by Neal, Toby
“Yes, and he claimed Fernandez was being forced into a psychiatric emergency by our questions. I’m thinking this Tourette’s thing is a put-on. He certainly seemed able to call me a few choice words when it suited him.” Marcella filled them in on the aborted interview.
Waxman frowned, set his reading glasses aside. “That still could be Tourette’s. Extreme stress can lead to foul language as a part of the disorder. I like where we’re going with this overall, but we can’t rule out Kim, who has motive with his shady deposits and Korea correspondence, and Abed, who could be after the formula as well as having an attachment to Moku. Not to mention Truman, who as second in command is the next PI at the lab and whose name will be topmost on the research with Pettigrew out of the way.
“We’ve set the trap at the lab—though I don’t know how long we can keep that going. The university is pressuring us to release the lab for actual work. I’d be more interested in the physical evidence on Moku, though Bennie Fernandez will explain that away as circumstantial as his nephew Jarod was known to be having a relationship with her.” Waxman put the glasses back on and continued. “So here’s what we’re going to do—focus on these three interns. Get warrants for their phones and computers—Rogers, you work on that. Round-the-clock surveillance. Everyone takes a shift. Let’s gather evidence, build a case on these three, and see what emerges. Keep an eye on Truman for anything unusual, but he doesn’t have the flags these others do. Good work, Agents Ang and Scott. But next time—go home, shower, and get some sleep. I need everyone sharp.”
Marcella exchanged a glance with Ang. “Yes, sir,” they both said.
Waxman assigned shifts. Marcella wasn’t on until the next morning. It was time to go home and face her demons.
One of them looked up.
“See you later, Agent Scott.” Marcus Kamuela really did have a nice smile.
Marcella woke up at nine p.m. to the insistent toning of her phone. She pushed a handful of heavy, damp hair out of her eyes. “Scott here.” She cleared her throat.
“’Cella.” Anna Scatalina’s fluting voice. “Cara, you sounding like you getting sick.”
“I’m fine, Mama. Just tired—I went to bed early.” Four p.m. was certainly that. She’d taken a shower and fallen into bed, her long hair still wet. It fell rippling around her shoulders as she sat up naked.
“We have news, darling. So exciting. I had to call you first thing.”
“What, Mama?” Marcella got up, swaddled herself in her cozy terry-cloth robe, went into the kitchen. Hunger had finally kicked in, and she looked into her empty refrigerator with a frown.
“We doing like you suggest. We getting a business! You know we have some money left over from selling the house and shoe business, so your father, he see a little bistro on the corner. It needs work, but we put in offer.”
“Mama, that’s wonderful!” Marcella took out two Lean Cuisines—the last of anything edible—and put them in the microwave. Loverboy, still on the table in his lipstick-marked bowl, fluttered his fins to get her attention. She dropped food into the water and he attacked it. “How soon will you know if they took you up on your offer?”
“We hope tomorrow, darling. You must come see.” Marcella took note of the address and agreed to meet her parents to check out the bistro, located near the marina in Waikiki.
The microwave chimed as she ended the call. Marcella took the dinners out.
“Let’s look at the lights, Loverboy,” she said, and carried the fish bowl and two stacked trays out onto the little deck. She sat down and was just in time to catch a sliver of view between the high-rises of the weekly fireworks display put on by Hilton Hawaiian Village—an explosion of color and light that seemed to only accentuate her loneliness.
She was wide-awake now, and her mind returned to Marcus Kamuela. After Trevor she’d promised herself no relationships she couldn’t control—and the attraction she felt for Kamuela had already gone beyond where she was comfortable. But as long as he didn’t know who she was—or if he did, he pretended he didn’t, and so did she—it was still okay.
She remembered scenes, sensations—the way his big, hard hands felt on her body. The way he handled her on the dance floor. The way he pursued the job, almost as obsessed as she. The way he filled out a wet suit. The way he whispered in her ear. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to start liking the guy—and not just because he seemed to know what she liked in bed.
One more time, then she’d stop seeing him. Whatever he knew, he already knew, and one more time wouldn’t make a difference. She didn’t want to take the chance that revealing herself ruined things—for her, she already knew it would. But damn if she could endure another sleepless night with nothing but Loverboy and work for company.
She turned on her computer, logged into her e-mail. There were requests in her in-box, all right—but nothing from a dark, masked man in a silky shirt and jeans. Disappointment felt like a weight on her chest. She clicked through, declining requests from other potential lovers—and hovered her mouse over his icon.
A moment of truth—she was the one asking to meet—after she’d been so sure he’d try to see her while she was hiding in her office on a camping mattress.
Well, she’d invite him. And if he didn’t come, so what. She’d be dancing, and that would feel good regardless. She sent the invitation and shut down her computer before she could chicken out again.
Marcella allowed herself to be led out onto the dance floor by a handsome man—probably Brazilian from his accent and tanned, tight exhibitionism in a pair of gold short-shorts and a suede vest tied shut through nipple rings. Long, Fabio-esque locks brushed his shoulders and his open appreciation of her and confident showmanship as he spun her through a disco routine made her laugh. Her self-reflective mood evaporated as her body got moving, and she thought Fabio would do as well as anyone if she had a few more shots at the bar—provided he wasn’t waiting for someone.
She wished she could forget she was waiting for someone too—how much she wanted to see him scared her.
“That’s my date, fancy pants.” One of those big, hard hands hit the Brazilian in the chest, bouncing him back several feet. The gigolo waggled his tongue at Marcella and took himself off as her masked man reached one hand to the nape of her neck and the other to her waist, pulling her to him.
His mouth descended toward hers slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to, instead stepping into the circle of his arms and reaching up for a kiss that shocked right down to her toes in her favorite pair of lace-up Louboutins.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again,” he said. All he didn’t say, about who they really were, swirled unspoken between them. They could pretend a little longer; he’d given her an excuse. The dance floor spun and dazzled around them, degrees of erotic foreplay between every possible combination of men and women, and sometimes several of each—and they stood rooted in the center of it.
“No talking,” she said, setting her fingertips on his lips, relishing their texture—supple, full, and firm. He drew the tip of her middle finger into his mouth, nibbled and sucked. Tingles shot down her arm.
“Okay then. Let’s dance.” He pulled her in tight against him, her full breasts crushed against his chest. He spun them both, and the silky wrap skirt she’d worn swirled over his legs.
“Disco,” he muttered as the music changed to a Bee Gees song. “I must really want to get laid.”
“Tuesday is disco night,” she said, laughing. “It’s in the schedule.”
“So you come here a lot, do you?”
“No talking, I said,” she replied, and made a game of unbuttoning a button each time she got close enough to touch him.
“So you do come here a lot.”
“I have a membership. And they send a schedule of the themes, if you’d care to look.”
“That’s not what I’m paying attention to when I come here,” he said, reminding her this was s
till a singles club. Meeting him wasn’t anything more than what she’d set out to get—a good time in bed.
“I said, no talking,” she said again, and this time she bit him on the lower lip when she kissed him before she spun away. “I think I need another drink.”
She stalked to the bar, ordered a shot of Patrón, tossed it down. He followed her. Slid his hand under the heavy drape of her hair. Rubbed the back of her neck.
“Tight,” he said. “You need to relax.” The deep, gentle pressure of his fingers and the bomb of warmth from the drink hitting her stomach made her sigh, leaning in to him as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Relax me,” she said.
“Your wish is my command.” He trailed his hand down her arm, twined his fingers in hers, and led her to a room.
This time was different. She had a sense that every time, if there ever was another, would be. She sat on the bed, and he tenderly, as if unwrapping something infinitely fragile, removed each piece of her clothing.
Tank top peeled off over her head, kisses down her neck and over her shoulders. Hands spreading her hair, fingers combing it, arranging it around her. Silky wrap skirt untied, spread wide like gift paper. She pulled her knees up, suddenly shy, as he revealed black elastic-topped stockings, a wisp of lacy panties and bra, and heels still laced high around her ankles.
He left all that alone—and spent a good deal of time removing the bra. Teasing and suckling. Kissing, licking, plucking, and swirling, exploring the weight, heft, and shape of her breasts, every centimeter worshipped. She writhed and tossed, shuddering with need and reaching for him. He stopped her with kisses, evading.
“Relax. Just feel.”
“I want to see you,” she finally said, when she had to use words.
“Your wish is my command.”
He took hold of one of her heels, untying the lacing, unwinding it from around her calf, lifting it off her foot. Set the shoe aside. Then he slowly rolled the stocking down her leg, kissing and rubbing every inch as he did so, and made a loop with it. He slipped her hands through and tied it to a handy metal ring screwed to the wall. Only when she was securely—if falsely—fastened did he slip out of the unbuttoned shirt. He did a little striptease with the jeans, making her laugh—and making her hungry.
He came back with nothing on but skin. Her eyes ate up the expanse of broad brown body, lightly hairy in all the right places, as big and hard as she remembered. He lay down beside her, licking the tip of his finger and drawing designs on her breasts, moving down her taut belly. She wriggled, impatient, rocking her hips, and he cocked up a corner of his mouth.
“Always in such a hurry.” He eventually went to work rolling down the panties.
By the time he was done with that, she couldn’t do much more than whimper and beg, and the magic he worked with his fingers and tongue had her arching off the bed, making promises she’d never be able to keep. Yet somehow, in the end, she was the one on top—her hands tied, one shoe and stocking still on—and they both were much more relaxed.
“I can’t feel my hands,” she muttered, draped over his prone body. She sat back up and he moaned.
“Please, have mercy,” he said.
“Thought that was my line.” Marcella slipped her hands out of the loop of stocking. She slid down beside him, snuggled in beside his heat. “Think I’ll just sleep a minute.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he mumbled.
Marcella woke when something rumbled beside her. She sat up and realized it was a snore, a deep vibration in the drum of Marcus’s chest. He slept on, oblivious—Colossus toppled. She smiled and sat up. A tiny origami crane tumbled out of her hair. She picked it up. It appeared to be folded out of a receipt.
“Ha. You get to make the bed,” she whispered, and gathered her clothes, relieved there wouldn’t be an awkward reveal. Today, at least. Whatever day of the week today was. She tucked the crane into her bra as she dressed, still smiling.
Who the hell cared what day it was when she felt this good.
Marcella sat outside Fernandez’s building the next morning, after relieving the HPD officer who’d had the night shift. One of the older campus apartments, it was a stucco low-rise roofed in asphalt tile and painted institutional beige, its only concession to Hawaii a scarred old palm tree in front that listed to the left. His apartment on the second floor was pretty easy to keep an eye on. She’d taken out her Honda and tucked it against the curb in a line of parked cars across the street.
But it was eight a.m. and already hot. She’d rolled down the windows, and no stranger to surveillance, brought a battery-powered mini fan that blew a slight breeze of tepid air across her sweating cleavage. She sucked a measured sip of an icy cup of Diet Coke.
The problem with fluids was, what went in, had to come out…And that was never a good thing on a stakeout. Her cell toned. “Agent Scott here.”
“Marcella. What’s Fernandez doing?” Rogers, checking in. “So far Kim hasn’t got out of bed.”
“Fernandez either. There’s no shade here and it’s damn hot.”
“Gonna get hotter before the day is over.”
“I know. I’ll need to get out and pretend to be a student or something. So have we ruled out Natalie Pettigrew and Truman entirely?” Marcella wondered aloud, fiddling with her straw.
“I think so. I know she has motive, but I think she didn’t know how rich Dr. P was. And Truman doesn’t have the involvement with Cindy.”
“But we don’t know that the blogs are true. He could have shot Pettigrew, then framed Fernandez by writing them.”
“Stop. I agree we can’t rule him out, okay?”
“Well, we aren’t watching Truman. So that bothers me.”
“And it bothers me that we’re assuming there was one killer. What if the deeds weren’t done by the same doer?”
“Now you just stop.” Marcella took another careful sip of Coke as they both considered.
“The truth is, we’ve made assumptions we maybe shouldn’t have—because of the blog posts. They tie the murders to the same unsub,” Rogers said.
“I know. But—Dr. P was like a straight-up shoot and steal; Cindy could be an affair gone wrong or to silence her or both—but the methodology on Cindy was different, much more personal. Someone could have written the blog and uploaded the entry about Cindy to point the finger in another direction. Could’ve planted the evidence from Fernandez to frame him.”
“True, but…you know the old saying about the duck.” Rogers liked to work in homespun colloquialisms as well as play devil’s advocate.
“What about the duck?”
“If it walks, talks, and quacks like a duck…it probably is a duck.”
“So you’re saying, don’t overthink it. Don’t read into more at this stage.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We have three strong candidates here. It could be any one of them, or a combination. We need to just wait and see.”
“On that depressing note, I checked in with the team watching the UH lab. No movement toward our bait.”
“See? This is at least more interesting than that surveillance detail.”
“Speaking of…I’ve got movement. Checking in later.” Marcella hung up and picked up her field glasses.
Fernandez had come out of his apartment with his typical hunched posture, hair over his eyes, baggy clothes. Marcella wondered again what had attracted a vibrant girl like Cindy Moku to the unprepossessing young man. Perhaps his reputed brilliance? He’d certainly seemed able to problem solve in a tight corner yesterday. And he could be handsome with half an effort, which he clearly didn’t make.
The young researcher locked the door, fussed with something in the doorway, and walked down the external hallway to the stairs that ran down the center of the building. Marcella got ready to follow him on foot, putting on the black University of Hawaii ball cap with its green-and-white logo. She already wore running shoes, shorts, and a workout tank, hair in a ponytail—carry
ing her equipment and ID in a light nylon backpack.
Just another co-ed on her way to class.
Fernandez exited the building and strode off down the sidewalk. Marcella got out and followed him at a discreet distance, her head down to avoid him recognizing her. It didn’t seem to matter, because Fernandez never turned to look and indeed seemed oblivious of his surroundings.
She tracked him through the campus, and it was only when he got to the Science and Arts building that he slowed down, looked around. As he pushed through the glass doors Marcella remembered from her visit with Rogers, she was suddenly sure he was going to the trap they’d laid in the lab.
She spotted the surveillance van, an innocuous white vehicle with a Hawaiian TelCom logo on it parked under a tree. No time to call. She broke into a jog and, making sure he’d gone into the building, knocked on the back door of the van.
She held up her cred wallet to the detective who opened the door. “Sorry to barge in. I’m one of the agents working this case and I’m tracking one of our suspects. He’s just gone in the building and may be approaching the lab.”
“Detective Sam Ho,” the burly cop said, giving her a quick hand up and into the tight space of the van. Marcella was startled to find Marcus Kamuela wedged in beside Ho, mere inches away. He grinned at her. “Nice of you to drop by, Agent Scott.”
Her stomach burst into butterflies that fluttered up to gather in her throat, tightening her voice to a squeak. “Uh. Tracking Fernandez. He came this way.”
Several monitors were set up with live feeds of the hallway and the interior of the lab. Marcella’s eyes riveted to the figure of Fernandez getting off the elevator and walking down the hall.
“He’d make me for sure if I followed him in there,” she said. Ho flipped open a small folding aluminum stool for her and she wedged between them.
“So. What’s the plan if he breaks in?” Kamuela asked, his shoulder brushing hers and leaving a trail of fire.
“We wait and watch. If he breaks in, we’ve got him recorded. I think we can just grab him when he comes out of the building,” she said.
