Last Night

by Meryl Sawyer

  She hesitated, knowing how strained her finances were and that Vanessa was rich on paper but a pauper in reality. "What's your fee?"

  "Forget the article I wrote about you."

  "What article?"

  "Cut the bullshit. You know what article."

  "All right," she conceded. "I haven't read a thing you've written."

  "Forget whatever you've heard about me."

  "What makes you think I've heard anything?"

  "You won't go out with me because you think I raped that woman. And you're still pissed—big time —about the article."

  She kept her face expressionless—or tried to—but Rob was right on target. She had heard the rumors and they made her leery of him. Would she ever live long enough to forgive him for his vicious column? "Ever think I won't go out with you because I don't like you?"

  "Nope." Incredibly, he grinned as if he knew his smile was a lethal weapon. "You like me."

  Why bother denying it? Obviously the man had a bulletproof ego. "You're okay, I guess."

  "We can build on that."

  "Rob, we're not building anything," she shot back, justifiably proud of her stern tone. "I need a good detective. Sex isn't included in the job description."

  "Could have fooled me."

  She was more than a little overwhelmed by his nearness and the way he was behaving. She didn't like aggressive men. "Don't you ever think about anything but sex?"

  "Mmmmm." He pondered the question. "Sometimes I think about food."

  He was something, wasn't he? Obviously he didn't believe she was in serious trouble, or he wouldn't be joking like this. "Are you helping me or not?"

  "I'm helping Garth."

  Oh, God, she was in over her head with this man. Why now, when everything she'd worked for was at risk? "Where should I start?"

  "At the beginning."

  She stared over his shoulder at the surf tumbling lazily onto the shore. She'd thought about what to tell him. And what to omit. Driving from Garth's she'd rehearsed. There was only so much she was going to tell anyone about that fateful night.

  "I suppose it started when my parents were killed in an auto accident. My sister and I had no relatives, so we were sent to a foster home. It was so bad that Vanessa and I ran away." She looked into his eyes and was relieved to see he was dead serious now. "You may have heard of my sister. She's married to Eric Coltrane."

  "One of the big-five families," he said with disgust.

  The history of the five families was common knowledge. They had achieved so much power that they entered the realm of the mythical Hawaiian gods. The Factors, the Alexanders, the Baldwins, the Cookes—and, of course, the Coltranes—had once had a stranglehold on Hawaiian business and owned most of the valuable land. Their influence had diminished with time, but here, in the islands, they were still powerful. Dana wanted Rob to know what they were up against—should Big Daddy prove to be the blackmailer.

  "It was a little over twenty years ago when Vanessa hot-wired a car and we headed west toward California."

  Rob listened to Dana's story with interest, convinced she wasn't making it up. She wasn't much of an actress. Her eyes were too expressive. They had a future; she just didn't realize it yet.

  He concentrated on what she was saying, trying to imagine two girls, aged fourteen and sixteen, driving across the country with nothing more than a beat-up Ford and a pocketful of change. Apparently they stopped in several towns, never daring to tell the authorities they were runaways. A damn shame someone hadn't helped them.

  "We ran out of money and had to stop in a town so small it wasn't even a wide spot in the road." The downshift in her tone forewarned Rob. This was the heart of the story. "Vanessa took a job in a bar"— Dana looked around—"not unlike this one. We lived in a trailer behind the joint."

  He didn't like the picture he was getting. He'd been a hell raiser, yet he'd always had his parents to help him. Pop had died long before Rob set out for Hawaii, but his mother had always been there. She still was. He'd brought her to Kauai years ago, setting her up in a new home that she loved.

  "There was this horrible man who worked at the bar. Hank Rawlins was always after Vanessa, saying how much he liked girls who were…"

  "Were what?" Rob prompted, tensing at the raw emotion in her voice.

  Dana looked away, her eyes seeking the moonlit water. "Virgins."

  There were sons of bitches like that everywhere. Too often women didn't have anyone to protect them.

  "One night Vanessa didn't come home. I found her in the storage shed behind the bar where they kept beer and stuff. Hank was on top of her." Dana's voice trailed off, but he didn't have to hear the details to know what was going on. He thought of himself as a callous bastard who'd seen it all, heard it all, but the pain in Dana's voice and the anger flaring in her eyes made him want to kill the son of a bitch.

  "He was attacking her. I… I had to stop him. There was a knife used to skin rabbits hanging on a hook. I grabbed it. He lunged toward me…"

  Rob waited for Dana to continue, but she didn't. He studied her and saw that her gaze was directed at the undulating surge of the sea where it broke on the rocks. "Go on."

  "He shoved me up against the wall. His pants were down around his knees. I could see his hairy belly and… everything. I should have been able to get away from him. He was dead drunk, stumbling around, but he was too strong. He got the knife away from me."

  Rob could just picture two young girls fending off a burly man. He hear d the terror in her voice. And the desperation. Jesus. The waiter interrupted them to plunk down the saimin in the traditional wooden bowls. He shoved them aside. Who could listen to this and still want to eat?

  "He pulled up my dress, saying he was going to…" she said, her voice dropping with every word. "Vanessa jumped on him from behind. I kicked him between the legs as hard as I could."

  "Atta girl."

  "It wasn't hard enough. He didn't drop the knife. He stabbed at me, but I moved at the last second. That's when Vanessa went for his eyes. He spun around, swearing he'd kill her. Then he tripped on a carton."

  She paused to let a couple pass their table, then said very quietly, "Hank fell facedown on the dirt floor. I kicked him and Vanessa clobbered him with a bottle of bourbon. When he didn't move, we rolled him over and saw the knife in his chest." She closed her eyes for a moment. "He was dead."

  Two panic-stricken girls. One dead bastard who'd gotten what he deserved. Rob shook his head, suspecting what was coming. They hadn't called the police.

  "Vanessa and I would have called the police, but we were terrified no one would believe it was an accident when they saw the cuts on his head from the bottle and bruises where I'd kicked him. We decided to drag him into the parking lot. Then we ran away. We didn't stop to pack."

  "I see," Rob said, even though he had his doubts. He didn't give a damn about the dead man, but it was real tricky to fall on a knife you were holding. Yet not impossible.

  He didn't challenge Dana's version of that night's events. She seemed totally sincere and obviously still shaken by what had happened. It could have been an accident. He didn't blame the girls, yet his years as a detective had honed his sixth sense. He was certain that one of them had deliberately plunged the knife into the bastard's heart.

  4

  Dana studied Rob, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His steady gaze remained fixed on the weathered rocks that formed a barrier between the placid cove and the savage waves of the north shore. Had he believed her story? She'd tried not to stray too far from the truth, but perhaps her delivery had been off-key.

  The uncomfortable silence was punctuated by the lulling sound of the surf and the raucous noise coming from inside Coconut Willie's. Dana couldn't resist asking, "Do you think you can help me?"

  Rob turned slowly, the flickering light from the candle on the table playing across his face. He suddenly looked younger, less cynical. Dead serious.

  She grabb
ed her drink and sipped it quickly. The S.O.B. hit her stomach in a second and flared back up her throat like a blast of napalm. She coughed and blinked rapidly to quell the tears the deadly concoction brought to her eyes. She knew better than to drink it, but this situation had her completely off-balance.

  Rob's inquisitive stare didn't make her feel any better. "I can probably help you. How many people know about this?"

  "Just you." She quickly added, "My sister and I have never told anyone. I didn't even tell Garth. I wouldn't have told you now except I had no choice. I received a blackmail note and a knife just like the one Hank had."

  Rob leaned forward, both elbows on the table, his turbulent blue eyes never leaving her face. "Someone talked, or the blackmailer wouldn't have the goods on you."

  "Neither of us told," Dana insisted, "but I have a theory. While we were in that horrible town Vanessa met Slade Carter. It was one of those first love things. That night, after we'd dragged Hank's body into the parking lot, we met Slade. Vanessa said I was sick and we were going to the all-night pharmacy in the next town. She promised to call him in the morning. Of course, she never did."

  "Has Carter shown up in Hawaii?"

  "No, but two months ago Town and Country did a feature article on the Coltranes. There were several close-ups of Vanessa. She hasn't changed much since she was sixteen. She even wears her hair long and straight the way she did then."

  "Okay, so you think this guy subscribes to a hoity-toity magazine that's geared to East Coast WASPS?"

  "I admit it's far-fetched, but I don't know how else to explain it. I never told a soul… until tonight." The impact of what she'd done overwhelmed her. She'd put her future—as well as Vanessa's and Jason's—on the line with a man she barely knew.

  "Then your sister told," he said flatly. "Someone here in the islands is behind this, not some boyfriend from twenty years ago."

  "I'm positive Vanessa hasn't told anyone."

  "Aw, come on. Not even her husband?"

  "They don't have that kind of relationship. She married him for his money and he knows it. They barely speak."

  Rob kicked back the rest of his S.O.B.—apparently his throat was lined with asbestos—but he didn't look one bit convinced.

  "Vanessa believes the Coltranes are behind this. She thinks they want to take her son, Jason, away from her."

  "That makes more sense than the old boyfriend." Rob stood and thrust his hand into the pocket of his tight-fitting cutoffs and yanked out some bills. She rose as he tossed a few on the table. "Let's head over to your place and take a look at that blackmail note and knife."

  "Weren't you going to meet someone?"

  "I'll phone him from the car and reschedule. This is more important."

  She didn't move away when Rob put his hand on the small of her back to guide her through the grass shack, which was so packed that people were forced to stand. Up on the small stage three men were playing ukuleles and chanting Hawaiian rap while a dozen men stood near them in nothing but their underwear.

  "Free Willie! Free Willie!" yelled the titas.

  "It's the Saturday night Wet Willie contest." Rob nodded toward the group of tough-looking women, who were now whistling at the men. "The titas love it."

  The men began dousing their flies with pitchers of beer. Dana was grateful for Rob's strong arm as he prized his way through the crowd to the door. Clearly women couldn't be too careful where they went. She didn't belong in a place like this; it reminded her too much of the Road Kill Bar, where all the trouble had begun. Places like this, wild people like this, frightened her.

  Yet Rob Tagett was right at home with these people. As he helped her into his sports car, she reminded herself that she wasn't looking for a soulmate. This was a professional relationship. Rob could frequent every sleazy bar in the islands for all she cared. What mattered to her was that he could help her when no one else could.

  They rode back to his home in silence. She didn't ask herself what he was really thinking. Thank heavens he hadn't challenged her account of what happened that fateful night. She'd said as little as possible, afraid he'd detect that she wasn't telling him the whole truth.

  "I'll follow you home," Rob said as he pulled his silver Porsche up behind her Toyota. "Where do you live?"

  "Go—" She hesitated, almost saying east, but quickly changed it to, "Diamond Head."

  Islanders didn't rely on geographical terms like east/west. They used points on the island like Diamond Head or mauka, meaning toward the mountains that dominated the center of the island. Even after living in the islands for almost twenty years, she still had to stop herself from giving proper directions. Vanessa always said Dana was too formal to be a real islander.

  "I live on Lanai Road. Number four eleven."

  "Don't worry, you won't lose me."

  So true, Dana thought ten minutes later as she again glanced at her rearview mirror and found Rob's Porsche hugging her bumper. No doubt her pace irked him, but she'd never gotten a speeding ticket and she wasn't going to get one tonight. Finally they pulled into her drive, and Dana was relieved to see that Mrs. Hurley's lights were out. The fewer people who knew that she was associated with Rob Tagett the better.

  Inside her kitchen she poured water into the Brewmatic while Rob stood beside her at the counter, reading the note and inspecting the rabbit-skinning knife. She threw open the windows and switched on the ceiling fan, conscious of how warm the room seemed after being shut all day.

  "I'll run a fingerprint check on the knife," he said.

  "I don't want the police involved. That's why I hired you."

  He stared at her, his incisive blue eyes saying he wasn't accustomed to being questioned. "I never said I was using the police lab."

  She motioned for Rob to sit at the dinette, then took mugs out of the cabinet. "I forgot. You have your own security company."

  "True, but it's not a private investigation firm. Rent-a-cops. I specialize in hotel security. This is paradise, remember? We don't want tourists' rooms robbed or hookers soliciting in the bars. Private security, dressed like tourists, handle potential problems. That kind of operation doesn't need a lab."

  "Garth said—"

  "Occasionally I do some investigating—when the case is interesting and the price is right. I'm taking the evidence to the lab at the University of Hawaii. They have a first-rate criminology department with equipment that's better than what the HPD has." Suddenly she felt foolish for questioning him. Garth was right; Rob knew what to do. She poured the coffee into blue-striped mugs and sat down opposite him.

  "I don't expect to get any prints though. The perp's probably been careful." He inspected the knife. "This handle looks really old and the blade is slightly loose." He stared directly into her eyes, expecting an answer.

  "It's exactly like the one I grabbed off the wall that night," she heard herself whisper. "The blade was loose, the handle worn from years of skinning rabbits."

  His gaze never wavered. "That's an amazing detail for anyone but you or your sister to know."

  "Exactly. That's what has me worried. This isn't some wild guess."

  Her voice must have had more of an emotional edge than she realized, because he leaned forward and covered her hand with his. She couldn't help noticing how wide and strong his hand looked. Everything about Rob Tagett projected strength, from his long runner's legs to his powerful torso to his personality.

  He withdrew his hand and took a swig of coffee, his eyes never leaving her face. "At work next week, keep to your normal routine. Don't—"

  "I'm on vacation next week. I'm going over to the Coltrane ranch on Maui to spend time with Vanessa and my nephew, Jason."

  "Perfect. I'm coming with you."

  "What for?" she gasped, stunned that he'd even suggest such a thing.

  He leaned forward until he was halfway across the small table, face to face with her. "I want to check out the Coltranes. I agree with your sister. They're the most likely suspects, unless yo
u have an enemy you haven't mentioned."

  "I've racked my brain. I can't think of anyone who'd blackmail me." She stared into her cup, aware that she'd been nervous and had poured more cream into the coffee than she liked. "You know the municipal court only hears misdemeanors. I don't get the psychos the superior court does. I don't think anyone I sentenced is after me."

  "What about Davis Binkley? He tried to kill your career the first week you were on the bench by assigning you the Tenaka case."

  You didn't do me any favors either, she almost said. Now was not the time to give in to her temper. Rob's article had been as devastating as the presiding judge's maneuvers. "True, but how would Judge Binkley know about the knife?"

  "Good question. It must be someone close to you —or your sister. Probably the Coltranes. That's why I'm coming with you."

  "I don't need you. I can check on the Coltranes myself."

  "You're too emotionally involved to be worth a damn, and you aren't trained as an investigator. I pick up on things most people miss."

  Rob leaned forward again, so close this time that she could see her reflection in his eyes. He took both her hands in his, a subtle gesture that wouldn't mean anything—if it had been anyone but Rob Tagett. Her pulse skyrocketed, surprising her, making her furious.

  "I'm a damn good detective," he said. "I'll bet no one but your sister knows your hair is really blonde."

  Dana couldn't stifle a gasp. She'd been dying her hair since high school, when she'd decided that being a blonde attracted the wrong kind of attention from men. That was okay for Vanessa; men were her stock-in-trade, but even back then Dana had other plans for herself.

  "What makes you think I'm a blonde?" she asked with as much sincerity as she could muster. She touched up her roots each week without fail. He couldn't know. He was just guessing, trying to trap her the way he'd guessed that she'd hiked up her skirts in her hot courtroom that morning.

  In one fluid motion he dropped her hands and stood up. He walked around the table, the movement of his thigh muscles clearly visible beneath the worn fabric of his cutoffs. She started to get up, but he steadied her by putting both his hands on her shoulders as he stood behind her.