Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel)

by Neal, Toby

  “Uh-oh,” Marcella said aloud.

  Chapter 18

  Marcella hung back a block as the scooter cut up onto the bike lane that ran along the edge of the canal. She lifted the radio to her lips. “Dispatch. Patch me through to Agent Ang.”

  “Roger that.”

  A brr of static later, “Agent Ang.”

  “Scott here. Following subject on scooter along bike path beside the Ala Wai. I need backup.”

  “Roger that. I’m on my way. What’s your twenty?”

  Marcella gave the cross street, Kapahulu Avenue, and put the radio down. Better safe than sorry, if Fernandez was up to something.

  The scientist slowed the scooter, turning into the bumped-out area of a parklet. A bike rack under a tree, cast into shadow, obscured him as Marcella drove by at her careful pace. She radioed again.

  “Subject parking scooter. Parking and pursuing on foot.”

  “I’m exiting the building,” Ang replied. “Ten minutes out.”

  Marcella pulled into the nearest alley opposite the park and up onto the sidewalk. She exited the vehicle, thankful she’d put on dark sweats and running shoes in preparation for the surveillance shift. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up and, beeping the Honda locked, jogged back across busy Ala Wai Boulevard, even in the late evening a major artery of Waikiki.

  Marcella ran with the purposeful stride of a jogger down the bike path toward the park, unobtrusively patting her pockets for her phone, checking that her weapon was unclipped in the shoulder holster under the sweatshirt, her FBI shield clipped to her waistband. She slowed as she reached the tree with the bike rack and almost cursed as she saw the scooter was chained to the rack and Fernandez nowhere in sight. She kept going, past the area, swiveling her head to see where he’d gone, oblivious to the mixed scents of plumeria and exhaust fumes.

  Walking the opposite direction, head down and backpack a hunchbacked shape, was Fernandez. She jogged in a U-turn and angled across the grass, already wet with evening dew and scattered with a confetti of trash. A crazy quilt of colored light from the city scattered over the dark skin of the Ala Wai as she slowed her pace, following the cement walking path along the lip of the canal, tracking the dark figure ahead of her. She inserted her Bluetooth and speed-dialed Ang.

  The other agent sounded out of breath. “Where’s your radio?”

  “Left it in the car. What’s your twenty?”

  “Just turning onto Ala Wai Boulevard.”

  “We’re on the move, headed north on the walking path. I’ll keep this open.”

  “Copy that.”

  Fernandez stopped, and Marcella slowed.

  There was nowhere to go but past him, as he stood looking out at the canal. She kept her pace steady and her head down, hoping that with her hood up, he wouldn’t recognize her. She passed by him, eyeballing the backpack—it looked empty but for something heavy at the bottom, forming a dip in the fabric.

  She slowed once she’d passed him, moving up another fifty feet or so, then turning to face the canal. She lifted her foot against the parapet to tighten her shoelace, noticing a silver moon reflected in the water and high scudding clouds that contrasted with the yellow lights along the cement path. She slanted a glance back at Fernandez.

  He had the backpack off and his arm was inside.

  That couldn’t be good.

  She pulled her weapon, dropped into a shooting stance as he took out something that gleamed dull black in the amber light of the nearby streetlamp.

  “Stop! FBI!”

  Fernandez froze. The object was still in his hand, arm extended and turned to the side to toss it into the canal. He shifted, arm still out, and turned toward her. His face was white under the shock of floppy hair, his eyes shadowed holes.

  “Drop the weapon on the ground. Get on your knees and put your hands on your head. Do it now!” Her voice cracked over him, a whip of authority. Fernandez belched suddenly and moved his arm—from extended over the canal to straight in front of him, the black bore of the pistol looking Marcella in the eye.

  That’s when she remembered she wasn’t wearing a vest.

  Chapter 19

  Marcella’s already amped-up heart rate took off to another level, and sweat burst out all over her body.

  “Whore,” he said, followed by a series of grunts.

  “I’m going to chalk that up to stress.” Marcella softened and lowered her voice, slowing down the words. Time to talk him off this ledge or they were both liable to end up dead. “Set the weapon down now and kneel and put your hands on your head and I won’t shoot.”

  “Bitch,” he said, and fired.

  She felt something smack her shoulder as she pulled the trigger, the Glock’s report muffled by the roar of blood in her ears. Fernandez toppled backward to land faceup on the cement.

  “Report!” Ang’s voice screamed in the Bluetooth in her ear. “Marcella! Are you all right? I’m on foot, almost there!”

  “I’m fine,” Marcella said, and then the pain hit, a feeling like a ten-ton wasp sting followed by numbness. Her arm fell to her side, and she felt the warm gush of blood, smelled its iron tang. Her head swam. “Oh. Dammit.”

  She dropped to her knees and set the Glock on the ground in front of her with her good hand, then pressed her hand hard against her shoulder.

  That’s how they were when Ang ran up—Marcella on her knees, the Glock set neatly in front of her, blood oozing through her fingers. Fernandez on his back, the .22 pistol still in his hand—and a hole in his chest. The lights of the city reflected in his open eyes and in the black puddle spreading like a halo from beneath him.

  Marcella smiled at her mother, who stopped at the door to blow a few more kisses and said for the third time, “’Cella, I can spend the night.”

  “No, Mama, really. I’ll sleep better by myself. Thank you for everything.” She waved her good arm at the balloons, flowers, and stack of baked goods beside her bed. “I’m only here until tomorrow. It’s just a little nick. I told you.”

  “Come.” Papa Gio waved at Marcella over her mother’s worried frown. “We let her rest. She’s going to be fine.”

  “Our baby was shot!” She heard her mother’s wail moving away down the hall. “How can that be fine?”

  Marcella closed her eyes. The pain meds were kicking in at last. The round had gone into the notch of her shoulder beneath her collarbone and stuck there, millimeters away from her shoulder joint, causing agony and near-paralysis in her left arm. Surgery to remove the bullet had taken an hour or so, and she still felt a little nauseated from the anesthesia.

  After that, the stream of visitors and her frantic parents had whacked whatever stamina was left right out of her. She’d lucked out and the bed next to her was still empty. Blessed silence reigned. She pressed the button, lowered the back of the bed. Dimmed the lights.

  Closed her eyes.

  Strange designs in red floated across the backs of her eyelids. Some sort of reaction to the meds? Exhaustion pulled at her, a heaviness in every limb, but she felt strangely disembodied—almost as if she could get lost in that red room.

  She opened her eyes. Kamuela was standing next to the bed, looking down at her. His frown was enough to scare babies.

  “You’re awake,” he said disapprovingly. Kamuela’s hands were on his hips. His curling hair looked windblown, and his mouth was tight.

  “Am I? I didn’t expect to see you here. Thought there’d be a white light, angels—my dead grandma.” She laughed, a dry bark. “Don’t they have visiting hours? I just kicked my parents out.”

  He pulled a chair up next to the bed, ignoring this. “How bad is it?”

  The pain meds were definitely kicking in because she blew a raspberry and her lips felt numb, which made her giggle. “Nothing big. Shoulder. Hurt like hell, but I’ll be out tomorrow.”

  “You should have had a vest on.” The line between his brows hadn’t softened and neither had the hard set of his mouth.

 
; She flipped her good hand. “It was just supposed to be surveillance. Guess I didn’t really think anything as dramatic as Fernandez ditching the murder weapon would happen.”

  “You Feds are supposed to be all high tech and work in teams. Can’t believe they let one of their best agents go out alone, no vest, no backup, after a suspect we knew was mentally disturbed.”

  “Hey. That was all on me. And who appointed you my big brother, anyway?” Marcella found her eyelids drooping, but she didn’t want to go back into that red darkness.

  “Big brother.” He shook his head, a movement reminiscent of a bear shaking off a mosquito. “No way. Not that.”

  “Amen.” She reached out with her good hand. “Come here. Kiss me.” She fumbled, grasped the cotton sleeve of his shirt, tugged. Let her eyes fall shut and turned her mouth up, hungry for his.

  Nothing happened. She opened her eyes. He was just looking at her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not going to take advantage of an injured woman addled on drugs.” Kamuela reached over to grasp her good hand in his big warm one. “I want to kiss you. But when I do, it’s going to be because you asked me to. In your right mind, not tanked to the eyeballs on morphine and having a postshoot urge to merge.”

  “Playing hard to get. It just might work.” She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

  The red room behind her eyes claimed her, but before she fell into it, she thought she heard him say, “Don’t you leave either.”

  A dull thumping of pain, a drumbeat in the darkness, dragged Marcella up from the depths. She opened her eyes, felt the cool fingertips of a nurse on her arm, the blood pressure cuff inflating.

  “Hurts,” she said, and coughed. Her throat was so dry.

  “Here, a couple Percocet. We need to get you off the hard stuff,” the overly cheerful nurse said with a smile as she handed Marcella a paper cup and a couple of tablets. Marcella took the pills, her eyes wandering until she found what she sought—Kamuela’s bulk stretched out on the armchair in the corner that extended into a sleeper. His big feet, clad in athletic socks, hung at least a foot off the short “bed.” A thin cotton blanket was tucked up under his chin.

  “Yeah, your boyfriend’s finally sleeping,” the nurse said. “So cute, the way he held your hand for hours.”

  “Really?” Marcella felt her dry lips pulling into a smile. A ridiculous smile.

  He hadn’t left. He’d spent hours holding her hand.

  When she fell asleep again, she was still smiling.

  A voice calling her name woke her up this time. Sunshine streamed in the window, insultingly bright, lighting her eyelids.

  “Agent Scott.” It was Waxman’s voice calling her. Dammit. She’d been having a very nice dream and Waxman definitely wasn’t in it.

  Marcella opened her eyes, gaze going straight to the chair in the corner—empty. Waxman hove into her vision, pressed and neat, Gundersohn behind him like a barge behind a tugboat, and Rogers bringing up the rear, hidden behind an enormous bouquet of yellow roses.

  “Hi, Chief,” she said, wishing there were time for a few more pills before what was doubtless coming next.

  “We sent your visitor out—need to do your postshooting debrief. What was Detective Kamuela doing here?”

  “It’s personal.” Marcella felt her cheeks heat up. “We’re friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Friends,” Waxman said. “Anyway, we’ll keep this short for now. So, begin at the beginning—what happened?” He set a small digital recorder on the movable bedside table. Rogers shoved the roses in among the other offerings and took up a chair beside her, lending moral support by aligning his body with hers, facing their superior.

  Marcella told her version of events. Gundersohn took notes. Her throat gummed up at the end, the part where she shot Fernandez, and Rogers handed her a plastic cup of water.

  “Did Fernandez make it?” He’d looked gone to her, but she wanted confirmation.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood, but it looks like he’s going to pull through. The bullet they took out of you is a match for the one that killed Dr. Pettigrew,” Rogers answered. “We can’t interview him until he’s out of intensive care.”

  “So it’s over then. Fernandez was the guy.”

  “Looks like it,” Waxman said. “We’ll continue this later. I’ve set up your postshooting psych interview with Dr. Wilson. You two seemed to hit it off, and she’s still in town. That’s later today. You’re on administrative leave until the investigation closes.”

  “Is that necessary? I’m sure I can do something for the case once I get out of here.”

  “You know the drill, Agent Scott.” Waxman smoothed his tie, looking irritable.

  “Any chance you could get that nurse in here for some more pain meds?” Marcella’s face must have looked bad because Rogers hotfooted it into the hall. She was left with Waxman staring down his straight nose at her, with Gundersohn standing like a mountain behind him. The SAC clicked off the recorder, tucked it inside his immaculate jacket.

  “You were out of bounds on this one.” Waxman’s ice-blue eyes swept over Marcella’s blanched face, tumbled hair, and gapping hospital gown. “I’ve half a mind to write you up.”

  “I identified myself. I directed him to drop his weapon. I watched him decide to shoot me, and I wasn’t about to die with him. As to ‘going out of bounds’—I called for backup the minute he left his apartment. Not my fault Ang couldn’t get there in time, and I wasn’t about to let him ditch the weapon right in front of me.”

  “That’s where you went wrong, Agent Scott. We could have retrieved the weapon from the canal and you could have taken him into custody safely when your backup arrived.”

  Rogers reappeared with the nurse in tow, and Waxman stood up. “We’ll continue this later.”

  “Can’t wait,” Marcella said, trying for a little sass but feeling tears well up as the kindly nurse handed her the pills and a cup of water.

  Gundersohn hung back for a minute. “He was upset you got shot,” the big Swede said. “He doesn’t like getting upset.”

  “I don’t like getting shot either.” The tears decided to spill. She coughed to hide it, reaching for the napkin that had arrived with her lunch.

  “Get well soon,” Gundersohn said, making it sound like an order.

  Marcella wiped her eyes with the napkin. The chopped hamburger steak swimming in brown liquid the nurse had set on the tray blurred.

  “Sorry Waxman’s such an ass,” Rogers said. “Damn, that lunch looks bad.”

  “I can’t do anything right for that man.”

  A long silence passed while Rogers got up, fussed with the flowers, turning them so they were more visible. “You like yellow roses? Beth picked them out for you, because we’re from Texas and all. She and the girls are coming by later.”

  Marcella’s heart sank. She just wanted to pull her blanket up over her head and cry, then sleep for several days—not be brave for Rogers’s family. Kamuela chose that moment to return, followed by her parents. Marcella closed her eyes in misery.

  “Marcella, what’s the matter?” Her mother swooped in for a hug of her good shoulder, simultaneously removing the tray from in front of her. “Don’t eat this terrible thing. I brought you some nice pasta.” She opened one of the white cardboard containers she’d carried in and set to stirring and fluffing.

  “I’m fine, just waiting for the pain meds to work.” Kamuela moved to sit in one of the side chairs next to her bed with no trace of self-consciousness or explanation. He picked up her cold hand, balancing it gently on his palm because of the IV taped to the back. Rogers grinned at them from across the room, clearly pleased by this development. Papa Gio sat down on the sleeper, which had been refolded into a chair, fussing with the pleats in his pants as Anna fussed with the food, opening more containers.

  “Did you guys meet each other? This is my friend Marcus Kamuela. Marcus, Egidio and Anna Scatalina, m
y parents,” Marcella said.

  “We met,” Kamuela said, smiling. He had a dimple in his left cheek. She hadn’t noticed it before. “I heard some pretty interesting stories about when you were a kid.”

  “Marcella, she always getting herself into trouble,” Anna said, tucking a napkin into Marcella’s neckline and scooping up some of the pasta mixture with a fork. “Here, open up.”

  “I can feed myself,” Marcella grumbled, but submitted. Sometimes it was easier to let her mother have her way. Besides, it felt kind of good to be waited on after her encounter with Waxman.

  “So, Mr. Kamuela. How did you meet my daughter?” Papa Gio rumbled from across the room.

  “I’m a detective. We met on the job. She’s excellent at her work,” Kamuela said, and then deliberately kissed her fingertips. “It’s one of the many things I like about her.”

  The room went still. Marcella’s mouth hung open for the next bite as her mother froze, goggling at Kamuela. Marcella closed her mouth and felt that now-familiar blush prickle across her chest and up her cheeks—she needed to say something. Rogers couldn’t have grinned any wider from across the room.

  “We’re dating,” she said to her flabbergasted parents.

  “Oh,” Anna said, and shoveled the bite into Marcella’s mouth. “Oh! That’s wonderful!” She set down the box of food. “You must be so special for our Marcella to date you!”

  “Marcella, she too busy for a relationship,” Papa Gio rumbled. “She not interested in babies, you know. She interested in guns.”

  “Mr. Scatalina, I’m too busy too. And I like guns too. As to babies…There’s plenty of time for that.” Kamuela winked at Marcella. She yanked her hand away, then groaned as that moved her shoulder wound.

  “’Nuff already. Mama, no more food right now. I promise I’ll eat more later. My stomach is upset, and I need a nap. Can you all come back in an hour or so? I hope they’ll be letting me out of here soon.”