by Toby Neal
She’d gotten pregnant with his child the day she left him, and she’d carried the baby alone, in a strange country, without anything but a part-time job as a waitress and the small alimony he paid her until she finished her culinary arts degree and got a solid job. Never said a word, never complained, and hadn’t had an abortion. A mysterious woman, whom now he’d never know—except through the son she’d left behind.
If that weren’t enough, he was a suspect in her murder, and he could tell he’d been carefully set up.
Stevens ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and stood up, turning off the water. The baby was his, and however he felt about suddenly discovering he was the father of a motherless newborn, he’d do right by the child. But it wasn’t fair to Lei. All he could do was ask her to consider adopting and deal with whatever she said.
That’s if they’d let him take the boy, with the shadow of suspicion over his head. He had to get the ball rolling as soon as he was able to get a little organized.
He got out of the shower, feeling a thousand years old, and dressed in his old LAPD sweatpants.
Keiki danced around, seeing this, and he patted the dog’s large square head. Outside, in the sun-splattered backyard behind their cottage, he threw the ball for Keiki. She grunted with happiness as she caught it midair, waggling her cropped behind.
He looked around the unkempt patch of grass and overgrown hibiscus hedge. A plumeria tree dropped fragrant pinwheel blossoms on the weedy lawn. This place needed some work, work he and Lei always seemed too busy to put in. How the hell would they have time to raise a newborn?
It was one thing to think of Lei getting pregnant and having nine months to prepare, to make a plan. It was another entirely to bring home a baby as soon as next week. One of them would have to go on family leave, at least until they could find child care, and since it was his baby, it should be Stevens. He decided to get on with meeting his son and looked up the number for Kapiolani Children’s Center on the neighboring island of Oahu.
“I’d like the neonatal unit please.” Once transferred there, he had no idea what to ask.
“I’m the father of a child who’s been admitted,” he said. “A baby boy. Last name Mookjai.”
“Just a moment, sir. Your name?”
“Michael Stevens.”
A long pause. “We don’t have you listed as a relative.” The friendly voice had cooled.
“That may be so. My paternity was just confirmed on Maui. I’d like to come see him.”
“You will have to speak to Child Welfare Services about that. He’s a ward of the state.”
“Is he okay? Is he doing all right?” Stevens almost couldn’t believe how quickly he’d come to care about his child.
“I really can’t say, sir, until your relationship with the child is confirmed and you’re put on our access list.”
“Do you have a social worker’s name I can speak to?”
A long pause as she considered this. “Yes. Darlene Fujimoto.” She rattled off a number.
Stevens called Darlene Fujimoto and left a voicemail identifying himself, offering verification he was the father, and Captain Omura’s number to speak to regarding the situation.
He hoped Omura would support his effort, but there was nothing more to be done right now.
Except book a flight to Oahu, set up the nursery, and tie up all the loose ends at his station. Who would take over at his station? They were short-handed as it was.
That reminded him of the Maui’s Secrets book he’d picked up on his way to Anchara’s motel room. He needed something to do, something to keep his mind occupied other than with nightmare memories. Admin leave didn’t mean he’d stopped working—just that he stopped getting paid and carrying his badge. Not that Omura would agree with that...
He got the book out of the car and sat on the back step, the sun drying his hair, as he leafed through it with a ballpoint pen and a stack of Post-its, circling the locations of the Maui heiaus. It was a start, and he had to keep working the case on the down-low, so that meant no cultural experts he had to coordinate with Omura.
The book was remarkably accurate, even providing GPS coordinates for the locations in wilderness areas. He could see why the activists didn’t like how accessible it made the heiaus.
Keiki whined and he threw the ball some more and finally returned inside the house. His cell phone was still being held as evidence, so he used the house phone to call Haiku Station.
After he’d told his second in command, Ferreira, that he’d be out a few days on leave, he asked for Brandon Mahoe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Brandon, I’m glad you’re there. What’s the status of getting involved with the Heiau Hui?”
“I’ve decided to do it, sir. I met with Uncle Manuel already. Told him I was feeling a call to the cause and was putting aside my badge to answer it. He seemed to believe me.”
“Well, be very careful. I don’t have my personal cell, so I’m going to get my own burner phone and one for you, like we talked about, and we’ll keep in touch that way. I’ll tell Ferreira, who’s doing scheduling, to schedule you so you can attend their meetings and patrols. Wait for me to get you the burner; I should be able to bring it by the station in an hour.”
Getting back to his case renewed Stevens’s energy. Hopefully, the rumors about him would wait a little while. Galvanized, he drove the Bronco back into town. He bought two burner phones at Longs, and while he was at it, all the baby stuff he could find: bottles, formula, diapers in the tiniest size. One of the saleswomen, a Filipina with a kind face, saw him dithering over the various items.
“Baby shower?”
“You could say that. We have a new baby coming and I—don’t know what we need.”
She slanted him a disbelieving glance. “Where’s the mama? Usually the mama like to shop.”
“She’s—in the hospital. We weren’t ready yet,” he fibbed.
The woman’s apple cheeks creased in a smile. “Oh, I help you, poor t’ing. Here. You need these small-kine blankets. And these we call onesies. And you get one car seat?”
The cart was piled high when he pushed it to the checkout, and he actually felt a little queasy at the expense, so close after the wedding, which had wiped out their savings.
“Welcome to adulthood,” he muttered. It reminded him of his father, dead the last fifteen years, clapping him on the shoulder and saying that to him the day he got his driver’s license. But nothing said adulthood like parenthood, intended or not.
He loaded the Bronco, still feeling a little disembodied about making this commitment to a son he’d never seen. Driving back home, he wondered how long he would have to call the baby just “him.”
What had Anchara wanted to name the child? He was sure she’d had that all figured out. She’d had an orderly way about her, everything in its place, tidy. She’d hum as she cleaned the house, and she’d seemed happiest working in the little ornamental garden they’d put in back. He wished he knew where she lived, that he could see what she’d bought for the baby and find out what she’d planned to name him.
He could look her up on the computer at the station—he was headed there now, to give Brandon the burner phone and tidy up his desk—but he was sure her living space was taped off as part of the investigation, and going there would be a very bad idea.
Maybe Pono could scout around in there for him, see what he could find out, what was going to happen to her belongings. Guilt twisted his guts at the thought—she had no relatives but those she’d fled in Thailand, and during their relationship, at least, only a few acquaintances. Maybe there were more people in her life now.
Why hadn’t she told him about the baby? Why had she kept him, even? Probably she hadn’t told Stevens because she didn’t want him in her life anymore—even for the baby’s sake.
These ruminations weren’t helping his mood. He pulled into the modest parking lot outside the station and went inside.
“Can I speak to
you, boss?” Ferreira met him, coming in.
“Of course. In my office.”
He shut the door behind them and sat down, unlocking the drawers of his desk and looking for the little black address book he used to store confidential informant and other contact information. He’d never trusted keeping all that information in his phone or computer, and it had turned out to be a good thing.
Ferreira sat down in the chair across from the desk, potbelly straining his belt and his weathered face concerned. “I heard they’re looking at you for the pregnant woman’s murder in Kahului.”
Stevens stopped rummaging—so much for his hope of no one at his station knowing for a little while. He made eye contact with the detective. “It’s almost surreal, what’s happened. I don’t blame them for looking at me. She’s my ex. She called me for help, and I got there as soon as I could, but she’d been stabbed. I couldn’t save her life. Hopefully, the baby’s going to be okay.” Stevens looked down, turning to rotate the dial of the safe where he remembered stashing the book. “My phone’s been taken for the investigation, so I bought a burner to keep in touch. Hopefully, this will blow over soon. It looks like I’m going to be a dad rather suddenly, so it may be a little longer until I get things sorted out at home.”
He glanced up. Ferreira’s mouth had fallen open. “Damn, Lieutenant. What a shitstorm.”
“You got that right.” Stevens took the dog-eared black book out of the safe. “I don’t know who Omura will send out to hold down the fort, but if it’s you, here’s where I keep things, and the password to my computer.” He jotted the information down, passed it over to the other man. “Mostly I’m worried about the heiau case. Can you volunteer to take my place if Omura needs to replace me? Do you have the time?”
“I’ll try.”
Stevens and Ferreira had just been settling into a comfort level with each other, and he didn’t really know how the other man was taking all this. “I’d appreciate a minimum of rumor spreading about this, if possible,” Stevens said.
Ferreira frowned, looking insulted. “They’ll clear you. I can’t see you ever doing anyone wrong like that.”
“It looks bad, though, I know. I think I’m being set up, but there’s nothing I can do right now other than go through the process. I hope I’ll have your support.”
Ferreira stood, extended his hand. His grip was strong, encouraging. “You got it, boss.”
“Can you send in Mahoe? He still needs some seasoning—hope you’ll keep an eye on him. I have him on a special confidential assignment, and he’s going to need some flexible scheduling.” He’d already decided not to tell anyone about Mahoe’s role except Omura, in case of leaks.
“No problem. I’ll give the kid whatever he needs. Good luck, boss.” Ferreira saluted with two fingers as he left, his face serious. Stevens knew he could get no greater support from the grizzled older man.
He was clearing his desk off as Brandon Mahoe came in and shut the door. Stevens had taken the burner phone out of its packaging. “I’ve only told Omura about your assignment. No one knows here—and let’s keep it that way. I programmed my own burner’s number into your phone. Report to me daily, so I know you’re okay—just a text is fine.”
“Yes, sir.” Mahoe’s face shone with excitement. “They are having a rally at the heiau in Wailuku tonight. I’ll call you afterward.”
“Great. And, Brandon. If you hear some rumors about me, don’t believe them. I’ll be cleared eventually.” The young man frowned, obviously confused, as Stevens went on. “I’m going to be out on admin leave for a short time. It changes nothing that we’ve set up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll look forward to your call.”
“I’ll keep you posted. Daily.” And Mahoe left.
There wasn’t anything more to do than make sure the desk was clear for the next guy, if there was a next guy, and go on home. He walked through the small open area in front, bolstered by the encouragement he received from his small team all the way out to the Bronco.
Evening had fallen and Lei was home when Stevens drove up to the house. One look at her face as she stood on the porch, lips tight and brow furrowed, and he knew it wasn’t the right time to bury her in the avalanche of baby stuff he’d bought. He hoped she wouldn’t spot the mountain of boxes and bags in the back of the Bronco as he got out and locked the gate.
Keiki greeted him with happy tail wags, but Lei greeted him with a poke in the chest. “Where were you? I was worried!”
“I had to go downtown, do some errands, stop by my station,” he said. He pulled her stiff body in for a hug. “I had to talk to the guys. Make sure my cases were wrapped up a bit.”
She relaxed, fisting her hands in the back of his shirt. “I wasn’t sure where you’d gone.”
“Thought I’d skipped town or jumped off a cliff?” He tried to make it light, but one look at her stricken face showed him she was still worried. He leaned down and kissed her. “Let’s go inside. I need a beer. Or four. We have to talk.”
“Do we ever.” She hooked a finger in his belt as if she couldn’t bear to be separated, and he looped an arm over her. “I made some chili.”
He wanted to make a cooking joke, because chili was pretty much all she ever made—but the energy that had carried him this far seemed to have evaporated. The sight of the reddish sauce in the pan, the spatters on the white enamel of the stove, brought the nightmare from earlier bursting back in front of his eyes.
“I’m not hungry. I think I’ll take a shower.”
“That’s a good idea.”
He didn’t resist as Lei took his hand, leading him into the bathroom—he understood her need to connect with him in the oldest way in the world. He wanted to as well, but felt muffled somehow, wrapped in cotton batting, unable to respond as she kissed him and touched him. He didn’t resist as she undressed him, kissing her way down his torso, playing with the button of his jeans. Kneeling before him, she looked up at him, a position that had never failed to arouse him before. Today he felt nothing but a slight embarrassment for both of them.
“Are you okay?” Lei asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I can’t.”
“I understand.” Lei undressed briskly in that un-self-conscious way she had, tossing the clothes in the hamper and walking into the shower. He followed, more slowly, realizing it wasn’t normal for him to want another shower after his earlier lengthy one, but still longing to feel clean. She sat him on the bench and this time she washed him, head to toe, with the washcloth and shampooed his hair herself.
He didn’t feel any cleaner than he had before, after his long scrub-down earlier.
Sitting in the living room, he was grateful for Keiki’s solid bulk as the dog seemed to sense something was wrong and pressed close to him as he sat on the couch. He drank a beer but refused the chili. Lei ate hers and finally set her bowl on the coffee table, picking up her beer.
“Where do we start? I want the whole story of what happened.”
He took a sip, and the glass lip of the bottle rattled against his teeth. “I don’t want to go there again today.”
She gave him a level stare. “I need to know. Just the bare bones.”
“Anchara called me and asked me to come help her.” He filled in the events. “Omura got a call while I was still in the interview room, confirming the baby is mine, and he’s on Oahu at the neonatal unit.”
“About that. What are we going to do about that?”
“That? You mean the baby. My baby.” He felt his neck getting hot. He knew it was unreasonable, but he didn’t like her tone.
“Anchara’s baby, that you knew nothing about, and as far as I’m concerned, have no responsibility for.” Lei’s eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth as if she wished she could take back the words, but they’d been said.
“I was wondering how you’d feel about this.”
“Less than thrilled, to be honest.” She got up, an abrup
t movement, and carried the bowl into the kitchen. He heard loud and unnecessary splashing and crashing from the kitchen sink.
He knew he should follow her, say something, offer comfort. He couldn’t find the energy. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Anchara, her mouth moving, her hand reaching, that belly, astonishingly large, emerging from the pool of blood she lay in. Whatever they were going through was nothing compared to her suffering, her death.
Stevens set the empty beer bottle down. He got up and went to the little wooden bar where they kept other kinds of booze for when company came over. He took out a bottle of scotch.
His alcoholic mom’s drink of choice. Maybe it held some secret cure he’d missed. He splashed four fingers into one of the glasses and downed it in two searing gulps.
Lei returned, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She watched him as he refilled the glass. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was low, trembling. “I didn’t mean it. It’s not the baby’s fault. You’re his father. He needs a home, and he should come to us.”
Stevens turned toward her. The alcohol had lit a fire in his belly, steadying the tremble of his hands. “I was hoping you felt that way, because I went shopping.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Bought a few things. We can put it all in the spare room.” He tossed back the second drink, and when he turned and headed for the door, he was a little unsteady—but the flashback was gone. He knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
“Oh my God,” Lei whispered as he popped the back of the truck to reveal boxes and bags up to the ceiling.
“Yeah. Apparently, babies need a lot of shit.” He handed her bags until she turned to walk back to the house, and then he filled his own arms.
It took four trips to empty the truck. Lei was silent, the tight silence that didn’t bode well, but by the last trip he was feeling the booze buzz and ready to take her on.