by Neal, Toby
Three heads moved in close to track Fernandez as he came off the elevator on the biology lab floor. A new energy seemed to sweep through the young man as he put his shoulders back and strode rapidly down the linoleum hall, brushing his hair out of his eyes—almost a different person. They’d restored the entry code as part of the trap, and he walked straight up to the door. His finger paused over the uncovered keypad.
Marcella found herself holding her breath as Fernandez stood there, finger poised. She was aware of the nearby fan blowing tendrils of her ponytailed hair back, of the steady breathing of Marcus Kamuela beside her, of Detective Ho’s intense focus on the other side. The world narrowed to the cramped space, forced intimacy, grainy video, small metal folding stool digging into her bare thighs.
Would he go in? It wasn’t definitive, but it was certainly something, and with those hairs on Moku’s body…
She let her breath out in a whoosh as Fernandez turned away abruptly and headed back toward the elevator.
“Dammit,” she said. On the video, Fernandez dug his phone out of his pocket and said something emphatic into it. He gestured with his hand. He reached the elevator, spun, and marched back. Marcella was again struck by the contrast of this assertive, bold body language as she tapped the monitor. “Where’s the damn audio?” she exclaimed. “We need to know who he’s talking to!”
“No audio. We’re just tapped into the school’s video-only surveillance cam.” Ho’s tone was apologetic.
“Shit! We have equipment. We can wire this up louder than Carnegie Hall. Why didn’t you say something?” Marcella snapped at Kamuela.
“Didn’t think we’d need it. Thought this was just a trap to see who tried to retrieve the documents,” Kamuela said. “You Feds need to spell out what you’re asking for.”
They watched Fernandez march back and forth, clearly ranting about something. Abruptly, he shut his phone and got on the elevator. The doors closed and he disappeared.
“We still don’t have taps on his phone okayed. I’ll see where he goes next. I’m ordering audio and more cameras for the hallway and lab,” Marcella said, trying not to let the pissed-off tone into her voice. She worked her phone even as she hopped out of the van. Kamuela shut the door behind her with unnecessary force.
Marcella stationed herself in a casual pose on the back side of a tree, ordering a team out to boost the surveillance equipment on the lab as she kept her eyes on the door of the building. Sure enough, right on schedule Fernandez came out. He’d gone back to his hangdog persona, head down, hair flopping, hands in pockets as he walked gracelessly back the way he’d come.
Several hours later, outside his apartment, Marcella was hot, bothered, and had to pee. She alternated watching from the car and a from spot beside a tree. She was beside the tree, pretending to study, when her phone toned.
“We have a court order demanding we release the lab back to the researchers.” Waxman’s voice was irritated as he delivered unwelcome news.
“Just when we were getting some activity on that! Who initiated it?”
“It’s from the university, but the name on all the papers is Bennie Fernandez, the defense lawyer—Jarod Fernandez’s uncle.”
“So that’s who Fernandez was probably ranting to,” Marcella said. She’d already briefed her boss on the situation when she called for the additional surveillance equipment. “How long do we have to comply?”
“We can keep the computers we’re still working on, but we have to surrender the premises upon delivery of the order. So call the HPD team. We even have to surrender the photographed lab book pages Dr. Pettigrew left—the order claims them as invaluable to time-sensitive work.”
“So much for the trap. I’m beginning to wonder if this Fernandez guy is a lot more than he seems.” She described the shifts in character Fernandez displayed. “I think we need to find out more about his supposedly indispensable contribution to the project.”
“Truman would probably be best to interview on that. Rogers contact you?”
“Not since this morning.”
“Well, apparently Kim has been boring to watch.” Gundersohn, watching Abed, hadn’t had any activity either.
Marcella wondered how long she could last before she had to find a bush to pee in. Her phone beeped with a text message. DET. KAMUELA filled the little screen.
Meet me for coffee Starbucks?
She frowned. She was going to have to tell him the bad news about unsealing the lab. She got back into the car, slid down on the seat. Aimed the fan at herself, took a tiny sip of now-warm Coke. Phoned him.
That voice, smooth and deep, still got her right where it counted—her libido sat up and took notice. “Agent Scott. I wanted to talk to you.”
“For godsake, call me Marcella. Yeah, I have news for you too.” She blew out a breath, lifting the hairs off her sticky forehead. “Can someone monitor my location? Detective Ho, or someone else? Then I’ll meet you at the coffee shop.”
“Can do. I have another guy here who can come cover your location. Let’s meet in fifteen minutes.” He rang off.
Marcella tried to ignore her speeding heart. She had bad news for him, and this wasn’t a personal meet from what she could tell. Still, for the first time they were talking with no one else around. She slid the little pointed crane out of her bra, unfolded it. She’d put off unfolding it for some reason. Tiny, cramped writing filled the back of the receipt.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
That makes two of us, she thought. Still no hint if he knew who she was, though it was harder and harder to pretend he didn’t. She refolded it and put it back into her bra—over her heart.
Like some high school girl with a crush.
Which was exactly how she felt. Not that she’d ever felt that way before. But if she had, it would have been like this—and she didn’t want to feel this way about some guy she worked with and banged at a sex club. She was annoyed with all the angst. How had the situation ended up like this? How could it end any way but badly? She wouldn’t let herself be hurt again. Period.
Marcella kept the ball cap on. Her bladder was mercifully relieved by a visit to the restroom, and she sat at a corner table with her grande iced coffee, liberally dosed with vanilla sweetener since she deserved a treat. Kamuela still hadn’t shown, and she found herself wishing she was the kind of woman who carried a mirror and touched up. She wasn’t, so she ran cherry ChapStick over her mouth.
Kamuela came in, eyes moving like any good cop—automatically noticing, registering the other customers, checking for threats. He spotted her, and that white grin made a brief appearance before he ordered. She made busy with her phone until he sat down, angled beside her so they both had eyes on the room. She felt the dimple come out at that.
“What you stay smiling for?” Kamuela did a little pidgin, took a sip of his gigantic Mocha Frappuccino.
“Apparently you deserved a treat too. Girly drink.” She gestured to the sweating sides of the Frappuccino.
“I take my poison sweet and dark,” he said. “Nothing girly about it.”
“And I like mine strong,” she answered. Their eyes met, and she felt that prickling rash of heat move across her chest. Dammit. Blushing again. She cleared her throat. “Okay. You asked for the meet. What’s up?”
“I…” He seemed to falter. “I could tell you thought I missed something with the surveillance. Your team gave it to HPD to handle, and we just don’t have the resources the Feds do. It’s all we can do to bring out the van, put a couple guys in there. I was getting ready to go back to your SAC and tell him my chief won’t let us do it anymore—we’ve got some fresh cases, not to mention all my older ones. This thing is taking too many man hours.”
“Got it. It’s just as well, because we’re pulling the plug on that aspect of the op.” She laid out the dictum she’d got from Waxman. “Sucks because something had just started there with Fernandez. Dollars to doughnuts it was Bennie the defense lawyer who Jarod Fernand
ez was ranting to on the phone.”
“Dollars to doughnuts?”
“It’s a Jersey thing.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Anyway, we’re going to have to let the rats back into the lab. Which could be okay; we can keep an eye on them in air-conditioning instead of sweating on the side of the road. I’ve got a team coming to wire the lab and hallway for monitoring and we’re taking over a teachers’ lounge on the floor above. Compromise with the university on reopening the lab.”
“Okay. So—where does that leave us?”
“Working the case, unless you need to bail out.” Her heart speeded up at his tone. She looked down, fiddled with her straw.
“No. Us. You and me.” The deep chord in his voice made her look up into brown eyes. Brown eyes that were utterly familiar, mask or no mask, and knew her just as well.
She blinked first. “What do you mean?” Marcella felt the idiocy of the words even as she spoke them.
“You know what I mean.” Heat swept across her as he reached over, plucked the tiny white crane out of her bra. “This looks familiar.”
“Give me that!” She tried to snatch it back, but he held it away. “How did you see that?”
“Little guy was poking out, like he wanted to be found.”
“I take trophies sometimes.” Mortification and terror made Marcella mean.
She felt the recoil in him. Hurt, then anger right behind, tightening his jaw, the skin around his eyes. He crushed the fragile pointed crane in his considerable fist. “Guess you’re one of those women with notches on her bedpost. Or on your tit, as the case may be.”
He’d seen her scars. He’d seen all of everything she had. He’d even seen her soul.
“I knew there was no way this could end well. The Club was supposed to be anonymous.” Marcella sounded prissy and she knew it.
“Too late, babe. And the shit of it is, I really like you. I don’t want it to end.”
She took a breath to regroup, battling back claustrophobia. He was moving in on her, exposing her. He was making her vulnerable.
“When did you know it was me?”
“In your photo. How could I not recognize you? No, seriously, you’re a distinctive woman. I wondered how I was going to tell you, when you’d figure it out, if you had.” He set the coffee drink down. “When did you know?”
“That first time, in your photo.” She reached out, rotated his arm so the little hammerhead shark showed. “Then I saw this little guy and knew for sure. Almost like he wanted to be found.”
“My aumakua, guardian spirit. Always looking out for me.” He put his hand over hers on his wrist, trapping it. Warm and strong, just the way she liked a hand to feel. “So. Can we like—go on a date? Or just back to my place? I’m okay with either.”
Marcella tossed her head, tapped her toe. She had to do this before he did it to her, and she steeled herself to say the words. “I have no interest in a relationship. That’s why I belong to the Club. So no offense, but nothing’s changed. Only now I know who you are, so we won’t be hooking up again.”
Marcella saw him tracking that, absorbing the blow, making a comeback.
“You met me two times when you knew it was me.” Kamuela leaned toward her, eyes intense, keeping the grip on her hand. “C’mon. Stop lying to yourself.”
Marcella yanked her hand away.
“I never said we weren’t sexually compatible. You’re a good lay.” She shrugged, flippant and hard—a matador delivering the death stroke.
A long moment passed.
“Thanks for that, at least.” Marcus Kamuela pushed his chair back and stood. She couldn’t look at him. He tossed the crumpled crane onto the table. “I believe I’ll be transferring my role on this case to Ho or Ching. I’ve got fresh cases to work.”
She found herself blinking blindly at the crushed note. The bell tinkled over the door.
The long day ended on an ignominious note of boredom as Marcella’s shift ended with Fernandez doing his laundry at the nearby Fluff ’n Fold and Detective Ho relieving her in an unmarked Bronco. Back at her apartment, Marcella paced while on hold with the Club.
“Are you the manager? I’d like a refund or something. I ended up sleeping with someone I work with closely. I thought that was supposed to be screened out.”
“Is that person listed as an employee in your organization?”
Marcella paused, bit the side of her finger. “No.”
“Then there’s no way for us to track all the potential combinations of customers. We use an algorithm to set up possible matches based on your survey choices and the workplace you choose to disclose. We can only work with the information we have.”
She’d lied on her application. Like she was going to tell them she was an FBI agent—not that the Club was illegal, exactly. It was just not something the FBI would ever find acceptable. She shuddered to think of Waxman finding out.
“You know what? Cancel my membership.”
Marcella felt only a little better when she hung up. She’d needed to do that for a while, but now she had nothing to do for the evening and a lot of restless energy. Her old familiar—guilt—hovered, waiting to pounce. She decided to pick the scab a little more and typed “Detective Marcus Kamuela” into her search bar, suppressing a qualm at such behavior.
Her computer was equipped with a sensitive background-checking program. She pulled up his work record with HPD (exemplary), his educational background (Kamehameha schools, football star), BA in criminal justice from the University of Hawaii (cum laude) with a minor in art. (Hmm. Maybe that was where the interest in origami came from.) Kept a small debt on his credit card, where his major expense appeared to be his Club membership and payments on a new Toyota Tacoma truck (blue) .
No marriages. No children. No criminal activity. Even went to Rotary Club. His smiling face, embedded in the Rotary Club wheel on their website, made her feel shitty—like the spying tramp who’d dumped him that she was.
Marcella knew he’d probably already checked her background, and what he’d have found: Catholic school in New Jersey, BA from NYU (magna cum laude) in prelaw. She hadn’t gone off the beaten track of predictable until she entered the FBI’s training program after graduation, and her obsessive and controlling relationship at nineteen with a professor at the university wasn’t in her records anywhere—or at least, she hoped not. She didn’t even have a parking ticket in Hawaii for Marcus to hold against her.
She’d hoped that by checking Marcus out, she’d find some dirt, something like a deadbeat-dad conviction that would make her feel better about shutting him down for no good reason but her own paranoia.
Instead, Marcella shut down the computer.
This was definitely not the way to get over the guy. She snatched up her phone when it rang, relieved to be distracted, and brushed off disappointment when she saw it was Sophie Ang.
“Hey. Was getting ready for a little sparring at the Fight Club, wondered if you felt like coming.” The other woman’s voice was hesitant. “I know you’re busy—just thought I’d see.”
“Yes,” Marcella said decisively. “Perfect. Where do I meet you?”
Marcella felt soft and out of shape in her running bra and nylon shorts, her usual outfit for working out and in this case, fighting—though looking down and thumping her abs, they seemed okay. It had been way too long since she’d really spent time in a gym or done her Tae Kwon Do.
She ducked into the warehouse gym on the corner of Kalakaua Avenue, feeling her pulse pick up at the familiar smells of leather and sweat. Gyms—a home away from home. The gym would have to do now that she wasn’t going to the Club anymore.
Ang walked up to her, and Marcella eyed the agent’s long, toned muscles, the tats running down the insides of her arms and down her thighs—kanjis with a tribal look to them. The other woman’s triangular face under that sleek cropped cut was perfectly suited for this setting. In this building, as in the cockpit of her tech lab, Ang was a goddess.
�
�So I’ll show you around. Not much to it,” Ang said, leading her in. “Lockers. Bags. Weight area. Workout pads. And the ring, as you can see.”
Marcella sucked in her gut in response. Just looking at the ring made adrenaline hum through her system. “What do you have in mind for today?”
“Why don’t we warm up, do some cardio or whatever; then we can watch a couple of sparring matches and I’ll orient you on things. Basically, mixed martial arts is a form of fighting that borrows moves from Muay Thai, Brazilian jiujitsu, boxing, and wrestling.”
“I know what it is—I just haven’t watched any of it, let alone met any women who do it. I’ve heard it’s popular here in Hawaii, though.”
“Yeah, we have quite the scene. Lot of camps, clubs, gyms—and people who follow the sport.”
Ang led her over to the bags, and they warmed up cardio with punching and kicking routines. Ang showed her some combinations on the big bag, and Marcella couldn’t believe how much better she began to feel with the release of pent-up energy. Eventually they sat stretching. Another pair of women were up in the ring, sparring.
Ang talked her through the moves. “She’s trying a takedown. That girl in purple—she’s a ground fighter. She’ll try to get you down in a submission hold, ground and pound you out down there. The one in green, she’s more of a striker. She’s going to try to stay out of range and do her beat down with kicking and punching.” The fighters wore split-fingered padded gloves, which Ang said helped with gripping in the various different moves while still protecting the hands for striking.
“Ready to try it?” Ang grinned. “One of the practice areas is free.”
“Yeah.” Marcella followed her new friend into the padded area. They circled each other. Marcella held her arms up and went in for a high kick, reaching for Ang’s head. Used to Tae Kwon Do, she wasn’t ready when the other agent grabbed her leg and bore her down with her own momentum to thump on the mat, Ang’s body tight around hers.
“This isn’t Tae Kwon Do. Keep your arms and legs close, and kick only if you know your leg won’t be grabbed,” Ang said from beside her ear. Hard as Marcella squirmed and wriggled, thumping at the other woman with her free hand, she couldn’t move until Ang released her, bouncing back up onto her feet with ease. Marcella staggered back up, shaking her head.
