Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel)

by Neal, Toby

  “Yeah. Why don’t you guys take off? I’m going to run this stuff back to headquarters and hand the SIM cards and whatever else over to IT. They’re going to need some time to process it, so let’s call it a day.” Rogers glanced at his watch. “My wife’s given me an hour, tops, to get home before she and the kids break into the steaks without me.”

  Marcella’s stomach rumbled at the mention, and she glanced over at Kamuela as she heard a similar sound come from his direction. He grinned, the first time she’d seen that blaze of smile without a regulator in the way.

  “No such luck for me,” Marcella said, pulling off her fins. “I just want to get home to a hot shower. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much when you’re down there, but you sure feel it when you get out of the water.” She stood, hunched her shoulders. “Can someone unzip me? Damn zipper tag is gone.”

  “No problem.” Kamuela pulled the zipper down to her waist. She wriggled her shoulders, and he tugged at one side of the long sleeve so she could pull her arm out. She tugged the other side down, turned with a smile. “Need any help?”

  “Sure.” His tag was still on, but she pulled the zipper down anyway, enjoying the deep groove of his spine, his supple height, the way his muscles seemed to swell out of the confines of the suit as the zipper moved down. He shrugged; she pulled the shoulder of the suit—and he pulled his right arm out.

  On the inside of his biceps was a small gray hammerhead shark tattoo. It made her wonder what else might be tattooed on that big brown body.

  Marcella moved over to unscrew her regulator and unclamp the BC from the oxygen tank. She busied herself with the various tasks of taking off and sorting her gear, hauling it to the Acura, peeling off the wet suit, toweling off her sleek black tank suit. She didn’t want to be attracted to Kamuela, someone she worked with. Nothing good could come of it, she told herself sternly.

  “See you guys tomorrow,” she said to Kamuela. Ching, who’d been napping in the SUV, had woken up to help his partner with the gear. Kamuela lifted a hand as she climbed into the Acura. She didn’t wave back.

  “Get me home, Matt. I can feel the bacteria multiplying as we speak.”

  “You got it, babe.” The Acura laid down a little rubber as they pulled away, and Marcella thought that expressed her frustration nicely.

  Chapter 8

  Marcella finally got out of the shower when she felt parboiled. She wrapped her long hair in one towel and dried herself carefully with another, checking for any wounds that could harbor bacteria. Nothing on her but the mole on her hip and the bullet scar on the outside of her triceps, where a bank robber had winged her a year ago. She slipped into her terry-cloth robe, and with the towel on her head tucked in turban-style, went in search of food.

  She hit the On button of her computer and put a Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave. The calm the underwater world had wrought might have been a dream. The e-mail icon was lit up on her computer, and she opened it to find a message from the Club.

  Funny timing. She’d been going to surf their catalog. She clicked on the icon.

  Kamuela appeared in a photo avatar, under the name “Mano,” asking her to meet. She knew mano meant “shark.” He wore a black mask, a silky unbuttoned aloha shirt, and worn jeans. Part of the Club’s anonymity, and its sexy appeal, was that everyone wore masks—but he was easily recognizable with his broad chest and muscled arms.

  “Oh my God.” Marcella clapped her hand over her mouth. “He must have recognized me. Oh my God.” She clicked over to her own avatar, where she appeared with the mask on, her lush hair down, looking flirtatiously over a bare shoulder, under the name “Maria.” In the photo, she was wearing a bustier that laced up the back, showcasing her curves.

  She was probably as recognizable to him as he was to her.

  Marcella got up and went to the fridge. There still wasn’t much in there—a withered apple, some dubious leftovers—but there was a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She grabbed it, splashed a glassful, took a swig.

  He had to know it was her. He was a detective, for godsake, used to assessing people, memorizing them, mask or no mask. She remembered his arm brushing hers in Pettigrew’s apartment—his nearness had activated something subliminal, a sizzle they must both be feeling. But why approach her through the Club? Why not just ask her out?

  But maybe he hadn’t recognized her. Maybe he was just looking for someone to hook up with.

  No. The timing couldn’t be coincidental, she told herself. He’d been trolling profiles and he’d seen hers. He could even blackmail her with it, ruin her reputation. The Club wasn’t illegal, but it was definitely inappropriate—too much vulnerability for the agent and the Bureau.

  She went into the bedroom, picked up Loverboy’s bowl. “This is what other women have girlfriends for,” she told the betta fish, carrying him into the kitchen as she sat at her little table with the Lean Cuisine. “They call each other. Talk over men. Take a vote and decide what to do. My only girlfriend is Lei Texeira, who’s as messed up about men as me—maybe more so. She’d shoot herself in the head before she’d sleep with a stranger, like I have so many times. She’d never understand this weird situation. No. I need to figure it out myself.”

  Loverboy had little to add to this monologue.

  Marcella shoveled in the woefully small portion of food in minutes, then tore into a loaf of bread sitting on the shelf and ate a couple of slices. Sipped the wine. Loverboy fanned his fins at her, and she dropped a few bread crumbs into the bowl. Rogers and his family had given her the fish for Christmas, and she was surprised at how attached to him she’d become.

  “Who says fish aren’t good companions? Okay. I know. I wanted to check out Natalie’s place, see if I can get a look at whoever she’s sleeping with. I’ll go do that for a while, see what that kinky artist is up to, then just drive by the Club. Have a look. I don’t have to decide now.”

  Loverboy did a few laps, gobbled at the floating crumbs.

  “Okay. It’s a plan. I can do this.” Marcella went back into the bathroom and blew out her hair with the hair dryer, reveling in the sensation of hot air blowing over her squeaky-clean skin. When it was thick and straight, brushing her waist, she touched up her full mouth with fire-engine red. She whisked mascara over thick, curly lashes and slid into thin black silk pants. A loose velvet tank top completed the ensemble.

  She put on the heavy gold Scatalina family cross her parents had given her for First Communion. It felt a little superstitious as she did so—as if warding off some sort of spell. She decided not to overthink it. She might be promiscuous, but she was no slut. There was a difference—and the difference was, she was in charge of whom she slept with.

  Marcella slid her cred wallet and the small .19 caliber into her soft black leather purse. On her way out, she picked up the fish bowl and planted a kiss on it. A bright red lip print remained. Loverboy attacked it, bumping the glass.

  “Love you too, baby.” She locked the door behind her.

  Marcella took the elevator for once, feeling a very real physical tiredness masked by nervous energy—scuba diving really did have a sneaky physical effect. In the building garage, she got into her car, a black Honda Accord two-door.

  She whipped the light canvas cover off, tossed it to the front of her parking stall. The dim lights of the garage gleamed off the chrome of custom rims, and Lei’s humorous gift of a pair of fuzzy purple dice dangled from the mirror.

  She rolled out and, ten minutes later, drew up in front of Natalie’s dilapidated building, parking across the street in the shadow of a tree just enough to be hidden but not so deep in shadow she couldn’t see out. Seeing the dice reminded her to call her friend Lei, and she speed-dialed Texeira. It went to voice mail again.

  “Damn, girl! Call me back. I need to talk to you.” What the hell. She doubted Lei would have any idea what to do, but the impulse to tell someone her ridiculous situation was strong—and this situation reminded her how few people she had to really talk to.r />
  Marcella looked up the building to Natalie’s windows. The lights were on in the tenth-floor apartment, but no movement appeared. Marcella reclined the seat, turned the radio to a Latin guitar station.

  It didn’t take long before she began to have trouble keeping her eyes open, and she checked her watch. Only nine o’clock. The time frame for partners to meet each other at the Club was between nine and eleven. If she waited here long enough, she’d be making her decision.

  A pang somewhere south of her navel informed her that some parts of her body were casting a vote for going.

  The lights went out abruptly in Natalie’s apartment.

  Marcella waited. Five minutes more, and she’d leave, Natalie no doubt tucked up for the night.

  She put her hand on the key to turn on the car and spotted Natalie. The girl was all in black, coming out the glass front door of the apartment building. Natalie walked rapidly along the sidewalk to the corner, head down, then stopped. Raised her head, looked around. Marcella scooted down in her seat.

  Natalie’s hair was spiked in tufts, and a metal-studded collar gleamed around her slender throat. Her hands were buried in the pockets of narrow black jeans, and the pale skin of her arms gleamed under the streetlight like poured cream.

  A car rolled up—navy blue Toyota RAV4. Light-colored hair gleamed in the driver’s seat, height consistent with a man. Natalie hopped into the vehicle, and the little SUV pulled away on the opposite side of the road. Marcella spotted the plate as they passed, memorized the number, and did a U-turn out of her spot to follow the Toyota. She speed-dialed HQ as she cranked the U-turn.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Honolulu Branch. How may I help you?”

  “This is Agent Scott, Angie.” Marcella rattled off her ID number. Angie was the graveyard-shift dispatcher, a veteran operator recruited from HPD emergency 911 when she got “too stressed out” by years on the job. The Bureau maintained its own twenty-four-hour dispatch. Though technically closed during nonbusiness hours, the dispatch kept the communication loop humming within the agency.

  “I need you to run a plate on a Toyota RAV4.” Marcella rattled off the number, keeping the Toyota in sight and half a block away.

  “Just a minute, Agent Scott.”

  Marcella took a turn a little too quickly, nervous as the Toyota headed into heavier traffic. They were headed farther downtown. Dinner out?

  “That Toyota is registered to a Dr. Ron and Julie Truman. Need the address?”

  “No. I have it.” Marcella punched off.

  She wasn’t terribly surprised, given how cagey they’d both been about their alibis—Dr. Handsome Truman was meeting Natalie Pettigrew. A more unlikely pairing she had yet to see. She kept her eyes on the Toyota until it turned in to an underground garage. She circled the block and then entered, rolling up and down the rows until she spotted Natalie and Truman walking toward the stairs.

  She pulled the Honda into the nearest stall, grabbed her purse, and hurried after them. She was glad she’d worn pants and low-heeled sandals this time, because she was able to hurry up the metal stairs and poke her head out the exit in time to see them walk down the block.

  Ron Truman looked great, not that that had ever been a problem. His blond hair shone gold under the streetlights and he was all in black—and suddenly the pairing didn’t look that odd. They turned into the entrance of a building. Marcella hurried to catch up, pulling up short in front of a pair of double doors.

  Techno music thumped from inside. A blue neon scripted sign above the black doors spelled out BATCAVE.

  Marcella pushed it open. A chain-covered bouncer eyed her. “Welcome to the Cave.”

  “What kind of club is this?”

  “First time? Well, the bar’s over there.” He gestured into a darkness lit by glowing orbs set in the walls. The music, all synthetic and percussion, thrummed through a packed dance floor. “We’re a Goth club. You know, vampires, bondage. Dark shit like that. I can show you around.” His incisors had been sharpened, and he showed them in a feral grin.

  “No thanks. I’ll check it out myself.” Marcella pushed past him. At least her dark clothes would help her blend. She elbowed her way through ghouls of various sorts to the bar.

  She had no idea the Goth scene was so alive in Honolulu, a city better known for surf, sun, and bikinis. Natalie was one of a handful of Goths she’d come across in a year of working the city, and here she was in a club jam-packed with the freaks. She appropriated a stool and ordered a cosmopolitan. Once the drink was in her hand, Marcella swiveled to survey the dance floor.

  As she’d suspected, the couple was already out dancing. She wouldn’t have been able to spot them if it weren’t for bloodred spangles from a mirror ball hitting Truman’s tall blond head. Natalie—in black with black hair—was all but invisible.

  Marcella spent the next hour fending off passes from various men and a few women and keeping an eye on the couple on the dance floor. Finally they headed for the bar, and on that cue, Marcella glided off her stool and onto the floor, quickly joined by a fledgling vampire who kept trying to bite her on the neck.

  She kept the couple in visual. Quick consumption of drinks, then back out to the dance floor. They twined around each other in endless variations of foreplay.

  Marcella checked the glowing dial of her dive watch—ten thirty. She’d seen enough and got some valuable intel. She brushed off the vampire and headed for the exit.

  More than likely, Truman and Natalie would go back to Natalie’s place, and she didn’t need to see it to predict it. Interviewing them was going to be interesting—and she felt an unexpected tenderness for the clumsy way they’d tried to protect each other. They really seemed, if not in love, seriously into each other.

  Marcella found herself trotting down the sidewalk, galvanized. Her mind was made up, and that ache south of the belt buckle was getting the final vote. She could put her mask on, pretend she didn’t know who he was, see where it all went. She roared out of the garage and the mere half mile to the Club. But as she turned on to the block, she felt her heart speed up with something other than anticipation.

  She parked the car across from the red door of the Club, a move strictly against their policy—members were supposed to park in a nearby garage. She did some breathing. Clenched and unclenched her hands on the steering wheel. Looked at the door. Realized the unfamiliar feeling she had was terror.

  She hated being afraid.

  As if on cue, Kamuela came out through the red door. He wore the silky shirt, the worn jeans. Her palms itched to touch him as he looked up and down the empty street. Then he spotted her car. He looked at it, hands on his hips—the silly mask dangling from his fingers.

  Her heart raced.

  He couldn’t know it was her inside. She had tinting on the windows. Her plates were unlisted, a precaution agents had as a security measure, but if he ran them, he’d know the car was owned by someone in law enforcement.

  He looked away. Paced a bit. Looked at his watch.

  She slid down in the seat. He could still come over, and if he did, he’d see her.

  She imagined opening the door, walking over to meet him, going inside. Dancing. And what came next. She broke out in sweat and couldn’t tell if it was terror or lust. Maybe a little of both.

  She’d brought her mask, and her hands shook as she slipped it on. She peeked over the edge of the window—only to see the flutter of the back of his shirt as he disappeared into the parking garage.

  It was only 10:55. He hadn’t waited until eleven! He’d left early. Dammit! She might have worked up the nerve to get out of the car in the next five minutes.

  Disappointment was sour in her mouth.

  Marcella turned the key, and the Honda roared to life. She didn’t want to be sitting there when he drove out of the garage and maybe got a look at her plates. She peeled out and blazed home.

  Ever since Trevor, she’d told herself whatever she was afraid of, that was the thing she
was going to do. And for the most part, she’d been true to that resolve. Until now.

  It was a long time before she fell sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Marcella scrolled through her departmental e-mail the next morning, a third cup of inky coffee cooling at her elbow. Rogers hung his jacket on the back of the door, frowned at the sight of her.

  “What you doing here so early? You look like you could have used a little more shut-eye.”

  Marcella rubbed her eyes, sat back, took another sip of coffee. “You have no idea. How was the steak?”

  “Excellent, thanks for asking.” He got behind his computer. “What did I miss?”

  “A lot, in fact.” She swiveled her chair a bit. She’d worn her hot-pink heels today, hoping they’d give her a little energy boost. Sure enough, looking at them on her feet helped. “You first.”

  “Not much to tell. Dropped off the camera and purse at the lab last night. Only Andy was on; we just inventoried the items. We should go down later, see how they’re doing with the computers from the lab, Dr. Pettigrew’s desktop, and if they’re going to be able to read the cards off the camera and phone.”

  “Okay. Let’s do that.” Marcella yawned, shook her head. Her loosely pinned hair fell down. She scooped it up, wound it into a ball, and stuck a pencil through it. “I staked out Natalie last night. Guess who her mystery alibi is?”

  “Hm. I’m betting on Dr. Truman, since he wouldn’t give up his alibi either.”

  “Shoot.” She took another sip of coffee. It was bound to work, anytime now. “I was hoping to surprise you. Yup, around nine p.m., Natalie left her apartment and was picked up at the corner by Dr. Handsome in his blue Toyota RAV-4. They went dancing. Can you guess where?”

  “No idea.”

  “That Goth club on the corner of Kalakaua and Ellis—the BatCave. I had no idea there were enough Goths in Honolulu to have a club. Well, it was very much the dungeon-scene meat market. I watched until about ten forty-five, then called it a night. Got tired of fending off people who wanted a taste of my neck.”