by Lakes, Lynde
Damon groaned. The good condition of his writing sanctuary struck another point against him. It was no surprise that a smart officer like Malia Reed picked up on it. “That only proves your killer is a setup artist,” he said. Damon needed her to trust him, believe him, yet as long as he held back the truth, she had every reason not to.
From the doorway, Ku said. “Looks like my theory might’ve been right, Shaw. You did this, but couldn’t bring yourself to mess with your writing room.”
The doubt clouding Malia’s face darkened. The evidence of her dwindling faith tightened the knot in Damon’s gut. “Don’t you get it?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “You’re playing right into the hands of the crafty bastard who’s setting me up.”
****
With only the couple hours’ sleep she’d snatched in the women’s lounge at the HPD, she definitely wasn’t at her best to endure what lay ahead. But with determination in her heart and morning sunshine heating her back, she headed for the M.E. pathologist lab in the morgue. In spite of the ribbon of warmth, she was painfully cold, and her inner cold made little sense in the warm tropical air. Why was she putting herself through the torture of Kiki’s autopsy? She could have excused herself, but it would be regarded as a show of weakness; and weakness wasn’t something women cops could afford to let male cops see. She’d always hated watching the exam. She could do it because it was part of her job, but witnessing the impersonal probing-assault of someone she cared for might be asking too much of herself. God, if you just get me through this…
Malia suited up, donning gown, paper shoe covers, gloves and a bouffant paper cap. Walking into the lab was like stepping into a deep freeze. Her skin was so icy it hurt. At least she wouldn’t fall asleep. There were five others in the room, all looking grim. Kwock and Morales nodded to acknowledge her. Dr. Fong’s assistant set up the lights and instruments. Malia smeared Vicks under her nose to help mask the stench that polluted the room. Dr. Lee, the pathologist, stepped into position to gather the evidence slides. Malia felt Kwock’s and Morales’ eyes on her. Rather than watching the autopsy, they were waiting for her to break. They probably even had a bet going. Somehow their certainty that she’d fall apart kept her from turning away. If they spotted any weakness, she’d lose the credibility she’d worked so hard to build. Nausea welled up within her. She needed a distraction. Quickly Damon came to mind. Although hating herself for using a suspect as a mental crutch, she locked in on his clean-cut image.
Miraculously, she got through the autopsy. She asked for a rush on the report, then, as stoically as possible, fled the room. Dr. Lee would do his best. He knew how important this was to her. Their places had been reversed when a gang lord had murdered his nephew. She had moved the case up, given it top priority and secured enough of the evidence to lock the boy’s killer away for life. Thoughts of a past success failed to dull the sickening impact of Kiki’s autopsy. Malia thrust off her sterile paper protective clothing, headed for the restroom, and retched. She scrubbed up, imagining the smell of death still clinging to her. She felt contaminated. And angry. So damned angry. She couldn’t think of Kiki’s murder without seeing her friend’s distorted face.
In the HPD Building, Malia passed Homicide Chief Michael Tonga’s open door. “Reed, hold up a minute,” he said in a voice made huskier by a two-pack a day habit. “We need to talk.”
He looked at her with sad, owlish brown eyes. He was a mixture of Chinese, Caucasian and Samoan. His Samoan genes accounted for his intimidating size, which he used to keep his people in line. He seldom called anyone into his office. When he did, it was never good news.
Damn, she was in no mood for this. “I was just going to type up my report on the Kunia Road murder for you.”
“Sorry about your friend.”
She wondered who’d blabbed. News spread like wildfire in the department. It would have been better if she’d had a chance to tell him herself. “Thank you.”
“Under the circumstances, I think Kwock should handle this case,” Tonga said with finality in his tone.
Her heart pounded. “Don’t do this.” She met his hard look with all the toughness she could muster. “I’m the right officer for this investigation. I’ve already gotten through the hardest part – the autopsy. If at any moment I think I can’t do the job, I’ll step down.”
He stared at her for a long time. The tension between them was spun so tight, the threads hummed, ready to snap. “This is a bad time. We have fifty officers retiring early, and twenty dignitaries coming in from crucial countries to meet with the president. Security is going to be a bear. And I really need Kwock to handle security. Dammit, we’re never been in a worse predicament or shorter staffed in homicide. You’re an outstanding investigator, but…
“No buts, Sir. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
“Okay, Reed, but only because my back is against the wall. Don’t disappoint me. The mayor wants to know why two realtors are dead. The serial murders are making the real estate community nervous.”
Thanks to the TV media, Malia thought. Several stations had carried the story first thing this morning, linking Kiki and Ainsley by their profession.
“This case is my top priority,” she said, and rushed out the door before he could change his mind. She passed her coworkers with their eyes cast down, no doubt thinking she’d been yanked off the case. Feeling no sense of euphoria at her shaky win, Malia entered her office and slid behind her desk, acutely aware of the case’s ticking clock. She picked up Kiki’s file and concentrated on it, looking for anything she might have missed. Now, in addition to wanting to get justice for Kiki, her job was on the line. She pulled out the still-life crime scene photos from both Kiki’s and Ainsley’s murders and spread them across her desk like a deck of glossy tarot cards, knowing the answers wouldn’t magically appear. She’d have to dig for them. How did Kiki’s killer escape the Kunia fields where the body was found? The police interview teams hadn’t come up with any witnesses. But someone must have seen something. So far all she had to go on were gut feelings.
Damon, with his gentle green eyes, didn’t strike her as a killer. But she could be wrong. She didn’t have any evidence to hold him – or to cross him off her list of suspects.
After thirty minutes of getting nowhere, she stretched. God, she needed a break. She poured water from the carafe on the hot plate into the rainbow-mug that Ku had given to her when she got promoted. He never said much, but his actions spoke for him.
Fighting tiredness from getting only a few hours sleep, Malia drank her English Breakfast tea, nibbled on a chocolate-peanut-butter bar and stared at the files of the victims piling up on her desk. Her feelings about the dead blended together like merging rivers of blood.
Ku stuck his head through the doorway. “Heard you let Shaw go. Not a good idea.”
“His attorney demanded it with good cause. The CSU boys finished up at Damon’s apartment,” she said, resenting that Ku was second guessing her. “They didn’t come up with any prints other than his, but they found deep gouges in the lock plate of the door which supported a possible breakin. Besides, I couldn’t come up with a motive for the second murder.”
“What if the only motive was to confuse and throw blame in another direction?” Ku asked, his unflinching gaze making her uneasy.
She’d thought he was above playing the testing game, unlike some of the other cops. Well, if he was waiting for her to come up short, this was the case that could do it. “If you’re making a point—”
“Hope that chemistry thing I’m sensing between you and Shaw isn’t clouding your judgment.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “The only chemistry between Damon Shaw and me is a DNA test.”
“He gave you a blood sample?” Ku sounded surprised.
Rattling Ku with the unexpected gave Malia a curious sense of pleasure. “Yeah,” she said. “And while we’re waiting for the results, I put a tail on him. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Think you c
overed all the bases, eh?” Malia detected sarcasm in his tone. He kept his beefy arms folded in front of him, edging closer until he towered over her. His gaze bored into hers. “What if I told you there’s more to Kiki’s murder than jealous rage?”
Malia’s heart skipped a beat. “Is it about the insurance policy?” Her throat tightened, dreading an answer that would ruin her day.
Ku reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Right. Kiki never changed her life insurance. Shaw’s still the beneficiary.”
Malia’s gaze shot up to meet Ku’s.
“Thought that’d get your attention,” he said
Malia held herself rigid, trying to hide the impact the news had on her. She didn’t have to ask how much. 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 married Damon, she changed it over to him. But when they separated, why hadn’t she changed it back?
Malia grabbed her keys. She had wanted an excuse to see Damon again, but not for something like this. “Let’s go talk to him.”
Chapter Seven
Damon typed steadily, using his sadness, turmoil, and anger to fuel his story. If he kept up this pace he’d easily have ten pages by late afternoon.
The door bell rang. He ignored it. Someone pounded on the solid core door hard enough to do serious damage. “Open up!” Damon recognized Ku’s gruff tone and suspected if he didn’t let the big Hawaiian in, he’d break down the door.
“What the hell do you want now?” Damon growled as he yanked the door open. All the steam went out of him when he saw Malia standing next to Ku. The mid-day sun glistened on her dark hair, gilding it with burgundy-gold highlights. Her intense eyes glinted with amber, golden flecks – and a fire that set off warning signals in his gut. He gestured for them to step in.
His apartment suddenly seemed cluttered and small. He gathered a stack of books from coffee table and shoved them into a shelf.
When he turned again, he found Malia watching him closely, as though trying to read something important in the way he moved. “You didn’t bother to mention you were still the beneficiary on Kiki’s life insurance policy.” Shards of ice clung to Malia’s words.
Damon’s heart pounded. “She was going to change it.”
“Going to are the operative words,” Malia said.
“Kiki’s attorney told me,” Ku said in a self-satisfied voice, “that she had an appointment to change the beneficiary the day following her murder, claimed you’d been informed and were supposed to show up.”
Malia tilted her head and studied Damon, her eyes narrowing. “But you didn’t plan to show up, did you? Perhaps because you knew she’d already be dead?”
Damon felt the vise tightening. He was caught in a bloody nightmare. The gorgeous cop was determined to nail him as a murderer. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, trying to sound calm, in control. “It was Kiki’s show. She didn’t need me. I never wanted to be her beneficiary in the first place. Besides, doesn’t the timing say anything to you cops? I’d have to be an idiot to kill my wife the day before she was set to change her will? That would be like signing a confession.”
The fire in Malia’s eyes flamed hotter. “Are you ready to sign one?”
“Hell, no. I have nothing to confess.” He had to cool it; his temper was starting to heat, and losing control with cops was dangerous. And stupid. He decided to let his attorney handle it. “My attorney is preparing to file a harassment charge.” The threat sounded feeble. He needed to say something with force, but his tongue felt swollen and his brain paralyzed. Why couldn’t he have drawn a bumbling detective instead of a sharp lady-cop who knew how to scramble his brains and make him lose control?
Ku leveled a hard look at Damon. “You have exactly $5,049.52 in your savings account and $352.96 in your checking account.”
“How the devil did you get access to my bank records? Go through my trash?” Probably once they knew where he banked the rest was easy.
Ku ignored his questions and shot a zinger of his own. “How did you plan to live until you finished your novel – a novel that might never sell?”
Damon curled his fingers into fists, but kept them tight at his side. “You’re really a ray of aloha sunshine. I do enough freelance work to keep myself afloat.”
Ku poked a big finger at Damon’s chest. “But that cool mil will do more than just keep your head above water, won’t it, Shaw? You can live like a writer who’s made it instead of a pathetic wannabe.”
Damon shoved Ku’s hand away and widened his stance, no longer caring about the repercussions. It’d take just one fist to the jaw to wipe that squinty-eyed sneer off the big Hawaiian’s face. Malia stepped between them and gave Damon a warning look.
She was right; he had enough trouble without hitting a cop. But, at the very least, he had to say something in his own defense. “I don’t want the damned money – wouldn’t keep it if they gave it to me.” Was that how Malia saw him, an untalented loser? Kiki had never believed in his writing. She had wanted him to get a real job. He rubbed his forehead, starting to feel like pond scum. Don’t let them beat you down. Damon forced himself to stand a little straighter. “What are you officers playing? Bad cop, bad cop?”
“No,” Malia said, eyes flashing. “And you’ve got big trouble because we’re both good cops. And thorough.”
“Look, Malia, I— ”
“Don’t ever call me Malia on duty.” She glanced at Ku as though needing to read his reaction to the slip.
Was the tension he sensed between the detectives making his situation worse? “Okay, Detective Reed,” Damon said, emphasizing her title. “Where do we go from here?”
She shot him a go-to-hell look and said in a hard voice, “Here’s what we’ve got, Shaw. A strong motive for Kiki’s murder. Then you show up at the second homicide.”
“A setup,” Damon said past the constriction in his throat. “I didn’t even know that Ainsley woman.”
“She knew about you,” Ku said. “Maybe enough for blackmail.”
“We’re going to have to hold you, Shaw,” Malia said. Her regretful expression puzzled Damon. Was she for him or against him?
Chapter Eight
Malia stared out her office window, watching the late afternoon shadows lengthen and creep under the old banyan with its tangled roots. The snarl was similar to the knotty interweave of this case. Things looked bad for Damon, but she felt lousy about tossing his sexy butt in jail. Sexy butt? She frowned at her unprofessional observation and rubbed her aching head.
What if he was set up? What if the two murders were really the work of a serial killer out to get real estate agents for some warped reason? Or what if there was another connection, one not readily apparent? Damn, she was grasping at something with as much substance as dust motes. But she’d seen things in Damon’s face, tenderness, concern, that made it almost impossible to believe that a man with as much compassion as he’d shown for Kiki’s parents could be a cold-blooded killer.
Was Ainsley the key? Malia had asked Ku to run a check on her, but suddenly impatient, she ran it herself. She’d been right. Ainsley Knowles’s maiden name had been Carpenter. She was a classmate. Malia began to pace. Okay. She had two women, both real estate agents, both high school classmates. What if the insurance thing was just an unfortunate coincidence?
Perhaps the connection was real estate or high school. But what about motive? No motive she could think of was as powerful as a million dollar insurance policy.
Ku stuck his head through the doorway. “Got Rosado in the hot seat in interrogation. Been at him for over an hour. Claims he doesn’t know anything. I tend to believe him. Especially with what we’ve got on Damon Shaw. You want to give him a go?”
“Definitely,” she said, much more calmly than she felt. “A man’s freedom is at stake.”
In the interview room, instead of the handsome confident developer she’d met in the restaurant, Gabr
iel Rosado was a trembling mass of insecurities. He darted terrified looks at Ku, who stood against the wall, with his massive arms folded, looking like a bone-crushing wrestler.
“You met Kiki for lunch the day of her murder,” Malia said.
“Afterwards we got in our own cars and went our separate ways.”
A twitch at the corner of Rosado’s right eyelid and an odd flicker in his
eyes alerted Malia – he was either lying outright, or at least not telling the whole truth.
“Mind taking a lie detector test?” she asked.
Rosado swallowed. “Are you charging me with something?”
She didn’t have any evidence to charge him. “It’s voluntary. But it would go a long way toward clearing you,” she said in a hard tone that she hoped scared him as much as Ku’s presence. Malia wasn’t surprised when Rosado declined. “Kiki mentioned that you were renovating the old Martin house. Did you ever take her there?” His eyes widened, and he looked like a man caught with his hand in the till, his gaze skittering around as though he was weighing the cost of a truthful answer. “Well, what about it?” she asked. “It’s a simple question. Did you ever take her there, or not?” No matter what Rosado answered, Malia decided it wouldn’t hurt to have the lab boys go over the place with luminol. The UV alternate light source might uncover some blood.
“I didn’t exactly take her.” Rosado cleared his throat. “She has the listing on the place and came by to check the progress of the work whenever it struck her fancy. She had her own set of keys.”
Now Malia was sure she would have the place checked. Kiki had unlimited access to it, and, if the killer pretended to be a friend or client, she might have taken him there. Dear God, it could be the real murder site.
Before she let Rosado leave, she had him write down everything he’d done during the times of the murders and everyone he’d seen, along with the approximate times.
After she let Rosado go, she assigned Officer Hawkins to follow up. “See if the names and times check out,” she told him. Something in her hoped the lie she’d seen in Rosado’s eyes meant Damon was innocent.
