by Neal, Toby
The next hour passed in a blur of getting knocked down, pummeled, thumped and kicked, and grappling gracelessly on the sweaty mats as Ang talked her through the various moves as they occurred. One last bout ended with Marcella hopelessly pinned.
“Uncle,” she said, thumping the mat. “Think I’ve had enough.”
Ang bounced back up, hoisting Marcella to her feet. “Good workout?”
“As a matter of fact.” Marcella took the thin towel the other woman handed her and rubbed down her flushed, dripping face.
“How do you feel?”
“Great, actually. Just great,” Marcella said, feeling a smile move across her face for the first time that day. “This is a blast. When can we do it again?”
Marcella was sore in the morning, a thousand unused muscles complaining as she poured a fourth cup of steaming black coffee from the carafe in Conference Room A into her favorite mug. She poured another one for Dr. Ron Truman. She was glad to be at work—it kept her mind off the debacle with Kamuela.
Dr. Truman’s face sported whiskers and dark circles—enough to make him a little rugged and even more handsome. He took the FBI mug she handed him gratefully and sat back in his bolted-down armchair in Conference Room A.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. How’re you holding up?”
“You mean my divorce? Or the project?”
“Both. Regarding the project, we’re releasing the lab back to you this morning. My partner, Agent Rogers, is down at the lab unsealing everything and getting it ready for your team.”
“Excellent.” Truman took a sip of the hot coffee. “My divorce is proceeding, and as to the project, it’ll be good to get back to work. With those notes you guys found, we can start rebuilding the research. “
“We know it’s important—and that’s why we’re getting your team back into the lab. But we’re going to need your help more than ever to find who killed Dr. Pettigrew and Cindy. I have some questions about your remaining interns.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
“What was each of the interns responsible for on the project? I heard that Fernandez contributed something major.”
“Yes, he did. He was the one to isolate the element that assisted in the RuBisCO bind. We were all stuck on that for months.”
“So did he—well, did he get an attitude about it?”
“Jarod’s got some—emotional issues, I guess you could call them. We all tried to take him with a grain of salt in the lab.”
“So is that your way of saying yes?”
“We all have our idiosyncrasies. Jarod’s were a little more obvious than most—his tics, for instance.”
“Yeah.” She set down her coffee. “How real are those tics?”
“Oh, they’re real all right.” Truman shrugged. “But the swear words are different. He can control those, in my opinion. I’ve seen him get really frustrated or upset, which is when they usually come out—and if Dr. P was there, or someone else from the university he was worried about, he’d rein it in.”
“Okay. I’m wondering—did he ever show any aggressive or hostile behavior in the lab? Or elsewhere that you know of?”
“He’d say things that were off. Just not appropriate—maybe a little threatening. I chalked that up to the Tourette’s.”
“Did you know about his reported relationship with Cindy Moku?”
“Yeah. I heard rumors to that effect. I think there was a little triangle going on with her, Fernandez, and Abed.”
“What was their relationship like?”
“Honestly, if I hadn’t heard about it from Cindy, I wouldn’t have known. They kept it very private.”
“So no public displays of affection, etcetera?”
“Not that I ever saw. Frankly, I wondered what she saw in him. Abed is a much more engaging fellow, and he moped around when she dumped him.”
“What was his relationship like with Dr. Pettigrew?” Marcella rolled her shoulders against stiffness from the workout the night before. Soreness and a few bruises thumped at her from various points on her body, but she was surprised to find that overall she felt good. Relaxed—except for thoughts of Kamuela that kept hitting her at unwelcome moments. She muscled her attention back to the interview.
“Fernandez was rigid in how he liked to do things, and Dr. P was definitely the boss. They butted heads a few times.”
“And how about you?” She slid the question in gently between sips of coffee.
“Collegial. She was my director, my principal investigator, and I applied to be under her after looking for the best. It was her job to develop the research ideas, find the grants, promote the project, gather and vet the team, review the results and get them published. I basically ran the lab and kept all the parts working, troubleshot glitches in the work, served as her gofer when she needed one.”
“So how well did you know Peter Kim?”
“He kept to himself. He came in, put in long days, but he didn’t interact as much as the others.”
“What was his relationship like with Dr. Pettigrew and Cindy?”
“He butted heads with Dr. P too—he wanted the research published in stages, instead of waiting until it was all completed, as she’d decided. Each stage of the research has had several viable articles within it—but Dr. P really wanted to create a sensation with BioGreen by breaking it all at once. He was friendly but nothing more with Cindy. I think Kim is a quiet, but very ambitious man.”
This was consistent with Marcella’s assessment, and her opinion of Truman went up another notch as well. He was much more than a pretty face—not only articulate, he seemed to have a good sense about people. No wonder he’d been taken with the fey, striking Natalie Pettigrew.
“How about Abed? What was his connection to the others?”
“Well, he’s someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I can’t see him killing someone in the cold, impersonal way Dr. P was shot. I could see him laying hands on someone who hurt him badly enough—as Cindy did. He took it hard, like I said, when she dumped him. But if he killed Dr. P, I think it would have been something impulsive and personal—hitting her on the head or something like that.”
“That’s very interesting, but total speculation,” Marcella said, privately agreeing. She was beginning to wonder more and more if there had been two killers—but Truman, still a suspect, was not someone to share that with.
“Did any of the interns…write poetry or journals that you were aware of?”
“No, nothing creative like that that I ever saw.” He snorted a laugh. “We all hunched over journals, all right, but they were the project lab books, and those follow a strict protocol.”
“All right. Are you going to be able to move forward with the staffing you have?”
“No. We have to re-create a lot of the project, and we need some more interns. I’ve been using the time away from the lab to review grad student applications—but I’m feeling confident we’ll be able to rebuild an effective team.” He stood. “Speaking of that, you said you’d release the lab to me?”
“Let me check with my partner. He was doing a final walk-through before we turn it over.” She speed-dialed Rogers. “Matt. Is the lab ready for the team to come back?”
“I just got done reprogramming a new security code into the door. Write this down.”
Marcella scribbled the number Rogers gave her on a notepad and showed it to Truman, who copied it into his phone.
“Thanks. I’ll see you later at the office.” She cut the call and gestured to the door. “Looks like you’re free to pull your people in and get back to work. We left a photocopied pile of Dr. Pettigrew’s photos of the lab books for your review in the back office.”
“The project’s got a foundation to build on, thanks to you,” Truman said, shaking her hand with both of his, green eyes shining with something that might have been tears. “It will be great to get back to work, and thank God Dr. P took
those photos. Where did you find them?”
“At the bottom of the Ala Wai Canal,” Marcella said, ushering him to the door. “Call me if you see or hear any suspicious behavior from your team. Anything at all.”
“Oh, I will,” he said fervently, and hurried down the hall.
Marcella shut down all the recording equipment and checked her dive watch—it was time to get on the road for an important appointment.
Chapter 14
Marcella pulled the Honda up to the curb, taking one of the pay-by-hour slots near the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, a picturesque maze of floating docks and crowded slips. The clang of boats and hum of wind against rigging filled the ocean-sparkling air with the song of the marina, the curving yellow arc of the beach just beyond. The whole setting invited leisurely walks in paradise, and the nearby Hilton Hawaiian Village, with its iconic rainbow-tiled high-rise, capitalized on that.
Marcella parked directly opposite the former Cheese Soufflé Bistro—the place her parents had offered on. She got out of the car, did a quick scan as she always did for possible threats, and strode across the narrow street to a dilapidated glass front door decorated with expired band and show posters. Anna Scatalina, obviously keeping an eye out, pushed the door with its tinkling bell wide.
“’Cella! Come into Café Scatalina!”
“Mama.” She kissed her mother on both cheeks as she stepped into the dim interior. “You sure that’s a good name?” Marcella’s voice was hesitant.
“We not ashamed of our name,” Papa Gio rumbled—an old argument—from across the room.
Marcella ignored this sally, instead putting hands on her hips and swiveling to survey. “Well, it’s got a good location.”
The black-and-white checkered floor was gritty with tiny gecko droppings, though none of the indoor-dwelling lizards ubiquitous to Hawaii were visible in daylight. Round tables were stacked in a corner, bent-backed café chairs towering in a stack beside them. A glass deli-style counter fronted the kitchen, separated from the dining room by an open pass-through window and swinging half doors.
“You know the economy, she no good,” Papa Gio said. “So we get the café cheap.”
“Was your offer accepted?”
“Yes. We the owners!” Anna gave a little hop and clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to get to work on the kitchen. Come. I show you.” She bustled through the swinging doors into a kitchen redolent of old grease, a crusty-looking gigantic steel stove its centerpiece. Piled dishware and pots and pans were stacked haphazardly on every surface. The smell of greasy, burnt things clung to Marcella’s throat like a film.
“Mama, it’s terrible in here. You need to have the cleaning included in the final price.”
“I call the agent already.” Papa Gio put his hands on his hips and drew down his brows. “Anna, she just want to get to work. We still need to decide what food we selling.”
“I think we go with Italian theme,” Anna said. “Like us.”
“Are you going to do dinners? Or just breakfast and lunch? All three?” Marcella walked over to the floor mats, looked at them cautiously. They seemed downright sticky, and the heels of today’s Jimmy Choos would sink right into the round holes that marked the thick rubber surface.
“Breakfast and lunch only. Perhaps little appetizers in afternoon,” Anna said. “We old. We like go to bed early.”
“Yes. And I’m worried—this is a big project, even after you get it cleaned. You have to decorate, set up a menu…”
“That’s the fun part. And I already have employee coming—the Guatemalan boy you meet the other day. Eduardo. He come to work for us, help with the heavy work.” Anna’s brown eyes, so much like Marcella’s, were wide with excitement. “I have new friend at college. She a photographer. She make big prints for walls. We paint, we buy new china and napkins, and we go!”
“So it’s the Café Scatalina, eh?” Marcella pursed her lips. “Sure about that?”
“Yes, and we feature a brown turd as our logo,” Papa Gio said.
Marcella spun around to her father, her mouth open. Both her parents burst into laughter.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Anna gasped. “Oh, your face, ’Cella! The horror!”
“You got me good,” Marcella said, succumbing to a chuckle. “Well, I’m glad we’re finally joking about it.”
“Your name Little Shit, you gotta laugh about it,” Papa Gio said, pulling Marcella to him in a side hug. “We said on the way here how your hair would turn white if we named the café Scatalina and made a little turd for the sign.”
“You were right. You guys know me too well. What can I help with?” Marcella sneaked her eyes to her watch. She was due for a briefing back at the Bureau in half an hour.
“Toasting.” Papa Gio worked the cork on a bottle of champagne, while Anna produced plastic glasses from the pockets of her muumuu.
Marcella took hers reluctantly. It was ten thirty a.m. on a workday; it wouldn’t do to arrive in front of Waxman with alcohol on her breath. But she couldn’t turn her parents down either. She waved a halt to her father’s pouring and cleared her throat.
“I’d like to toast. To the success of the Scatalinas in Waikiki—may everything we do prosper.”
“Salute,” her parents chimed, and they all drank. Papa Gio held his brimming cup high, flicked a few drops from the rim over the greasy stove.
“Everything this kitchen make taste delizioso,” he said. “Thanks be to God for our good fortune, and for our daughter to live nearby.”
“Salute,” Marcella said, and they all took another swig—this could go on awhile. “Papa, darling. I have to run.” She kissed him, set the plastic cup down on the counter. “Keep me posted on how I can help.”
“Ciao, bella,” her mother called as Marcella headed for the front door.
“Ciao. See you soon,” Marcella called back.
She pushed out into the breezy sunshine, light sparkling off the moored boats of the marina. Tourists milled by en masse only a block away on Ala Moana Boulevard, but the area of the restaurant, while near major traffic, had a restful feel. She took a big deep breath of fresh salty air and blew it out. Her midsection sent back tingles, pummeled during last night’s sparring.
The bistro was a good thing for her parents. And who knew? They might make a success of Café Scatalina, with a brown turd as a logo. Yep, they’d got her good that time. She laughed aloud as she got into the Honda.
Marcella took a minute in the women’s room to comb her hair, disordered by the wind off the yacht harbor. She was stabbing bobby pins into the latest incarnation of FBI Twist when the door opened, admitting a petite blonde wearing a khaki skirt and purple polo shirt.
“Dr. Wilson!” She spat the last of the pins into her hand and turned with a big smile to greet the police psychologist. “I didn’t know you came this far afield—thought you were based in Big Island.”
“Got a new job—I’m consulting with the FBI now as well as state and local police,” the psychologist said. “Great to see you, Marcella. You’re looking amazing, as usual.”
“It’s a curse.”
“I’m sure you find a way to make it work,” Dr. Wilson said with a smile.
Marcella had met the psychologist on Maui at her friend Lei’s police station, where the peripatetic consultant was doing a training for the island’s detectives. Lei had worked with Dr. Wilson on several cases and personal business over the years, and through her glowing reports, Marcella felt like she knew the woman. She finished her touch-ups as Dr. Wilson used one of the stalls and then washed her hands.
“So are you here on a case?” Marcella asked, blotting lipstick off her lips. Waxman was bound to give her a hairy eyeball if she had much on, but she wanted to look her best for the briefing—not that she was hoping Kamuela would be there or anything.
“Possibly. SAC Waxman sent me over some information to review and come up with a ‘profile’ for one of the cases.” Dr. Wilson’s sharp blue eyes met hers in the mirror. “Gues
s we’ll have to see what conference room we end up in.”
“Well, I’m hoping it’s my case. I could use a psych profile on our three main suspects. I was going to ask Waxman for a consult; maybe he beat me to it.” The two women walked down the hall together toward the main conference room.
“Are you in touch with Lei?” Dr. Wilson asked. “I’m a little worried about her.”
“We just talked the other day. What’s going on?”
“She’s stressed—big transitions. Wondered if she’d called you.”
“Yeah. She’s coming over in a few weeks.”
“Well, get her to talk to you.”
“Spoken as her therapist?” Marcella knew Dr. Wilson had been the one to help unlock Lei’s memories on the Big Island.
“Speaking as a friend and colleague. There’s always a lot at stake in your profession.”
“For her and me both,” Marcella said, as she opened the main conference room with its whiteboards and oval table. She turned to the psychologist with a grin. “Looks like you’re on my case.”
Waxman stood up from where he was holding court at the end of the table. “Dr. Wilson, so glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“Yes.” Dr. Wilson opened the leather valise she’d been carrying and distributed some printouts to the team gathered around the table: Waxman, Gundersohn, Ang, Rogers, and Detectives Ching and Hernandez from HPD. Kamuela was not in evidence, and Marcella felt a stab that felt suspiciously like pain.
“Where’s Detective Kamuela?” she asked Ching as she helped hand out the papers. She knew he said he’d ask to be transferred, but she didn’t want to believe it.
“He had some other cases come up,” Ching said. His gaze was guileless; Marcella doubted Kamuela would have told his partner the real reason for his departure.
An unfamiliar feeling—rejection, loss—sank into the pit of her stomach and lay there like a lead ball. She’d known things couldn’t end well; it didn’t make it any easier to have been right.
