by Neal, Toby
Kim bent his head forward so they couldn’t see his face. “I don’t know anything. Not really.”
Rogers pounced. “Not really?”
Samson leaned over and whispered in Kim’s ear, and the intern nodded and spoke.
“I just know…I was the only one in the lab when Dr. Pettigrew got a phone call. It was kind of late, but we were still there working. She said she had to go out. She looked very upset and went out still wearing her lab coat, which she always hangs up. I figured it was time to make my move, before someone else made theirs. We’d all been hearing bits and pieces—Dr. Pettigrew had met with the brass at the university. She wasn’t telling us anything, but I was afraid she was going to release the research for free on the Internet or something crazy like that.”
Marcella and Rogers both stayed quiet—unwilling to break the spell of his disclosure. Marcella tried to arrange her face into sympathy.
“Anyway, she got the call and left. I ran and got the fire ax from the hallway extinguisher, banged on the safe with it. But I’d already watched Truman and Dr. Pettigrew open it and had the combination. I threw stuff around to make it look like an outside burglary and took the laptop and the cell stock.”
He took a deep breath, blew it out, apparently relieved to be confessing. “I hid the research; then I gave it to AgroCon. Once we were all back in the lab, I knew I had to get the photos, make sure AgroCon was the only one with the formula. Personally, I think Fernandez killed Dr. Pettigrew and Abed killed Cindy.”
“Why is that?” Rogers chanced a question.
“Abed was obsessed with Cindy. He was jealous of Fernandez. And he told me he couldn’t see what Fernandez had that he didn’t have…He was so insulted she’d chosen Fernandez over him. He seemed to think he was God’s gift or something. And Fernandez—when he solved that RuBisCO problem, he really threw his weight around, kept trying to tell Dr. Pettigrew he had rights she couldn’t take away.”
“Got anything harder? Like, who it was on the phone that called Dr. Pettigrew?”
“No. I don’t know who called her that night. But I know where Abed keeps some things of Cindy’s. Maybe he took something away from the scene, from her body.”
“Where is this stuff of Cindy’s?” Marcella asked. Samson whispered again and Kim said, “Abed has some stuff at his house.”
A few minutes later, Rogers unlocked the cuffs as much-reduced charges were discussed.
“Please assist us with any information regarding the murders,” Marcella said to Kim, ignoring Samson. “We can reduce your charges further.”
“You don’t need to tell them anything about selling an interest you legitimately owned in a future product,” Samson told Kim. “We’ll sort out these burglary charges in court.”
They left.
“Dammit.” Marcella stood, tapped the legal pad on the steel table. “I wanted to charge him, but we aren’t even holding him on those burglary charges. What now?”
“Boss, where are we at on the search warrants for Abed, Fernandez, and Kim?” Rogers asked through the comm. “We need to search them ASAP. We have to find something tying one of them to the murders.”
“Check the fax. Judge said they were signed,” Waxman said.
“On our way.” They headed for the central fax machine.
Marcella stood at Abed’s door, the folded search warrant in hand. Her stomach growled loudly as she lifted her hand to knock on the sun-peeled laminate door, with its jute welcome mat spelling out ALOHA and several pairs of rubber slippers. All available agents had been dispatched to perform simultaneous searches at the suspects’ three residences, and Waxman had requested a few more detectives from HPD. Marcella, Rogers, and Gundersohn each were leading one of the searches. Ang was her sidekick this time.
“That sounds like a hungry stomach. We could have stopped to grab something to eat,” Ang said.
“I’ll catch up with food later.” Marcella banged on the door.
Abed lived in a stucco duplex off a drab residential street just off campus. A bike chained to the metal railing around the porch testified to his mode of transport, and a sagging gutter off the roof oozed dead leaves from a neighboring avocado tree.
The door opened. Abed’s chocolate-brown eyes widened. “What can I do for you, Agent Scott?” He wore a pair of sweats and a green-and-white UH football jersey. “I just got home from the lab.”
“I’m sorry to barge in like this, but we have a warrant to search the premises.” Marcella handed him the warrant. She turned her head to look as a vehicle pulled up to the nearby curb. Kamuela got out of the Bronco, face foreboding as a Tiki god’s, a crime kit in hand.
The rumble of her empty stomach turned to butterflies.
Dammit.
“I’ve cooperated the whole time,” Abed said, drawing her gaze back to him. He hoisted up his pants. “I don’t know what you could want from me.”
“Just routine at this point,” Marcella fudged, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting with awareness of Kamuela’s presence as he came to stand behind her, just a little too close. His bulk cast a shadow over Abed’s sallow face. “Why don’t you step out, grab a burger or something? We’ll be done before you know it.”
“Okay. I’m calling a lawyer though.”
“That’s always your right.”
Abed slid his feet into a pair of slippers and pattered down the cement steps, phone to his ear.
“What do you bet he’s calling Bennie Fernandez?” Ang said. “Hey, Marcus. Glad you could join us.”
“I have other cases,” he growled, and brushed past Marcella to go inside. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Think you should know we just got some intel that Abed has a cache of stuff related to Cindy,” Marcella said to his back, determined to be polite and professional. “Keep an eye out for something like that, anything feminine-looking.”
“I know how to do a search.” Kamuela opened the closet near the front door.
Marcella knew she wouldn’t like it if she were pulled off something she was working on to go work someone else’s case. Someone she never wanted to see again.
“Hopefully this will be quick.” Ang addressed the back of Kamuela’s head as she snapped on gloves and opened her kit.
“I have other cases and they matter too. You Feds think your murders are the only ones that count.”
“Sorry you got roped in,” Marcella said, her voice soft. “I never meant for this to happen.”
He turned to face her, and Marcella saw the hurt behind the bitterness in his dark eyes. A long moment passed as they looked at each other.
Ang cleared her throat behind them. “Guess I’ll take the kitchen,” she said, and walked off.
“I’m sorry,” Marcella said. “I’m really damn sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” He turned back to the closet, flicked on a light. “This isn’t the place or the time.”
“I know.” Marcella walked to the back bedroom before she made a fool of herself any further.
Abed was tidy. She looked around his monastic bedroom, a single twin mattress on the floor, a small, low altar with a wooden statue of Ganesh, a Buddha and a photo of an orange-saried woman garlanded with marigolds—probably his mother. At the other end of the room was a student desk with a computer on it. Neatly stacked scientific texts lined the wall.
Marcella turned off the lights, lowered the blinds, flipped back the comforter, and turned on the special flash. Sure enough, various stains fluoresced but no blood. She lifted the mattress. A girlie mag, a box of condoms, and a tulsi bead necklace clustered near the edge. She left them for now, still moving.
The lacquered altar held sandalwood-smelling ash in a brass holder placed in front of the ornaments. It also had a small drawer. She pulled the tasseled knob.
A rubber hair tie, a toothbrush. A pen. A thin gold chain with a plaque hanging from it, embossed with a black Gothic letter “C.” A key chain with a smiling Hawaiian child’s face slotted into
a clear plastic palm tree. A small black notebook.
“I found Cindy’s stuff,” she called, shining the light into the drawer.
Ang peered over Marcella’s shoulder as she stirred the items with a gloved finger. She heard the heavier footsteps of Kamuela approach.
“Hard to tell what might have belonged to Cindy,” Ang said.
“Black hairs in that rubber band, and that necklace has the look of one of those returned ex-girlfriend gifts. The initial’s right.” Marcella picked up the notebook, flipped the pages. It was filled with small, hieroglyphic-looking notes. “This could be interesting. And the child on the key chain is Cindy’s cousin.”
“Too bad there’s no piece of rope with her blood on it in there, or the .22,” Kamuela said. “All this shows is that he still had a thing for her.”
“It shows he’s a little obsessive, too,” Marcella said, sliding the items into separate evidence bags. “The fact that he still had a thing for her is significant.”
“Marcus is right. What we really need is the weapon and blood or trace from either of the victims.” Ang moved away, opening the closet door. Kamuela returned to the front room, and Marcella felt that lead ball start rolling in her stomach again.
He couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her. Oh well. It was her own fault. If she wanted him back, she was going to have to do something about it.
Trouble was, she didn’t know if she wanted to.
No, these things never ended well.
Chapter 17
Marcella dragged her sweaty, exhausted body the last few feet from the elevator to her apartment door, stuck the key in, stumbled inside. Shut the door, turned the locks, put on the bar, slid down the door to sit on the floor.
Loverboy waggled his fins at her from his bowl on the table.
“Yeah, I know. Just resting a minute here. I got my ass kicked at the Fight Club, buddy.” She pulled herself upright with the door handle. “Okay. Off to the shower.”
Under the stream of hot water, she let her mind wander through the rest of the happenings of the day—the turning in of evidence back at the Bureau lab, the networked phone call with the rest of the team, discussing what had been recovered at each residence, the mandatory dismissal by Waxman as she began to droop for lack of food in the briefing. She’d downed a hot dog and a Big Gulp as she headed home only to have Ang invite her to the gym…and getting punched and flung about had taken her mind off the libido and angst generated by seeing Kamuela again.
Marcus Kamuela. Dark eyes under straight brows. Those shoulders. The big hands whose calluses she’d recognized as belonging to someone who handled a weapon. That classically cut mouth, set in a line as he looked at her without a trace of the tenderness they’d shared.
Damn the Club. Had she done the right thing dropping out? She still had a powerful itch that even exhaustion from grappling with Sophie Ang for two hours couldn’t kill. It had always been her philosophy that the best way to get over a spill was to get back on the horse—a cliché that brought a smile as she bent her face forward.
Water dripped from it like tears as she mulled.
Well, that decision was done, and Marcella definitely didn’t have the energy to go to a bar and pick up a random stranger, with time-wasting but necessary social games to get there. Well, she still had her vibrator. Cold company, but it would have to do. She sighed and turned off the water.
Marcella stood in the lab the next morning with Ang, Gundersohn, and Rogers, looking at collected evidence from the three residences. “So we got some artifacts of Cindy Moku’s from Fernandez’s place as well,” Gundersohn said in his pedantic way. “Secret deodorant. A comb. A pair of panties from under the bed.”
“Sure those are Cindy’s?” Marcella asked.
“Fernandez identified them as belonging to the victim.”
“But no weapon.”
“We found some e-mails from AgroCon to Kim on his computer,” Rogers said. “Nothing tying Kim to either of the victims.”
They looked at the small, inconclusive collection of items, and Marcella finally said, “I need more coffee.”
She spun on a cream-colored heel and headed for the door. Ang was right behind her. “Feeling okay from last night? I felt kind of bad. You’re picking it up so fast. I know I was a little hard on you.”
Marcella smirked at the other agent. “I think I got you a good one. Check your collarbone.”
“I know.” A bruise darkened the other woman’s golden-brown skin. “I saw it this morning. Sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine. Just tired, is all. I think I went all out yesterday. I was sure something was going to break on the case, and when it didn’t, I was so frustrated. Thanks for calling me. Fight Club took my mind off the day.”
“Did it take your mind off Kamuela? What’s going on between you?”
“Nothing.” Marcella sped up.
“I saw you guys looking at each other—a lot of hot vibes for nothing.”
“Okay, there was something. But not anymore. And it’s—a bummer, is all.” They reached the break room and Marcella hooked down her favorite mug, splashed coffee into it.
“Why? You guys seem perfect for each other.” Ang took the pot from Marcella.
“I’m not the relationship type. I like a good shag, but nothing more. It would turn into something more with him.” Marcella took a big swig. The coffee scalded her tongue, and she gulped it anyway, to smother the knot in her chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Just curious.”
“How about you?”
“I’m divorced.”
Marcella started. “Really? You don’t look old enough to have that kind of baggage.”
Ang made a harsh sound that might have been a laugh and poured some half-and-half from the fridge into her coffee. “I was a child bride.”
“How’d you end up in the FBI?”
“Recruited. I actually grew up in Thailand. My mother was Thai, and my father’s an American diplomat—and yes, he’s black. I saw you wondering about my background. Anyway, I was working at a firm in Hong Kong. I speak five languages, one of them computer, and one day I got a call from a headhunting firm that finds talent for the Bureau. I was looking to get away from the husband, so I took the offer.”
“You speak American like a local.”
“Dialects are a specialty.”
“You’re full of surprises. Thanks, Sophie, for inviting me to the gym. It’s really a great outlet for me right now.”
Rogers stuck his head in. “Coffee klatch is over, ladies. We have surveillance detail. Agent Ang, they have you working over the computers we brought in.”
“No problem.” Ang strode off. Marcella watched her go thoughtfully, taking another sip of black coffee. Ang was intriguing—and an exceptional agent. She found herself liking the woman more than ever. Maybe she did have more than one other woman friend.
Rogers stuck his head back in. “C’mon, Little Shit.”
“Hey—my name is classified.” She punched him in the shoulder, not lightly.
“Mean right hook, Marcie!” He recoiled in exaggerated pain.
“Not Marcie either, dammit.” She socked him again. “Watch out. I’m training. Doing some MMA.”
“Yikes! I apologize, Agent Scott, for my inappropriate whimsicality.” They walked down the hall, bantering, and Marcella felt her world tipping back to normal.
Marcella sat in her Honda outside Fernandez’s apartment. The day had passed in relative comfort and boredom in the lookout room into the lab, with various discussions about the AgroCon injunction, the scanty and inconclusive evidence recovered in the searches, the behavior of Kim, who had been fired from the lab. That little scene had been entertaining to watch, as Kim walked back into the lab, casual as could be, to be confronted by his teammates and Dr. Truman with fire in his green eyes.
“You stole the research, sold it to AgroCon, and have the balls to walk back in here? Did you kill Dr. Pe
ttigrew, too, you slimy little bastard?”
“I’ll get my things and go,” Kim muttered. Truman pushed him in the chest, so the Korean bounced back several feet.
“You’ll just go. And count yourself lucky you can walk out of here.”
Dr. Handsome in a snit had been enough to pucker up Marcella’s nipples—not that it took much these days.
She lifted a small pair of binoculars as Fernandez came out of the apartment in the blue-purple evening with its scent of plumeria from the tree beside the building. He was moving with the bold ease she’d glimpsed a few other times. She frowned as he strode to the stairwell and clattered down the stairs. He had a backpack on.
After the lab team disbanded for the evening, Marcella had followed Fernandez home with a brief stop for a singularly unsatisfying McDonald’s salad. Rogers was on Kim, and Gundersohn on Abed. Marcella lifted her radio.
“I have movement. Subject exiting the building.”
“Ten-four,” Rogers’s voice said. “Nothing here. Subject looks buttoned up inside.”
“Ten-four,” Gundersohn said. “Subject inside. Keep us posted.”
“Roger that.” She set down the radio.
Fernandez unlocked a door on one of the garage storage units. She’d wondered how he got around—none of them seemed to have cars—and frowned as he backed up a motor scooter and put on a helmet. She radioed again as she pulled out a good distance behind the young man on his scooter. This time, the helmeted head swiveled often and she saw him checking his mirrors. Fernandez was paying attention to his surroundings—this couldn’t be good.
“Subject is on the move in a scooter. I’m on him. He has a backpack.”
“Direction? What’s your location?” Rogers’s voice was sharp.
“Don’t know where he’s going yet,” Marcella said. “Heading into downtown.” She braked as Fernandez took a corner. “I’ll call for backup if needed.”
“I’ll let Dispatch know to have Agent Ang get ready—she’s the only one from our case still at the building.”
“Copy that, thanks.” Marcella set the radio down. Her palms prickled with nervous sweat—knowing Ang was getting ready to back her up if needed was reassuring. She kept another car between them as Fernandez turned onto Ala Wai Boulevard, the one-way road fronting the widest part of the Ala Wai Canal.
