Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  He scratched his head, looked at me sideways, and said: "I don't think so. The car description you gave matched Ramirez's car. If that isn't proof enough, the man is on the run." He looked into my eyes. "If you were guilty of nothing more than mistaken identity, would you go underground?"

  "Probably not," I admitted. But since Ramirez was already a suspect in Carter's murder, I could envision him panicking at the thought of being sent to prison for a hit and run that he may have had no part in. Of course, that still didn't explain why another killer would use his car, unless Ramirez was being set up. I kept these thoughts to myself for now, not wanting to get Ridge riled up again.

  The worst thing about being in the hospital, even for a day, was that I missed my dog. Ridge had kept him fed during my absence, with help from Natsuko. I could hear Ollie barking as we pulled into the driveway beside my car, which Ridge had driven back from the scene of the crime.

  "I'm keeping my eye on you," he declared, "until Ramirez is apprehended."

  "Anything you say, Detective Larsen." I smiled at him, happy to have his company at a time when I was not fully recovered from banging my head on the street and, as such, more vulnerable than I was willing to admit.

  We entered through the side door and were met by Ollie. He was in a barking mood. Obviously, he had missed me as much as I did him.

  "He must be hungry," I told Ridge when it became apparent that Ollie's barks went beyond being glad to see me.

  "I fed him this morning," Ridge said defensively.

  I tried to calm Ollie down and he nearly bit my hand. "What's wrong, boy?" I asked. He barked back as if I were suddenly his enemy. "Something's wrong, Ridge—" I said intuitively.

  Ollie ran down the hallway, barking relentlessly.

  "Wait here!" Ridge ordered. "Somebody might be in the house—" He removed his .38 from a shoulder holster and began walking down the hall toward the dining room and living room.

  The tension in the air was suddenly thick enough to slice in more than once place. I removed the Smith and Wesson from my purse and followed Ridge. Was Antonio Ramirez actually laying in wait to take another crack at me? I wondered. Or were we up against something or someone else?

  I heard Ridge say "Oh, damn!" after he had gone into the living room.

  "Ridge?" I called out, and approached cautiously, my head still pounding painfully. He stepped out just before I got there, holding the .38 at his side. His face was sullen.

  "What is it?" I asked. Ollie ran out of the room, barking and huffing.

  Ridge hedged, as if the words would not come out, prompting me to see for myself.

  "Don't!" Ridge said to deaf ears as I squirmed past him and looked in the living room. My knees nearly buckled as my eyes looked up—

  A stark naked Antonio Ramirez was twirling by a rope around his neck from the ceiling fan...

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  On the coffee table beside some neatly folded clothes that presumably belonged to Antonio Ramirez was a typed suicide note, in which he confessed to the murders of Carter Delaney, Edwin Axelrod, and Kalolo Nawahi. According to the note, Ramirez blamed Carter for his brother's incarceration and had planned his revenge for a long time, including what he described as the perfect alibi. The note indicated that Axelrod and Nawahi's murders were just meant to confuse the police.

  Ramirez made no mention of the attempt on my life, but did say that it only seemed fair that he end his life where this whole thing began.

  "I had a gut feeling about him all along," Ridge claimed as the victim was carted off to the morgue.

  Me, too, I thought, glancing at the overturned chair that Ramirez had obviously been standing on before hanging himself. But apparently my gut feeling was wrong. What type of person used the church and Jesus as pawns in a multiple murder scheme? I wondered. Was Antonio Ramirez truly that calculating and clever? Or was there much more to this story than met the eye?

  Once again, my house had been turned into a police den of crime scene technicians and potential homicide investigators. This time the general feeling was that it was a mere formality to a case that, for all intents and purposes, was now closed. Given Ramirez's size and stature, murder had all but been ruled out, as it would have practically taken Hercules to wrap the rope around his neck, lift him up, and hang him from the ceiling fan.

  For me, and Ollie, it would take a lot longer to get over the trauma of having our residence invaded by the sights, smells, and sounds of murder times two. Right now, I'd just settle for a little relief from the headache that had returned, no doubt brought on by the distressing events of the last hour.

  Ridge told me: "Ramirez must have figured we were onto him and decided to save us the trouble of putting him away." He scratched his chin. "He obviously found a way past your security system again."

  This, in and of itself, was disturbing to me. What good was a security system if it could not keep out the bad guys or at least alert the authorities in a timely manner.

  "I'm just glad it's over," I said. Deep down inside, I knew it would never be over for the families of the ones Ramirez murdered. I thought of Darlene and Ivy, as well as Isabella Axelrod, and found myself grieving along with them all over again.

  Kawakami, who looked as if a load had been taken off his shoulders, interrupted us. "I'd say the asshole did us a favor by killing himself," he said. "Saved the taxpayers the cost of a trial." He eyed me. "Ramirez won't be breaking into your house anymore and you don't have to be burdened by Carter Delaney's death anymore either."

  I agreed that the weight had been lifted somewhat. But something about the entire equation still bothered me.

  "Doesn't this all seem a just a bit too pat?" I said, standing between the two detectives. They both rolled their eyes simultaneously at the mere suggestion. "First Ramirez tries to run me down, then he comes to my house to kill himself? Oh, yes, but not before making sure he had typed a confession to several murders that would possibly let someone else off the hook. And can any of us really believe that Ramirez managed to break into my house a second time, shut off the alarm, and tame Ollie all by himself?"

  I knew I was going out on a limb, but it needed to be said by someone who had a nose for something that stunk to high heaven.

  Kawakami used a dirty handkerchief to wipe his nose, and frowned at me. "Will you listen to what the hell you're saying? This psycho murdered Delaney and threw in a couple of others just for effect. When the screws began to tighten, Ramirez put a rope around his neck and hung from it." He stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket, and said condescendingly: "Now do yourself a favor, Skye, and don't try to be a cop anymore when you aren't one."

  I'd forgotten what an ass Kawakami could be. Now I remembered why I never saw fit to date the man a second time. I glared up at him and said brusquely: "Lay off, Henry. Who says I want to be a cop again? I don't, thank you very much. But that doesn't mean I left my brains behind with the badge. I want Carter's killer just as much as you do or anyone else. I'm just not sure we have him. So don't patronize me—especially in my own house!"

  Ridge intervened. "Okay, okay, let's all calm down for a minute," he said. "We're the good guys here. Remember? Why don't we wait until the autopsy report comes in before we start pointing fingers and saying things we'll regret."

  Kawakami grinned sheepishly at me. "Sorry, Skye. I didn't mean to take it out on you. This isn't personal. I just want to see this damned thing over and done with so we can all move on. As far as I'm concerned, all the pieces of the puzzle seem to fit solidly. Ramirez is our man—"

  "I hope you're right, detective," I said. "If he is our man, I'd be interested in knowing how and why Antonio Ramirez chose to single out Edwin Axelrod and Kalolo Nawahi as part of this intricate plot to murder Carter. I really don't see the connection there unless their deaths were part of some larger conspiracy..."

  Both Ridge and Kawakami seemed stumped by that one. I certainly didn't claim to have the answers. I theorized that perhaps Antoni
o Ramirez had somehow found out about Darlene's affair and drug use—and put that together with his hatred for Carter. Axelrod's and Nawahi's murders could have simply been thrown into the mix just to keep me and the police off balance. Or was it simply made to look that way?

  * * *

  Ramirez's vehicle was found in a ditch about a mile from my house. Police speculated he ran off the road, couldn't get back on it, and decided to walk the rest of the way. After all, he wouldn't need the car anymore after killing himself.

  I was leaning more toward the theory that someone else could have strategically left the car there, leaving nothing to chance in confirming Antonio Ramirez's guilt. Proving this suspicion would be much more difficult, particularly if no corroborating evidence surfaced.

  Still shaken by the most recent death to occur under my roof, Ollie and I spent the night at Ridge's. It seemed like we were becoming regular overnight guests at his place lately. Not that Ridge was complaining. On the contrary, he liked the idea. Maybe too much. That's what scared me. I felt as safe and secure with Ridge as I had with anyone, but still wasn't ready or willing to give up my independence anytime soon.

  That didn't mean Ridge's companionship was not a blessing in disguise, especially during times like these when a good friend meant more to me than a good lover.

  "And I thought being cooped up in a hospital room was bad," I muttered in his bed as two more painkillers began to work their way to my head.

  Ridge was holding me. "It could've been worse," he pointed out. "If Ramirez had his way, you'd be dead right now—"

  At least that was the general consensus. I only wished Antonio Ramirez was alive to confess to that and his other alleged crimes, rather than having to rely on a piece of paper that couldn't be interrogated.

  Ridge added: "Who knows how many other victims there might have been if you hadn't gotten his plate number before you passed out."

  I looked up at him and asked: "Who knows for sure how many victims did not die by Antonio Ramirez's hand?"

  Ridge didn't respond, but he was clearly pondering the notion.

  * * *

  Two days later, I was back at my house. I was having my locks changed and my security system replaced with what I hoped would be a much more reliable system to keep killers out and keep me and Ollie safe.

  Afterward, I put things back in order as best as possible with the help of Natsuko. My headache had been absent for nearly twenty-four hours now—a good sign that I was definitely on the mend. Rather than tempt fate against doctor's orders, I resisted the desire to run or swim. Instead, I lifted weights and tried to keep my mind off the events that had kept me preoccupied.

  As if.

  By two o'clock, Antonio Ramirez's autopsy had been completed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The Medical Examiner, Doctor R. Mitsuo Isagawa, looked exhausted after three postmortems in a row, including Antonio Ramirez's.

  "They seem to be coming in droves," Mitsuo complained, while leading Ridge, Kawakami, and me into the examination room where Ramirez's body still lay, partially covered by a sheet. "Must be something in the air that's driving people to do crazy things."

  Kawakami balked at that suggestion, saying: "Why the hell do we always make excuses for every bad thing that happens? Don't blame the air. It's about time homicidal assholes were held accountable for their own actions."

  "That doesn't mean some of them weren't given a nudge in committing the crimes," I said, leaving open the possibility that Ramirez could have been working on behalf of someone else, including his brother, assuming he was actually a multiple murderer.

  Ridge asked Mitsuo what we all wanted to know: "Did Antonio Ramirez kill himself?"

  "The evidence says he did," Mitsuo replied evenly. "He died from a broken neck, caused no doubt from the pressure applied around his neck from hanging—"

  "Any chance someone else could have killed him?" I asked. "And made it look like suicide?"

  Mitsuo slid on his examination gloves and began to manipulate Ramirez's thick neck as if he were a giant doll. "There's no reason to believe he was a victim of foul play," the medical examiner said. "I find no evidence of fresh abrasions or bruises on his arms or legs to indicate resistance. And there were no drugs in his system to suggest this might have played a role in his death." Mitsuo looked me in the eye. "In my judgment, the decedent caused his own fate—"

  "Thanks, Doc," said an almost gleeful Kawakami. "That jives with the physical and circumstantial evidence he left behind."

  "Then it's settled," Ridge agreed. "Ramirez killed himself to avoid prosecution."

  "So it looks like Antonio Ramirez was Delaney's killer," Kawakami surmised.

  "It certainly appears that way," Mitsuo said. "The DNA results will presumably corroborate that."

  "I think it's safe to say the whole city of Honolulu will rest a little easier now," Ridge said, clearly satisfied that they had their man.

  "Wish I could say the same," complained Mitsuo, removing his gloves. "People on the island somehow seem to find their way to the morgue too much these days. Why do you think I haven't had a vacation in almost two years?"

  Ridge frowned, Kawakami half-smiled, and I kept a straight face as my mind was elsewhere. I was still having trouble with the suicide and killer conclusion, in spite of the strong indications of such on both fronts.

  "I have one more question for you, Mitsuo," I said. "How is Ramirez's cause of death different from Carter's? They both had their necks broken. I'm obviously not a medical examiner, but how can you be so sure one died of suicide and the other was a murder victim?" The question made sense, at least to me.

  Mitsuo regarded me with amused eyes. "It's not really all that difficult, Skye. But then, like you said, you aren't trained to be able to detect the differences. Fortunately, I am."

  I could almost read Ridge's and Kawakami's minds saying: Leave it alone, Skye. But I couldn't. At least not before being able to better understand how two deaths that seemed remarkably similar were technically distinct.

  Mitsuo put the gloves back on and began moving the head and neck of the deceased. "In Carter's case, the mortal injuries he suffered were consistent with those of a person strangled and then drowned. With Ramirez, his death had all the earmarks of a person who died as the result of a broken neck caused by two hundred and fifty pounds hanging from it." He looked at me sympathetically. "Satisfied...?"

  Not quite, I thought. I looked at Ramirez's exposed upper body—his arms and shoulders. There were some signs of injury—like the wound on his shoulder— but no clear evidence that Ollie had dug a hole, or two, into his flesh recently.

  "Does he have any injuries consistent with a dog bite?" I asked Mitsuo.

  He scanned our faces, sniffed, and looked at the victim, pulling the sheet down. Ramirez's body resembled something akin to a road map, with discolored scars and contusions every which way. "You can see for yourself—this man was a walking disaster. Yes, it's quite possible he's seen a few dog bites in his day. Probably ran into a few walls, too—"

  Is this the man Ollie bit? I asked myself, second-guessing what was staring me in the face and not really sure why. I decided to hold my tongue till the DNA tests on Ramirez were completed and compared to the DNA that Carter's killer left behind.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Sumiyo Ishimoto from the crime lab phoned me with the results, having already presented them to Ridge and Kawakami.

  "There is a positive match with Antonio Ramirez's DNA and the blood of the person your dog bit," she said. "Ramirez was in your house the day Carter died and was bitten, leaving behind his AB negative blood. Also, the fingerprints on Ramirez's suicide note belonged to him. Given the circumstantial evidence, I'd say you have your killer and the case is solved."

  I could hardly argue the point, all things considered. Everything led right to Ramirez as Carter's murderer. Yet I still couldn't help but wonder if he might not have been a fall guy for someone else. Or, I wonder
ed, was I just reaching for something when the evidence clearly indicated otherwise?

  I brought it up to Sumiyo, who responded: "Yes, it's always possible that Ramirez had an accomplice, but there's no DNA evidence to support it. I'd say he was a lone ranger, looking for some payback and finding it."

  "Ramirez went through a lot of trouble to do this," I said musingly, "and got little for it. It doesn't seem like it was worth it if his brother is still left to languish in prison."

  "Who's to say what extreme measures a person is willing to go through to make a lethal point?" Sumiyo said. "Carter is dead and maybe for Ramirez any collateral damage, including to himself, was more than worth it."

  "Maybe you're right," I told her waveringly. "Either that or we're still missing something...or someone."

  "Don't torture yourself over this, Skye" she said in a concerned voice. "We've all done our jobs to the best of our abilities, with help from Antonio Ramirez. Carter couldn't ask any more of us than that. Neither should you—"

  Knowing that Ridge and Kawakami felt the forensic evidence cemented their case against Ramirez, I resigned myself to the conclusion that he was responsible for the murders of Carter, Kalolo Nawahi, and Edwin Axelrod. Even Kazuo Pelekai, whose murder was still under investigation, may have been the unfortunate victim of Ramirez's twisted vengeance, though he didn't take credit for that one.

  There were still some unanswered questions in my mind. But my objectivity in this case was very much in doubt. I had let it become too personal.

  The time had come to call it quits and get back to being a private investigator without a personal agenda.

  Later that evening, Ridge took me out to dinner for what was billed by him as us starting all over again. He seemed determined to help me put Carter out of my mind and life once and for all. It seemed like an uphill battle, but I was willing to at least put forth the effort.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE