by Toby Neal
“Where’s Mahoe?” The enthusiastic young Hawaiian, injured on a case a few years ago, was another subordinate who weighed on C.J.’s mind more than she would have liked.
“Filing the evidence. The most interesting thing we picked up at the scene was an engagement ring in the victim’s hand.”
“That is interesting.” C.J. sipped her Diet Coke, narrowing her eyes—but that made wrinkles, so she opened them wide instead. “What do you think it means?”
“He was getting ready to pop the question to someone. The vic slept around at the restaurant, but we couldn’t identify any particular woman he might have been wanting to marry except Elena Noriega, who, in her interview, showed no sign that she was in love with Métier. She was in need of consolation, and he provided that—according to her, all the affair was to her.” Stevens hitched his belt up on his narrow waist. He still hadn’t regained all the weight he’d lost during that Honduras fiasco. “Maybe he was trying to steal her from Noriega along with the chef’s recipes. But if so, I’d bet money she didn’t know he was going to pop the question to her.”
“So it could have been some spurned lover that stuck him in the back?” C.J. took the small tube of expensive hand cream out of her folio and rubbed a dot into her hands.
“Right. Only we couldn’t shake loose anyone specific who cared that much about him.”
“Maybe Noriega will know, or you’ll find something at his residence.”
“Yes. Mahoe and I are going to do the search after this interview.”
C.J. turned to look at Noriega. The chef was flipping a coin between his fingers, one of those tricks where it seemed to be walking, over and over. “I want you to get to interviewing him before a lawyer shows up.”
“I have enough to charge him. We could keep him in custody,” Stevens said.
C.J. shook her head. “No. We’ll shake loose more by letting him go. All you have on him so far is circumstantial, anyway.”
“But what about Elena Noriega? He might go home and beat her. She refused to press charges on him, but I’m filing those on her behalf, since I observed him choking her.” Stevens sounded frustrated. “It will take what it will take for her to wake up and smell the coffee about the abuse.” C.J. had little pity for those she considered doormats. “We can’t hold him without something solid. It will just bite us on the ass if we do.”
“I also thought you should know Elena Noriega and Kathy Fraser are close friends. Elena called Kathy out for moral support when we brought Noriega in.”
“I’m sure she will be a help to the investigation as long as she can keep up with her regular duties. Kathy’s a solid investigator.”
Stevens ducked his head affirmatively. “I’ll find Mahoe and get to it, then.”
C.J. turned her phone off and stowed it. Yeah, she’d lose all credibility if anyone knew she was sleeping with one of her detectives. Might even get consequences from the chief if he ever got wind of it. Maybe that was part of what made her affair so much fun.
That, and the way he made her laugh.
C.J. put the evening’s future activities out of her mind, refocusing on what was happening in the interview room as Stevens and Brandon Mahoe entered.
Brandon
Brandon Mahoe turned on the video equipment at Lieutenant Stevens’s nod. His partner and mentor seated himself in front of the witness with a handheld recorder and a pad and pen. Brandon’s heart thumped so loudly that it seemed like Chef Noriega would hear it. In spite of the high air-conditioning, sweat gathered under the arms of Brandon’s best aloha shirt.
Chef Noriega was a celebrity and a known asshole. The man’s heavy-lidded stare tracked him as Brandon made sure the camera was aimed properly and the sound adjusted. He felt a little like a cockroach with a boot nearby—but somehow he had to get past that. LT was counting on him to take the lead in the interview today.
Brandon wiped his hands unobtrusively on his jeans and sat down next to LT. “This interview is being recorded, and you have the right to remain silent, or the right to an attorney if you choose to have one. Anything you say here may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand these rights?”
Chef Noriega inclined his head the barest amount, still staring Brandon down.
“Where were you last night, between the hours of nine and midnight?” Brandon restrained himself from wiping his hands on his jeans again.
“I was at the restaurant. As you know perfectly well.” Noriega began flipping a quarter between his fingers, pointedly ignoring Brandon. A schoolyard bully he’d grown up with had played with a coin like that. The boy had done all kinds of tricks with it, even pretending to pull it out of Brandon’s ass, making everyone laugh.
Brandon felt his neck flush. That was then, this is now. “Who can verify that you were at the restaurant?”
“Anyone you ask. So do I have an alibi for the exact time of Métier’s murder? No.” Noriega set the coin down. He leaned forward, gaze boring into Brandon’s, a feeling like being probed by a high-powered light. “But I didn’t do it.”
“You sure seem to have a lot of motive,” Brandon stated.
“Like what? That man was a little brother to me.”
“That’s not what the witnesses we interviewed said. Care to change your statement?” Brandon stared right back. “In fact, we have at least two good reasons for you to have killed him.”
“Like what?” Noriega laced his fingers on his belly, his body language challenging.
LT stirred beside Brandon. “The detective here has given you a chance to revise your statement about the victim being like a brother.”
“Well, he was. At one time.” Noriega looked down, plucking at a loose button on his sleeve. The handcuffs clinked. “I think you’re biased toward me because of the way I discipline my wife.”
“Discipline?” Brandon felt anger flush his whole body now. His dad had beaten his mom when he was a kid, and she’d had to leave him because of it. Brandon had never been sure which parent he was angrier at until right this moment, and now he knew. Rage tightened his voice. “You think it’s okay for a man to choke his wife? That’s discipline?”
“Elena understands.” Noriega made a flicking gesture. “She knows the rules. Why am I talking to you, anyway?”
“Maybe you need a taste of what your wife goes through.” Brandon surged up out of his seat, lunging for Noriega. LT caught him by the arm and hauled him back into his chair. His red-fogged vision cleared as he was restrained by his superior.
“Chain your pit bull,” Noriega said. “I can file a complaint even with these on.”
“Back it way up, Mahoe. Calm down.” Brandon could hear surprise and concern, as well as rebuke, in Stevens’s voice.
Brandon schooled his features into a blank mask and folded his arms on his chest, staring at a speck of gecko crap on the wall just above Noriega’s head. He sucked one of those relaxation breaths Dr. Wilson had taught him in the mandatory counseling sessions he’d had some years ago when injured on a case.
“Sorry about that, Chef. Mahoe here is still learning the ropes, gets a little enthusiastic sometimes. Back to his question though—were you and your wife having difficulties?” The LT was using the incident to move in on the witness. Brandon had always admired how Stevens seemed to turn whatever happened in interviews to his advantage.
“Don’t see how that’s relevant,” Noriega growled, flipping the coin again.
“I only ask because of something Mahoe was indicating—motive. Were you aware your wife was having an affair with the victim?” LT’s voice was silky with fake sympathy.
“What?” The quarter dropped from Noriega’s fingers onto the table with a metallic clink as he jumped to his feet, face purpling with rage. “I’ll kill that bitch!”
Now Brandon had a good reason to jump out of his chair and wrestle Noriega back into his, clipping the man’s handcuffs to the table. “Glad we got that on tape, Lieutenant.”
Noriega seemed to
realize that wasn’t the best thing to have said. He settled back as far as the cuffs would allow. “No. I didn’t know that my whore of a wife was sleeping with Métier, though plenty of others were.”
“So you don’t deny killing Métier for having sex with your wife?” Stevens cocked his head.
“What? No. I mean, yes! I deny it!” Blood suffused Noriega’s face again. His blood pressure looked problematic. “What the hell kind of question was that?”
“I’m sorry. I must be the one confused.” The LT steepled his fingers, tipped his head forward and frowned as if puzzled. “I just heard you say, and let me get this straight . . .” He looked down at his notes and read flatly, “‘I’ll kill that bitch.’”
“You know what? Maybe I will have that lawyer now.” Noriega glared at Brandon since Stevens’s eyes were on his notebook. Brandon glared right back.
“Oh, that’s a shame. We were actually going to let you go. Pending assault charges on your wife, of course. But it would be so helpful if you could point us at another suspect. Any other suspect. Right now all we have is you, and you know what they say: ‘The husband always did it.’” Stevens’s lips twitched humorlessly in a parody of a smile.
Damn, the man was good. Brandon remembered the very first big case he’d worked with the LT—stolen petroglyphs that had led to murder. That case had been so nuts. Yeah, he’d got a beat down on that one, but it had only made Brandon more determined to be a good cop. LT had been there for him ever since. Never in too much of a hurry to talk, coaching him through all the steps to prep for his detective exam. LT had even suggested Brandon continue with school, which was why he was close to graduating from University of Hawaii with a degree in criminal justice. That would help him move up in the MPD, and he’d learned a lot that helped him on the job now. He owed LT big-time, and days like this, Brandon knew he still had more to learn from his mentor.
“Okay, then.” Noriega blew out a breath. “I knew Métier was working on something behind my back. Trying to snake my suppliers, steal my recipes. I even think he was the one sabotaging the kitchen. All this might sound like I had even more motive to off him—but I didn’t kill him. I had a plan to deal with him. I have more friends on this island than he knew about; various people came to me about him, and we made other agreements.
“I was planning to fire Métier at the end of this month, when his contract ended, and pull the rug out from under him. Had it all lined up: getting his business loan canceled, the space he was going to rent would no longer be available. And my suppliers?” Noriega shook his head. “I paid many of them for next month’s produce while it was still in the ground. It’s killing me financially, but I also couldn’t afford to let Métier get his restaurant going.”
Stevens frowned. “Interesting. We’ll need to verify all that. And I still don’t hear another idea of who might have killed Métier.”
“My wife,” Noriega said with perfect composure. “Now that I know she was sleeping with the Frenchman, it makes perfect sense. Elena’s a jealous woman, and François was a slut. Perhaps he tried to break if off with her.”
Brandon frowned. This man went from threatening Elena Noriega to throwing her under the bus at the first opportunity. Marriage looked like a little slice of hell. He’d never fall into that trap.
“You mentioned that you knew François was sleeping with a lot of people. Anyone special?” LT was fishing for whom the ring could be for.
“Maybe. There’s a waitress we have. Kitty Summers. They went home together after a lot of shifts. I didn’t keep track of Métier’s habits, besides telling him he’d better not cause drama at Feast, get those chicks jealous of each other. Looks like he didn’t listen to me.”
Brandon wrote the woman’s name down, and LT went on. “So can you think of anyone else who might have motive to kill Métier?”
“The blogger. I followed that blog, and whenever Métier was mentioned, there was always a tone to it. Like the blogger was bitter. Whoever it was described Métier as ‘the Frenchman’ on a good day, and ‘that psycho Frog’ on others.”
“Seems pretty thin.”
“You asked.” Noriega shrugged. “I’m damn pissed that François got himself killed in my walk-in. Wrecked thousands of dollars of food. We’ll have to be closed for a couple of days at least. I have to hire a new sous-chef. And now this.” He held up his hands, jangled the cuffs. “This, I’ll never forgive him for.”
“The man is dead,” Stevens said. “Seems like that would be punishment enough.”
Noriega slitted his eyes but didn’t respond.
The LT pinched a finger and thumb on either side of his nose. His eyes were shut as if in pain. “Mahoe, do you have anything else for this witness before we show him to the door?”
Brandon couldn’t come up with anything. He stood and took out his handcuff key. He leaned down next to the chef and whispered in his ear, “Don’t lay a hand on your wife. We’re watching you.”
Noriega snorted as Brandon undid the cuffs.
“Stay in town,” LT said as Brandon turned off the video. “You’ll be answering to assault charges from the DA on behalf of your wife in the next few weeks—and keep your hands off her.”
Noriega stood up without speaking, tugging down his jacket. He glared but kept his mouth shut as he headed for the door. Brandon followed the man out and down the hall, escorting him out of the building. Noriega pulled a phone out of his pocket and had hardly dialed it when a gold Lexus SUV drove up. Keone Chapman, that pretentious haole lawyer, was behind the wheel. He gestured for Noriega to get in, and they drove off.
Brandon went back into the station. He found Stevens at their office, turning off his computer and picking up his jacket.
“I need a break,” LT said. “I’m going home for a couple of hours. I’ll text you when I’m on my way to the victim’s address. Meet me there for the search. And get these notes typed up, will you?”
“Sure, LT.” Brandon took Stevens’s notebook. “Do I need to go to the captain with this?”
“Nah. I briefed her before we went in to talk to the chef, and she watched the interview. Grab something to eat, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Stevens headed out. Brandon sat down and opened the case and computer files. He’d get food when he was caught up. If he ever caught up.
Stevens
Stevens wove down the narrow road bordered in lush tropical growth as he headed toward home. His blood quickened thinking of Lei. He loved her pregnant: small round breasts full, her belly an inviting curve. Once he’d decorated it with shaving cream in the shower, making a smiley face with her popped-out belly button as the nose.
Yeah, that had been fun . . .
Stevens pulled the old Bronco up to the gate of their compound and punched in the code. He waited for the gate to retract and drove inside. That gate, the ritual of opening and closing, highlighted how much home and family were set apart from the darkness he walked through during the day. He shook his head to clear it of morbid thoughts as he pulled up to the house.
Keiki and Conan, their Rottweilers, greeted the vehicle with their usual enthusiasm. In spite of his fatigue and headache, he paused beside the truck to pet them.
“Good girl.” He squatted and rubbed Keiki’s chest. The elderly Rottie leaned her broad square head against him. The trust and love in her posture gave his heart a twinge—her muzzle was thick with white hairs. Conan nosed at her impatiently, and Stevens rubbed the younger dog’s ears with his other hand. “Gluttons for attention, you two.”
“Daddy!” Kiet barreled down the steps and hit Stevens from the side, tipping him over into the pea gravel of the walkway.
Stevens gave an exaggerated groan. “Officer down! Call a medic!”
His son laughed, trying to tickle him. They tussled, making so much noise that Conan barked with excitement.
“I’ll have to get the hose out to calm you boys down,” Lei said, from the top of the porch.
Stevens g
lanced up at her and broke into a grin. “What the heck is that thing you have on?”
“A maternity bathing suit.” Lei tugged at the seat of the polka-dotted garment. “The office girls gave it to me at the shower. I was just trying it on. What do you think?”
She struck a pose. Kiet covered his mouth with his hands, giggling, as Stevens tried to keep a straight face. Lei carried the pregnancy way out in front, and the suit, a bright orange one-piece, was trimmed in ruffles. Stevens sat up, capturing Kiet’s head under his arm and giving the six-year-old a knuckle rub as he grinned at his wife. “It’s cute, Sweets.”
“No, it isn’t. I look like a beach ball.” She tugged at the ruffles. “This is so not my style.”
“Beach balls are cute, aren’t they, little man?” He let the wriggling Kiet out of the headlock.
“Mama does not look like a beach ball. She looks like a giant hot air balloon!” Kiet’s favorite storybook featured hot air balloons, his current obsession.
“That’s it. I’m going back to my bikini.” Lei flounced into the house.
“A giant orange pumpkin with spots!” Kiet said as they walked up the stairs, the dogs flanking them.
“No, son. Your mama looks beautiful,” Stevens said loudly, noticing that the bedroom door was ajar. She was probably in there changing, and hearing every word. “Not long before your brother or sister joins us, and she’ll be right back to normal.”
“Nice save, honey. But I heard you, little man.” Lei reappeared at the bedroom door in the short plumeria-print muumuu she’d taken to wearing around the house. “And I can still catch you and throw you in the bath.” She darted out and chased Kiet, shrieking with laughter, down the hall to the bathroom.