Paradise Crime Mysteries

by Toby Neal

  “What about protests about your controlled burns?” Stevens asked. “I’ve seen some very vocal people complaining about air-quality concerns and so forth related to the harvesting. Have you received any hate mail or other targeted complaints?”

  Beside him, he could see Ferreira shaking his head, but Okasako nodded. “I already thought of that. I’ve had our administrative assistants set aside any threatening or otherwise negative correspondence.” He reached into the file folder he’d walked in with and took out a rubber-banded stack of letters. “These range from scientific articles linking the cane smoke to cancer and asthma to rants about bringing down property values.”

  “Thank you.” Stevens took the letters. “It was an idea of mine that, besides sour-grapes-employee concerns, these fires could be about drawing attention to the burn debate.”

  “There’s no debate,” Schumacher snapped. “Burning is the most efficient method of harvest. Period.”

  “What about those turbine-style harvesters I’ve seen used beside the major highways, where there’s a safety concern with traffic?”

  “Expensive. And if you consider the carbon footprint generated by the gas the turbines burn, it’s not that much better.”

  Stevens frowned. “I’d love to see some statistics on that and a fuller discussion on why machine harvesters aren’t an option—or at least on why some people think they should be. Might speak to motive.”

  “We won’t settle that issue here,” Okasako snapped. “Let’s stay focused on our mutual interest in solving this case.”

  “That’s what we’re here for. Solving the crime that’s affecting your operations,” Ferreira said from beside Stevens. Stevens felt his hackles rise at his subordinate’s conciliatory tone.

  “More important, solving a murder case. A man has lost his life.” Stevens bit off his words.

  “A homeless man, camping in our fields,” Schumacher said dismissively.

  “A human being,” Stevens said. “Who died in excruciating pain.” He opened his own file and pushed a couple of photos of the “human chicken wing” over to the two Maui Sugar employees. Schumacher paled, but Okasako took a long look. He raised his eyes to Stevens’s, expression unchanged.

  “We are in no way responsible for this man’s death,” Okasako said. “And we want to make sure this not only doesn’t happen again, but that the person who set the fire is prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  Stevens put the pictures back into the file. “Good. Then we’re all on the same page. Anybody have any ideas about motive other than what we’ve explored?”

  Schumacher nodded. “A lot of people have said they thought it might just be kids causing trouble. Thinking fire-setting is fun and won’t hurt anybody.”

  Tim Owen spoke up. “There are a few reasons I don’t think it’s kids. The accelerant used to start the fires, for one, is a mix of two-thirds diesel and one-third gasoline. The gasoline combusts upon ignition, catching the diesel, which clings to the fuel source, helping the burn really take hold. While it’s possible it’s a kid who’s done a little homework to know that, more likely it’s an adult with some knowledge of fire science.”

  “Well, the public seems to keep putting that teen theory forth. I wonder if you have a list of employees with teenagers?” Ferreira asked.

  Okasako inclined his head. “Might take HR a little while, but I can pull together a list for you.”

  “That reminds me—we were going to discuss the safety recommendations I suggested,” Owen said. “Why don’t I revisit them for the group?”

  Schumacher nodded.

  “Okay.” Owen took out a paper. “I believe I gave this to you after the first two fires. First: Increase company security patrols around your harvest-ready fields.”

  “We’ve done that as best we can with our personnel challenges,” Okasako said.

  “Second: Take down the postings about the burn schedule to obscure the targets more.”

  “We can’t. Part of our agreement with the county is that the burn schedule is made public,” Schumacher said.

  “I still think you could technically fulfill that requirement while making the information less accessible,” Owen argued. “But we can discuss later. Next: Install surveillance cams on the power poles in the field. That might help catch the arsonist on video.”

  “We’re looking into that,” Okasako said. “So far the bids we’ve received are prohibitively expensive.”

  “All right. That’s your choice as a company.” Owen looked down at his list, and Stevens felt his estimation of the young man rising. Tim Owen was being authoritative, making sure the company couldn’t shift blame to him and the fire department if the fires continued. “Make firebreaks using the turbine harvesters right after you stop watering to contain the size of the fires.”

  “We plan to do that. We can afford to cut the fields up into smaller grids using the harvesters and burn them in sections,” Okasako said.

  “Good. Here’s another one: Lock the cane-haul road gates and restrict the key access. I’ve observed that your gates are usually open, and people are using your roads as informal shortcuts. You could easily stop the traffic.”

  “Yes. I thought that was already done.” Schumacher looked at Okasako.

  Okasako shook his head. “Everyone was complaining so much I lifted the restriction, but I’ll get the foremen locking all the gates again. It’s a hassle for our employees, but the ones who need access can all get keys.”

  “It’s just while you’re under fire, as it were,” Owen said. “Once we catch this perpetrator, things can be more relaxed. Tell them that when they grumble. Okay, just one more. Install outdoor smoke alarms along your access roads. This could help warn anyone camping or hiding in the fields that the cane is on fire.”

  “That’s pretty easy. We can do that,” Okasako said. “We’ll see if it doesn’t just drive everyone nuts going off at the wrong kinds of smoke.”

  “That’s all I’ve got right now,” Owen said.

  Stevens stood. “I think we have a good start here. We’ll be in touch with anything further. Give us a call if you hear anything, no matter how insignificant.” He handed over cards to both managers. “Thanks for your help.”

  “We want to catch this guy more than you do,” Schumacher said. Walking down the hall, Stevens wondered if that was really true. Based on their lukewarm implementation of Owen’s suggestions, it didn’t seem like it.

  The Coconut Sunseeker was an old three-story building covered with lumpy spray-on exterior spackle. Its turquoise paint was grayish with Hilo’s ever-present mildew. One of Hilo’s gigantic spreading banyan trees hung over it, casting the motel into shade and rendering the name literal.

  Lei set up her laptop on the rickety desk in her room. She’d paid cash and registered under a fake name, squelching the last dregs of guilt. She’d made a choice, chosen a path. Being off the radar was a necessary part of it, because she didn’t know where this would lead. Stevens’s words to her on the side of Haleakala right after their wedding rang in her ears: “I’ll take you down myself if I have to, to keep you out of danger.”

  No, she couldn’t tell him what she was doing, but he’d forgive her when she’d removed the threat. He always had before.

  She called South Hilo Station, setting up interviews with her first commanding officer on the force, Captain Ohale, and his vice detectives. First order of business was to legitimize the trip.

  She sent a text message to Stevens:

  Phone is on the fritz. Had to go to Big Island for a gambling case. I’m buying a burner and will call you later—Omura has details if you need them. Don’t worry. I love you and kisses to the little man!

  Her heart actually ached, a tightness in her chest that shortened her breath, as she put this part in motion. She turned off the smartphone and removed the battery, then opened a cheap burner phone she’d picked up at Hilo’s Longs.

  She texted Stevens again, knowing that if he didn’
t have her number, he’d immediately suspect something—hell, he was going to suspect something anyway, just because she was on the Big Island—but she needed time.

  Time to investigate her real gambling case.

  Time to find Chang and see what he was up to.

  And time to establish an alibi.

  Chapter Five

  Stevens and Ferreira sat on either side of his desk back at Haiku Station with the list of names from Maui Sugar. Between families with teens, disgruntled employees, and complaint letters, it was quite a stack to work through. “How do you want to divide this up, boss?” Ferreira asked.

  “Let’s just cut it in half and then work the phones,” Stevens said. “Let’s start with running background checks on all of the employees. Then, if we get a ping off anything, someone with suspicious priors, we can put together a list of visits and interviews. I think we should go find them, get the element of surprise versus calling them to come in for interviews.”

  “Sounds good.” Ferreira grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the list of employees in half, handing part to Stevens. “Done.”

  Stevens felt his mouth tug up in a smile, but he wanted to clear something up from the earlier interview.

  “Joshua, I know you feel strongly about the cane company’s right to keep doing what they’ve been doing, but we need to be able to follow every lead, even if it steps on toes.”

  “I thought we were playing ‘good cop, bad cop’ in that interview,” Ferreira said, his expression neutral. “I want to keep playing ‘good cop’ to Maui Sugar, because as you saw, I’m related to a lot of people there and have a lot of friends there. But if you’re asking where my loyalty lies, you should know me better than that.”

  “I just want to be sure,” Stevens said. “We could end up finding out they’re setting the fires themselves, for an insurance claim or something. You never know where the evidence will lead.”

  “Not likely on the insurance, since they were able to recoup most of the cane that was burned,” Ferreira said. “But yeah. We’ll follow wherever the evidence goes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, got some background checks to run.”

  Stevens watched the older man depart, noting the stiffness in Ferreira’s barrel-like posture and the red on the back of the man’s weathered neck.

  He’d offended Ferreira.

  Stevens got up and shut his glass-windowed office door. He wasn’t going to apologize. He needed his men to know he’d call them on contradictions. Ferreira had never given him any reason to wonder about his loyalty, and yet even in the face of Ferreira’s support during his own investigation a few months ago, Stevens still found it hard to trust the other man.

  Maybe it was because he’d been betrayed by a partner in Hilo before, in the worst possible way. He wished he could forget the man he’d worked with who’d tried to kill Lei. He never would. He lived with the scars on his wife every day. Ferreira was the closest thing he’d had to a partner since, because he’d refused to work with one after the Big Island.

  As if he’d conjured his wife in his thoughts, his phone dinged with an incoming message from her. His brows knit, reading it. Phone is on the fritz. Had to go to Big Island for a gambling case. I’ve bought a burner and will call you later—Omura has details if you need them. Don’t worry. I love you, and kisses to the little man!

  On the Big Island? Why hadn’t she said something last night?

  He texted her back asking that very thing. Seconds later a ping back informed him that the message was undeliverable.

  Phone on the fritz? How likely was that? He needed more information.

  He grabbed the desk phone, speed-dialing Captain Omura’s private line.

  “Lieutenant Stevens.” Omura’s chilly tone doused his ire somewhat. The captain hated unprofessionalism and emotionality, not to mention lack of teamwork and communication, which this call would reveal. Stevens slowed his breathing with an effort, curling one hand into a fist so hard it hurt. The tiny purple heart with lei on it bulged on his tight forearm muscle. He put the phone between his ear and shoulder and rubbed the tattoo—hard—until it burned, as if he could erase it from his skin.

  “Captain, I’m calling about Lei’s trip to the Big Island.”

  “Yes.” As usual, he heard the tapping of her keyboard. She didn’t elaborate, making him ask what he wanted to know. Even as he was forced to do so, he admired her technique.

  “I’m just checking that you authorized the trip.”

  “Yes. Couple of days. She’s working a vice case.” A pause, then the jab. It hurt even when he was braced for it. “Thought communication was a big part of marriage.”

  “You know Lei.” He gritted his teeth.

  “I know she’s an excellent detective. Bit of a risk taker and one to cut corners, but she’s on a mellow vice case.” Omura’s annoyance came through loud and clear. “I authorized three days, if that helps.”

  “Thank you. It does.” He hung up with a bang and surged to his feet. A “mellow” vice case? The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Would she go after Terence Chang alone? No. She wouldn’t be so crazy.

  Adrenaline flooded his system in a hot jolt of rage born of fear and frustration. Her case had to have ties back to the Changs. Gambling was their main thing after drugs.

  “Sonofabitch.” He tried Lei’s phone again, and it pinged back again.

  He walked back and forth, trying to burn off the adrenaline while he called South Hilo Station, where he and Lei had first met. Lei wasn’t the only one with connections there.

  “Captain Ohale. This is Lieutenant Stevens on Maui.”

  “Mike! Speaking to you both in one day, what a pleasure. How’s married life treating you?”

  Stevens let out his breath in a whoosh. “You heard from Lei?”

  “Yeah. She’s in town for an investigation, coming in to talk with me about a case.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Why are you asking?” Ohale’s bass voice had gone slow. “Don’t tell me she took off without telling you what she was doing.”

  “Nah.” He didn’t want to throw Lei under the bus with her old boss, so he tried for nonchalance. “I was just wondering if this had anything to do with the Changs. We’re supposed to stay a long way away from them—orders to Lei from the FBI. She still has a liaison role with them. Thought you might want a heads-up.”

  “You saying you don’t trust her to do that? Yeah, I guess we both know the answer to that.” Stevens heard the creak of Ohale’s old office chair as he leaned back. He could easily imagine the burly station chief pushing his tiny steel-rimmed readers onto the top of his head as he rubbed his eyes. “So married life hasn’t settled her down yet?”

  “It’s fine,” Stevens said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to get into it.

  “Well, she just told me she was here on a vice case, wanted to speak to my detectives. So I guess I’ll find out more when we meet.”

  “Great. Just thought you should have a heads-up about the Chang thing. This came down to us from the FBI after that bust at the Chang compound a few years ago.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Ohale said, and Stevens thanked him and hung up.

  If Lei was investigating the Changs, he’d just thrown a major spoke in her wheel. He felt shitty about it—but it was for her own good and for the good of their unborn baby. He just didn’t trust her. He felt bad about it, but it was the truth.

  And anger boiled up again as his phone dinged with a text from an unknown number. Here’s my burner phone number so you don’t worry. Lei.

  “Too late, Sweets,” he said through gritted teeth, and called the number. “I’m onto you.”

  The new number rang and rang mockingly and then went to an inactivated voice mail box.

  “Sonofabitch!” Stevens growled. He resisted the urge to throw his phone. Instead, he set it down carefully on the desk and thought through his options.

  The Fireman bought supplies at several di
fferent stores and paid in cash. Didn’t use one of those stupid discount cards either. All those seemingly innocuous things, done for convenience, combined to create trails that could lead to him. He checked his phone for the hundredth time—and this time there was a text message.

  No more money. Tech support will be arriving in the mail.

  Tech support. What the hell could that be?

  Back at his place, he gathered the materials together, along with a big black plastic container he could close and carry to the truck, hiding its contents. He lived in an apartment. There was no telling how many people were watching.

  He stowed a battery-operated, handheld drill with a large-bore bit in the container, then poured a couple of gallons of his favorite mixture of gas and diesel fuel into a series of one-gallon Ziploc bags, sealing them double-tight to prevent leakage and smells that could alert anyone to a problem. He added a Christmas tree timer with a plug to the box and then took out a long orange extension cord.

  Using a sharp paring knife, he cut the receptacle end off and peeled the plastic coating off the wires, exposing a couple inches of wire, which he then crossed carefully. A bottle of nail polish remover and big bag of cotton balls completed his preparations.

  But none of it was going anywhere if he couldn’t get access to the house.

  He’d have to wait for that “tech support” and see how the blackmailer could help him breach the house’s security measures.

  The Fireman had bought a barbecue starter as part of his supplies. He almost flicked it on, just to see the narrow tongue of flame come out of the metal wand and dance for him a little, but he remembered that gas fumes were still trapped in his living space. There might be enough to combust.

  He opened all the windows, turned on the fan, and checked that the gas can was screwed shut tight, that the Ziploc bags were sealed and stowed in the plastic container. When he was sure the apartment was clear, he lay down on the couch and flicked the lighter on, watching the steady glow of the flame, passing his hand through it just to feel its hot kiss. He’d write a post for his online Fireman Journal. Kissing the flame. It was a safe enough topic.