Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Yeah, in the office. I gotta go. If you come by tomorrow, maybe you can talk to her.”

  “What dock is it? Must be more than one.”

  “On Front Street. Wayne’s Charter Service. Can’t miss it.”

  He hung up.

  Brixton finished his drink and food and stared out over the water. A full moon created a million flashes of light on the ripples. Recorded Hawaiian music through speakers accompanied his thoughts as he pondered what the next day would bring.

  He now knew where and when he would make contact with Kamea. What he didn’t know was what would happen after that meeting. He had to assume that she’d sought his help to leave Maui and the Prisler cult. But that was purely supposition. If it was true, it raised a much larger issue. How would they accomplish that? Obviously, she wasn’t free to simply pack her bag, get on a plane, and fly to the mainland. Did the cult have that much control over its members? If so, why would anyone subject themselves to such tyranny?

  The waitress informed him that the restaurant was closing. He signed the bill, using his room number, and walked to the pool, where he sat in a chair and prolonged the thought process before returning to his room, stripping down to his shorts, climbing into bed, and succumbing to his fatigue.

  He was up as the sun rose into the pristine blue sky. His suit pants and dress shirt weren’t proper exercise attire, but that’s what he wore to the gym, where he used its equipment to work out his multiple aches and pains, many of which he blamed on having been wedged in that infernal airline seat obviously made for smaller bodies. He showered back in the room and had breakfast on the same seaside terrace at which he’d eaten the night before. A desk clerk directed him to a clothing shop a block away but pointed out that it didn’t open until nine. Brixton passed the time sitting by the pool and watching a succession of shapely females dip their toes in the water before quickly heading for lounge chairs. He smiled wryly, knowing that he received strange looks in his suit and black dress shoes. The anticipation of meeting with Kamea dominated his thoughts and emotions, and as the time drew closer, his adrenaline level climbed.

  He was at the clothing shop on the dot of nine and purchased a yellow T-shirt with ALOHA printed on the front and back, an oversize red hibiscus print shirt with little green, blue, and white birds on it, which the shop owner assured him was authentic Hawaiian—whatever that meant—white athletic socks, underwear, white sneakers, sunglasses, and a ball cap that said MAUI. He was back in his room at 9:40, quickly changed into his new purchases, strapped his armpit holster on, checked and loaded his Smith & Wesson, and was in his car fifteen minutes later driving to Lahaina.

  The town was chockablock with tourists that morning, and Brixton had trouble finding a parking spot. He eventually gave up and pulled into a municipal garage, where he fed the meter to its maximum and walked in the direction of the dock. He spotted the sign for Wayne’s Charter Service and took it in from across the busy street. A man whom he judged to be in his early thirties was busy doing what boat captains do, and Brixton figured he must be Wayne. In front of the boat was a small office and a kiosk in which a young woman chatted with four tourists. She was a pretty girl, although from what Brixton could see, she wasn’t especially well kempt. Her lank brunette hair hung straight down and didn’t have that telltale sheen that a good morning shampooing would have given it. She was surprisingly pale considering that she lived in sunny Hawaii. She wore a white T-shirt with the charter service name on it.

  Brixton waited until the tourists had walked away before starting to cross. But he’d only stepped off the curb when she left the kiosk and joined the man on deck. Brixton retreated and continued his wait. No doubt about it, they were discussing him, constantly looking at passersby in search of this guy Robert Brixton.

  Five minutes later people started arriving and were greeted by the girl, who had them sign documents before escorting them onto the boat, where they were introduced to the captain. Brixton surmised that they were about to embark on a charter cruise, and he wondered whether the girl, who he was sure was Kamea, would accompany them. Another fifteen minutes of waiting answered the question. The girl resumed her place in the kiosk, while the fishing boat backed away from the dock, turned, and headed out to sea.

  Brixton crossed the street and approached the kiosk. He stepped up to it and said, “Excuse me.”

  The girl looked up, and recognition spread across her sallow face. “Mr. Brixton?”

  “Yeah. You’re Kamea.”

  She nervously looked right and left before saying, “Wayne said you’d arrived.”

  “He said you’d be here this morning.”

  “I work here.”

  “This is owned by Sam Prisler?”

  The mention of his name caused her to flinch. She nodded and continued her surveillance of the passing crowd, eyes darting back and forth, lips pressed into a tight line. Her fear was palpable. If she was leading him into a trap, she was a world-class actress.

  “Look,” Brixton said, “can we go someplace to talk, where we can be alone?”

  “I can’t leave here. I…”

  Her face froze as she looked to her left. “Be a tourist,” she said quickly, spreading out brochures on the counter in front of him. “Ask about charters.”

  Brixton was confused for a second but then grasped what she was saying, that someone was approaching who shouldn’t know who he was. Another second and Prisler’s moonfaced “capo” stood next to him.

  “Hi, Akina,” Kamea said pleasantly. “Can you wait? I’m just giving this gentleman information about the charters.” She gathered up the brochures and handed them to Brixton. “I know you’ll enjoy it, sir,” she said. “Our captain knows all the best fishing spots.”

  “Thanks,” Brixton said, pulling on the peak of his cap and casting a sideways look at Akina, hoping that the big Hawaiian hadn’t seen his face in Will Sayers’s syndicated article. “I’ll think about it.”

  He walked to a bench opposite the kiosk and sat down. He opened a brochure, donned his sunglasses, and watched Kamea and Akina talking at the kiosk. He wished he was privy to their conversation. After a few minutes Akina climbed into a Range Rover parked nearby and drove away. Brixton waited until he couldn’t see the car before returning to the kiosk.

  “Who was he?” he asked Kamea.

  “His name is Akina. He’s Mr. Prisler’s assistant and bodyguard.”

  “He’s big. As I was saying—”

  “I can’t leave here,” she said. “Wayne will be coming back, and we have another charter right after this one.”

  “Yeah, fine, but we have to talk. I didn’t come all the way to Maui to have you give me fishing brochures.”

  “I know that,” she said, apology in her voice.

  “What do you want from me, Kamea? You said you could help me too. How?”

  “I want to leave Maui.”

  “I kind of figured that. So why don’t you leave?”

  “I can’t. He won’t let me.”

  “Prisler?”

  A nod and furtive glances in search of Akina or anyone else she feared.

  “And you want my help getting off the island.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Now here’s what I want. I want to know about your brother, about Prisler’s relationship with a guy back in Washington named Zafar Alvi. I want to know everything. Who sent your brother to Washington to help blow up a café in which my daughter, by the way, was slaughtered? I want to know about a guy named Reyes, Lalo Reyes? I’m not staying here and helping if you don’t come up with the answers.”

  “Not here.”

  “Okay, where? When?”

  “Tonight, at the center.”

  “The cult you mean?”

  “We don’t call it that. You know where it is?”

  “I’ll find it. What do I do, drive in and ask for Kamea?”

  “Oh, no, God no. It’s guarded, men with guns. There’s a sugarcane field that backs up to the ea
st side of the center. On the edge of it is a shack. I can get there without anyone seeing me.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “There’s a dirt road leading to it that skirts the center’s property.”

  “How do I find it?”

  Kamea placed a map on the counter on which she’d already highlighted the road to the center.

  “What time?” Brixton asked, folding the map and tucking it into his pocket.

  “Ten.”

  Brixton looked to the empty boat slip. “What about your buddy, Wayne?”

  “He wants to help me.”

  “Why? You two lovers?”

  A couple had lined up behind Brixton.

  Brixton wrote his cell phone number on the edge of a brochure. “My cell,” he said. He turned to the couple and said, “Sorry. Sounds like a terrific fishing trip.”

  “That’s a very nice shirt,” the wife said.

  “Thanks. Authentic Hawaiian. Comes with a guarantee,” Brixton said. “Good fishing.” He waved the brochures at them, smiled, and walked away.

  So that’s Morgana Skaggs, aka Kamea Wakatake, he thought as he walked to where he’d parked his car. Seemed like a nice enough young gal. How does someone like that end up as a zombie in a cult on Maui? He’d read about cults and knew that charismatic leaders could warp impressionable young people into buying their snake oil. It took a certain type apparently, one like Morgana Skaggs. Will Sayers had told him that the Skaggs family was dysfunctional; how the daughter and son ended up was testimony to that. Didn’t take a shrink to figure it out.

  Having made personal contact with Kamea was satisfying, but a sense of foreboding settled over him as he started the car and eased into the dense traffic that moved at a crawl. A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt similar to his darted in front of him, causing Brixton to hit the brakes. “Authentic Hawaiian, my ass,” he muttered as the man gave him an angry look and disappeared into the throng.

  He found a place to pull over outside of Lahaina and consulted the map that Kamea had given him. Confident that he had a sense of where he was heading, he drove in the direction of Prisler’s cult in Kapalua. He couldn’t read the map and drive at the same time, but he figured he’d find it eventually, which he did, along an isolated road beyond which were the sparkling waters of Mokuleia Bay and the Pacific Ocean. A small wooden sign with gold letters at the foot of a long winding driveway said PRISLER CENTER FOR HEALING. He slowed to almost a stop and saw a narrow sentry house halfway up the driveway. Kamea had said there were men with guns, and Brixton didn’t doubt that there was an armed guard in the structure.

  He continued driving past the property, turned around, and passed it again in an easterly direction until coming to a dirt road that circumvented that end of the center. He took the road and soon came to the sugarcane field Kamea had mentioned. He put the car in park and peered into the field. A strip of dirt led down a winding track to the shack she’d referenced. He didn’t like the setup. There were no lights. The weather report he’d checked in the hotel lobby before leaving that morning forecast a nasty storm arriving late that afternoon, with gusty winds and drenching rain.

  He stopped back in the clothing shop and purchased a blue rain slicker and a floppy white hat before returning to the hotel, where he decided he would hole up until it was time to meet Kamea, figuring that since he was paying for the resort hotel he might as well enjoy it. He sat by the pool under an increasingly threatening sky and called Mac Smith in Washington.

  “It’s Robert,” he said when Mac answered.

  “Calling from sunny Hawaii?”

  “Not so sunny. There’s a storm moving in.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Are you making any progress?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ve made contact with the Skaggs daughter, Kamea. She’s one scared puppy, Mac. Prisler has somebody keeping her on a short leash. I’m supposed to meet her again tonight.”

  “Glad you checked in. My contact at Justice called me. They’re making progress, too, in building a case against Prisler. I also got in touch with Detective Halliday at MPD, as you suggested. Your friend Mr. McQuaid didn’t accidentally drown. The case is now considered a homicide.”

  “Good news all around,” Brixton said. “Did Flo leave?”

  “No. We convinced her to stay a few extra days. She’s crazy about you, Robert, and afraid for you. She’s spending time with Annabel at her gallery. She wants to be useful.”

  “She’s good people, Mac. Hopefully I’ll be back before she leaves and we can catch some time together.”

  “I’m sure she’d like that. By the way, Asal Banai called.”

  In his rush to leave D.C., Brixton had forgotten to inform her that he’d be away.

  “Did you tell her where I was?”

  “Yes. She seemed surprised.”

  “I’m surprised that I’m here, too. If she calls again, tell her I’ll contact her when I’m back.”

  “Take care, Robert, and stay in touch. I’ll tell Annabel and Flo that you called.”

  Brixton had lunch at the bar and took a fitful nap. It started to rain and the wind came up, splattering raindrops against the glass door leading to the gardens. He got up and watched Mother Nature do her act, bending palm trees and sending people scurrying for cover. He hoped the storm would pass before his meeting with Kamea. It was eerie enough meeting in the dark in a sugarcane field, without getting soaked in the bargain.

  The storm intensified as the afternoon progressed. Brixton tried napping again but he couldn’t shut off his brain for more than a few seconds at a time. He opted for another brief workout in the gym and picked up where he’d left off reading one of the paperback books he’d bought at the airport.

  He ordered room service for dinner—What the hell, he thought, I might as well splurge—and started gearing up to drive to his rendezvous with Kamea. If her goal was to leave Maui, he began postulating how that might be accomplished. Assuming that she wasn’t physically prohibited from leaving by Prisler and other cult members, he could buy them both airline tickets using his credit card and fly back to the mainland. But the fact that she had to use a shack in the middle of a sugarcane field to meet clearly indicated that it wouldn’t be as easy as that.

  If she disappeared from the cult, Prisler would have his people searching for her at the airports and docks. When Brixton had checked on flights, he discovered that there were only a handful of direct ones from Maui to the mainland, leaving from the Kahului Airport, which, according to his map, was at least an hour’s drive from Kapalua. Most long-distance flights originated and arrived in Honolulu. But no matter what airport they tried to use, chances were that no flights would be leaving Maui late at night.

  He also researched the distance between Maui and Oahu, where the Honolulu Airport was located. It was about eighty miles. How long would it take a boat like the one her buddy, Wayne, captained to make the journey? He had no idea how fast Wayne’s boat traveled. Too, would Wayne agree to take them to Oahu? Maybe he would because he was her friend. On the other hand, if Prisler, who owned Wayne’s Charter Service, found out, he wouldn’t take kindly to it.

  After an hour of playing the what-if game, Brixton decided to let the chips fall where they may. Trying to plan an escape in advance was like trying to slam a revolving door, and he’d abandoned trying to make those kinds of plans years ago.

  He drove from the hotel at nine, leaving him ample time to again find the shack in the sugarcane field. The rain had let up but a fine mist hung in the air, sent twirling by gusts of wind. He made a pass at the center’s entrance again. This time an armed guard stood outside the guardhouse, visible in harsh lights that lit up the entire length of the driveway. A weapon was slung over his shoulder. Not a good sign.

  He retraced his route around the eastern edge of the compound, turned onto the dirt road, and followed it until reaching the path leading to the shack. He stopped and turned off his headlights, causing the shack to disappear from view. He had a de
cision to make: Drive up the path to the shack, turn the car around and back in to make for a faster getaway, or leave the car on the dirt road? He chose the first option, so that the car’s headlights could be used to illuminate the ramshackle building.

  Following the path meant the wheels were in brush at its edges, and the sound of some sort of rigid plant life scraping the rental car’s side made him wince. He stopped within a few feet of the shack’s door and turned off the lights. It was eerily quiet and dark. The sweet smell of fertilizer from the cane field wafted through his half-open driver’s window. He waited. There was no sign of Kamea. Was it possible that she’d changed her mind or that her plan to meet him had been discovered and she was being detained?

  How long should I wait? he pondered. He got out of the car and looked back at the Prisler compound, where multiple lights appeared and then disappeared in the blowing mist. He felt for the Smith & Wesson as though to ensure that it was still there. Did Prisler feel that the cane field provided enough of a buffer to make assigning armed guards unnecessary on that side of the compound? It appeared that way.

  He kept checking his watch. By 10:15 he decided to give her another fifteen minutes. Ten minutes later he heard rustling in the field. He put his hand on his weapon but removed it when she emerged from the tall green stalks.

  “I was giving up on you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I had to wait until the time was right.”

  “We going inside the shack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Let’s just get in the car and get out of here.”

  “There’s something in there I need.”

  She pulled a small penlight from her black leather jacket and trained its beam on the door. Brixton pushed it open. The penlight brought to life a table and two chairs, not much else.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  “I’d rather talk someplace else,” Brixton said. “Let’s get some light in here.”

  A kerosene lantern stood on the center of the table. Brixton went to it, adjusted the wick, and put a match to it. Its yellow-orange glow didn’t provide much light but was enough for them to see each other. Kamea looked out the door before closing it. They sat.