Deadly Reunion

by Lakes, Lynde

  With a fork, he jammed the lock of the door Ginger had entered, and then reinforced the makeshift blocking device with tape. The other doors opened, and screaming women poured out, some still adjusting their dresses. Toilet paper trailed from one woman’s shoe.

  Inside the stall with the jammed door, Ginger yelled for help and pounded on the metal. By the time she decided to crawl under the door, they were alone.

  Al flexed his gloved fingers and stared at Ginger Tomaka’s slender, tanned neck. Her brown eyes looked puzzled.

  He stepped toward her. “It’s me, Ginger, Al Lee.”

  Fear, horror glinted in her wide eyes. He had no doubt. She remembered him. She backed up against the jammed door. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He filled his lungs with the acrid smell of her terror. Outside the restroom, people screamed. It was quiet in here, and the silence closed in on him.

  He grabbed her slender cool neck with both hands and squeezed.

  With Ginger’s last gurgles echoing in his head, Al smiled and headed for the quickest exit to the alley. Might as well give up, Malia. You can’t stop me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Malia searched faces and backs of heads in the pressing crowd. Where did Damon go? Now she had him to worry about, too. Please, Damon, if you spot our guy, don’t try any heroics.

  Malia knew the killer had set off the fire alarm. He’d panicked the hotel guests and thrown the staff into action to cover his escape. Smoke coming from the dumbwaiter gave the fire scare an authentic touch. Fire trucks were on their way. Many of the classmates she wanted to question had fled. Her team had tried to hold back the crowd, assuring them it was a false alarm, but stopping frightened people was like trying to block the path of a runaway boulder.

  Her cell vibrated repeatedly against her waist as one call after another came in from her team, stretching her attention in a dozen directions while she scanned the crowd for a glimpse of the suspect.

  ****

  Damon lost Malia in the pushing, shoving crowd. Before he could decide what to do about it, he had caught a glimpse of the suspect-waiter leaving a restroom on the run. Damon raced after him. The waiter took short cuts through utility and storage rooms, purposely knocking over crates and equipment. Damon leaped over the obstacles and stayed on the guy’s heels. On the waiter’s way through the kitchen, he grabbed a butcher knife, and hit the door running, shoving it open and charging out into the alley.

  Damon heard a man shout, “Police. Halt, or I’ll shoot.” At the sound of gunfire, he stopped short. He took a deep breath then eased out the door in time to see a cop fall. Squinting in the orange glare of sunset, he saw another cop on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound to his groin.

  The stabbed officer rose up on an elbow and muttered through clenched teeth, “Damned SOB got my gun.”

  A bullet whistled over Damon’s head. He crouched low and dragged the officer behind the Dumpster. Stepping backward, he almost tripped over something solid. He looked down at a green rubbish bag with a dead man’s head sticking out. Damon had no doubt it was the real waiter.

  ****

  Malia headed for the nearest restroom. Powder rooms were popular hiding places. She drew her gun as she left the chaos and stepped into silence. Keeping her back tight against the wall, she stole through the empty mirrored makeup area and eased around the corner into the lavatory section. Eyes alert and scanning, she took in the water-splattered marble sinks and the paper towels strewn on the floor. Then her gaze fell on the askew feet in the rhinestone-covered high-heeled pumps, and then moved upward to the sprawled body of a woman, her ghoulish expression forever frozen in fright.

  Malia’s heart pounded. Bile rose into her throat. She took a deep breath to hold herself together. She recognized the victim. It was Ginger Tomaka, one of the former cheerleaders. Although aching to attend to her, Malia did what she was trained to do – secure the area. One restroom door had tape and a fork jammed in the lock. She decided to check the others first. Rigid with tension, gun ready, she kicked open the door of each stall. Empty.

  She yanked the tape from the remaining stall door. The bent fork dropped to the floor with a tinny clink. She kicked open the door to emptiness.

  With her toe, she shoved aside the bent fork that had dropped to the floor and returned her attention to Ginger. Crouching, Malia felt for a pulse. None. She flipped open her cell phone and called for an ambulance. A routine measure – it was too late to help Ginger – she was dead. Malia raked her hair with her fingers. People were dying, and she couldn’t stop it.

  ****

  Damon bent over the bleeding officer and flipped open the cop’s cell phone. “I’ll get help.”

  “I already called,” the cop choked out. “Our man, Ku, said backup’s on the way.” The cop looked toward the fleeing suspect. “Don’t let that son-of-a-bitch out of your sight.”

  Damon nodded. He knew the cop only meant for him, an unarmed civilian, to keep track of the guy until help came, not give chase. But Damon couldn’t chance losing the bastard who’d killed Kiki.

  Zigzagging, and taking cover where he could, he ran after him. An EMT vehicle, siren blaring, turned up the alley and headed toward Damon, briefly obscuring his view. Damn. By the time he could see the entire alley again, the fake waiter had disappeared.

  ****

  While Malia waited for an officer to take over guarding the body until the EMT team got inside, she opened her cell and told Ku to order a search of the ballroom level and the grounds, especially the alley and Dumpsters.

  “The two men posted at the alley are down,” he said. “The EMT team you called are delayed with them. Another ambulance is on the way.”

  “What about the killer?”

  “He fled down the alley with some guy on his tail. You won’t like this. By the description, I’d guess it was Damon Shaw.”

  Malia’s heart pounded. “What!”

  ****

  Al Lee knew the cops expected him to flee the hotel area. But he prided himself on doing the unexpected. He pulled his suitcase-of-tricks from the heavy shrubs and changed into his street-person garb. Cops seldom pay attention to the homeless – they were part of the scenery – almost invisible with their very visible presence. The clothing he covered himself with smelled of urine, seaweed, and sweat. The former owner had been a smelly cuss. Al felt guilt only momentarily for killing the street person and the waiter, neither of whom had tortured him in school. But taking them out of the game played into his strategy of randomness.

  He’d learned in school, those ten long years ago, that nothing was random in nature. Even when you worked with a random numbers table to make it appear so, it wouldn’t be. Therefore, he let moment-to-moment need guide his behavior. His hit or miss method required a calculating, quick mind able to adjust to the game as it played out.

  He grabbed the oversized fanny-pack of explosives from the suitcase and strapped it around his waist. Malia will get a bang out of this.

  ****

  Malia was running on adrenaline. The murders had ended the festivities. Blue and white cruisers filled the hotel’s circular drive. Reporters pressed in as closely as the police barricade would allow. Damon had waited around, taking notes as furiously as the reporters. It irked Malia that he’d been observing with a writer’s eye. Would he use this tragedy for his own purposes? She’d been tempted to order him to leave, but he’d almost gotten himself shot giving aid to one of her men, and he had tried to catch the perp.

  Police and security finished taking statements from everyone in the hotel connected to the reunion. The van with the portable communications-center pulled out of the driveway. It was almost eleven by the time Malia and her team had taken statements and the evidence crew had examined the crime scenes. They had done all they could for tonight.

  Malia had the prickly feeling that the killer was nearby enjoying the chaos created by his latest violence. The search teams had combed the area without finding him, but inst
inct told her he was close, very close.

  She didn’t refuse when both Damon and Morales insisted upon walking her to her car.

  “My car is parked near Detective Reed’s,” Damon told Morales. “We can all walk to the parking lot together.”

  The two men talked about some game they’d both seen, but Malia was too wrung out to pay attention to any particulars. It did strike her how quickly Damon made friends with her team. Usually they resented civilians getting in the way. Maybe his recent stint in Air Force security allowed him to talk their language.

  She rubbed her head, feeling so tired she wondered how she’d drive home.

  “You look beat,” Damon said. “Let me drive you home.”

  His support and bravery deserved some words of appreciation, and the ride home would afford her time for that. But spending forty-five minutes alone in the close quarters of a truck cab with a man whom she found nearly irresistible would be too much of a challenge while she felt so drained and vulnerable.

  Morales chimed in, his tone encouraging, “Go ahead. I’ll follow you in your car, and Shaw can give me a ride back to town.”

  “No way,” Malia said.

  Morales stuck out his hand, looking at her with that big brother grin he sometimes gave her. “Come on. Let someone help you once.”

  Should she? Damon would have to take Morales back to town. That meant he couldn’t stay. That sounded safe enough. Too exhausted to argue further, she handed Morales her car keys.

  At the top of the row Morales went left, and Malia and Damon went right. Although they didn’t touch, she felt electricity arc between them. His hold was firm, his touch warm as he handed her into the truck. At least he didn’t lift her up into the cab as he’d done the last time. She wasn’t sure she could endure having his fingers on the curve of her waist in her condition.

  Suddenly, in the same row where her car was parked, an explosion threw a red-orange fireball into the sky.

  Malia leapt from Damon’s truck cab, almost knocking him over, and ran with tears blurring her vision. Please, God, not Morales, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Flames ate at the blackened car frame and shot sparks high into the night sky. Damon caught up with Malia, and gritting his teeth, he used all his strength to hold her back from the waves of blast-furnace heat.

  “Morales!” Agony filled Malia’s cry as she fought furiously to free herself.

  Damon held on. This time the killer really had put a bomb in her car. Malia could actually die in the line of duty. All cops put their lives on the line, but this was Malia. His hold turned to one of desperation. Silent tears poured down Malia’s cheeks. He longed to wipe them away, but if he let go, she might try to play hero for a man already blown to bits.

  “It was meant for me,” Malia said in a soft, bemused voice. Her eyes glazed over, and for a moment, he thought she might black out. She rested in his arms a second or two, then, as though drawing on some source of inner strength, she straightened and swiped at the moisture on her face with her forearm. “Let go of me, Damon. I have work to do.”

  “But you’re in shock.”

  “Go home,” she said, her tone tired, clipped and all business.

  Before he could protest, she started issuing orders to the other officers. Damon stood in the shadows watching. The top of her two-piece, red silk evening ensemble and her black, knee-length, running tights clung to her body in a way that left no doubt about her firm, well-shaped body. But no one seemed to notice; she was keeping them too busy. He offered to help several times, but like a broken record, she told him to go home. He stepped out of the way back into the shadows. She’d need a ride home.

  Within minutes, fire trucks and an ambulance arrived in a flurry of flashing red lights, followed by the media. With cameras clicking and popping about her and microphones shoved in her face, Malia handled everyone like some superhuman robot. Damon admired her strength as much as he was disturbed by it. It would take a helluva man to be secure enough in himself to love this woman. Was that why Malia was still single? No man had dared?

  It was almost 1:00 A.M. when Damon heard a deep-voiced cop offer Malia a lift. He stepped from the shadows. “She already has a ride,” he growled. The possessiveness in his voice scared the hell out of him.

  Malia glanced up at him. “You still here?” Her voice was hoarse, hard and heavy with weariness.

  Any trigger response would work against him. He clamped his jaw shut and took her arm. She grabbed up her skirt from a low wall and carelessly draped it over a shoulder. They walked to his truck in silence. The darkened lot was mostly deserted, and the light from a nearby lamp pole silhouetted the blackened skeleton of Malia’s Camry along with a pickup truck and VW that had the misfortune to flank it at the time of the explosion.

  Malia shuddered and froze; he tightened his hold on her arm and urged her on. At his truck, he helped her inside, purposely blocking her view. “I’m sorry about Morales,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

  She just nodded. The hurt in her eyes and uncharacteristic sag of her shoulders brought an almost unbearable ache to Damon’s chest. He hustled around the truck, eager to zip her away from the shadowy carcass.

  He thrust himself behind the wheel. Malia clicked her seatbelt, and he gunned the engine and tore out of the lot. Several squealing right turns took him directly to the onramp of H-1 freeway. He blended into the steady flow of traffic before reaching over and squeezing Malia’s hand. He couldn’t think of any consoling words that wouldn’t sound stupid. Best to keep his mouth shut. With so new a loss nothing would help, anyway.

  They drove in silence, Damon only barely conscious of the skyline changing from Honolulu’s high rises to the darkness of rolling hills. He glanced at Malia huddled by the door, eyes staring straight ahead. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Only luck had saved her from being blown to eternity. Had her grief for Morales overridden any concern for her own danger? Damon wanted to pull off to the side of the road and take her in his arms. But the Makakilo turn-off sign told him they were almost to her house.

  He checked the rearview mirror for headlights. They all looked the same. He turned off the main thoroughfare and wound up the hillside parkway. Several cars followed. While he kept an eye on them, Malia turned her head as though looking eastward over the cliff edge at the distant twinkling lights of Honolulu and Waikiki.

  Eventually, all the trailing cars fed into side streets except one that mirrored their turns. Prickles rose on Damon’s neck. Just as he was about to mention the possible tail, the vehicle disappeared into a side artery.

  Damon didn’t realize how spooked he’d been until he turned into Malia’s neighborhood and shuddered at the shadowy eeriness. The night lay heavily on the area as though the darkness knew about the grisly scene they’d left and was holding its breath. What if the driver of that last car wasn’t a resident of Makakilo? What if he was the killer waiting nearby to hit again? Damon glanced up and down the street again before he pulled into Malia’s driveway.

  She reached for the handle, a hint of lingering perfume stirring the air. “Thanks for the ride, Damon.” She sounded tired and eager to get rid of him, but nothing could make him leave her alone here tonight.

  He’d almost lost her earlier, and that had shaken him into facing that he cared more for her than any woman he’d ever known. Darkness and her nearness closed in on him. “I’m coming in,” he said.

  She shoved the door open. “No, Damon, you’re not.”

  “Come on. Kopa’a would never forgive me if I left you here alone after that bastard tried to blow you up.” He’d never forgive himself either, but hearing that from him would only spur her to build more walls.

  “Don’t give me a hard time. I just want to go to bed.”

  He locked his jaw to hold back a wisecrack. Humor often reduced his stress, but after losing a fellow officer, a teammate and a friend, she wouldn’t understand his need to use impulsive, illogical nonsense to
block the pain of seeing a man blown to hell. “I can bunk on your couch, listen for noises.” He forced a small smile and lifted a brow. “And I’ll feed the bunny.”

  Malia sprang from the truck seat. “One of my men was just killed, and I need to be alone.” She turned and headed up the walkway.

  Damon jogged around the truck and followed her. “Now isn’t the time to curl up in the fetal position and—”

  “What makes you think I’d do that?” She whirled to face him, the red silk over her shoulder swirling. By some stroke of luck Malia pivoted right into his arms. She looked up at him with flashing eyes. “Besides, who made you my shrink?”

  He hadn’t meant to make her angry. He decided on a different tactic. “It’s after one thirty in the morning, and I’m tired as hell. I don’t think I can keep my eyes open long enough to drive down the hill. I could fall asleep and nosedive right off the edge.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm … then narrowed in suspicion. “It’s too late for spinning tales, Mr. Writer.”

  Writer. I haven’t written a word for days. Will I ever write again? Not while we face danger, that’s for sure.

  “Don’t be so skeptical.” He drew her close. The street lamp spilled luminous light onto her hair, catching ribbons of burgundy. She licked her lips, and while he knew it wasn’t an invitation, he lowered his head and briefly tasted their sweetness.

  “Please,” he murmured against her mouth, “in the interest of accident prevention, let me crash on your couch, instead of over the edge of the cliff.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious. You won’t even know I’m here.” He bent and brushed her lips again, and then deepened the kiss.

  He felt the silk skirt slip off her shoulder and slither away. It probably floated to the ground. He didn’t know and didn’t care; he was too engrossed with the sweetness of her mouth.

  She placed her hand on his chest. Her touch was feather light, and the stirring warmth seeped inside and triggered his passion. It was impossible to rein in his swiftly swelling arousal. He knew she felt it throbbing against her, and he expected her to push him away; instead, her arms circled his neck, bringing them closer. The intermingled heat of their bodies heightened his desire. She trembled in his arms. He tasted her tears, salty and warm. Guilt tore through him.