Paradise Crime Mysteries

by Toby Neal

  “I was just thinking the same.” Kamuela held up one of the letters he’d finished processing, crude letters cut from a magazine and glued onto paper spelling out, Haole, go home. “Nice.”

  “I like this one.” Lei held up a block-printed card with genitalia on the front and the North Shore belongs to real men. “Real men don’t need to indulge in this kind of localism. Cream rises to the top, and Makoa had what it took to win the Triple Crown this year.”

  “A damn shame. I had no idea he was facing this kind of harassment,” Kamuela said. “They sure kept it quiet in the media.”

  “Well, Oulaki expressed a common sentiment, that the North Shore should belong to those born and raised. But it’s always been a magnet for the world, and that’s part of what makes it special.”

  They forged on, and Lei made a pile of any that looked like they might have been authored by the same person. Most were the ones with the cut-out squares of magazine letters. “I think these were by the same harasser.”

  “Agree.”

  Lei liked how non-talkative Marcus was. “Did you get any prints off these?”

  “No.” Kamuela rubbed the top of his ear, an expression of frustration wrinkling his broad brow. “Of course, the ones that look like something don’t go anywhere.”

  “Let’s take a look at the e-mails. I might be able to get Sophie over at the FBI to track the computers for me.” Lei handed a stack of e-mails to Kamuela, and moments later looked up at him. “I think these are all from the same source.”

  “Yeah.” Though origin e-mail addresses had been obscured by some program, the language of the e-mails was similar, and the threats escalated from “Go home to Maui” to “Get off the contest circuit or we’ll kill you and your woman.”

  “Why didn’t he go to the police with these?” Lei wondered aloud. “Why didn’t Cantor insist that he do that?”

  “Bad for his image, I’m guessing,” Kamuela said, sliding the e-mails back into the envelope. “I’m betting Torque didn’t want anything getting out to the media. Reporting it would make it potentially public and could have damaged Makoa’s reputation.”

  “So stupid,” Lei said, feeling frustration tighten her stomach. She glanced at the window and saw the sun was slanting long across the plumeria tree outside the dusty louvers. Something was telling her to stay with the case, immerse in the North Shore scene. “You know what, Marcus? I think I’d like to spend the night out here. Do a little undercover, see what I can see.”

  “Marcella will be bummed to miss you, but I get it. I can come out here as early as you want me tomorrow.” They gathered Makoa’s belongings back into the boxes. “We can log these into Kahuku’s evidence room overnight.”

  “I think I can take everything back to Maui when I go. Just check it onto the plane.” They carried the boxes down to the locked evidence room, more of a temporary storage closet at this tiny station than anything else. After filling out the requisite forms, Lei stuck the bagged engagement ring deep into one of the boxes. “I hate just sticking this in here, but I can’t keep it safe with me.”

  “Where are you going to spend the night?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many vacation rental rooms out here. Let’s ask around, see if I find something. If I do, you can drop me off on the way back out.”

  She and Kamuela engaged the Kahuku Station staff with Lei’s dilemma, and it wasn’t long before she had a bedroom booked for the night in a beach house owned by the cousin of one of the officers.

  On the drive back to that vacation rental’s address near Pipeline, Lei called Pono to check in on the day.

  “Hey, partner. How’d the interview with the parents go?”

  “Not well.” Pono sounded irritated. “I’ve been having a shitty day with this. How’d I pull the stay-back detail?”

  “Sorry.” Lei looked out her window as they cruised by Sunset Beach again. The sight was no less awe-inspiring the second time around, with sunset turning the spume flying off the waves to liquid gold. “Just give me the scoops, or I’ll tell you mine first.”

  “You go. I’m eating.” She heard him crunching something.

  “Okay. We had an interesting time at the Torque team house. Lots of politics.” She filled him in on the interviews. “And the really interesting thing, besides all the threat letters we picked up, was an engagement ring I found in Makoa’s pants pocket.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Right. But other than that, nothing hard. We have a lot of fingerprints and hair samples to go through that I’m hoping we can match to something you vacuumed out of the van.”

  “What we need is trace on or near the body.”

  “And we’re not going to get that. But I have a couple of interesting coincidences.” She told him about Oulaki’s friend named Tadeo and the attitude the team rider had. “His attitude was consistent with the hate mail Makoa was getting.”

  “All good but circumstantial. Well, Makoa’s father, he didn’t want to answer why he had taken out that big life insurance policy on his son. Threatened to call his lawyer, got all pissed off.”

  Lei nodded, then remembered her partner couldn’t see that gesture. “Yes. He’d be insulted we’d even imagine such a thing, yada, yada. You didn’t tell him that Makoa’s policy benefits Shayla Cummings, did you?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Lei snorted a laugh. “I was. It wouldn’t be good for him to find that out. Did you find Eli Tadeo? Because if you do, I want you to ask him if he knows a guy named Bryan Oulaki.” Lei told him how unhelpful the suspect sketch Shayla and the artist had worked up was turning out to be. “It looks like half the guys on the North Shore.”

  “Well, I haven’t found Tadeo yet, and he hasn’t called me. I called the number listed for him; it’s out of service. I thought I’d try one more drop-by today. I don’t want to issue a BOLO or something with his brother’s position in the MPD.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. The reporters have descended. They’re hassling anyone and everyone at the beach, agitating Makoa’s parents, calling the station. Makoa’s paddle out and memorial being planned here are getting a lot of press. We need to bring something in, and soon. Omura’s getting restless.”

  “Working it as hard as I can.” Lei frowned. “More pressure isn’t going to speed this up, because it’s not an easy one. Tell Omura I’m going to be staying out here by the beach, doing a little undercover work tomorrow and seeing what kind of gossip and impressions I can pick up. I have a feeling there’s something we’re missing. Something that provides a clear motive. So far all we have are murky possibilities.”

  Marcus had turned the truck off the Kamehameha Highway and back onto the frontage road. They bumped through rain-filled potholes and over a couple of steep speed bumps before pulling up to an imposing wooden gate topped by coconut finials. “Gotta go. We’re at my crib for the night.”

  “I’ll call you if I talk to Tadeo.” Pono hung up.

  Marcus put the truck in Park. “The cousin said to ring the bell and they’d open the gate.”

  “Got it.” Lei hopped out of the truck and rang a bell concealed under a little plastic flap. A few minutes later, the gate retracted and they pulled inside a lushly planted compound. A large, two-story older home took up the bulk of the lot, but palms and fern trees coiled with orchids created an oasis-like feeling.

  Lei and Kamuela greeted the landlord, an older mixed Hawaiian man with a buzz cut, going through the ritual of establishing who you are, where from, and who might be relatives. Lei took her backpack out of the truck and turned to Kamuela.

  “I’ll call you in the morning. If I’m on a roll with this undercover thing, I won’t need you right away.”

  “That’s fine. I can get started on processing and uploading the prints from the hate mail.” Kamuela lifted a hand in goodbye and pulled the truck back out.

  “Do you happen to have a camera I can borrow?” Lei asked the landlord. She’d spotted sp
ecial license plates on his jacked-up Ford F-150. Retired military, Lei guessed. He’d probably bought this house, worth millions now, for a song back in the sixties.

  “Sure. Can’t guarantee it has batteries, but I got something you can borrow.”

  “Thanks. I just need it as a prop.” Looking around at the scene at Pipeline, Lei had decided posing as one of the many photographers would give her the best ability to move and mingle on the beach.

  That, and one other thing.

  Lei went into the simple above-garage apartment and dug into her backpack, pulling out the bikini Marcella had talked her into buying months ago, before she knew she was pregnant. Lean to begin with, Lei had lost weight after the miscarriage, and now the cups of the top felt loose. Her hand brushed her flat abdomen in a gesture that used to be almost habitual and now just reminded her of loss. Still, she knew she looked good in the low golden light of sunset falling through the window—honed and toned. Lean and mean. But definitely not like a cop, with her unruly mane of curls and the bronze-metallic bikini setting off her skin.

  She came back outside with a beach towel over her shoulder and a long tee over the suit. The landlord handed her a decent Canon camera on a strap. “Turns out it has batteries and an empty SIM card.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give you something extra for the rental.”

  “You’re working on the Makoa Simmons case, right?” The older man squinted. “No charge. He was a nice kid. Didn’t deserve to go so young.”

  “Did you know him?” Lei asked, fiddling with the settings on the camera. It was refreshing to hear something positive about Makoa from someone local.

  “Not to speak to. But I watched him surf plenty times. Good manners in the water but didn’t take any shit. A great surfer.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hearing. Thanks for the loan.”

  “You need one of these. Every real photographer has one.” He handed her a tripod.

  Lei set off down the beach. The setting sun was going down behind the mountain that marked Kaena Point, but there was still a crowd in front of Pipeline. Getting into character, Lei tied a knot in the corner of her big MauiBuilt T-shirt, drawing it up off one thigh.

  She took long strides, loving the soft feeling of the moisture-rich air on her bare skin, the sensation of the deep coral sand massaging her toes. The camera slung around her neck and tripod under her arm, she kept heading toward Pipeline’s distinctive lineup as she speed-dialed Stevens.

  “Hi, Sweets.” His voice sounded tired.

  “Hey. Can you guess where I am?” They might not have a clear suspect in Makoa’s murder, but there were a lot of possibilities, and right now she felt good in her body in this place and time. The gorgeous setting was energizing, the regular thump of the surf fizzing her blood.

  “Probably somewhere more interesting than me. I’m trying to get some peas and carrots into Kiet. And you know how he feels about peas and carrots.” Lei heard the baby smack the tray of his high chair, burbling. She felt a pang, missing her stepson’s sturdy little body in her arms. Kiet was Stevens’s son with his first wife, Anchara, whose murder had brought on the baby’s birth. Though the events leading up to their adoption of him had been shocking, Lei had fallen totally in love with the happy, easy child.

  “Kiss him for me.”

  “After the peas and carrots are off his face. And hands. And high chair, and the floor.”

  Lei laughed. “I miss the little man. But you’re right, this is prettier than that particular scene.” She described the sunset and the waves, held the phone up so he could hear the thundering surf. “The only thing that would make this better is if you and Kiet were here with me. And we were on vacation.”

  “I wish. Mom hasn’t turned up yet.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lei had reached the main surf break and walked right to the edge of a cluster of photographers, setting up her tripod as she listened to Stevens describe his day. “We’re going to give it a few days. See if she calls us or turns up,” he finished.

  “Seems reasonable. Though I still think you should put the word out. Informally.”

  “She’s made her bed. She can lie in it,” Stevens said. Lei only heard that hard tone in his voice when he was talking about suspects.

  “Remember, her addiction is not about you,” Lei said. “I love you. I’ll be home soon.”

  “I love you, too. And you’re not coming home soon enough for me,” he said, and hung up.

  Lei hit the Off button with a sigh. She screwed the camera onto the tripod, getting into character as she aimed her viewfinder toward the surf and her butt toward the watching crowd.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stevens slid the phone back into the pocket of his loose after-work jeans, feeling that negativity he’d been struggling with and not sure what to call it—depression? Loneliness. A sapping sense of futility. He longed for a slug of Scotch, and hated the thought.

  He picked up the spoon and focused on the bright-eyed baby in front of him. “One more bite, buddy. Come on.”

  Wayne was stirring up something tasty in the kitchen, and after they’d eaten, Stevens thanked him for the meal. “If we didn’t have you helping us out, I don’t know what I’d be eating. Canned beans, probably.”

  “I enjoy it. Though I admit, I’m looking forward to your little family moving into the big house,” Wayne said with a grin, touching his root beer bottle to Stevens’s Longboard Lager. “How’s it coming along?”

  “The texture and paint crew come in a few days. So we’re close.”

  “Lei say when she’s coming home?”

  “No.” They cleaned up, with special attention to the circle of splattered peas and carrots around Kiet’s high chair. The baby was crawling around the tiny living room, chasing Keiki who, while tolerating Kiet’s climbing and ear-pulling, preferred to stay just out of reach.

  “Listen. I’m worried about my mom. Can you put Kiet down for bed? I want to take a drive out to the usual homeless haunts, see if I can find her.” Stevens found himself putting words to the restless urge that had been building in spite of the bluster he’d said to Lei.

  “You know what we call that in the program,” Wayne said. “Enabling.”

  His father-in-law had been a social drinker when he got out of prison, but in the last year he’d become a lay minister in his church and had given up alcohol and gotten involved with a twelve-step program.

  “Keeping those demons as far away as I can,” he’d explained to Stevens and Lei about his new lifestyle. “Alcohol was never my main thing, but I want to live as pure and clean as I can, and help others do the same.”

  Now Wayne fixed Stevens with the dark-eyed, penetrating gaze that always reminded him of Lei. “Ellen needs to hit bottom before she’s ready for change.”

  “I know. This isn’t for her. This is for me. I can’t stand the thought of her on the street.” A shudder swept through him. “I know too much. The street’s dangerous, even on Maui.”

  Wayne squeezed his shoulder with a big, warm hand. “No problem. We’ll be here when you get back. I hope you find her.”

  Stevens put on his badge and gun and picked up a light windbreaker. Kiet, seeing this, sat up on his diapered bottom and reached both chubby arms for his father, face crumpling.

  Stevens couldn’t resist. He swept the boy up and buried his face in the child’s neck, blowing a raspberry. “I’ll be back soon, little man.” He handed Kiet to his father-in-law.

  Keiki, moving slower since the fire, got up out of her dog bed and trotted after him, following the truck all the way to the gate, her mournful brown eyes echoing the sentiment of the crying baby in the cottage as Stevens got on the road back to town.

  Stevens picked up his radio and called in to the station, letting them know he was out in the field. “Looking for a friend I’m worried about. Radio me with any disturbance calls involving homeless or drinking.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant Stevens. Stay safe.”

&
nbsp; Stevens hung up the radio, glad he’d at least let the station know he was out. You never knew who was toting a gun these days.

  The thought made him press down harder on the gas.

  Lei snapped pictures as the sunset backlit the famous heaving turquoise barrels of the Pipeline at evening. The shifting crowd on the beach around her murmured and broke into hoots and applause at a particularly good ride. Lei had never witnessed such excellent surfing concentrated in one place—but it made sense. Every surfer out there had earned their place in some way, or they simply didn’t get a wave. And, once they had it, there was no better stage for deep tube rides and every sort of trick and aerial, even in the fading light.

  Lei had to forcibly remind herself she wasn’t there just to spectate and get pictures. Straightening up from her camera, she turned to the photographer nearest her. “You come here often?”

  The guy, a grizzled-looking Caucasian wearing a battered fishing hat and Torque board shorts, grinned. “That sounds like a pickup line.”

  Lei laughed, tossing back her hair. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m a photographer from Maui. Lei.” She extended a hand, and he shook it.

  “Lee Brannan. Yeah, I’m here most days it’s breaking.”

  “I see you’re wearing Torque. Did you hear about their main team rider?”

  “I did. Such a shame. Makoa was set to win the Triple Crown this year. Great kid. Photographed well, too. I sold a lot of shots of him.”

  “Well, the buzz on Maui is that it wasn’t an accident.” Lei moved closer, leaning toward Brannan as if imparting a confidence.

  “No shit! That’s horrible.” Brannan’s eyes widened. Suddenly his attention was caught by something in the surf. “You want to get this one. Oulaki’s on it.”

  Lei applied her eye to the viewfinder and snapped off several shots of Bryan Oulaki in a yellow Torque rash guard, deep in a backlit Pipe wave. “He knows how to stand out,” she commented dryly, as the young man kicked out at the end of the wave in a flashy show of spray, his bright red board catching the sunset’s rays.