So what had gone wrong? Kristen had racked her brain for weeks over this simple question, to no avail. Her eyes traced back along the map’s dotted line to Honolulu—the last place the Tropic Sequence had been heard from.
During the voyage, Archer had kept a blog that he updated via shipboard satellite transmission every day or two. This allowed the public and the company’s investors, who now reeled from the precipitous decline in Alacra shares on the news of Archer’s disappearance, to follow the expedition’s progress.
Three months ago, when the yacht should have been three days out of Honolulu somewhere around Kauai, those messages had ceased. The question was, Kristen wondered as she gently shifted her now sleeping brother’s head off her shoulder, how come? Mechanical problems with the boat?
Or had something more sinister occurred far out to sea?
When no word had come from the When Alacra was not contacted as expected, they focused on next of kin, camping out in Lance’s and Kristen’s living rooms. They tapped phones, installed special software on their computers and set up surveillance equipment.Tropic Sequence for two weeks, Kristen and Lance had not been surprised when a team of “K & R specialists” informed them that they had been on standby, expecting a ransom demand call any day.
But when still no ransom demand came, the consultants had expressed concern, calling it highly unusual not to have a demand after so many weeks had passed. It was an expensive proposition to hold a high profile individual against their will, the K & R guys explained, and the risk to the kidnappers increased with each passing day they still held the hostage.
So scant was any information related to Dr. William Archer’s case, that Kristen wondered what she would do when she arrived in Honolulu. Perhaps her brother was right. As much as she tried to convince him otherwise, the truth was that she still had no idea what their course of action would be in the tropical city, other than to hopefully meet with the FBI agent assigned to her father’s case to let her know they were in town, if there was anything they could do...
Her gaze wandered back to the article’s headline, her mind attempting to unravel the threads it posited. Two days until her father was declared legally dead.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GENE HUNTER?
… CGCC8GAAA...
Honolulu International Airport, 3:30 PM
The airbus descended over Honolulu. Kristen looked out the window while Lance groggily fastened his seatbelt at the insistence of a flight attendant. The view was stunning, Kristen thought: the vast, dark blue Pacific transitioned to turquoise waters that met with miles of curving, white sand beaches, all bordered by skyscrapers and city streets. Palm trees were everywhere, waving lazily in the breezes. Inland, a rainbow arched over verdant hills.
Minutes later the wheels kissed the tarmac, the seatbelt lights blinked out and the captain was thanking them over the intercom for flying Hawaiian Air.
As they began walking down the aisle to deplane, a flight attendant tapped Kristen on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, Kristen Archer?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Kirsten replied, surprised.
The woman handed her a large gift basket, stuffed with dried pineapple, macadamia nuts, cane sugar, sea salt, and other Hawaiian tourist staples.
“Congratulations, Miss Archer, you’re the winner of our Halfway Contest. Your time was correct to the exact second!”
A small smattering of applause went up around them. Kristen blushed, but held a hand out.
“Thank you, but why don’t we give this to the little girl here.” Kirsten steered the basket in the direction of a young girl who was craning her neck to see the prize.
“Really, are you sure?” the flight attendant asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. Here you go.” She gave the basket to the little girl, whose mother made her “thank the nice woman.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Kristen said. “Remember to take lots of math classes so you can win this for yourself one day, okay?”
The mother laughed and thanked Kristen again before the plane’s door opened and passengers began disembarking. Kristen heard her brother behind her as they shuffled down the aisle.
“I can’t believe you won that, Kristen. I mean, you didn’t use a calculator or even a piece of paper. I thought you just guessed like everybody else.”
Kristen sighed, replying without turning around as she continued to walk toward the exit. “It’s simple math, Lance. I’m sure you could do it, too, if you actually decided to concentrate on something for more than ten seconds.”
Lance ignored the jab and maneuvered his oversized carry-on around the other passengers.
“Hey you know, that prize would have made a nice souvenir,” he said as they reached the jetway entrance. “There’s this new girl I met who might like—” Kristen turned to confront her brother.
“Lance, let’s get one thing straight right now, before we touch foot on this island.”
“What’s that?” Her icy stare unnerved him.
“The only souvenir I want to bring home is our father.”
4:30 PM, Waikiki
“Did you know that Ohana means ‘family’ in Hawaiian?” Lance asked his sister as they unpacked in their hotel room.
“Nope,” Kristen replied, hanging the few clothes she brought in a closet. “I just thought it was the name of our hotel.”
Lance tossed his bags on one of the twin beds and then stepped out onto a balcony with a view of the opposing row of hotels across the street, their balconies dotted with surfboards and rafts.
“Didn’t want to spring for a beachfront room, eh?” Lance chided his sister.
“Hey, I don’t recall you chipping in. Sorry we’re not staying at the Royal Hawaiian, but at least you can catch the trade winds on the balcony, right?”
“Lanai.”
“What?”
“In Hawaii, balconies are called lanai’s.”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Polynesia. I didn’t know you’d become such an expert.”
“I brushed up on some Hawaiian. Thought it might come in handy with the local chicks, now that I’m single again.” Inwardly, Kristen cringed at the reference to his recent ugly divorce. She laughed out of courtesy but quickly grew serious as Lance walked back inside, picked up a television remote control and started channel surfing.
“Lance, just remember why we’re here, okay? I’m paying for all of your expenses. The least you can do is make a serious effort to find Dad.”
“I’m just kidding. And knowing a smidgeon of Hawaiian might come in handy if we’re going to be asking around looking for somebody, right?”
“I suppose you have a point,” Kristen conceded. “Hey, let me see that,” she said, snatching the remote from Lance, who had stopped on a station promoting local nightclubs. He frowned as his sister changed the channel to an island news broadcast.
“I was watching that,” Lance protested.
“Let’s find out what’s going on around here.”
Lance frowned and began unpacking his suitcase.
Kristen muted the TV and went to her backpack. From it she extracted her cell-phone, into which she had stored the number of the FBI agent assigned to their father’s missing person case.
“What’s up?” Lance asked.
“Calling the agent in charge of Dad’s case.”
“Already? Thought maybe we’d get a bite to eat first…”
“Lance! Two more days, and our father is legally dead. Need I say more?”
Lance shrugged and went back to hanging his clothes in the closet. Kristen dialed the FBI number.
… TTAT9TTGT...
Tara Shores looked up from her desk as her supervisor, Daniel Ozakawa, Special Agent in Charge of the Honolulu Field Office, barged into her office.
“Shores, put on channel 6 news,” Ozakawa barked. “Dead body recovered off Waikiki—some kind of diving or boating accident. I want you to cover it just long enough to make sure it’s not our jurisdiction, then hand
it over to HPD.” Then his face took on an apologetic look. “You okay?” he said, referencing the jumper.
“Turning on the news now, sir,” Tara said, fishing a remote control out from under a stack of papers on her desk. The hell if she was going to admit she was not okay. By the time she clicked on a small television mounted in a corner up by the ceiling, Ozakawa had already departed. Good.
On screen, an Asian man in his early thirties was standing on the beach in Waikiki, interviewing a police officer. A crowd of curious onlookers in beachwear could be seen huddled around the officer.
The reporter said, “We are live on the beach at Waikiki where police have just finished interviewing the rescuers of a man who was stranded at sea. That stranding is reported to be the result of an apparent boat theft gone bad in which one man was murdered. Officer Mokua, I understand a body has been found related to this incident. Can you confirm this for our viewers?”
The officer stared grimly into the camera. “I can only confirm at this time that our divers have recovered the body of a male Caucasian, approximately fifty-five years of age, who was found dead on the sea bottom about a mile off Waikiki Beach with his throat cut.”
“And that man’s identity has been confirmed?” the reporter queried.
“Based on statements made by an employee of the deceased, it appears that the man may have been using an alias. We are asking anyone who may know this individual, possibly a charter boat captain who went by the name of ‘Mr. Johnson,’ piloting a small sport fishing boat called the Honu, to come forward and give us information about him. I cannot comment any further at this time.”
A photograph of Mr. Johnson was shown on screen. Tara did not recognize the man.
“We have heard that Mr. Johnson may have been looking for something in the water when he died. Can you comment on that?”
“No further comments at this time while we conduct our investigation, okay?”
“Okay, can you tell us where is the diver working for Mr. Johnson who was rescued by canoers?” the reporter pressed.
“That witness has already been interviewed by detectives at the Waikiki sub-station, and has since been released. He is in good condition following his ordeal. He did not require medical treatment.”
“Can you tell us his name?” “Dave Turner.” “And is Mr. Turner a suspect in his boss’ murder at this time?” “No, sir, not at this time.” “A person of interest?”
The cop registered an irritated look which made Tara laugh. “He is a person of interest since he is the one who reported the crime to us. But he is not a suspect at this time, no.”
The reporter thanked the officer and beckoned for his cameraman to follow him over to a group of local men who were surrounded by curious beachgoers.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, you fellows are the crew of the outrigger canoe who rescued the man at sea this morning, correct?” The men nodded and smiled in response, a few giving the “shaka” sign, waving a hand with thumb and pinky extended. “So you were rowing about a half mile offshore when you spotted a man swimming—tell us what happened next.” A big Hawaiian man, bare-chested except for a large puka shell necklace, stepped forward.
“We were paddling toward Diamond Head when we saw this crazy haole guy, yeah? Just swimming by himself with no board, nothing. Way out past where most of the swimmers go, yeah?”
Onscreen, the reporter nodded and the canoer continued.
“No look like he in trouble at first, he just swimming for shore. But we so far out that we say, better make sure he okay, yeah?”
Then another member of the outrigger crew chimed in. “We ask him, you all right, brah? He starts talking about his boat missing, his boss dead, and so we pick him up. Took him right in to the beach, right over there, yeah?”
The long-haired young man, arms decorated with extensive tribal tattoos, pointed to a patch of sand just off camera at the water’s edge. The white pontoon of an outrigger canoe could be seen jutting into the field of view.
The men explained that police were contacted and took the man in for questioning soon after the outrigger had landed ashore.
The reporter then ended the interview by saying that the Coast Guard is currently searching for the missing boat, the Honu. Then the program went back to the news studio, where an anchorwoman re-capped the story’s highlights, adding a photograph of Dave Turner. In the snapshot, he was standing on a boat wearing a scuba tank, smiling broadly, shaggy blond hair falling almost to his shoulders. They concluded with a map from Google Earth labeled with the site of where the dead body was recovered in the ocean.
Quickly, Tara pulled a digital camera from her desk and snapped a picture of the TV screen with the map still displayed. She could have the map sent to her by the TV station, but experience had taught her that this was much faster and may well suit her purposes.
Tara flipped off the TV and reflected on what she had just seen. She understood why her boss wanted her to check it out. Dead body, offshore boats: it smacked of some kind of drug smuggling operation gone awry. She holstered her pistol in plain view on her hip and slipped the lanyard attached to her badge around her neck.
She was heading for the door when her desk phone rang. Thinking it might be her boss, Tara backtracked to answer it. The phone's display told her the call was from an outside line. Her office number was not given out to the general public, so she picked it up and said, “Tara Shores speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Agent Shores, my name is Kristen Archer, the daughter of William Archer, the missing scientist. You’re in charge of his case, and you had told me to contact you if I had any questions.”
Instantly Tara’s eyes were drawn back to the Archer case file, the INDETERMINATE stamp lying in wait atop the folder.
“Hello, Miss Archer. I’m afraid there haven’t been any major developments in your father’s case. Is there something specific I can help you with?” Does she have new information for me?
“My brother Lance and I are here in Hawaii—we’re just checking into our hotel in Waikiki right now—we came here to see if there’s anything at all we can do to help with the investigation. As I’m sure you’re aware, our father will be declared legally dead in two more days.”
Tara empathized with Kristen, for she knew that coming to Hawaii was a desperate attempt to reach out to her father before his case was closed and the active investigation ended. She didn’t see what she would be able to accomplish for Kristen and her brother, but since they had come all the way out to the islands, the least she could do would be to meet with them in person.
“Listen, I'm leaving right now to take care of something on Waikiki Beach. Can you meet me on the beach right in front of Duke's restaurant? We can discuss the case there,” Tara said.
“How will I recognize you?” Kristen asked.
“I’ll be the short-haired brunette with an FBI badge around her neck and a gun on her hip.” She gave directions and they clicked off.
Two birds, one stone, Tara thought as she walked toward the door to head for her car. At least this way the Archers wouldn't have to take a cab all the way downtown; she had no good news to tell them.
Then, as her eyes caught her camera on the desk, lying next to the Archer case folder, a thought overtook her. Small, at first, but it coalesced into something that made her stop walking. She opened the case folder one more time, then reviewed the TV map image on her camera’s screen. Thirty seconds later, she smiled and left the office.
… GAAA10TTGA...
Duke’s, 5:27 PM
Tara threaded her way through the crowded bar, where the noise of vacationers and locals taking advantage of happy hour almost drowned out the waves thundering on the reef offshore. She headed for the open-air seating area, only slightly less packed than the bar, where she was greeted with a stunning view of the ocean.
Beyond the umbrella-shaded tables situated on the sand, surfers rode waves across the coral reefs while tourists floated closer to shore on rafts. A three
-piece band played island music as people danced nearby, most holding drinks.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Tara scanned the tables while she mentally pictured the blond haired man she’d just seen on television. Before long, she fixated on a shaggy haired surfer type in shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops occupying a seat at an end table. Three other college-aged men sat with him, but as Tara watched, two of them patted him on the shoulder, got up and left.
Tara made her way to his table.
“Excuse me, are you Dave Turner?” Tara asked the surfer guy. The other man who still shared his table stood up and smiled briefly at Tara before turning back to Dave. “I won’t keep you from your fan club, bro. Just wanted to make sure I’d still be able to collect on that beer you owe me after I heard about what happened out there. Glad you’re okay.”
The two engaged in an informal handshake and then Dave, now alone at his table, turned to Tara.
“Yeah, I’m Dave Turner.”
Tara showed him her badge.
“Hi Dave, I'm Special Agent Tara Shores. I need to talk with you about what happened today.” She took a seat at the table.
Dave set down his bottle of beer and then swept a hand over the table. “Be my guest. I sure would like to know who killed my boss out there today, and who almost killed me.”
“So far I don’t know much beyond what was reported on the local news. Tell me what happened.” Tara surreptitiously thumbed a voice recorder in her pants pocket.
Dave recounted his being hired by Johnson, the metal detector training, looking for the ring, the dive and seeing Johnson’s body plummet to the bottom with a severed neck. He ended with an account of his “rescue” by the canoers, although he was quick to point out that he would have easily made the swim to shore anyway.
As he spoke, Tara evaluated the young man. His manner of speaking was commensurate with that of a recent college graduate. He did not seem to show signs of drug abuse—in fact, he seemed to be in good physical condition—although she would of course check his files with the Bureau. Her intuition told Tara that Dave was being honest, but she knew that if need be she could always subject him to a polygraph test and controlled interrogation.
kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller) Page 4
