by Neal, Toby
“We shouldn’t be having this conversation in a witness’s garage. Let’s go see how they’re doing in there and talk in private.”
Just then Dr. Fukushima and her assistant rolled by with the black-bagged, strapped-down body on a gurney. Wails of grief rose at the sight from the crowd of friends and relatives gathered on the other side of the crime-scene tape at the end of the driveway. Marcella blinked hard. She turned her back, squared her shoulders, and led the way back into Cindy’s little place.
“Okay. We need to search in here. Take her computer in. Let’s go over the place now. I don’t want to wait for Fukushima to pronounce; I think we have enough motive to move ahead as if this is another murder. After we’re done with that, we’ll pool ideas and divide up the leads that are left.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Kamuela. The agents and detectives gloved up and went to work along with two lab techs from the FBI office.
Cindy’s life had been simple. A life that had revolved around her studies, marked by a few relics of her childhood: a pennant from a Kamehameha football game, a teddy bear. Her bedroom was cluttered and small, used just for sleeping. Her fridge was full of food, though—the antithesis of Marcella’s—and everything looked homegrown and local. Who went to the farmer’s market for fresh produce, then hung herself? Marcella wondered.
In the end, they packed up the suicide note and yet another computer to take into the IT department. Not a lot left to mark a life. Darkness stained the sky indigo when Marcella’s phone rang.
“Marcella!” It was Papa Gio. “You forget Sunday dinner? Your mama, she upset.”
“Oh crap, Papa. We have another murder. I can’t come.” Marcella ripped a glove off to rub her burning eyes.
“You always have another murder. Your mama, she cooked for you!” His volume climbed. Kamuela lifted his head from sorting through Cindy’s desk, a flash of his white teeth lighting his face.
“Marcella’s in trouble,” he singsonged. Kamuela had a nice smile, Marcella noticed. She realized she didn’t know his first name. Never had heard it.
“I’m on my way,” she barked into the phone. She punched off. “You obviously don’t know what it’s like to deal with an Italian papa.”
“It’s my Hawaiian mama that cracks the whip. It’s much the same with Sunday dinner—only they live on Maui, so I don’t have to go too often. And my mama’s laulau makes it worth it.”
“Well.” She looked around. “Things are pretty much done here. How about we all meet at HQ tomorrow morning and go over all the leads we have?”
They agreed, and Marcella and Rogers left the lab techs and the detectives going through the last few areas of the apartment.
On her third glass of a nice Chianti, Marcella finally began to feel a little more relaxed. Her parents’ condo was right on the Waikiki Marina, and the ocean blew cool refreshment over her. She’d shed her jacket, weapon harness, belt, and shoes at the door, and now she forked up the last of a huge bowl of seafood linguine.
“Wonderful, Mama. This is the best yet of your recipes.”
“Thank you, ’Cella. I’m experimenting.” Her mother, resplendent in an electric-blue fitted muumuu, gestured to the corner, where an elaborate hanging contraption sported clusters of ripening Roma tomatoes. “For good Italian food, you must have fresh tomatoes. The salt air is hard on them, but they growing.”
“She make me bring it in every night,” Papa Gio grumbled from his side of the little square table on the deck. “I keep inside under the grow light. Those tomatoes, they cost about fifteen dollars each.”
“So. Mama. What did you think of Papa’s outfit we bought the other day?” Marcella had already run through her four safe topics: the New Jersey Spartans football season, the weather, family gossip about other relatives, Mama’s cooking. “He looked mighty spiffy, if I do say so myself.”
“I like it. I buy him some more shirts online, more the shorts. He more comfortable now.”
“I living the island life with shorts ever’day,” Papa Gio said. He swirled his wine in the balloon glass. “I found some fellas to play cards with.”
“Cards? Really? Where?” Anna Scatalina didn’t sound as thrilled at her father’s social activity as Marcella would have wished. She sneaked a glance at her watch. By eight thirty she could make a getaway. Cindy’s murder felt nearby and raw, making her current setting feel surreal as emotional and physical exhaustion set in.
“They have a club at the marina. They call it the Yacht Club. I go for lunch; they invite me for cards.”
“What kind of cards?” Mama’s voice was sharp. Alarm bells rang somewhere in Marcella’s mind. Her father had had a problem with gambling on the horses in Jersey, another (and private) reason for the couple’s exodus to Waikiki.
“You always telling me, get a socialization.” Papa Gio swirled his wine.
“You never tell me what kind of cards!” Anna’s shrill voice brought Marcella to her feet.
“Let me clean up.” They ignored her, already off and running in Italian on what was clearly a well-worn argument. Marcella cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher. This was beginning to feel way too much like when she was a kid and they’d get going. She returned to the deck.
“I’m going now, you guys.” She went to her father, kissed the top of his head. “Wear that hat, Papa. And don’t gamble too much. Mama, cut him some slack. He might need to play a few hands of poker to make new friends.”
They exploded into more voluble argument as she slipped outside and drove home. Once there, she spent a long time in the shower, letting the water, as hot as she could stand, pour down her body as she tried to ignore the restless wired hunger that continued to gnaw at her.
She wanted to cry for Cindy, for so much promise cut short, but her eyes felt hot and burning, the tears locked behind them. There was only one thing that would help her relax. Life was short, and she needed what she needed.
“Fuck it,” she said aloud, and got out of the shower. She toweled off, slid into her terry-cloth robe, and went to her computer.
She wasn’t surprised to see a message from the Club in her in-box, and this time she clicked the Accept icon next to Kamuela’s picture.
If he hadn’t already wanted to meet her, she would have looked for him on the site. The tragedy of Cindy Moku’s death, followed by the angst-ridden evening at her parents’ had left her aching for release, and it really didn’t matter who with.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
The Club was quieter at nine p.m. on a Sunday night than on other nights, according to the bouncer who screened her membership and showed her around the bar/lounge area and dance floor. Dim lighting and cushy seating in clusters lent an intimate feel, and the dance floor, dark and lit with spangles of colored light, beckoned Marcella as Latin music, her favorite, played. There was no sign of her partner, so Marcella had a quick drink and stepped out onto the dance floor alone, her mask in place.
She’d left her long hair down, wearing a suede halter top and miniskirt that left a wide band of tanned, toned midsection visible, and tall heeled boots that laced to the knees. Other dancers joined her, and the floor filled, couples moving and changing into every possible constellation. The samba was almost enough to unwind her knots, and she danced alone, rocking it until sweat gleamed on her golden skin.
Kamuela seemed to appear beside her, coalescing out of the darkness with the stealth of a djinn—but the hand he set on her hip as he drew her into the dance was pure flesh and blood. He wore a silky shirt, tight enough that she could appreciate what it emphasized as much as concealed. Her eyes met his in their mask, and her breath quickened as he matched her steps.
Of course he knew how to dance samba, she thought. What local guy knew how to dance? What did he do with himself in his spare time? Study Latin? Fold paper cranes?
These thoughts were driven from her mind as he spun her out, reeled her in, dipped her, and planted a possessive kiss in the center of her c
leavage as she bent backward. Marcella felt every fiber in her body light up at his touch.
She moved with the grace of a natural athlete, stomping, shimmying, swirling—belly dancing and martial arts in her past informing movement now. Her long hair flew like a matador’s cape around her shining body. His tall shadow fell across her, pierced by arrows of light from the mirror ball. She glimpsed his corded arms, bronzed brown skin. The unbuttoned silky shirt and broken-in Levi’s were the same he’d worn in the photo.
Not an exhibitionist or a pretty boy, he was a real man with a solid body—the kind that felt as good to touch as to see. His mask hid everything but the glitter of his eyes as they matched rhythms. She moved in, ran her fingers down his chest, brushing his belt buckle. She heard his quick intake of breath, felt his hands move up her back and down, pulling her in to move against him, leaving no doubt as to his intention.
She moved away and he pursued; she stalked and he retreated.
No one else existed in the crowded darkness. Words were unnecessary—and dangerous.
Finally she took his hand—a big hand, square, calloused between the thumb and forefinger—and led him off the floor, through the lounge where more sedate clubbers chose each other, and down a hall to one of the “Unoccupied” rooms.
The cubicle was simply furnished—a mirrored ceiling and a king-sized bed, a side table stocked with every imaginable unguent and sex enhancer, a narrow cabinet stocked with fresh sheets. All the necessities were there—and the partners were anonymous—except when they weren’t.
Marcella let him peel her clothing off, tasting and teasing her, his fingers tracing the outlines of her neck, her arms, her breasts. She unbuttoned the last of his shirt, enjoying the splendor of his muscular body—what she’d only imagined when he wore his wet suit. She tugged him by the belt until she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him between her legs, stroking his muscular buttocks. She made short work of the belt, the buttons, and finally the jeans, and in a moment she had him in her mouth. His hands fisted in her hair as he watched, a growl rumbling in his chest.
When he pushed her away and went to dive in, she shook her head. “Now you.”
He moved in on her with the confidence she’d sensed, working her with his tongue and fingers until she felt the first wave roar up from her toes, heaving through her body, heels drumming on his back.
That’s when he surprised her, flipping her around and draping her boneless body over the end of the bed, her ass in the air and boots still on. He entered her from behind, and she slid back and forth across the white sheets, the surface abrading sensitive nipples, relentlessly exquisite. He reached down in front of himself and found the kernel of her pleasure. She reared back with a cry as he bore down on her again and again.
Their passionate explosion was wordless but far from silent.
Marcella collapsed facedown, his bulk draped over her as they cooled.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“Amen,” he said. Both their masks were still on; that was the rule. She turned her head and glimpsed the hammerhead tattoo on his inner biceps. She rolled away and stood up, pulling wipes out of the canister by the bed, tossing him some as she rubbed herself down while he discarded the condom he’d somehow put on without a hitch.
A discreet plaque hung on the wall declared, “Leave it the way you want to find it.”
She and Kamuela stripped the bed, tossed the sheets into the hamper in the corner, and remade it with extras from the cabinet.
As they headed for the door, he smacked her rear lightly. “I’ll look for you again.”
Her head turned sharply, not liking his presumption, but he was already disappearing into the swirling darkness of the dance floor.
She caught a cab back to her apartment. In the cool dark of the backseat, wrapped in the cover of the silk trench she’d worn over her outfit, Marcella took inventory.
She felt wonderfully relaxed. A little loose in the knees, even. She’d be able to sleep tonight after the horrors of the day. She’d called the shots; she’d gotten what she ordered, like getting a good workout. She wished she could lose the last bit of Catholic guilt and the even larger bit that wondered how the hell she’d ever look Kamuela in the eye again.
At home she took a shower and had the best sleep she’d had in days.
“All right, let’s review.” Waxman sat at the head of the FBI’s gleaming conference table asserting dominance. The rest of the investigative team lined the table, and Marcella braced herself internally for the inevitable. He liked to make her write notes for the group on the whiteboard-lined walls. She was convinced that he liked to have her ass as visual entertainment for the rest of the group.
She was sick of it, but cooperating with his little humiliations kept her off his radar. She’d seen what he did when he really had an agent on his shit list—and doing secretary duty was the least of it. Besides, maybe this time he’d ask someone else…Marcella thought of her defiant friend Lei and wondered how she’d handle this situation. Maybe Lei wasn’t right for the Bureau after all—she might be too much of a loose cannon to fit into the hierarchical structure of the FBI, where massaging male egos was a full-time job.
“Agent Scott, will you keep us organized?”
Dammit. “Yes, sir.”
She stood up, picked out several colored markers. She’d chosen her baggiest black pants and a plain white blouse that morning when she heard there was a briefing. Worried she’d see Kamuela again, she’d wanted to feel very covered up. There was still some hope he didn’t know who she was, though she was probably fooling herself. The guy was a detective, after all. But as long as they pretended…maybe they could meet again.
The thought brought a rush of blood to her cheeks.
Marcella turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, spotting Kamuela enter the boardroom out of the corner of her eye. Too weird, she thought. This couldn’t end well. There was just no way it could. Her stomach tightened with a cramp.
“In case you haven’t met her—this is Agent Sophie Ang, from Information Technology,” Waxman said. Marcella turned to face the doorway—good, she wasn’t the only female after all. The striking brown-skinned woman, with her cap of short-cropped hair, nodded to the room at large. Rumor had it Ang was one of Waxman’s pets. “Sophie’s going to be primary on the tech aspects of this case, which are considerable, and has pulled together some reports for us. Let’s start with the Pettigrew murder. Agent Scott, let’s keep that on one wall, and begin with the Moku murder on the other.”
“Oh, was she pronounced?” Marcella asked. “At the scene we didn’t think it was a suicide, but I didn’t know Dr. Fukushima had had time to make a ruling.”
“Dr. Fukushima pronounced Cindy Moku a homicide this morning,” Waxman said. “She was strangled with the rope, then hung from the fan. The note wasn’t signed, so we think the killer composed it afterward. Keyboard was wiped clean, something Cindy wouldn’t have done.”
Marcella started a heading, Moku Murder: and noted both details. Sorrow about Cindy’s death made it an effort to push the squeaky marker across the board to form the letters. She kept her eyes away from where Kamuela sat, directly across from her.
“So we have a lot of reports here from various departments.” Waxman gestured to a folder in front of each seat. “Let’s take a look at Pettigrew’s legal and financial report first.”
Everyone obediently opened their folders. Marcella didn’t have one. As one of the primaries on the case, it was a ridiculous oversight and another of Waxman’s little games. Rogers shot her a glance and slid his report over in her direction so she could look on.
“The niece is the heir. No big surprise there. What is a surprise is Pettigrew’s net worth. Apparently, she had some inherited wealth and some business savvy. She’s a multimillionaire and even owns the building Natalie lives in.”
“She sure didn’t show it in her apartment,” Marcella said, frowning. The woman’s closet of utilitarian outfits
came to mind.
“Any unusual payouts?” Rogers was scanning Pettigrew’s bank statements along with Marcella. “Anything that could be traced back to AgroCon or another grant funder?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Gundersohn rumbled.
“That would have been too easy,” Marcella said. “From everything we can tell, she seems to have been straight as an arrow—and with her own fortune, why would she take a payoff?”
“Moving on.” Waxman flipped a page. “Each of the staff at the lab had motive, too, in some way. Perhaps they didn’t agree with how she ran the project, what she was going to do with BioGreen, with her policy of no relationships in the lab. One person we’re all pretty certain wasn’t her killer was Cindy Moku. No history of any aggression in her past, a recent call to share information that was cut short, and a staged suicide. So that’s one down.”
Marcella had listed each name under Pettigrew Murder: Fernandez, Kim, Moku, Truman, N. Pettigrew, Abed. She crossed off Moku with a big red X. Damn, she hated that girl’s death.
A little distance away, she wrote, AgroCon LTD., and jotted what they knew under the heading: million-dollar grant, sense of ownership, opposed to other uses of the research.
“Take a look at the next report. Dr. Fukushima faxed this in. Traced the three hairs on Dr. Pettigrew’s body to Natalie Pettigrew. Agent Scott, when did Natalie say she saw Dr. Pettigrew prior to her death?”
“She didn’t say. She wouldn’t give up her alibi, which I’m pretty sure is Truman.” Marcella enjoyed seeing Waxman’s eyes widen in surprise. “I staked out Natalie’s apartment the other night and witnessed her meeting Truman. They went dancing at a Goth club.”
“Did you see them going home together?”
“No. I stayed until almost eleven p.m., watching them,” Marcella said, keeping her eyes off Kamuela, who was staring at her from across the expanse of mock burled wood. “I’m pretty sure they ended up back at her place. I can stake her out again. It seems like a real attachment, as neither of them would give the other up in the initial interviews.”
