by Toby Neal
“I tried speaking to him in Spanish. I’m Filipino and half Mexican on my mom’s side, and we spoke some Spanish at home. Felipe didn’t have any Spanish but I could tell he understood me, which was weird. He said he was first-generation Mexican but his parents didn’t speak Spanish at home.”
“So what was odd about that?”
The farmer shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a good kid, but he’s hiding something.”
Like maybe that he was an illegal. “Well, I’d like to talk with him. I do have a DMV address, but those are often out of date. Do you have an address for him?”
“Just his phone number. I text him when I need him to come bring produce to Feast. I’ve seen his place, though, and I can tell you where it is. It’s a big house with a lot of renters, where he has a room. It’s on Prison Street.” Benitez texted the number and description to Stevens’s phone.
They stood. “Thanks for your persistence in getting this information to us,” Stevens said. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Hey, want to take some summer squash home to the family?” Benitez gestured to a large cardboard box. “Those are my weird ones. I donate them to the food bank.”
Stevens reached in and pulled out a yellow squash with a bizarre bulge in one side, another shaped like male genitalia. He chuckled at the sight. “Yeah, these are funny-looking. I’ll take home a bag, thanks.”
Benitez filled a paper bag with squash, and Stevens made his way back to the Bronco, already calling Mahoe.
“Got a hot tip. We need to interview this guy about the Bukowski murder.”
“On it, LT. I’ll meet you there.”
Brandon
Brandon stood and hooked his shoulder holster off the back of his chair, buckling it on.
“Break in the case?” Sergeant Fraser looked up from a stack of reports she was going over.
“Just another interview. Kitty Summers is looking good for it, and we have her in custody.” Brandon didn’t voice his doubts as to Kitty’s guilt. She was a bird in the hand, after all, and as the LT often said, “Usually the obvious is the obvious.”
“When you have a chance, tell Stevens Elena is doing well at the shelter and has changed her mind about pressing charges on Noriega. She wants to go ahead with it now, and she’s done a temporary restraining order, too.”
“Good. Hate wife-beaters,” Mahoe said. “My mom used to get smacked around. If my dad weren’t already totally AWOL, I’d be thinking about giving him a bit of his own medicine.”
“If only it were that easy.”
“Yeah.” He waved at the pretty sergeant as he shut the door behind him. On the drive to Lahaina, he considered his feelings about his father.
The man had left no forwarding address when he abandoned them, and his mother had been so relieved to be out from under his fist, she hadn’t tried to get child support or anything else for Brandon or his sisters.
Learning to “serve and protect” by being a police officer, part of a larger ohana at the MPD, had helped whittle down the chip on Brandon’s shoulder—he didn’t feel so frustrated all the time. Even if he wasn’t always happy with his own life, he helped others—and having Stevens as his mentor these last five years was almost like having a father he could respect.
He’d begun to make the changes he’d told the LT that he would: asking that hottie Iris in Dispatch out to lunch and calling a realtor to see if there was anything on the market in his price range. He now had a date with Iris, and the realtor, for next week. He grinned in anticipation and pressed down on the accelerator.
Felipe Souza’s house was one of those old plantation homes crammed into a tiny lot on a side street in Lahaina, built onto in the days before permitting new development became such an issue on Maui. The termite-riddled structure filled the entire lot, and one of Lahaina’s old mango trees spread over it to provide umbrella-like shade. The house was painted bright teal, the sloppily applied paint contrasting with a dull red tin roof. Loose chickens scratched around a rickety porch bordered by a ragged ti-leaf hedge.
Stevens was already waiting for Brandon, leaning against his vehicle, filling out some paperwork on a clipboard. He stowed the papers and locked his vehicle as Brandon parked behind the Bronco.
“Just gonna ask this guy where he was and why he was so upset on the day of the Bukowski murder,” Stevens said. “Hopefully we’ll get something more to confirm Kitty Summers as the doer.”
“Gotcha, LT.” The evidence at the scene had been awfully convenient. Brandon walked up the worn treads of the wooden porch behind Stevens. A warped screen door gave into a living room, where he could hear the blare of a television talk show. The smell of pickled mango preparation tickled his nose.
Stevens knocked. No answer. He knocked again. “Hello? Anyone home?”
A petite Filipina girl, pretty, wearing a sundress with a rice-sack apron tied over it, came to the door wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She smelled delicious, the sour of vinegar contrasting with the sweet of mango juice. Mahoe’s mouth watered as he and Stevens held up their badges. “Is Felipe Souza home? We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Sure.” The girl spun on her heel and bellowed into the depths of the house. “Felipe! Cops here to talk to you!”
“Shit,” the LT muttered as they heard the patter of running feet. “Run around the back and head him off, Mahoe!” Stevens yanked the screen door open and charged into the house, shoving the girl aside. Brandon spun and vaulted the low railing of the porch, barreling around the side of the house. He leaped over a rusty bike and scattered squawking chickens, ducking under a line of laundry flapping in the wind.
Felipe Souza had made it out of the back of the house. He was hauling ass down the dirt alley, arms and legs pumping. Brandon dug deep to his high school football days, when he’d been the one to bring down many a quarterback making a run for it. He was no distance runner, but he was a champ at sprints, and time in the gym on the treadmill kept him in good shape. He put on a burst of speed and hit Souza from behind with his shoulder. The man flew forward with a cry to sprawl in the dust of the alley.
He was putting cuffs on Souza when Stevens jogged up. “Nice work, Mahoe.”
Brandon helped the witness to his feet and dusted him down. Dirt rose from the man’s T-shirt to tickle Brandon’s nostrils. “Dumb move, Souza. You must know from watching cop shows that running never works. You can’t get away, and it makes you look suspicious as hell.”
“What were you thinking, man?” Stevens said. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Souza shook his head. Tears tracked through grime from the road on his cheeks. Guy looked guilty as hell. They walked him back to the house, where the Filipina girl was standing at the back door, her mouth hanging open.
Stevens tossed Brandon the keys. “Put Souza in the back of the Bronco. I want to see what’s in his room.”
Souza came to life at this. “You can’t go in there without a warrant!”
Stevens wheeled to pin the young man with his gaze. Brandon knew firsthand how intimidating that blue stare was—enough to shrivel your balls. Souza looked away first. “You saying we need a warrant? What’re you trying to hide?”
“Nothing,” Souza muttered. “Got my rights, is all.”
“We’ll see about what rights you’ve got. I’m getting an illegal alien vibe, and I’m hardly ever wrong on those, am I, Mahoe?”
“Your alien radar is exceptional, LT.”
“Besides, the landlord can let us in if he or she has concerns about criminal activity.” Stevens turned to the young woman. “Miss. Who’s the landlord here?”
“Me. I mean, it’s my family’s house. I live here and manage it. Phillie Bayang.” She extended a hand to Stevens as Brandon marched Souza around the side of the house to the Bronco.
Brandon unlocked the vehicle and frisked Souza. He removed a cell phone and a pocketknife, then put the young man in the backseat. Souza sagged, resting his head on the b
ack of the seat. Brandon locked him in, then went around and opened the vehicle, putting the key in to crack the windows and making sure the wire grille Stevens had installed was locked in place. After checking that the childproof lock was engaged, he trotted back around the house.
The LT had already gone inside, so Mahoe took a moment to scan around the yard for anything out of place. In the corner of the lot, against a low concrete block fence, a portable metal fire pit was still smoldering—and the smell wasn’t wood.
Brandon frowned. He walked over to check it out.
Souza, or someone else in the house, had been burning clothes in the pit. Only a rag of blue jeans remained, caught near the metal lip. Was that a dark stain on the swatch of fabric?
Brandon’s pulse picked up.
Using a stick, he edged the cloth farther away from the hot ash. He gave the remnants a stir, uncovering a tuft of unburned T-shirt material. He needed to fetch his crime kit.
Stevens reappeared in the doorway, holding up a passport. “Check this out. Felipe Souza is really André Métier.”
C.J.
C.J. picked up her zipped portfolio and headed for the observation room, calling the district attorney, Pete Hiromo, as she did so. Stevens and Mahoe were bringing in a hot new suspect on the Feast murders, and not a minute too soon. The mayor was breathing down her neck about police harassment of his favorite chef.
Hiromo on his way, C.J. settled in to the dim confines of the booth and switched on the audio feed.
Felipe Souza had asked for a lawyer right away, according to Stevens and Mahoe. The suspect was unimpressive: a weedy-looking young man, olive complexioned, with dark circles under his eyes and a prominent Adam’s apple. He plucked at his handcuffs.
While they waited for Souza’s public defender, Stevens and Mahoe were currently logging in the evidence they’d found: a passport that identified Souza as André Métier, François Métier’s only cousin, the beneficiary of millions in life insurance—and some burned cloth that had tested positive for blood.
C.J. rested her chin on her hand, gazing into the interview room at Souza’s face. He lifted his head, looked around. Hollow-eyed and hopeless, maybe even sad. Yes, his was the face of someone with a guilty conscience.
Ms. Fogarty had drawn the short stick to get the case, apparently. C.J. snorted at the sight of the public defender’s outfit as the young attorney entered the interview room. Per usual, the blond hoochie had shoehorned herself into a skirt that hardly covered her ass. She walked like a duck, her knees together, over to her client and sat down next to Souza/Métier.
Fogarty introduced herself, and C.J. turned off the intercom—only nothing happened. The voices piped in from the other room continued. She jiggled the switch—damn old equipment was broken. “I’m here to make sure your rights are being respected. Tell me what happened,” Fogarty said.
“I was in my room. Listening to some music. And then Phillie yelled that the cops were here to talk to me. I . . . I ran.”
“Why? If you did something, I need to know.”
C.J. frowned. She could leave to avoid hearing this, but what was the harm? The team couldn’t act on any information gained this way anyway. She fiddled with the knob and it spun freely. She wondered if they could hear her too.
“I’m traveling under a false identity. I didn’t want them to find out,” Souza said.
“Ah. Are you an illegal alien?”
“Well, yeah. My visa expired two months ago.”
“Good. We’ll confirm that’s why you ran. You didn’t want to get deported. You just panicked. Anything else I should know? I can’t help you if there are any surprises.”
C.J. was surprised by the blond attorney’s sincere, no-nonsense delivery. Maybe the chick had more going on between her ears than pedicures and spray tans.
“I’m related to the victim. The first victim, I mean. François was my cousin.”
Fogarty leaned in to the young man’s face and asked, “Did you kill him?”
“No!” Souza recoiled. “No!”
“Did you have motive?”
“I think they will say I did. I get some money from his passing.” Some money, ha! C.J. felt her palms prickling with frustration. The kid wasn’t even being straight with his attorney. This interview was bound to be a waste of time. Hopefully the trace would tie to him and bring this case to a close.
“Please just stay quiet and respond with ‘no comment’ until we can see where they’re going with this interview,” Fogarty directed.
“Okay.” The suspect’s voice was soft in the tinny feed. C.J. picked up the phone and called maintenance to report the speaker malfunction.
The door of her cozy hideout blew open. Stevens stood framed in the opening, the muscles of his arms bunched with tension as he braced on the doorway. His eyes were wide and his face pale. “Captain—Lei’s in labor. I had my phone off and didn’t know. I have to go.”
C.J.’s heart lurched in response to his distress. She hung up the phone. “Isn’t it too early?”
“Apparently not. I just got her message, and it started a few hours ago. When I called back, she couldn’t talk. Tiare confirms it’s the real thing.”
“Of course—you go. Mahoe and I can handle this.”
Stevens gave a brief nod and spun on his heel. She heard his footsteps running down the hall toward the front entrance. He’d left the observation room door hanging open.
The baby wasn’t even born yet, and her two favorite detectives already had their hearts on the line. Please, God, don’t let anything go wrong. I need my people whole and happy.
C.J. got up and shut the door. Not a thing she could do to help, and if anyone could crank out a baby natural, it was Lei—the woman was fit, healthy, and no stranger to pain.
C.J. shuddered at the thought of labor. “God forbid I ever get in that situation, but if I do, give me drugs,” she muttered. “Better living through chemicals. Guess that makes me a coward.”
She was okay with that.
Fogarty and Métier had wrapped up their little powwow while C.J. was talking to Stevens. She was just in time to see Fogarty go to the door and call that they were ready for the interview.
C.J. tugged down her uniform jacket and allowed herself a small, tight smile. Those two were going to get more than they bargained for—she was going in.
Stevens
Heavy forty- and fifty-mile-an-hour gusts hit the main town of Kahului, shaking the Bronco like a chew toy, but it didn’t really start raining until just north of Paia. Visibility was so poor that Stevens hunched close to the steering wheel, driving as fast as he dared through a premature dusk flashing with bolts of lightning. The roar of rain and wind drowned out the pounding of his own heart as he sped down the normally picturesque coastal road.
He’d told Tiare he’d meet them at the hospital. Tiare had said no. Lei was only dilated at four or five, probably had hours to go, and might as well stay in the comfort of home with the weather so bad. That didn’t make sense to him at all.
Hospital.
Now.
Where Lei could be safe.
He would just make them go. He’d carry Lei out to the truck and put her in. Screw Tiare and “stay home where it’s relaxing.” He was about to have a heart attack just from the idea of what was happening, let alone the storm—and what if the weather got even worse?
Stevens’s hands went clammy, and he hyperventilated at a mental picture of driving his laboring wife through a tropical depression to get to the hospital.
Maybe an ambulance would be better . . . Yeah, ambulance. That was the way to go.
He was so amped from adrenaline that it was hard to focus on the road, but the conditions forced him to. He wove around blowing palm fronds and through broken branches. The familiar drive felt never-ending and surreal in the severe storm conditions.
Stevens finally reached the compound, vaulting out of the Bronco and up the stairs into the house as the gate rumbled shut behind him.
In the entry by the front door, he shook the rain that had instantly soaked him out of his hair and toed out of his boots.
The house was dim, the lights low. He smelled something—incense? The slack-key instrumental guitar Lei liked played, a mellow sound turned up against the rush of wind and rain on the windowpanes.
That’s right. This was all about relaxing and letting things happen. He was so not good at that. Neither was Lei. What were they thinking, having a baby at all?
Jesus. I don’t think I can do this. He meant it as a prayer.
Stevens pushed a hand through his wet hair and fought an urge to turn around and leave. He could do something useful—like cover the windows with plywood. Yeah, pounding some nails in the pouring rain sounded like paradise next to what was ahead. That’s what he’d do if he couldn’t get Lei to go to the hospital right away. But he had to at least go give his wife a hug.
“Man up,” he muttered. Procrastinating a moment longer, he set the wet boots outside the front door on the damp, windswept porch.
The dogs were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Kiet. They were probably all with Wayne already, their babysitting plan. He glanced over at Wayne’s cottage. It looked cozy and buttoned up tight, curtains drawn, but he could see a glow of lights inside.
Stevens was padding across the living room in his socks when a low cry came from the back bedroom. The sound of Lei’s pain ripped across his nerves like sandpaper. He froze in the middle of the room, sweat breaking out all over him.
“Oh God,” he muttered. “Oh Jesus.”
Paralyzed, unable to move, he smelled the acrid sweat of fear oozing out of his pores. He heard Tiare’s low, soothing voice saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words. Somehow he had to get a grip and be strong for her, but running through a live-ammo firestorm was easier than this.
“Michael? Is that you?” Lei’s voice calling him from the bedroom sounded shaky, scared.