by Toby Neal
“And no talking to anyone about this, no matter what you decide,” Stevens said. “This conversation can’t go any further than this office.”
Mahoe frowned, looking offended. “Of course, sir.” He stepped out and closed the door. Stevens sighed, his shoulders slumping. What he disliked most about being a commanding officer was sending men and women into danger.
He remembered his first assignment undercover in LA. He’d joined a white supremacist gang, trying to identify the main management and drug distribution channels of the gang. He’d ridden a Harley and done some things he’d rather not remember, and in the end had barely escaped with his life. He’d grown up more in a year on that detail than he had in his entire twenty-five before, and looking down, remembered the knife fight that had left a scar across his side as a souvenir. Even now, nine years later, it itched as a reminder.
He rubbed the tiny purple tattoo on the inside of his forearm—a heart surrounding lei that he’d had done on Kaua`i after drinking too much with Lei’s partner, Jack Jenkins, back when it seemed they’d never be together. He often found himself touching it, a superstitious gesture, when he was troubled.
As he was now.
He got up and gathered his materials to head back into Kahului for the teleconference with Omura.
On the road to Kahului, his cell rang on the seat beside him—a distinct ringtone he hadn’t heard in a year: a bit of birdsong that had reminded him of Anchara Mookjai, his ex-wife.
She never called. It was part of the unspoken agreement they had. Feeling the pang of guilt and regret that accompanied that ringtone, Stevens violated the Maui ban on cell phones and picked up while driving. “Hello?”
“Michael?” Anchara called him Michael, never Stevens or Mike. She said his name in a distinct way, two syllables, Mee-kull, and when she said it, he realized he’d missed her voice, missed the sound of his name on her tongue.
The guilt got worse and made his voice harsh when he said, “Why are you calling me?”
“I’m in trouble.” Her soft voice snagged on the words as if she were suppressing tears. “I have to see you.”
He thought of Lei, of how she’d feel about him spending time, any time, with Anchara. It hadn’t been nearly long enough since the whole fiasco of his relationship to Anchara unwound. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t have to. When can I see you?”
“What’s going on?”
“I have to see you in person to tell you.”
Stevens shook his head, remembered she couldn’t see him do that. “I am going into a meeting—I can’t.”
“After, then.”
A beat passed. Anchara wouldn’t call him if she wasn’t desperate. She’d always tried hard to be independent, overcoming her start in the United States as a sex slave from Thailand, the language and culture barriers, the abuse of her past. Whatever happened, she deserved his help—for the fact that he hadn’t been able to love her as she deserved, as much as anything else.
“All right. I’ll call you after the meeting.” Stevens hung up and dropped the phone back on the seat, wishing he hadn’t answered it.
Chapter 6
The conference room at Kahului Station was a utilitarian space: a long Formica table surrounded by chairs and walls with whiteboards on them, a circular plaster Maui Police Department logo on the far back wall. Captain Omura, looking perfect in a brass-buttoned uniform over a skirt that made the most of her figure, gestured Stevens in when he arrived.
He shut the conference room door, still feeling distracted by the phone call from Anchara. What could the emergency be? And how could getting involved do any good? He had to hear her out. He owed her that, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Omura pushed a button and the computer console emerged from a slot on the table. Stevens sat beside her so they’d both be visible in the Skype camera window.
“How is Lei holding up after yesterday’s training?” Omura asked, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she opened her notes on the computer.
“Fine, but sore. We never got around to talking about how she did on the exercises.” He frowned, realizing that he’d forgotten to get the story out of his wife.
“Well, we have bigger fish to fry here. I found this guy that’s supposedly in charge of the Hui on Maui through one of Gerry Bunuelos’s confidential informants. I don’t actually know how reliable that intel is; what I’m hoping is that we can get talking to him and then pipe in the Hui leadership from Oahu and show support for them while making it clear we’re in charge of the investigation.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
“What did your recruit say about being our ‘inside man’?”
“He’s thinking it over. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended I asked him, I could tell. It helped to mention your name.”
“Well, sweeten the pot a bit. Tell him you’ll recommend a step level raise if he takes that on.”
“With your okay, I will.”
“Ready?” Omura had the man’s profile up on the monitor. Charles Awapuhi had a scowling profile picture in which he sported a shaved head embellished with tribal tattoos across his scalp.
“When you are.”
Omura initiated the video call, the call icon pulsing on the screen. Awapuhi accepted the call, and suddenly the man’s visage filled the screen. The tattoos on his skull were so intricate it looked like he wore a cap. His thick brows were drawn together in a frown.
“Hello, Mr. Awapuhi. I’m Captain C. J. Omura, and this is Lieutenant Michael Stevens of the Maui Police Department. Thanks for assisting us in the investigation into the desecration of the heiau in Haiku.”
“I nevah said was I going to assist notting,” Awapuhi said. “I only talking because I like know what MPD is going do to protect the heiaus.”
Stevens leaned forward so he was more visible in the camera. “Can you describe your role in the Heiau Hui, Mr. Awapuhi?”
“Helping the ohana come together on Maui,” Awapuhi said. “You the haole who wen’ talk with Manuel Okapa?”
“I am,” Stevens said. He didn’t like the way Awapuhi spat the word haole. “I’m the commander of Haiku Station and we responded to the initial call.”
“What you doing to find out who wen’ do this thing?”
“We are processing evidence collected at the scene. We are coordinating with Oahu’s task force to combine with any evidence they are able to share with us in case the desecrations are related.”
“In case?” Awapuhi snorted. “We know they are. And what are you doing to help get rid of that book that has exposed the heiaus’ locations?”
“We are in touch with the publisher and working on it,” Stevens said, keeping his voice conciliatory with an effort. It wasn’t the place or time to tell Awapuhi the publisher’s response had been profanity.
Awapuhi sat back, appearing somewhat mollified. “Well, we are putting together shifts of volunteers that will be covering our list of identified sacred sites so they have a human presence during the night, since that’s when most of the sites on Oahu were raided.”
“How many volunteers do you have so far? And what kind of measures are you taking if anyone appearing to be bent on crime is spotted?” Omura asked.
“Not answering that,” Awapuhi replied, with a return of his initial truculence.
Omura forged on. “Can we get a list of the sites, with GPS coordinates? Since you’re focusing on nighttime, we could focus on day, send foot and car patrols.”
“I checked with the leadership of Heiau Hui on Oahu, and we aren’t willing to release the names and locations of the sites to you,” Awapuhi said.
Omura’s brows snapped together in irritation. “I don’t know how you expect us to assist you without even the locations of the sites so we can send officers out to monitor them.”
“We don’t need MPD’s help; nor do we want it. When you get that book taken down, we’ll talk further.”
>
“And we can slap you with an obstruction of justice charge,” Stevens snapped, tired of the attitude.
“We’ll handle our own justice. Go ahead.” Awapuhi cut the connection, an abrupt severing. Stevens noticed that, as the conversation progressed, Awapuhi had dropped the thick pidgin he’d started with—the man was more educated than he’d been letting on.
Omura turned to him, still frowning. “That didn’t go how I’d have liked. I’ll put Gerry on a full background workup on Awapuhi. I can tell he never intended to tell us anything or share the location of the sites. This makes Mahoe’s involvement, or someone else we can put on the inside, even more important.”
“Agree,” Stevens said. “Can we get the sites’ location some other way? I don’t think we should have to prove anything by getting the book taken down—and that’s not going to be an easy fight, anyway.”
“Awapuhi’s trying to throw his weight around. I think appearing to cooperate will just make him more aggressive, so I agree with you. We can subpoena the sites from them, but I’d rather get them some other way. Maybe we can tap a Hawaiiana professor from University of Hawaii or something. I’ll bring it up at the staff debrief and see what intel we can come up with. In the meantime, let’s get ahold of Oahu’s team and find out how they’re doing with the Hui.” Omura selected another icon and made contact. Minutes later, Detective Marcus Kamuela’s good-looking face filled the screen, distorted by the angle. “Captain Omura. I’m on my phone out in the field. How can I assist you?”
“Hey, Marcus.” Stevens inserted his head into the frame.
Kamuela grinned. “The happy honeymooner! Back on the job, I see.”
“Couple of weeks now. Missed you at the wedding.”
“Heavy case. Couldn’t get away.” Kamuela was dating Marcella Scott, Lei’s best friend, and ongoing promises that they’d all get together and “do something” had been continually deferred by work.
“Nuff chitchat, boys.” Omura reinserted herself into the main camera frame. “Detective Kamuela, I’m calling about the Heiau Hui. Just tried to conference with their supposed main coordinator on Maui, Charles Awapuhi, and he was not cooperative. Wouldn’t even share the locations they are guarding so we could coordinate support. What have your relations been like with them?”
“Rocky.” Marcus sat down, and a cement block wall appeared behind him as the camera phone stabilized. “We have our own list of sites one of our Hawaiiana experts with the Bishop Museum helped us put together, but coordinating efforts? No. The group has all but accused us of being behind the looting. The detail working the case all keep our shields in plain view at all times, or we’re liable to get our heads blown off.” He gestured to his shield, hanging from his neck by a beaded chain, so it appeared square in the middle of his muscular chest.
“So they’re armed doing their patrols?”
“You got it. Everything from baseball bats to a shotgun. We’ve required review of permits for all guns, but so far they’ve had them. Some of the sites are on private land, and the owners have been complaining to us about these, and I quote, ‘trigger-happy thugs’ tromping around on their property—but many are too intimidated to protest or are supporting the Hui’s efforts. Basically, we’re all waiting for some idiot tourist’s head to get blown off because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
A pause as Omura and Stevens exchanged glances. It seemed as if Oahu was just a more complicated picture of what they were seeing on Maui.
“Any breaks in the case? If we could shut this thing down, the Hui problem would dry up,” Omura said. “We have to be careful not to lose sight of the real culprits here.”
“Of course.” Marcus’s wide nostrils flared a bit at the suggestion. “We have a lead, actually. We think it’s a crew of professional art thieves. Interpol and the FBI are both involved now because these thieves are wanted in connection with theft of everything from rare old masters paintings to one of the rocks from Stonehenge.”
“So what we need to do is find who’s actually creating demand for these artifacts,” Stevens said.
“Yes. Hawaiiana has always been a relatively small, unknown collectible area. Most of the best pieces are in the Bishop Museum and other museums—there are some private collections, but genuine Hawaiian artifacts are really so rare that those collections have ended up donated in most cases,” Omura said. “I’ve been studying up on this a bit now that it’s landed on our doorstep.”
“I will keep you informed of anything new that turns up on our end,” Kamuela said. “Anything else, Captain?”
“Just this—the Hui is targeting the Maui’s Secrets book because it lists the locations of the heiaus. Do you have anything like that on Oahu?” Omura tapped her ballpoint on the tablet she’d opened to make notes on.
“We have an Oahu’s Secrets book, too, but for some reason the heiaus weren’t listed in that one, so that hasn’t been a problem here.”
“Well, the Hui won’t even cooperate with us enough to share the locations, so I’m planning to pick up a copy of the book on my way home,” Stevens said. “Pretty sad we’re reduced to helping protect them by finding them in that book.”
“You could find a Hawaiiana expert, one of the kupuna who’d be willing to share the locations. My mom lives on Maui; I’ll give her a call and ask her for someone?” Marcus raised his brows in question.
Stevens glanced at Omura; she inclined her head in agreement. “Sounds good, Marcus. Can you contact her and have her call me on my personal cell?”
“Can do. She’s pretty connected; I’m sure she knows the locations of some of them herself.”
They ended the connection.
“Let me know the minute you hear from Kamuela’s mother, or get a lead on the heiau locations,” Omura said. “I’m asking for volunteers to pick up extra shifts for our guard detail. I’m not confident we can actually catch these thieves in the act, but we need to make every effort.”
“Will do. I plan to pick up a copy of Maui’s Secrets on the way back to the station, in any case. Find out what all the buzz is about,” Stevens said.
Half an hour later, Stevens pressed down Anchara’s speed-dial button on his way out of the nearby ABC Store, a copy of the brightly colored Maui’s Secrets book tucked under his arm.
“Michael.” If possible, Anchara’s voice sounded even more strained when she answered the phone. “I’m at the Valley Isle Motel, room 256. Please come quickly.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with alarm. The C-grade motel in the middle of Kahului was a known haunt for hookers and trysts. Meeting her there wasn’t a good idea at any time of day. “No. Meet me at Marco’s.” He named the nearby Italian-themed restaurant they used to breakfast at regularly.
“I can’t. I’m—injured.”
He’d unconsciously pressed harder on the accelerator. “Call nine-one-one.”
“Michael, please.” He could tell she was crying. “I just need you to come.” And she hung up.
Stevens was only two blocks away.
“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, considering his options even as he headed to the motel. He could call an ambulance and saddle Anchara with an expense she could hardly afford that might not be merited. He could call Lei, preemptively tell her he was meeting Anchara and that she had some undisclosed problem—but on the other hand, what if the problem had to do with him and was something better off handled alone? He should get there, assess first, and make his calls after.
“Sonofabitch,” he said again, even as he pulled into the parking lot. The main building was pale aqua with crudely painted humpback whale murals frolicking along a two-story structure. Two threadbare palms held down the cracked asphalt parking lot.
He parked the Bronco in one of the stalls and got his emergency first-aid kit from under the seat, feeling his heartbeat accelerate as he remembered the last time he’d seen his ex-wife. They’d made love early in the morning before work. He’d been back in touch with Le
i because of one of her FBI cases, and he’d been distracted ever since, feeling trapped, trying to hide it, and eaten with regret. Anchara had come in with a cup of coffee for him, rubbed his shoulders, and seduced him. He’d let her.
When he’d returned to their pretty house in Wailuku Heights later that day, Anchara was gone. She’d left a letter on the nightstand—a letter that set him free, later followed by the divorce papers.
Stevens stepped away from the Bronco, locked it, and looked up at the second floor of the motel.
Room 256 looked like all the rest, closed with the drapes pulled—the kind of room cheap affairs and lonely old man suicides happened in. He took the exterior stairs on the side of the building at a jog, his rubber-soled work boots ringing on the metal treads.
One of those rubber mats impressed with aloha marked the door’s entrance. He knocked.
“Anchara?”
No answer. No footsteps. Maybe she was in the bathroom.
Stevens pounded, his anxiety spiking. “Anchara!”
He tried the handle, and it turned.
He pushed the door open, his weapon in one hand and the first-aid kit in the other.
The metallic reek of fresh blood hit him at the same time as a tableau so visually horrific he couldn’t process it.
Anchara was still alive. Her face was so pale he didn’t recognize her for a second, those huge brown eyes glassy and staring. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. One hand reached toward him, fingers trembling. The mountain of her naked, distended pregnant belly looked like an island in a sea of blood.
Chapter 7
Answering a threat call, Lei and Torufu pulled up at a police barrier made of sawhorses blocking off the road. They’d got the report of a possible bomb in a parked car at the Maui Mall. The busy downtown area had been immediately evacuated, causing a ruckus with traffic and a sense of anxiety and pressure that squeezed Lei’s chest like a steel band.
