Hunting Houston

by Sandy Steen

  “Gee, thanks. I’m just supposed to find out what makes the guy tick. Not crawl in bed with him.”

  When she didn’t comment on Houston, he asked the obvious. “What about Sinclair?”

  “He’s…not what I expected,” she replied, hoping her voice didn’t betray any of her own fears concerning Houston.

  “How so?”

  “If he’s a scam artist, he’s sure got an offbeat technique.” Provoking a woman into slapping your face was definitely not an approach she would put at the top of the list of smooth moves. Of course, she could confirm that offbeat or not, Houston Sinclair was most definitely charming. And incredibly handsome.

  “Well, my money’s on you, Miss Abigail.”

  “I just keep feeling there’s something we’ve missed. Something right under our noses.”

  “You’ve read the EUOs,” he said, referring to the examination-under-oath depositions required by law.

  Abby had read Sinclair’s and Leland’s EUOs from top to bottom, front and back, inside out and still couldn’t put her finger on the elusive clue her instincts were telling her was there. She had to look again.

  She sighed. “Yeah. But I’ll go over them again. In the meantime, how about having another arson expert take a look at the first expert’s findings. Never hurts to get a second opinion.”

  “In a mood to spend company money, huh?”

  “What’s a few hundred dollars stacked up against a half million?”

  “Point taken. Let me know when you come up with anything,” Brax said, and hung up.

  “When I come up with anything. If I come up with anything,” Abby muttered.

  She picked up the copy of Gil Leland’s examinationunder-oath, and started to read. Ten minutes later she put it down. A big fat zero. It was short and sweet. Gil Leland had been waiting in Hilo, Hawaii, for his partner to show up and finalize a contract with a mainland tour company. He’d had no idea his wife would be on board with his partner. And he had no idea why the boat exploded. He could only hazard a guess that something had malfunctioned.

  Basically, he was clueless.

  The accompanying information indicated that while Leland’s personal finances were not exactly a fortune, he made a decent living. He had a respectable reputation in the business community, liked a good joke, and appeared to have no enemies.

  Nothing there she could hang her hat on.

  As far as background went, he came from a middleclass family, attended college on a scholarship, graduated in the top ten percent of the San Francisco Police Academy.

  Routine. Maybe that’s what bothered her. It felt too routine. Her instincts were seldom unreliable, but there was a first time for everything. Maybe she was just reaching because she had absolutely nothing to go on except the information from Seattle and Brax’s hunch.

  She tossed the form onto the table, and picked up Houston’s EUO.

  The interview had been conducted by an adjuster, with a lawyer from the corporate office present. Houston had been accompanied by his own lawyer. The questions were asked, and answered, she could add, in a straightforward manner. Everything had been done by the book. After dispensing with the obligatory identification, verification-of-residency, time-and-date questions, the interviewer, a Mr. Daly, asked Houston to recount, to the best of his knowledge, the events of the day of the accident, beginning when the Two of a Kind left Lahaina Harbor.

  Abby had, of course, read the EUO before, evaluating its content as she would any other case. They were just words on paper, transcribed word for word. But this time, as she read them, she visualized Houston’s face. As she did, she found herself visualizing his pain.

  Daly: And you say you repeatedly called out to Mrs. Leland?

  Sinclair: Yes.

  Daly: How long before she responded?

  Sinclair: I don’t know. Seemed like hours. Probably only seconds. You see, the fire was roaring. And it just seemed to—to devour the boat.

  Daly: Making it impossible to get to her.

  Sinclair: No. Yes. I thought. That is, I had to try. I just kept telling her to hang on. I said, “Hang on, Shel. I’m coming.” And I tried.

  Daly: You say you were finally able to climb back on board?

  Sinclair: Yes. Tried to grab for the wheel. I knew if I could pull myself up to the left hull, I could get to her, but…

  Daly: That’s when the second explosion knocked you back into the water?

  Sinclair: Yes.

  Daly: And you actually saw the boat sink?

  Sinclair: Yes. Yes.

  Daly: Afterward, did you see any debris, or Mrs. Leland’s body?

  Sinclair: Yes, and—and no. I saw the ship’s bell. Or what was left of it.

  Daly: The bell was floating?

  Sinclair: No. It was still bolted to a piece of the hull.

  Daly: How large a piece?

  Sinclair: Small. Maybe one by two feet.

  Daly: You say a bell was attached to it?

  Sinclair: Yes. Standard brass bell. Most ships have them. It was engraved with the ship’s name and the date we went into business.

  Daly: Did you consider picking up the piece of fiberglass, and putting it in the raft with you?

  Sinclair: What?

  Daly: Did you consider picking up—

  Sinclair: You want to know why I didn’t think about collecting debris when I had just seen someone I cared about die?

  Daly: I merely—

  Sinclair: No. I didn’t pick up the damn bell. How the hell can you even ask such a question? Do you know what horror is, Mr. Daly?

  Daly: I’m sorry if I—

  Sinclair: Real horror? Well, I do. And you know what it is? It’s helplessness. It’s knowing that if you had been just a second quicker—

  Daly: Sit down, Mr. Sinclair.

  Sinclair: Your best friend’s wife would be laughing in the sun right now instead of lying at the bottom of the goddamn Pacific!

  Abby read the entire EUO, but that particular block of questions and answers had stuck with her. Haunted her, actually, because for a few moments she had felt Houston’s anguish.

  Understandable, but it was also a red flag telling her to back away, retain her objectivity.

  An investigator was only supposed to be concerned with getting the answers to four basic questions.

  Cause.

  Opportunity for cause.

  Origin of fire.

  Motive.

  Without any physical evidence Abby couldn’t determine cause, opportunity for cause, or origin of fire. That left her with motive. And so far, she had come up empty-handed on that one, as well.

  Maybe this evening would provide her with a chance to get more information. Maybe tonight she could find out who Houston Sinclair really was.

  She was late. Lingering over Houston’s EUO had been as interesting as the first time she’d read it. And as time-consuming, only more so. The first time, she’d never met him or even wanted to. Now, she had not only met him, but she was beginning to feel as if she knew him. And that was dangerous. As dangerous as the intimate moment they had shared. She had slapped his cheek, and he had kissed her palm.

  Abby glanced at her hand and, noticing her watch, was shocked to see the hour. One hurried shower and frantic makeup session later, she was still running behind.

  Dinner. He’d said dinner. But where? And what did she wear?

  Sundress. A sundress and sandals. She was in the Hawaiian Islands, for goodness’ sake. How far wrong could she go in a dressy linen sundress and strappy lowheeled sandals? Besides, it wasn’t like this was a date date. Everything she did was to enhance her cover story in order to find out more about Leland and Sinclair. So, what was she fussing about?

  Abby looked in the mirror, unsatisfied with her appearance. The humidity had turned her natural waves into a riot of curls.

  “Great,” she muttered to her reflection. “You look like Little Orphan Annie.” She glanced at her watch. “And you’re late, Annie.”

/>   He was early. Even knowing his timing was a sign of overeagerness, Houston had sped down Honoapi’ilani Highway like a high-school nerd headed for his first and only date. He had to remind himself no less than three times to ease back on the accelerator of Gil’s Jeep. He would have preferred to pick her up in his classic T-Bird, but it was in the shop.

  His eagerness surprised him. But no less than the realization that he wanted to impress her. When was the last time he had looked forward to spending time with a beautiful woman?

  Before the accident. Before he had lost his courage.

  And if Houston were truthful, even before that. After Gil and Shelley married, things had changed. He had changed. Although he was long past the need to prove his virility, he still went out a couple of times a week, but none of the women left any lasting impressions. The ladies, and the good times, seemed to blend into a homogenized memory. Indistinctive and forgettable.

  Words that certainly didn’t apply to Abigail Douglass.

  Abigail. Prim and proper. The name made him think of filmy summer dresses ruffled by a breeze, and widebrimmed hats with flowers banded around the crown.

  Abby. Soft and alluring. The name made him think of hot summer nights and slow, wet kisses.

  Two sides to the same woman.

  Interesting. And getting more so by the minute, Houston decided as he pulled into the entrance of the Kaanapali Shores Hotel and condos, parked Gil’s Jeep, and walked through the breezeway lobby.

  He knocked on the door twice before she answered.

  “Aloha,” he said.

  She was flushed, her cheeks slightly damp, but prettily so. And her feet were bare. Which meant either she felt comfortable enough with herself and him not to bother, or she was running late.

  Yes, definitely the most interesting woman Houston had met in a long time. A very long time.

  “Alo—Hi. Come on in. I’m running a bit late.”

  Houston grinned. Oh, well, they would get to “comfortable” sooner or later. Sooner if he had his way.

  “Too much shopping?”

  “Uh, yes. I, uh, guess I just lost track of time.” She had made scrupulously certain there were no traces of notes or files left lying about. She didn’t want him asking questions about why a tourist would bring her work along on vacation.

  “You buy that today?” He indicated the caramel-colored dress that set off her strawberry-blond hair.

  “No. I brought it from home. Like it? It has a jacket, but I decided against it tonight.”

  He liked the dress and what was in it. “Perfect.”

  She sighed as if relieved. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said, and disappeared into a bedroom.

  “Where’s home?” he asked after a minute or two.

  She walked back into the room wearing sandals. “California. How about you?”

  “Galveston, Texas, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary Stetson. “Ever been there?”

  “Don’t think so,” she lied. She had once spent three days there working on a case.

  “Bet you’d like it. Lots of charm.”

  “Sounds…” She looked up and straight into his dark brown eyes. “Charming.”

  He stepped closer. “You look delicious.” Reaching out, he brushed a wisp of strawberry-blond curl away from her damp cheek.

  Abby found the gesture, and his choice of words, strangely intimate. And unnerving. But she refused to allow him to sidetrack her as he had that morning. She grinned. “You must be hungry.”

  “Starved.” Houston heard himself speak the word, and realized the statement applied to more than food. Abby was a feast for the eyes, all right. But it was more. A hunger he hadn’t even known existed, demanded satisfaction. A hunger for something soft and alluring. Prim and proper. Something substantial.

  She liked the way he was looking at her. And she didn’t. Unless she was mistaken, the way he was looking at her would make her job a lot easier. But there was something about the look in his eyes that told her easy was not the optimum word here. Desire would have been more accurate. The word desire, coupled with predatory.

  He wanted her. She saw it clearly in the way he looked at her. In the seductive tone of his voice. Even in his body language. No beating around the bush. Just plain, old-fashioned, basic desire.

  “Wh-where are we going?”

  The doubled-edged question almost struck her as funny, except for the fact that he was so close she could feel his body heat. If she wasn’t careful, this could take them places neither of them was prepared to go.

  “Not far.”

  Abby nodded. “I’ll get my purse.” And a little distance, she thought.

  As it turned out, they didn’t have far to go. Only down a walkway lined with banana trees and plumeria bushes, and around a corner to the hotel’s cabana-style restaurant. The dining areas were small, candlelit and facing the ocean. Perfect for viewing breathtaking sunsets.

  “Why is it,” Abby asked, gazing at the blazing orange, red and gold sky as she sipped her Kahlúa-laced coffee, “you have to come thousands of miles to really appreciate sunsets? I know the same sunsets in California, but it sure looks different here.”

  “It is different. Because of the water. It’s like watching fire dance across a mirror.” As soon as the words formed on his lips, memories popped through his mind like flashbulbs, illuminating fragments without offering any real clarity. When it happened, and it was happening more often of late, he still fought to shut out the pain he knew the memories would bring. But there was a part of him—infinitesimal though it might be—that whispered remembering might bring hope. The hope that he could finally put his torment to rest.

  Houston looked away from the dazzling spectacle of nature and focused on his own coffee.

  “How was your mahimahi? he asked, referring to the local catch of the day.

  “Fantastic.” Obviously, his comment about fire on a mirror had reminded him of the accident. And just as obviously, he had shut the memory down. Fast. Somehow she had to get him to open up and talk to her about what had happened. And from what she had seen so far, she had her work cut out for her.

  “How about a sunset walk on the beach?” he suggested as the waiter cleared away the remnants of their meal. “It’s mandatory, your first day in paradise.”

  “Really? Well, then, lead on. I wouldn’t want the paradise police after me.”

  As they headed toward the beach, Abby cast a sideways glance at her escort, and was impressed all over again with his good looks. He was a devilishly handsome man, no question about it. Tall, well-built, with a loose-legged stride that was both cocky and confident at the same time. And the kind of male charisma that women simply couldn’t ignore, no matter if it was one-on-one or in a crowded room. Abby could state, unequivocally, that one-on-one was an unbelievably intense experience.

  “Have you booked another dive for tomorrow?”

  “No,” she answered a little too quickly, too adamantly.

  “What about a whale watch? Or snorkeling?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” She didn’t have the nerve to tell him that the idea of getting back on the water, much less getting in it, was still upsetting. “What do you do for fun?”

  Fun? He hardly knew how to answer her. It seemed like years since he had even entertained the prospect of real fun. He and Gil had flown to Honolulu on a couple of occasions and tried to recapture something of the good old days. The lights were as bright, and the ladies were as soft. But for Houston, it was no good.

  “Fun hasn’t been a big part of my agenda lately.”

  “Oh,” was all she said, leaving the door open for him. Hopefully, to talk about the accident.

  He said nothing for several minutes. Finally they reached a wrought-iron gate that led down to the beach. He bent over, untied the laces on one of his deck shoes and took it off. “Take off your shoes,” he suggested, removing his other shoe.

  “Hmm?”

  “The sand.”

  “Oh, yes
.”

  Without thinking, she put her hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she leaned over to undo first one sandal, then the other. Holding both shoes in one hand, sole to sole, she straightened. After removing the additional two inches, Abby discovered she was now just the right height to put her head on his shoulder. If she chose to put her head on his shoulder. Which, of course, she didn’t. Couldn’t. Keep it light, she told herself.

  “Maybe we can change your agenda,” she suggested.

  He liked the way the humidity made her hair curl wildly around her face. And the way the sunset turned those strawberry-blond curls into glorious red gold. “What for?”

  “So you can start having some fun.”

  “I can start right now.” He put his hand on her waist, and ever so gently urged her closer.

  “Good.” Things were moving faster than she had planned. He was moving faster than she had expected. She should have resisted when he pulled her even closer. But she didn’t.

  “I think so.” Houston dipped his head, and kissed her.

  He tested her mouth for softness, sweetness; slowly, gently at first, then deeper, coaxing her lips to part. Behind him, the surf crashed against the shoreline in age-old rhythms as the tide rose. Rhythms he longed to replicate. Body to body. His to hers.

  Abby kissed him back. Sort of. She stopped just short of leaning into the kiss. His mouth was warm, and his mustache brushed her lips like a master painter stroking an all-too-willing canvas. This was all part of her cover, she told herself. All part of a job. But his kiss was driving all thoughts of work out of her mind.

  He tasted slightly of Kahlúa, and she was shocked at how much she wanted to take the kiss further. How much she wanted to press herself against him. To feel him against her. But she didn’t. She wasn’t immune to a little romance, but she knew where to draw the line. The line was here. Now.

  Despite all of that, she let her mouth linger on his for a second longer than it should have.

  When he lifted his head, she looked into his eyes. “I was never much good at summer romances,” she told him in a very Abigail tone of voice.

  “It’s spring.” Despite the fact that she had kissed him back, he read mistrust in her soft blue eyes.