Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Leila blinked. "Maybe the association didn't feel one was needed."

  "A costly error in judgment, though something tells me the victims were here on their own time taking care of business, so to speak."

  "Yeah, right." She rolled her eyes.

  Seymour managed a weak smile.

  Leila approached Officer Tasia Gould. "Who called this in?"

  "A neighbor." She lifted a notepad. "Barbara Holliman."

  "We'll need to speak with Ms. Holliman."

  "And anyone else in the immediate area who was home when the call came in," Seymour added. "Someone must have seen the shooter."

  Tasia nodded. "That's usually the case, even if they didn't realize it at the time."

  Leila looked up at Seymour, who was nearly a foot taller than her five-four with most of it muscle. "You think this is an isolated incident?"

  He shrugged. "Guess that will depend on why someone wanted the doctors dead while caught in the act."

  Leila refused to speculate on motive beyond the obvious that the killer knew the doctors. Not till they had more to go on regarding the victims.

  And perpetrator.

  * * *

  Leila sat in the passenger seat as Seymour drove. Both were trapped in their own thoughts about the latest case to bring them out into the night. For her part, Leila never considered one investigation to be any less or more important than the next. When dealing with human beings and loss of life through violence, all cases deserved their best efforts.

  She glanced at Seymour's profile. He was nice enough looking, if not the most handsome man she had seen. His salt and pepper hair was cut short and he'd recently grown a mustache, which Leila hadn't decided if she liked. They had been partners for two years and she still didn't know him very well. At times he could be moody, witty, or a million miles away.

  Seymour was currently separated from his wife. Leila suspected he wanted to get back together with her, but tried to pretend otherwise. She wasn't sure what to tell him, having no experience in that department.

  At thirty-two, Leila had never been married. Born in Hawaii to conservative Polynesian parents who believed it was her duty to marry an established Polynesian man, Leila wasn't opposed to marriage as much as being with someone she didn't love. That included her last boyfriend, who had turned out to be a real jerk.

  Leila preferred to be on her own for now till someone came along who really made her want him.

  She looked again at her partner. "Why are you so quiet over there, Seymour?"

  "Just thinking about disappointing my daughter." He paused. "I was supposed to pick her up for the night. Then duty called."

  "Is it too late now?"

  "She's probably asleep."

  "She knows you're a cop. I think she'll understand." Easy for her to say.

  "Yeah, I suppose." Seymour sniffed. "I still hate letting her down."

  "So find a way to make it up to her."

  "I'll think of something."

  Leila's mind returned to the grisly crime scene. They were on their way to notify next of kin before the press could. This was one of the hardest parts of the job, along with tracing the winding path that had culminated with a double murder.

  * * *

  The address they had for Larry Nagasaka was in nearby Kihei. It was a beachfront estate surrounded by swaying palm trees in a gated community. Seymour could only imagine what a place like this went for. Certainly way out of his league.

  Apparently the doctor wasn't entirely at home here though, considering he'd chosen another location to have sex.

  The door was opened by an attractive petite Asian woman with long raven hair, almost as though she'd been expecting them.

  "Yes?"

  He identified them. "And you are...?"

  "Connie Nagasaka."

  "Is Dr. Larry Nagasaka your—?"

  "Husband. Yes." She frowned. "What is this about?"

  "Could we please come in?" Leila asked.

  Connie met her eyes and nodded. She led them into a large foyer. "What's happened to Larry?"

  Seymour cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to inform you that your husband's dead."

  A hand flew to her mouth. "How?"

  It was always the initial reaction Seymour tried to gauge in determining if such news came as a total shock.

  "He was shot to death."

  "Where?"

  "At a condo in Wailea."

  Connie's nostrils flared. "Was he with her?"

  "Who?"

  "His lover."

  Seymour glanced at Leila, deferring to her.

  "You knew your husband was having an affair?"

  "He made no secret of it. Neither did she."

  Leila glanced at her notes. "Two people were shot to death tonight. Your husband and a woman named Elizabeth Racine."

  Connie started to cry. "I told Larry she wasn't worth it. He never listened to me."

  "Mind telling us how you spent your evening?" Leila asked.

  She sneered. "At home. By myself. I've gotten used to it."

  Seymour chewed on his lip. "Do you know anyone who would've wanted your husband dead?" He was still trying to decide if she belonged on that list.

  "Maybe Liz's husband, Kenneth," Connie answered matter-of-factly. "Few men can tolerate a cheating wife."

  * * *

  Leila eyed Seymour after they reached the department issued dark sedan. "She wasn't exactly a grieving widow."

  "Not everyone takes the news the same."

  "Especially when you have an adulterous husband who happens to be bringing in what has to be big bucks."

  Seymour opened the door. "Think she did it?"

  Leila imagined Connie pumping bullets into the lovers. "Anything's possible. Or maybe someone did the job for her."

  "Like Kenneth Racine?"

  "Hey, stranger things have happened. Maybe he'll save us all some trouble by fessing up."

  She wasn't holding her breath. From Leila's experience, most homicidal spouses were anything but accommodating. They usually preferred to blame everyone else for their problems, including the victim.

  Or, in this case, victims.

  Seymour pulled into the parking lot at Maui General Hospital where Doctor Kenneth Racine was on duty as medical director of the Behavioral Health Unit.

  Leila hated hospitals, an emotion born from fear of having her tonsils removed as a child and added to by the death of her father ten years ago after spending the last two months of his life in a hospital bed.

  They were directed to the third floor, where a nurse pointed toward a forty-something, tall man with thick gray hair. He seemed agitated after snapping his cell phone shut.

  "Dr. Kenneth Racine?" Leila asked.

  "Yes?"

  She lifted her I.D. "We're detectives with the Maui County Police Department. Could we have a word with you in private?"

  His brow furrowed. "Look, if this is about those parking tickets, I swear I'll pay them. Things have just been a little crazy around here, you know?"

  "We're not traffic cops," Seymour said curtly. "This is a homicide matter—"

  Kenneth's head snapped back. "My office is just over there..."

  They followed him to the office, where he left the door open.

  "You said homicide?" He looked at Seymour.

  "Afraid we have bad news. Your wife, Elizabeth, was murdered."

  Kenneth's eyes bulged. "That's not possible! Liz is at a seminar in Honolulu."

  Leila blinked, wishing that had been the case for his sake and hers. "We believe a woman found shot to death at a condo in Wailea tonight is in fact Elizabeth Racine."

  He lifted his cell phone and pushed a button. "Yes, I need to speak to Elizabeth Racine. She's a guest there." A few moments passed. "What do you mean there's no one registered there by that name?"

  Leila regarded Seymour. She wondered if Racine's reaction was mainly for their benefit.

  He hung up, eyes downcast. "They said she never checked i
n, even though she had made a reservation."

  Leila supposed it had been smart to cover her tracks. That was, until someone made certain they ran out for good.

  "Larry Nagasaka was also murdered at the condo," she said.

  "Larry—" Kenneth gulped. "Are you telling me my wife and Larry were having an affair?"

  "Sure looks that way."

  "That bloody bastard."

  Leila didn't disagree, but that was beside the point. "You had no idea your wife was seeing another man?"

  Kenneth sneered. "Isn't the spouse always last to know?"

  "Not always," said Seymour. "We need you to account for your whereabouts tonight."

  "You're kidding, right? You think I actually had something to do with this?"

  "Wouldn't be the first time a vindictive spouse offed his wife and lover."

  Kenneth took a step backward. "Look, I loved my wife and would never have wanted her dead, no matter what. I've been working my ass off here since three o'clock trying to keep this unit together."

  * * *

  "His story seems to hold up." Seymour stood beside Leila in the elevator.

  "Even in a busy hospital, people can sometimes see what they want to," she said.

  "True. Wouldn't be too much of a stretch to believe Racine could've taken a break from his duties to get rid of a cheating wife and her lover."

  Leila ran a hand through her hair. "Aren't doctors supposed to be in the business of saving lives?"

  Seymour gave her a deadpan look. "That may well depend on whose life it is."

  He drove on the Honoapiilani Highway to West Maui where Leila lived.

  "Do you want to get a drink?"

  Leila didn't look his way. "Tempting, but I think I'll call it a night, if that's okay. It's been a long day."

  "You're right, it has been, and that's fine."

  "Another time?" She faced him.

  "Yeah." He turned to look at her and back to the road. A few minutes later Seymour dropped Leila off at home. "See you tomorrow."

  "Count on it." She gave a little smile and waved.

  Seymour drove off, thinking she was probably the most levelheaded cop he knew, including himself. And also the best looking, which may have been the problem. He loved her new hairstyle, a short bob with sloping edges. Of course he kept his compliments in check, not wanting to make either of them uncomfortable in what was a good working relationship. Partnering up with Leila might not have been his first choice, but she'd earned his respect and taught him a few things along the way.

  Seymour took the Kahekili Highway to the place he was renting in central Maui. Unlike the resort areas on the west and south sides of Maui, there wasn't much here to excite tourists. The fact that real people like him lived and worked in central Maui made it more to his liking, aside from living alone for the time being.

  He would've preferred going to the house he once shared with his wife, Mele. That was before he screwed up, got caught, and was kicked out four months ago. She had yet to file for divorce, but since there was virtually no real communication between them, he feared it was only a matter of time.

  When they did talk, it was mostly about their eight-year-old daughter, Akela. They had adopted her when she was less than a month old after learning that Mele was unable to have children. Akela was the one thing in his life Seymour was most proud of. He hated having to disappoint her. But he was a cop and had been for twenty of his forty-six years. Someday Akela would understand that people like him were needed to go after the bad guys in the world. Or at least within Hawaii. Until then, he would continue to try and balance the things most important to him.

  Seymour thought about the crime that left two doctors dead. There was nothing more to be done tonight other than hope they caught a break and made an arrest.

  As to what drove the killer to taking the two lives was pure conjecture at this point. But it didn't mean he wasn't up to some guesswork. Obviously the victims thought they had the perfect place for their affair.

  Well, they were dead wrong.

  They had ticked someone off. Or maybe one had been targeted and the other was just collateral damage.

  Either way, a killer was on the loose and that was always cause for concern for you never knew what one might do next after experiencing their first kill and finding it agreed with them.

  * * *

  MURDER IN MAUI: A Leila Kahana Mystery is now available in eBook through Kindle, Nook, iTunes, and in audio from Audible.com, Amazon, and iTunes.

  # # #

  Bonus excerpts from the bestselling hardboiled thriller DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake Mystery by R. Barri Flowers

  DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake Mystery

  CHAPTER ONE

  I'd just stepped out of the restaurant, the greasy food still settling in my stomach, wondering if I was ever going to get out of the Rose City, when I saw her approaching with a tall man. I did a double take, barely believing my eyes, but trusting the sudden racing of my heart.

  It was her—Vanessa King. Still as gorgeous as ever. How many years had it been? Ten? Eleven? Too many to even want to think about. Yet that was all I could do at the moment, especially when she was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I'd thrown it all away for reasons I couldn't explain.

  If only I could turn back the hands of time, things might have turned out differently. Me, Vanessa, and all the joy we could bring to each other.

  The day we met years ago was forever ingrained in my mind for more reasons than one...

  * * *

  The dictionary defines fate as "unfortunate destiny." Once upon a time, I didn't buy into forecasts of doom and gloom, much less associate it with my life as a private eye and even more private individual. But then I took on two seemingly unrelated cases and one bizarre thing seemed to lead to the next and even I began to wonder if I was somehow tempting fate.

  Before I begin my fateful tale, let me introduce myself. The name is Dean Jeremy Drake, or D.J. for those close enough to be called friends or kin. Otherwise it's simply Drake. Some call me a pain in the ass. Others see me as a half-breed with an attitude. I prefer to think of myself as a forty-one-year-old, six-five, ex-cop turned private investigator who happens to be the product of an interracial affair.

  My parents, who have both since gone to heaven, couldn't have been more different. My father was Jamaican black, mother Italian white. But for one steamy night they found some common interests and ended up with me for their trouble.

  I admit I can be a pain in the ass with an attitude, or a gentle giant with a perpetual smile on my square-jawed face, depending on which side of the bed I wake up on. But that's another story. Let's concentrate on this one for now.

  It was raining like the second coming of Noah's Ark on that day at the tail end of July. I was sitting in my Portland, Oregon office, my feet on the desk as if they belonged there. The Seattle Mariners were on the tube playing the Oakland A's in sunny California. With three innings to go, the Mariners were getting a major league ass whipping, 11-0. To add insult to injury, there was a rumor that the players were planning to go on strike next month.

  Who the hell needed them anyway? I'd had just about all I could take from greedy players, and owners who never seemed to tire of bleeding the fans dry. For me, this was merely a tune-up for the mother of all sports—football. The exhibition season was due to start next month in what might finally be a winning season for the Seahawks, my adopted team and a three hour drive away on a good day with light traffic.

  The Mariners had finally gotten on the scoreboard with a solo shot when I heard one knock on my door and watched it open before I could even say come in.

  A tall, chunky, white man entered wearing a wrinkled and dripping wet gray suit. He had a half open umbrella in one hand that looked as if he had forgotten to use it, a leather briefcase in the other. "Nasty out there," he muttered, and let out a repulsive sneeze.

  "Tell me about it," I groaned. You didn't live in a city lik
e Portland if you expected sunny, dry weather year round, though a soaker like this was pretty rare in late July. I was still partly distracted by the game, when I asked routinely: "How can I help you?"

  That's when he walked up to me, stuck an I.D. in my face, and said: "Frank Sherman, Deputy District Attorney for Multnomah County—"

  Only then did it dawn on me that I knew the man. Or at least I used to. Like me, Sherman was an ex-cop in his early forties. He had made that relatively rare jump from law enforcement to criminal law, while I had chosen private investigation work as my answer to justice for all. The closest I'd come to law school was the B.A. I'd earned in Criminal Justice from Portland State University. This hardly made me in awe of the man before me. He had gone his way and I had gone mine. Right now, it looked as if our ways had converged.

  "Narcotics, right?" I asked, taking my feet off the desk.

  He nodded proudly, and ran a hand through wet, greasy dark blonde hair. "And you were homicide?"

  "Seems like two lifetimes ago," I exaggerated. In fact, it had been six years since I turned in my badge and the stress and strain that went with it for a lesser, more independent kind of misery. That Sherman could identify my department meant he had done his homework or my reputation preceded itself. I chose to believe the latter.

  "At least we made it out on our own two feet." Sherman looked down on me with big blue eyes and a twisted smile. He was heavier than I remembered him, by maybe fifteen pounds. No, make that twenty. I turned off the TV to give him my undivided and curious attention. I did maybe a quarter of my work for the D.A.'s office, but I almost always went to them rather than the other way around.

  "So is this a social call?" I asked, but seriously doubted. "Or have those unpaid traffic tickets finally caught up with me?"

  He lost the twisted smile, and said directly: "I'd like to hire you, Drake—on behalf of the State. Mind if I sit?"

  I indicated the folding chair nearest to him—a flea market pickup that was a bargain. "I'm listening..."

  Sherman laid the briefcase on the desk, opened it, and removed a folder. "It's the dossier on Jessie The Worm Wylson," he explained, handing it to me. "He's wanted in connection with the sale and distribution of narcotics and methamphetamines. This bastard is personally responsible for most of the drugs poisoning our city and turning our kids into junkies!"