Paradise Crime Mysteries

by Toby Neal

  The Fireman rolled the window back up as the animal trotted away, turning to make another charge. The dog seemed to finally notice something was wrong. He saw it try to paw at the dart lodged in its chest, bending its head to try to grab the dart, but couldn’t reach it.

  His aim had been good. The red tuft protruded in the juncture of its neck and shoulder, sunk as deep as it would go.

  The dog looked up at him again, and the Fireman felt his testicles shrivel at the look in its eyes. He could swear it was promising vengeance as it lay down carefully, resting its head on its paws, and still facing him, slowly closed its eyes.

  He waited another five minutes.

  He’d expected the Rottweiler to collapse in some way that he could be assured it was knocked out, but instead it had posed like an Egyptian sphinx, pointed right at him, its eyes shut like it was just having a tiny nap, waiting to sink its teeth into his leg as he tried to pass.

  The Fireman opened his door carefully. No movement from the dog. He extended a leg out onto the ground slowly, checking his watch. This had already taken fifteen minutes, longer than he’d budgeted. He lifted the pistol, took careful aim, and shot the dog again. He hit it right in the neck. It didn’t move.

  Two doses ought to hold the beast. If it died of a heart attack, so much the better. All he needed was to be undetected until he could torch the house.

  He reached back into the truck and got out the bin of materials he’d brought for the fire, and still biting his tongue, the tranq gun lying on top of the bin, he walked up to the dog. He set the bin down, holding the gun on the dog.

  He couldn’t leave the darts in to be found. No movement, still, from the dog. He tweaked the darts out of its neck, hyperventilating.

  No movement from the animal—it was out cold. He hurried on as quickly as possible.

  He could always shoot it again, if he needed to, but ideally it would be waking up as the old man came back. Drugging it for too long would arouse suspicion.

  The Fireman carried the bin to the opening in the latticework that covered the three feet or so of clearance below the house’s post-and-pier construction. He pushed up his cap, flicked on the headlight he wore underneath, and crawled under the house. Carefully, he pushed the heavy bin ahead of him through the dirt.

  It was dark in the crawlspace, with a faint musty odor like fresh mushrooms. Once in the center of the even rectangle of the house’s footprint, the Fireman took out his hand-drawn map and oriented himself. Using it as a guide, he found the front entrance. Using the wide-bit drill, he bored up through to the subfloor, a three-inch-distance layer before the plywood of the floor. Pushing up with a battery-operated saw, he cut a rectangle in the subfloor and then, once more checking his map, he drilled all the way up through the floor above to create air-ventilation holes that would draw the flame up into the house.

  Fire needed just a few things to blossom: an ignition source, fuel, and a lot of oxygen—and to get going hot and deadly, it needed a lot of everything.

  Using the interior surveillance video, he’d been able to choose positions for the holes underneath a cabinet next to the front door. While not as good as having an ignition site directly in front of the door, it would have to do to block the main entrance.

  He crawled on, boring four other sets of ignition and ventilation holes. Finally, he went back to the bin and got out the double-bagged Ziplocs of fuel.

  The Fireman’s back was hurting by then, his knees sore from the dirt and rocks, and his hands wouldn’t stop the trembling they’d begun ever since the big Rottweiler hit the side of his truck. Still he pressed on, setting the bags of accelerant carefully up inside the subfloor. He was encouraged that he couldn’t smell any fuel as he carefully inserted one bag per opening.

  He’d fire the front door area first and give it the longest time to catch. Now that he’d done the prep work, all that remained was to set up the ignition of that first bag. Once the origin site was going, it would spread quickly to the others, especially with the nice updraft he’d created by drilling holes in the floor.

  The Fireman had to crawl all the way back out from under the house to locate an electrical outlet. He kept the tranq gun at the ready and one eye on the dog as he searched, finally locating an outlet in the attached garage, hidden behind the washing machine. The washing machine seemed like a good place to leave the linen cloth he’d been told to plant at the fire—they’d trace the ignition source, and if he put it in the washer, they’d find it there, unburned.

  He plugged the timer into the plug behind the washer and set it to one a.m., an hour when it was likely they’d be in bed. He plugged the extension cord into the timer and fed it through the wooden latticework back under the house.

  Breaking a sweat in his hot coverall, he jogged back to the access point and checked his watch—he had only twenty minutes before the old man came back.

  Under the house, he dragged the extension cord, with its peeled, exposed wires, through the dirt and fed it up into the subfloor. Using a staple gun, he attached the cord securely so it couldn’t fall down and away from the bags of fuel.

  Now he needed to set up his immediate ignition source. He made a pile of pure cotton balls and soaked them in a whole bottle of nail polish remover, pouring the remover out onto the balls.

  This would smell, but he hoped the smell was familiar enough not to set off any alarms with the people inside.

  He buried the exposed wires in the cotton balls and mounded them over the bag of fuel.

  Then he crawled back out, assembled his tools and piled them into the bin, mentally ticking over the steps to ignition.

  One a.m. would come, and the timer would click on, allowing electrical juice to flow down the cord and create a spark when the current jumped the gap on the exposed wires. The spark, which would be sustained, would ignite the fumes evaporating from the soaked cotton balls. The burning cotton balls would then melt through the plastic bag, causing the fuel to splash out and spread, flashing into flame with a delightful whoosh, licking up through the ventilation holes and spreading rapidly to melt the other fuel bags in a chain reaction.

  The Fireman found himself smiling as he pushed the bin out from under the house and stood up. He couldn’t wait to watch the whole thing.

  His hands were occupied with the bin, the tranq gun lying on top of the lid. His eyes fell on the dog—it was looking at him.

  Adrenaline flooded his body in a spurt that straightened his stiffened back and aching knees.

  The dog blinked, and he saw it was still waking up. Its head wove back and forth and it tried to stand.

  The Fireman ran for his truck with all the speed he could muster. He tossed the bin in the back, yanked the door open—and felt the dog hit him from behind as he lurched into the cab, screaming involuntarily. He was reduced to the gibbering terror he’d had as a child when a neighbor’s pit bull had gotten him by the leg—he still carried the scars from that attack on his body, and on his psyche.

  He felt the Rottweiler’s jaws close on the back of the coverall and thanked God he’d worn the thick garment as he hauled himself inside the truck and yanked the door shut, slamming it hard on the dog’s body.

  It must have still been wobbly from the tranq because the Rottweiler let go and fell away, and he was able to get in and shut the door. He’d left the keys in the ignition and started it with a roar, looking out the window.

  The dog was standing, but its head was down, its sides heaving, as he backed the truck up, suppressing an urge to run over the beast. Instead he drove past it and paused to punch in the gate code, keeping an eye on the dog in his rearview mirror.

  It had collapsed onto its butt, still staring at him as if wishing it had the energy to give chase—but the gate opened and then closed behind his truck, and driving down the road, he felt triumph blow through his veins.

  He would come back to watch. He wasn’t going to miss this show for anything.

  Lei woke with a little snort. She�
�d fallen asleep in the warm car, her chin resting on the edge of the window, where it needed to be to see Chang’s front door. She blinked and lifted her phone to check the time—five o’clock.

  It didn’t appear she’d missed anything. The dogs hadn’t even moved.

  This stakeout had been a waste of time. The only information she’d been able to gather was that Chang’s house was nearly impenetrable. She still had no idea of his patterns.

  Lei yawned. Next to an oversensitivity to smells, needing a nap in the afternoon was her worst pregnancy symptom. That and having to pee, which she needed to do ASAP.

  She turned on the rental car and headed back into downtown Hilo, making a call to the other detectives and letting them know she was going to be using the computer lab at South Hilo Station to try to track the online gambling.

  Chapter Eight

  Stevens rubbed Keiki’s ears as the big dog sat beside him. She had been agitated all evening, whining and trotting around, and both he and Jared had tried to get her to settle. Kiet was down for the night long ago, and Stevens, Wayne, Pono, and Jared had been playing poker for some hours. He glanced at the clock above the sink—eleven p.m.

  “Ante up,” Wayne said. They each threw a five into the pot, and still studying his cards, Stevens rubbed the dog’s head. He had two sevens and three mismatched number cards.

  “Raise you three,” Wayne said, swapping out two cards. The low overhead light gleamed on his silver hair and cast shadows beneath his craggy cheekbones.

  “I’ll match that,” Jared said, leaning forward to toss his money into the round koa calabash they were using to hold the loot. When Stevens had set this up, he’d told them to each bring fifty in small bills, and the game was getting serious.

  Pono took a sip of his beer, frowning. Stevens was pretty sure he did that when he thought he had a good hand. “Raise you five,” Pono said.

  Stevens narrowed his eyes at his Hawaiian friend. “Getting too rich for my blood. I fold.” He set his cards down and leaned back, one hand on the dog’s head, the other wrapped around a dwindling Longboard Lager.

  “I call,” Wayne said. Of the four of them, Wayne was the most unreadable, his rugged face blank.

  Jared ended up taking the hand. Stevens lifted his beer in toast to the younger man. “Next round is on my bro,” he said as Jared scooped the cash into a pile in front of him.

  “Not a problem,” Jared said. He got up and staggered a little as he made his way into the kitchen, coming back with another round of beers. “I think Lei should go out of town more often.”

  “She’ll be pissed to miss this, actually, and not be able to drink either. She loves a good game—right, Wayne?” Stevens had discovered the hard way that whatever Lei played, she played to win.

  “She would hate to miss this,” Wayne agreed. “But I’m glad she’s on the Big Island right now so I can let it all hang out.” He burped a huge belch, and they all laughed.

  “She’s staying away from the Changs, right?” Pono had a dent between his thick brows.

  “Yep,” Stevens said, squelching a pang of worry. “I made sure of it every way I can.”

  Wayne dealt the next hand, and his eyes, when they caught Stevens’s, were serious. “Texeiras have long memories, and so do the Changs. I wish we could just all move on.”

  “The shrouds are what’s worrying us.” Stevens took a pull off his fresh beer. “We know there are more out there, and we don’t know what he’ll do next.”

  “Well, this place is about as secure as anywhere on this island,” Pono said. “The only thing more I’d do is put in some surveillance cams.”

  Keiki nudged his thigh with her silky nose, and Stevens stroked her head again. “We used every penny we had moving in here and getting it minimally fixed up. The cameras are on the to-do list, but first we have to dig out from under some of our debt.”

  Pono waved away the beer Jared offered. “Nah. I gotta get on home. Got to work tomorrow. I better quit while I’m ahead.” He brandished a fistful of dollar bills at them. “Next stop, Vegas.”

  Stevens looked over at Jared, who was counting his cash. “You shouldn’t drive, bro. Spend the night on the couch.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Jared hadn’t won much. He set down his handful of cash and stretched thick, corded arms high over his head. He yawned, his jaw cracking. “Had another fire today. Thought Maui was going to be mellow, but there’s always something cookin’ in Kahului.”

  Pono stood up. “Still. Must be better than LA.” He shoved his take into a back pocket.

  “You got that right. Mike and I both are glad to have escaped the Madland, as you locals call it.”

  They said their goodbyes, Wayne and Pono departing at the same time. Stevens went to the linen closet and found a sheet and a blanket and came back. Jared was already down on the couch, his eyes shut, and he didn’t move when Stevens approached. Too much beer and hard work had taken a toll.

  Stevens shook out the blanket, a thin cotton coverlet, and draped it over Jared. Doing so reminded him of all the days when, as kids, he’d looked in on his brother after their dad died.

  Jared had taken their father’s death hard. Harder even than Stevens had. Stevens remembered the sight of his little brother, fourteen then, sleeping in bed with their dad’s battered yellow fire hat. He’d covered him up then, too, without a word.

  No wonder Jared had gone on to be a firefighter. But Stevens had needed more complex bad guys to fight than that hot, blind, gobbling enemy.

  Stevens went on through the house, checking the locks. Keiki whined near the front door, sniffing at the floor.

  “C’mon, girl. Let’s go to bed.” He summoned her with a snap of his fingers and made one final stop, to check on Kiet.

  The nightlight lit the baby’s room with a soft yellow glow. Stevens tiptoed over to the crib.

  Kiet was asleep on his back, dark hair like feathers around his head, arms flung wide in utter relaxation. The baby’s soft pink mouth worked an imaginary nipple in his sleep, the white blanket Stevens had covered him with still in place.

  Stevens felt a constriction around his chest, a tightness in his throat. His son was so beautiful. He couldn’t resist reaching in to touch the baby’s hair, the feeling like the finest silk under his fingertips. As it always did, that hair reminded him of Anchara and brought the complicated maelstrom of feelings thinking of her murder always brought—guilt, sorrow, anger, regret.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and tiptoed out, shutting the door.

  Jared had begun to snore in the living room, a soft rumble.

  Stevens smiled at that, and went into the bedroom. Keiki pressed close, right behind him, and he closed the door and turned on the baby monitor on his side of the bed.

  “Relax, old girl.” He pointed to Keiki’s spot on their bed with her special blanket. She hopped up, but she was still looking at him, her eyes worried, when he turned off the light. He patted her flank and she finally lay down. “Maybe I’ll take you to the vet tomorrow. You’ve been acting weird all evening.”

  Chapter Nine

  Keiki’s barking brought Stevens abruptly upright. The smell of smoke, with its terrifying memories of another fire he’d lived through, pumped adrenaline through his body as he bolted out of bed.

  The floor felt roasting hot on his bare feet as Stevens yanked the bedroom door open, still half awake but driven by terror for Jared and Kiet.

  A wall of smoke swirled in, searing his eyes and blinding him. He dropped to his knees, coughing convulsively.

  “Mike, get on the floor!” Jared’s voice. He was too blinded to see, but his brother’s voice came clearly to him. “I’ve got the baby!”

  “Oh, thank God,” Stevens tried to say, but nothing came out but a croak as his throat seemed to shut down. He lay flat on his belly, and through slit, streaming eyes, saw the shadow of his brother crawling toward him.

  “Get Keiki and let’s go out through the kitchen,” Jared sai
d, crawling by rapidly. “I don’t see any fire by that door.” Stevens wiped his eyes on his shirt and could see the lump that was Kiet stowed against Jared’s chest inside his T-shirt, held tight with one arm. “I’m taking the baby out!” Jared’s voice cut through the roar. “Follow me. Stay low. Find something to put over your face.” He disappeared, obscured by a back draft of black smoke.

  Flames shot up inside Stevens’s bedroom with a roar, igniting underneath the small table in front of the window and blocking it as an escape.

  “Kitchen door,” Stevens muttered, trying to orient. Jared had already disappeared. He looked around for Keiki and was dismayed to see she’d crawled under the bed. The bed was pretty close to going up in flames.

  Stevens crawled back. He hauled the dog out by her collar using brute force and ripped a pillowcase, already hot, off the bed and covered the big dog’s head, hoping that she’d do better by not being able to see. He pulled his arms out of his T-shirt, pushing it up over his nose and mouth. Keiki crouched down, whimpering with terror, and tried to pull away. One hand on the hot floor, the other on the dog’s collar, towing her, Stevens crawled toward the kitchen.

  The living room was well on its way to gone. He couldn’t see anything but flames in that direction.

  He tried to decide where to turn outside his bedroom. Was the kitchen to the right, or was it left? He couldn’t remember, and he couldn’t open his weeping eyes, and he couldn’t breathe. Keiki felt like two hundred pounds of deadweight at the end of his arm.

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. “It’s Jared. Come on, Mike. Grab my shirt.” Jared’s voice was muffled by something over his face. Stevens blinked, trying to see what was going on, where they were going.

  “It’s okay to shut your eyes. Lie on your belly and crawl with me. Just stay right next to me,” Jared yelled hoarsely. “And let go of that dog if you have to. Come on!”