by Lakes, Lynde
Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2012 Lynde Lakes
ISBN: 978-1-77130-065-0
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
And to those who worked diligently to bring this romantic intrigue to my longtime and new readers: My publisher Stacey Adderley—EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING, my editor Karyn White , my cover artist Sour Cherry Designs, & the acquisitions manager Marie Buttineau. And as always, to my husband for his loving support and encouragement.
DEADLY REUNION
Lynde Lakes
Copyright © 2012
Prologue
Part One
In the distance, under a balmy Hawaiian sky, frothy waves licked the shore and sloshed against the lava boulders at the base of Diamond Head. The sweet scent of pikake blossoms floated on ocean breezes as the musicians hit the first note of the Hawaiian Wedding Song.
Instead of enjoying the picture-perfect setting, Homicide Detective Malia Reed couldn’t keep her eyes off the groom, Damon Shaw.
In a white tuxedo that emphasized his wide shoulders, he stood tall and proud on the grassy section of Waikiki Beach, awaiting his fate with the naiveté of a man in love. When Malia had run a check on him, she hadn’t found any red flags to suggest bad character. In fact, he was too perfect. And that perfection made her heart pound and her palms sweat. In her eyes and probably most of the female population, the black-haired hunk was as close to the ideal dream man as any male could get. In spite of that fact, this union with her best friend Kiki would be rough sailing. She prayed Damon’s impressive shoulders would prove strong enough to handle the problems he was about to accept along with his vows.
Prologue
Part Two
Three Years Later
Al Lee quickly brought himself up to date on his former classmate, Kiki Shaw. He smiled at the news that Kiki’s husband Damon had recently left her after unsuccessfully battling her perpetual unfaithfulness. Kiki’s insatiable appetite for men would help Al kick off his reign of revenge.
A dark cloud passed in front of the searing Hawaiian sun. For all he cared it could eclipse the fiery ball permanently; he preferred darkness.
Repeatedly, he gripped and un-gripped the steering wheel, his agitation escalating. Finally, he spied Kiki gliding out of the upscale East O’ahu Real Estate Agency where she worked. She slid gracefully into her silver Mercedes, revealing long, slender, tanned legs.
His heart thudded against his chest. You still got it, Baby.
Following her was a cinch with the vanity license plate KIKI. She pulled into the Aina Haina Shopping Center and parked. Every nerve in his body jumped with tension as he waited for her to release her seatbelt and tuck the sun shield into place. The door opened, revealing a glimpse of those sensational tanned legs again. She stood tall and smoothed a skimpy skirt that clung so tightly to her curves that it appeared to be painted on. She looked around as though hoping for the sight of any male with his tongue hanging out. Then, agile on spike heels and swaying her fanny, she sashayed across the parking lot – chin held high like she owned the whole damned world – and entered Jack’s Restaurant.
Though the plate-glass storefront, he watched her join a tall Filipino man at a table by the window. The lean, surfer-type, with copper-brown skin and sun-streaked dark hair stood and pulled out a chair for her. Al snickered; he’d bet the guy’s manners weren’t any more sincere than his own effortless on-and-off charm. Women! So easy, so gullible.
He stepped closer to the plate-glass. The habit of casing a place before entering had served him well in the past. His skin grew hot as he scanned the sea of brown-faced patrons. His gaze froze on a table of uniformed cops.
Crap! He yanked his blue baseball cap lower then laughed at his needless caution. He hadn’t done anything – yet. At least, not in the state of Hawaii.
With squared shoulders and a decisive stride, he entered the restaurant and headed for the only unoccupied table at the back. He chose a chair facing his prey.
He inhaled bacon and toasted bread. He’d known the place served breakfast all day from the old days. It had been one of his favorite hang-outs. It had the kind of prices even a poor slob could afford. But those money-grubbing times were behind him. He had plenty of the green-stuff now, thanks to a lucky hit on a Vegas slot-machine. And in seven years, when he could declare his mother legally dead, he’d have dear old Mom’s insurance as well.
The noise level of clattering dishes and people talking bounced off the high ceiling and raked Al’s nerves. It was too much like mealtime in the Chino Prison mess hall. He stiffened then relaxed back into the chair. Dammit. Those hellish days are behind me.
He stuck his hand in his pocket and stroked the smooth surface of the high school class reunion announcement. He imagined it dripping with blood, thick and darkly crimson.
Al grabbed a copy of the Honolulu Advertiser from a side table and pretended an interest in the headlines while he studied his prey. Kiki’s hair fell across the side of her face, dark, lustrous and silky. She brushed it back slowly with long fingers – her dagger-nails painted cherry-red – and glanced at him with the kind of look that sees through a man rather than at him.
Don’t you recognize me, Baby?
No wonder, he thought. He wasn’t that skinny tube-of-toothpaste anymore. He had bulked up in the last ten years with hours of weightlifting, and now concealed his milk-white albino skin under heavy theatrical makeup. Surgery had corrected his lazy eye. And he’d shaved off his shoulder-length white hair and wore contacts to hide his pink-appearing eyes. To further assure anonymity – and to protect himself from sun exposure – he wore sunglasses, a long-sleeved work shirt, and long khaki pants.
For a moment, his feeling of being defective gnawed at his soul the way it had for years. He curled his fingers into fists. Dammit, the inherited lack of pigmentation didn’t make him less of a man. Since he’d become a mass of muscles and learned to charm the ladies there was no stopping him. Women were drawn to him; they claimed to love the novelty of his milky skin.
But to conceal his identity, he’d purposely hidden all signs of albinism, all signs of who he really was. But even all made up, he didn’t fit in. To the dark-skinned locals, he was just another haole, a white outsider. He dug his nails into his palms through thin leather gloves. Outsider hell! I was born and raised here!
Too bad his mom could no longer back that up. Or bitch about it. In her daily drunken rages she’d beaten him until he bled for not standing up for himself – and for being born. Al took a deep breath to quiet the demon tearing at his soul. She couldn’t hurt him anymore. She lay cold, worm-eaten and harmless beneath the prickly cactus plant she had hated almost as much as she hated him.
Al leveled his gaze at his prey again. Six months ago, the reunion announcement had arrived in the mail from the popular committee chairwoman, Kiki Shaw. Her words: Join us to renew old ties had poured acid into his festering wound and awakened his rage.
Here I am, Kiki, Baby.
And these days no one bullies Al Lee!
One of the questions on Kiki’s questionnaire had asked: Have you fulfilled your expectations for yourself up to now? Al snickered. N
o. That’s why I’m here – to fulfill my scarlet vision of revenge and turn my pain and past horrors into my classmates’ pain, their terror.
Al jumped when the waitress touched his shoulder. “You decide?” she asked.
He willed his violent and racing heartbeat to slow. After applying a stress reducing technique he’d learned in an anger-management class – a breath and a long exhale – he smiled, donning his facade of charm and graciousness, ready to disarm the mousy waitress with a talent he’d honed to perfection. He winked and said, “I’ll bet a pretty lady like you has some pancakes with my name on them.” He kept his grin in place waiting for the old line to work. It always did.
Her dark, almond eyes sparkled, and she blushed. “I get for you, quick.” She moved away, slightly bent, almost bowing.
Seconds later, smiling shyly, she eased a mug of coffee in front of him. Her subservient manner and clearly flirtatious attention sent a masterful charge of adrenaline through him. He pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and stroked it ceremoniously until it was smooth and flat. Winking, he tucked it under the sugar jar. “This is for you. Keep up the good work, Honey.” He laughed to himself. As busy as she was, she wouldn’t be able to keep her mind off him or his tip.
Sipping the coffee, he stared through the steam at Kiki. She batted her long lashes at the surfer-guy, and beneath the table, slipped out of her spiky-heeled shoe and ran her foot up his leg.
A bitter laugh boiled up inside Al. He could squash the surfer Romeo like a jailhouse roach. But the guy could serve as a backup-patsy if the estranged-hubby slipped the noose. Kiki twisted in her chair, heating that curvy little bottom in readiness. Her blatant hunger for sex hardened his shaft. She thought she wanted that surfer guy, but he’d make her want him. And he wouldn’t disappoint her. She’d die with a smile on her lips.
The entry bell tinkled, and Al tore his concentration from Miss Sexpot and glanced at the doorway. His breath caught. Malia! What was she doing here? Malia’s blend of Japanese-Caucasian heritage made her easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She been the one he’d counted on in high school. But his false hope had been crushed when she had touched his hand ever so gently and said, “Let’s just be friends.”
Her tailored pantsuit revealed curves that age had only improved. Two dark-skinned men, big guys, one black, the other Hawaiian, accompanied her. They had that familiar cop swagger. Malia stopped and spoke to Kiki. The men walked ahead and sat down with the three uniformed pigs already seated. When Kiki introduced surfer-guy to Malia, Al strained to hear over the clatter. He made a mental note of the Romeo’s name, Gabriel Rosado. They chatted and laughed, and then Malia joined the pigs in blue.
One of the men smiled at her and said, “Eh, Detective. Hear you got promoted. Again.”
I’ll be damned, Al thought, Malia is a cop! That upped the stakes.
Chapter One
Homicide Detective Malia Reed parked her unmarked car on the side of the pineapple farm dirt road behind the media van and ten skewed police cars blocking the way. She stepped over the yellow caution tape, slipped on her Latex gloves, and headed for the silver Mercedes. Oh, God. There was a real estate sign on the door. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled.
The vanity license plate, KIKI stopped her in her tracks. Malia could scarcely breathe. She prayed that Kiki had loaned out her car.
Officer Morales, tall, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, stepped aside. Officer Kwock stood nearby watching, his lips a thin line. The morning sun beat down unmercifully on Malia’s back as, with steeled determination, she looked into the trunk at the body folded into a fetal position. Oh, God no. Blood matted Kiki’s hair and streaked the side of her face in a grotesque web-shaped pattern. Malia’s knees nearly buckled. She yearned to lift her friend into her arms, rock her like a baby, crying, moaning, anything to release the agony. Moisture flooded the back of her eyes. She fiercely blinked. You’re a cop; no crying allowed.
“Morales! Pick up Damon Shaw.” She scarcely recognized the hard-edged voice as her own. Besides the normal caution that sent husbands to the top of the suspect list when a wife is murdered – estranged husbands with lightning speed – she knew about an insurance policy that fueled her suspicions. When Kiki had hit it big in real estate, she’d taken out a million dollar policy and made her parents the beneficiaries. When she had married Damon, she changed it over to him. Had Kiki remembered to change the beneficiary after the divorce? For Damon’s sake, Malia hoped she had. But if he did this, she would prove it. And make him pay. A heart-squeezing emotion deep within – an emotion she didn’t dare acknowledge, made her hope that by some miracle he was innocent – and that he had an airtight alibi.
Detective Ku, Rick Kulukulualani, her top investigator, had a way with insurance companies. She would put him right on it. The sooner she knew the better.
Officers Morales and Kwock moved silently away with sympathy on their faces. Malia closed her eyes against the threat of tears. Her throat ached.
She barely heard Officer Kwock mutter, “I think this homicide will down her.”
“No way, man,” Morales said. “When it comes to duty, she’s ice.”
Morales meant it as a compliment, and Malia wished he were right. It would help to feel nothing. She imagined the killer charging her friend from behind, sensed the blinding pain of the blow to the head. She rubbed her forehead, willing away a throbbing headache. She had to go on as if it were just another homicide. “Lead Homicide Detective, Malia Reed,” she said, forcing herself to give the opening facts for the evidence tape. She hadn’t thought of herself as just Malia since she’d pinned on her badge. The name was too soft, too human, and Reed the cop couldn’t afford such vulnerability. “Date: 2011, Tuesday June 5th, 10:00 A.M., two miles east of Cuerva Pineapple Company fields on Sugarcane Road just off Kunia.”
A media crew behind the yellow caution tape aimed their cameras at her and the grisly scene. They tried to push closer, but officers kept them back. The reporters were just doing their job. But that didn’t stop Malia from wishing their cameras and film would melt in the tropical sun, and they’d have to rush away for replacements.
How had they learned of the murder so fast? Keeping Kiki’s identity quiet would be impossible. She was a member of the Real Estate Million-Dollar-Club, holding the two most sought after designations in the industry, the CRS, Certified Residential Specialist, and the GRI, Graduate of the Realtor Institute. As head of the reunion committee, her face had already been in the news. In high school, she’d been homecoming queen and a cheerleader. She made good copy. Alive or…dead.
Malia batted at the swarming flies, feeling assaulted from all directions by the horror, the smell of dead flesh, the energy-sucking humidity, and the unrelenting sun. “Where were the tradewinds Guy Hagi promised in last night’s weather report?” Malia mumbled to herself as waves of grief curled over her. Don’t lose it. She was the only female homicide detective in the Honolulu Police Department, and reporters loved to train their harsh spotlight on her, waiting for her to show any weakness, make any misstep.
She forced herself to take shallow breaths. She’d never gotten used to the stench of death, but she’d learned to hide her revulsion. But how did one hide gut-wrenching sorrow? Kiki is dead. Kiki is dead. Malia wanted to hug herself and rock away the pain. This can’t be real. She’d seen Kiki beautiful and alive yesterday at Jack’s Restaurant having lunch with Gabriel Rosado, a local contractor, and another man Malia planned to question. Kiki had mentioned Rosado was renovating the old Martin house, and then she had switched subjects to the ten-year high school class reunion. Everything was set, she had said with pride in her voice. Now she was dead.
Malia’s raw throat tightened. She’d joined the homicide force to stop horrors like this. After that unknown killer had raped and murdered her twelve-year-old twin sister Melody, Malia had sworn that someday she’d hunt down men like him. True to her word, after graduating from UH and the police aca
demy, she joined the force and moved forward in her mission to get as many violent perpetrators, perps, off the streets as possible. Unfortunately, stopping crime was like trying to stop a tsunami wave. But giving up wasn’t an option; she owed diligent allegiance to every victim in her jurisdiction – and their families. She’d never before focused on one case. They were all important. But to avenge Kiki’s murder, she would go after this killer with all the skill, single-minded purpose, and energy available to her. And when she slammed his sorry butt in jail, she’d have a case so tight the jury wouldn’t have any doubt about the S.O.B.’s guilt.
Beside her, Detective Rick Kulukulualani, Ku to his fellow officers, took snapshots with two cameras, one a Polaroid. Officer David Hawkins videotaped the trunk and the body from every angle while recording Malia’s inspection comments for the report. “Victim identified as Kiki Shaw,” Malia said for the tape. “Back of her head bashed in.” Malia fought to keep her voice from cracking. “Apparent murder weapon in situ; a small sledge hammer the victim kept in her trunk to pound real estate signs into the ground.” Malia’s timbre sounded hoarse and foreign to her ears. Hawkins leaned forward for a close-up of Kiki’s head, catching the gaping mouth, the bulging glassy eyes. Malia ached to block the view to protect her friend’s dignity. But it was too late for that.
How would she tell Kiki’s parents? How would she tell her own parents, who loved Kiki like their own? When it came to law enforcement, sometimes the island of O’ahu operated like a small town. Too many times Malia knew the victims or their families. But this was the worst of her career. She’d been school chums with Kiki since the third grade; they’d had sleepovers, exchanged secrets. Now Kiki was gone. Brutally, senselessly gone.
Malia looked away briefly to regain her composure. Lowell, a specialist with the evidence team, searched the area nearby. Like the others on the team, he had sharp eyes and knew what to look for. “Find anything?” she called past the constriction in her throat.
