcella and Rogers are. Waxman wanted us in here.”

  Lei’s heart lurched. This couldn’t be good. Her actions were going to be questioned, and it appeared Waxman wasn’t even going to wait until the investigation was over to question them. The video switched to the backlit figure of the Bandit’s sidekick.

  “You pigs think you brought down the Bandit. Think again. The Smiley Mafia has gone to the streets and it’s spreading. Smiley Mafia is the virus that’s going to purge the one percent that give nothing back to our islands, to the world. Brace yourselves. The Smiley Mafia will be teaching you some new lessons in wealth redistribution.”

  Watanabe reappeared, and Lei didn’t think she was imagining the real concern that had appeared in the reporter’s eyes. “This reporter has never heard the phrase ‘Smiley Mafia’ until now, and there is a very different tone with this latest video and the attack on the Parry estate, where sources confirm explosives were used. Could this latest attack be a copycat? Or followers of the Bandit seeking revenge? Reporting live from Honolulu, with exclusive coverage of the Smiley Bandit case, this is Wendy Watanabe signing off.”

  Waxman clicked off the video and looked at Lei. He was immaculate as usual, a subtle red-striped tie setting off a gray summer-weight suit, silver hair gleaming like a helmet and his eyes cold as they surveyed her.

  Lei remembered for the first time that she’d dressed in the dark and had failed to do anything to tame the frazzled curls she’d slept on. She glanced down, and sure enough, she’d misbuttoned her shirt. Fortunately, her backup pair
of black athletic shoes were on the right feet, and still tied.

  She might get fired, but she’d saved Angel’s life, and the visit to the Smileys had been successful. Maybe some change for Paradise Air employees would come from it.

  “It appears Consuelo Aguilar’s accomplices have taken the Smiley Bandit thing in a new direction with Aguilar in custody. Does anyone know what the hell Smiley Mafia is?” His voice rose on the phrase as he narrowed his eyes at Lei. “Texeira, you look like hell. Not up to Bureau standard; neither have been your actions on this case. If I didn’t need you right now, I’d be benching you for that botched interview on Maui, not to mention your pattern of lateness, insubordination, and lack of protocol—such as jumping out of helicopters.”

  Lei wondered what he’d think of her early-morning trip to see the Smileys and return Angel and decided not to mention it. She resisted the urge to touch her rampageous hair or rebutton her misaligned blouse as he went on. “I’m writing you up, and we’ll have a formal administrative conference when this investigation is over. Right now, I need you to get into the psych ward and have a talk with that girl. Marcella, Rogers, and Ken all have told me you have some sort of mystical bond with her. Well, get in there and get me some intel, and if it’s good enough, a write-up in your record is all I’ll have to do. Find out what the hell the Smiley Mafia is and who her coconspirators are. I don’t want to hear from you unless you’ve got some answers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lei spoke through numb lips. She stood, scraped back her chair, and walked out, Ken on her heels.

  “You’re just an inch or two from getting fired. I’m not gonna lie,” Ken said. “And it would be a shame, because you’re a damn good investigator.” He squeezed her shoulder as they walked down the hall. “Hang in there. We’ll fight this as we go.”

  “Don’t see what I did that was so terrible,” Lei said as they drove in lights-and-sirens glory toward Tripler Hospital, a historic pinkish carbuncle on a hill.

  “Like I said, it’s a buildup, and also part of Waxman’s hazing process with new agents.”

  “I hear he’s harder on women.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that, too, but I think he’d just say it was your inexperience and attitude. Anyway, I hear Consuelo’s better physically, but she hasn’t spoken. Dr. Wilson can’t get her to engage.”

  “Great,” Lei muttered. “My career’s on the line with this interview, and the witness is catatonic.”

  Consuelo did appear catatonic. She was in a simple room with nothing in it but a toilet in the corner and a built-in cot. No hard corners on anything, anywhere, and the walls were covered with gray carpeting. “Deadens noise, and they can’t hurt themselves banging their heads,” the sturdy nurse who showed them to Consuelo’s room said in reply to Lei’s question.

  Consuelo lay straight and still on the cot. Her eyes were open as she stared at the ceiling without moving. Her long hair had been confined to a ponytail, and she wore green hospital scrubs with socks on her feet.

  Ken took a chair outside, and Lei carried in her phone. She’d taken a picture of Angel the previous evening and printed it out before they came, and she held the picture above Consuelo, where the girl could see it without turning her head.

  “Angel says hi.” The dog had her huge Chihuahua ears pricked, her round bulgy eyes agleam and her tiny pink tongue hanging out. She really did look like she was saying hi.

  A long moment passed, and then Consuelo put her finger out and touched the printout of the dog’s face.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Lei knelt next to the bed, the dearth of furniture bothering her. The space felt more like a prison cell than a hospital room.

  Consuelo didn’t respond. Lei decided to just ask the questions that needed asking.

  “Consuelo, I know you’re the real Smiley Bandit. I know you had reasons for what you did. But it looks like, with you in here, Rezents is doing some stuff in your name. We know it’s him because we’ve matched his voice in the videos. He trashed an estate in Kahala. Took a bunch of stuff, vandalized it, graffiti everywhere with your smiley-face logo on it.”

  Another long moment passed; then Consuelo rolled over and looked at Lei. Her eyes had an expression in them, a vacancy, as if she were coming back from somewhere very far away.

  “What?” Her voice was thin and thready.

  Lei repeated what she’d said before. “He talked about the Smiley Mafia going viral, going to the streets and redistributing wealth.”

  A little flare of something alive and angry glittered in the dark of Consuelo’s eyes. “Good.”

  She snatched the photo and rolled away from Lei, tucking the picture of Angel inside her shirt as she faced the wall.

  “Consuelo. Talk to me.” No response from the girl.

  “I took Angel back to the Smileys. I talked to them about your father.”

  Still no response.

  “Consuelo. Please. Tell me who you’re working with. We need to bring them in safely.”

  Still no answer. Lei got up and headed to the door. “Max Smiley said he’s sorry. They’re giving you back your father’s pension.”

  Consuelo still didn’t respond.

  Outside in the hall, Dr. Wilson was talking to Ken. “She’s been in an almost catatonic state since she got in. I’ve put her on an antidepressant, hoping to bring her brain chemistry up a bit, but she refuses to eat or take her medication. We’re going to give it another day before we start her on a force-feeding regimen.”

  “I got a response out of her, but it wasn’t what we needed.” Lei gave the psychologist a brief hug. She described what she’d said and done.

  “I wish you’d checked with me first about giving her that information about Rezents,” Dr. Wilson said. “Though I think it might take her out of despair to know her ‘cause’ is continuing. I don’t think we can look to her for any help with the investigation, though. Whatever the Smiley Mafia’s cause is, she was willing to die for it.”

  “Was it okay to give her the picture of the dog?” Lei asked. She couldn’t seem to do anything right these days.

  “That was good. I just wished you’d stopped there.”

  “Well, what’s next for her?”

  “We have to stabilize her. Then I guess she can be transferred to the youth correctional center for holding until a bail hearing.”

  “She’s too much of a suicide and flight risk. I hate the thought of her in jail.”

  “We’re on the same page there,” Dr. Wilson said. “I’m already prepping an evaluation with recommendations. I want to keep her in a therapeutic setting.”

  “Hey, sure you two aren’t working for Bennie Fernandez?” Ken asked. The lawyer was famous for his bleeding-heart pleas. “The kid’s had a rough time, but she still has a boatload of felonies to answer for.” Dr. Wilson shook her head. “I think she needs therapy more than anything.”

  Lei refrained from further comment—an agreement that would further compromise her in Ken’s eyes. This kid really had gotten under her skin, and the thought of that slight figure in prison orange turned her stomach. There had to be a way to get her treatment instead. “We need to check in with Marcella and Rogers. I’ll call you later, see if she’s in a better state to talk.”

  Lei and Ken got on the road to Kahala, a wealthy neighborhood on the Diamond Head side of the city and the address of the most recent burglary. Lei was silent during the drive through streets bordered by lava-stone walls and gracious plantings. Fit moms pushing jogging strollers and older people with fancy dogs walked opposite them on wide, smooth sidewalks.

  The difference between the earlier burglary sites and this one was immediately obvious. Graffiti in harsh red paint began on the exterior of the native bluestone wall and extended into the trashed interior of the house. WEALTH REDISTRIBUTION and BRING DOWN THE 1% NOW along with SMILEY MAFIA were interspersed with the trademark smiley-face design.

  Lei put her hands on her hips, gazing around at the destruction—sculpt
ures tipped over off their bases and broken canvases slashed, TVs blown apart by knickknacks. Stuffing spilled out from furniture like intestines from a gut wound. Red spray paint repeated the Smiley Bandit symbol across the walls.

  Marcella stepped out of the kitchen. She was immaculately put together—smooth brown hair restrained in the elegant updo she called the FBI Twist, pointy-toed patent slingbacks adding style to black slacks and a plain white blouse. “Lei. Glad you made it over. Did the girl talk at the hospital?”

  “No.” Lei blew out a breath. “This is really intense, a whole different vibe. Lotta rage here. Think it’s a copycat?”

  “Copycat or the coconspirators carrying on the mission. What did you make of the Smiley Mafia thing Rezents said on the video this morning? I was watching your interview yesterday. I didn’t hear her mention Smiley Mafia.”

  “No, she never said anything about that. But when I mentioned it today, it got a reaction. She knows what it is; she’s just not talking. She hasn’t said a word about Rezents or working with anyone else.”

  “Well, let’s hope that changes. Follow me.” Marcella led Lei and Ken into the business area of the house and gestured to the office safe. It was a rather cheap residential one, but unlike the others, its door hung open by one hinge, the interior blackened and the desk area splintered. “This Bandit is using explosives.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rogers came into the office carrying a camera. “Welcome to the Smiley Bandit’s latest crime scene. This kid blew the door off the safe, all right, but from what I can tell, he blew up the money, too.” He reached down to pick up a blackened piece of a hundred-dollar bill from the blizzard of bits scattered over the carpet. “Doesn’t seem like an expert.”

  “We haven’t been back to the office—has the usual donation thing happened with the stolen goods?” Ken asked.

  “Not that we know of. Homeowner says there was about five thousand in there and a collection of Hawaiian gold jewelry, which as you can see, is gone,” Rogers said. “He probably took that with him. We haven’t found evidence of it.”