“Something like that. She’s good. Very good. Very…persistent. A lot like yourself.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s her opinion Keola was murdered.”
Ryo rocked back in his chair again. “Is it? Unfortunately such accidents are too common here.”
“Nonetheless, she let the sergeant know she wants to help investigate the case.”
Ryo chuckled and took a swallow of tea. “I’ll bet Balondo loved that. He’s pretty headstrong.”
“He didn’t seem enamored of the idea.”
He set the cup down, studied it thoughtfully. “I’ll have a word with him.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
With a puzzled look, he raised his palms. “All right. I give up. Why are you here, Parker?”
“Do you recall the photo I sent you of the man I’m looking for?”
“Yes. It was taken over thirty years ago, so you said.” Ryo hit a few more keys on the computer.
“Did you notice anything odd about the man? An unusual characteristic?”
“Not particularly.”
“On his neck?”
He stopped typing again. “Oh, yes. There was some sort of dark spot. I thought it might be from a smudge on the lens.”
“It was a birthmark.”
“Should make him easier to identify.” Ryo studied his computer screen.
“Keola had the same mark on his neck.”
Ryo turned to him, eyes wide. “That doesn’t necessarily mean…”
“But could you check?”
“Next of kin should be listed in Balondo’s report here.” Once more his fingers danced across the keyboard, paused, danced again, then stopped as he read. “I see that your wife came in to make statement last night.”
“Yes.” He might have known this was the first place she’d go.
“She tried to save the deceased. Must be a gutsy lady.”
Parker heard the admiration in Ryo’s voice and felt a pang in his heart. That gutsiness was one of the things he found irresistible about her. “That she is.”
Ryo read a little more, then blew out a breath. “You’re right. This Pumehana is the next of kin.”
Parker suppressed a shudder. He’d desperately wanted to protect Miranda from any more pain and instead he’d plunged her headlong into a steaming vat of it. “As I said my wife is very persistent.”
“Yes.”
“Even though Balondo refused her help, she’s investigating the case herself.”
Ryo’s expression displayed surprise and approval. “I’d love to see what she comes up with.”
Parker nodded. “But what I need from you, from your men, especially Balondo, is that she doesn’t learn what you just told me.”
“About the next of kin? Why don’t you want her to know that?”
Parker drew in a breath. “Because my wife’s father is Edward Steele.”
“So Keola would be—”
“Her half brother.” The mark on his neck indicated he was a blood relative.
Ryo picked up his tea, put it down again without taking a sip. “Well, then. You had better hope no one discovers any evidence of foul play. If they do, your wife will be a person of interest.”
One of the things he was here to clear up. “She doesn’t know who Keola is.”
“Oh?”
“Her father abandoned her and her mother when she was five. She hasn’t seen him since.”
“I see.”
Parker gave his former student a hard look. “To the best of your ability, Ryo, make sure my wife doesn’t discover who that young man is.”
Suddenly Ryo looked very uncomfortable.
“Is there a problem?”
“Actually, yes.” An apologetic expression spread over his face. “I’m sorry, Parker. If I had known you’d be in town, I’d have made other plans, but—”
“What?”
“I’m leaving on vacation in a couple of hours. I only came in this morning to review this case and tidy up a few things.”
Parker’s stomach plunged. “Oh? Where are you going?”
He shrugged. “Los Angeles. My wife wants to see Hollywood. You know, Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. All the places ladies like to see. She’s so excited. I haven’t taken any leave since I started here.”
Parker straightened his shoulders. “You’re overdue then. Glad I caught you.”
“I admit I had second thoughts when this case came up last night.”
“Second thoughts?”
“It’s the first time I’m leaving Sergeant Balondo in charge, and to be honest I have some reservations. Don’t get me wrong. Balondo’s a good man, dedicated, hardworking, methodical.” He paused.
“But?” Parker prompted.
Ryo blew out a breath. “But sometimes he lacks that ability to put all the pieces together. He gets there. It just takes him longer than others.”
The phone on his desk rang and Ryo glanced at the number. “It’s Elise. She’ll be wondering how long I’ll be. She has her heart set on seeing Hollywood. I can’t disappoint her or I’d—”
Parker held up a hand. “I understand, Ryo. Really, I do.”
“I’ll get a message to Balondo about Pumehana. He’ll take care of it. He’ll do all right on this case. Besides, you have to cut the umbilical cord sometime, right?”
“Absolutely.” Ryo would do what he could to help. Parker couldn’t very well ask him to cancel his plans in order to baby-sit his sergeant.
Parker got to his feet, extended his hand as Ryo picked up the phone. “Thank you for your help, Ryo. It was good to see you again. I hope you enjoy your vacation.”
“Keep in touch, Parker.”
“You, too.” And with that, he turned and made his way to the door.
His jaw tight, his mind in overdrive, Parker left the police station. Ryo might do his best to handle Balondo, but despite his friend’s promise, the detective couldn’t guarantee Miranda wouldn’t discover who Keola was. And with her stubborn persistence, Parker didn’t have long before she did just that.
The best course of action was to ascertain the information he’d come for, fetch his wife and leave the island. Not the way he had planned their honeymoon. Not easy to pull off, either. Especially with Miranda’s temper so raw right now.
Nonetheless, he would execute the new plan as quickly as possible and move on. With a little luck, Miranda would never learn the truth.
###
He sat fidgeting on a bench hidden behind a kona tree across the street from the police station, watching the officers file in and out.
His sunglasses, Bermuda shorts and Aloha shirt made him look like a haole tourist, though no one who knew him could mistake him for one. Still he had to be here. He had to watch. Hadn’t his father taught him to cover all the bases? To find out what the pigs knew?
And after that business with Keola last night…He’d heard on the news someone had found the body. The police were looking into it but thought it was an accident. Body.
Keola was really dead.
Gently, he rubbed his fingers over the bruise on his jaw where the asshole had smacked him. No way the cops could tie the fire dancer’s death to him. He’d made sure there was no evidence. Except the body. He shook his head. Still, no way. There was no evidence. It wasn’t like he’d shot the bastard. It would all blow over in a day or two.
He didn’t often feel sorry for the things he did. He was his father’s son, after all, as his mother—may she rest in peace—often said. Maybe if she hadn’t died the way she had, he’d be more like her instead of him. But he wasn’t. Still, he didn’t like what he’d had to do last night.
Keola should have stayed out of it. Should have minded his own business. But no, he had to stick his nose in. For ohana. Family.
He didn’t know what it was like to have family. He didn’t have a brother or a sister. His father and mother were dead. He had no one except his grandfather and that old scu
mbag didn’t count. No, he was on his own and he’d made his way the best he could. The only way he knew. The one his father taught him.
And he was making such good headway now. His business was picking up steam. If he could keep it all going, it wouldn’t be long before he’d have what his father had wanted. An empire. He couldn’t let Keola Hakumele get in the way of that.
Rubbing his arms, he peered across the street through his sunglasses again. He didn’t see anything unusual around the building. No, the dumb cops couldn’t pin anything on him. Still he didn’t like that they were investigating around that blowhole. Too close for comfort. Best to cut back on business, to lay low for a while. That pissed him off.
He looked up and saw a tall, good-looking white man come out of the front door of the station. Not an officer. He was dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. A lawyer maybe? Most of them wore suits. Business man?
Wait a minute.
The man’s features came into view and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. Every muscle tensed. Was that—? Was he going crazy? He lowered his sunglasses to get a better look.
It was him.
He was sure of it. It had been four years, but he still kept the newspaper clippings. He remembered the TV reports like he’d seen them yesterday. That face had been everywhere back then. They called him a hero. The man who saved the county from a plague—meaning his father. He even remembered the man’s name.
Wade Parker. The fancy detective from the mainland. What fucking business did that haole have coming here now? It couldn’t have anything to do with Keola, could it?
He could feel his heartbeat in his ears as he watched Parker move to his car and get in. Fancy car. Maybe he’d steal it. No, that wouldn’t be smart. And it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t begin to be enough to pay for what Wade Parker had done.
Slowly he got to his feet, his mind racing as fast as his pulse. Of course. Now he got it. Now it made sense.
This was Fate. Destiny.
If it weren’t for Keola, he might not have been here watching the police station just now. He might not have seen the fucking detective. Keola’s death was going to bring him the revenge he thought he’d never have. He had no idea why Wade Parker was here in the islands, but he would make sure it was his last trip anywhere.
The car cruised by. He glared at the license plate, quickly memorized the numbers. He’d find out where Wade Parker was staying. He’d find a way to get to him. And he’d make sure that bastard got what he deserved.
A slow, painful, agonizing death. Huh. Even that was too good for the man who’d killed his father.
Chapter Eleven
Parker drove through the narrow streets of Lahaina’s residential section, recalling with warmth the way the scenery in this area flowed so smoothly from seashore to suburb to farmland to mountain. He passed the modest homes and yards that reminded him of certain sections outside of Atlanta, though there were palm trees here instead of Georgia pines and surfboards in the boats instead of merely rods and reels.
Finding the address he’d ascertained for Edward Steele, he pulled his car across the street several yards down and turned off the engine.
He studied the house. A homey two-story bungalow in blue stucco. Single car garage. The yard was smallish, as were the neighbors’, but nicely decorated with palm trees and long-leaved shrubbery bearing bright yellow blossoms. A hedge ran to the backyard where he thought he caught a glimpse of lawn furniture.
No activity. The house was quiet. It was early. The family might still be asleep, getting what rest they could after the dreadful news they’d received last night.
Though if Edward Steele was still as irresponsible as he was thirty years ago, it may not matter to him. Keola was Polynesian. Or half Polynesian. He didn’t look much like Steele. If it weren’t for the telling mark on his neck, Parker would have concluded the young man was not Steele’s natural son.
A compact station wagon passed him and pulled into the driveway. After a moment the doors opened and a young Polynesian woman got out. The woman opened the rear door and a little girl emerged. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. The other rear door opened and a boy got out. He didn’t look much older than the girl.
The woman leaned inside the car. She must have said something to the boy from inside because he nodded and carefully closed the door. A moment later the woman extracted herself from the rear of the car. She had a baby in her arms.
At that moment, the door of the house flew open and an older Polynesian woman ran out and threw her arms around the younger one and her child. Both of them began to weep openly. Keola’s mother? And sister?
A figure appeared in the doorway of the house.
He wasn’t a tall man. He had a round, Santa Claus like face and an equally round girth. He was dressed in a novelty T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. His dark, wavy hair had grayed, but he was the man in the picture Parker had.
Edward Steele.
He moved toward the weeping women. As the children looked on, he took them all in his big arms and began to cry with them, his wails as piteous as a shrieking sea lion at the loss of a cub.
Parker’s gut wrenched with compassion for them. For the mother he didn’t know. For the sister. For this man he’d never met before. This man he had carried a deep resentment for since the day he’d learned of his existence. He had hated this man for the grief he’d caused Miranda. But Parker had seen too many needless deaths. No one deserved this kind of pain, this kind of loss.
He exhaled and stared at his own hands on the steering wheel. He’d intended to meet with Edward Steele under some plausible pretense, to engage him in small talk, and to tease enough detail out of him to determine the state of his health.
Now wasn’t the time for such a conversation.
He watched the family turn and slowly plod toward the house, heaviness in each step. He kept his gaze on them until they went through the door and shut it. He stared at the door.
Hugging, weeping, bonding in common sorrow. This wasn’t the behavior he expected from a man who had abandoned his family thirty years ago. Perhaps Edward Steele had had a change of heart. He certainly appeared to have a new family.
Parker had had no intention of letting the man know his motives. But if his actions were as genuine as they seemed. If he was as intuitive as his daughter. If he suspected she was alive and looking for him, no matter what the reason. No doubt he’d want to see her.
Was this what Miranda was afraid of? What she didn’t know how to deal with? Parker thought of the tension he’d had with his own father. It was minuscule compared to this, but he wouldn’t have wanted someone meddling in it no matter what their intention was.
If he hadn’t understood before, he did now. Now he saw why she was so upset last night. He had fairly rammed the decision down her throat. He hadn’t given her a choice at all.
All right, Miranda. We’ll do it your way. As difficult and disappointing as it would be to give up the search for her lost daughter, he would have to. For her.
He turned the key in the ignition and drove away from the mourning house.
Chapter Twelve
The first sound Miranda heard when she opened her eyes was the same one she’d fallen asleep to a few hours ago. The whoosh of never-ending ocean waves against the shore.
She lifted her head—which was sticking out of the side of the convertible—and pain shot through her neck and into her skull.
Ouch.
She tried to move and her temples started to throb. Great. A stiff neck from sleeping outside in an awkward position. A hangover from too many Mai Tais. And a relapse of the concussion she’d sustained a week ago—all at once. The fun never stopped.
As she steadied herself before trying to sit up, a deep male Southern voice fluttered in her ears. “You look like you could use a massage.”
Now the perfect moment was complete. With effort, she turned her head.
Over her bare foot, which was poki
ng out of the other side of the car’s backseat, Parker stood as arrogant as ever.
“Or perhaps a doctor.” His gaze moved slowly from her foot, up her leg to her crotch. Then it traveled upward and settled on her face.
He was wearing a polo shirt the color of crème de menthe, with a tiny navy logo over the breast. A pair of black fitted jeans only enhanced his muscular build. But she couldn’t mistake the fury in his eyes for desire.
She scowled at him. “I don’t remember calling a private investigator.”
“Good morning to you, too,” he said dryly.
She sat up and reached for her spinning head. “Ow.”
“Actually, I’m the one who needed an investigator to locate my stolen car.”
She gave him a sour look then glanced past him and saw another BMW convertible parked a few feet away. This one was cobalt blue. Might have known. He had the bucks to rent a whole fleet if he wanted to. Her gaze returned to his face.
She studied the distinguished lines, the wisp of salt-and-pepper hair the wind had blown over his forehead. His gray eyes had their usual intensity but there were shadows under them. He seemed weary. Like he hadn’t slept much. In his hand was a paper bag.
She sniffed and smelled coffee. And food. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast. Would you like some?”
Did he think he could make up for what he’d done so easily? “No, thanks.”
“Very well, I’ll just eat it here. In my car.” He opened the driver’s door and took a seat behind the wheel.”
Irritation bubbling inside her, she watched him set the bag down on the spot between the bucket seats. He opened it, took out two Styrofoam cups and placed them in the cup holders. He took the lid off one and took a sip of it. The rich smell of fresh coffee filled her nostrils and made her mouth water.
“Hmm, that’s good.” He set down the cup, reached inside the bag and drew out something wrapped in paper. It smelled heavenly.
That was just plain mean.
With a huff she shoved open the back door and stomped around to sit beside him. She half-slammed the passenger side door and turned to him in disgust.
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