by Toby Neal
“Ang was holding our mutual friend, a decorated police sergeant, hostage. He was torturing her to gain Sophie’s compliance. Ang didn’t need to have a weapon on him to be deadly and to be leading Sophie to a death by torture and rape.”
“But in the end, she was the one with a knife, wasn’t she? And he was not.”
Marcella bit her tongue on the stream of curses she wanted to let fly. The man was blind to the nuances, to his own bias against women, and to the big picture of the case! But screaming profanities was unlikely to change Chang’s opinion. Perhaps there was room on Assan’s hell-sizzle frying pan for Chang, too.
“I believe my client has made her statement and we’ve now begun circling the airport, so to speak. Do you have any more specific questions for her?” Lovett spoke up at last.
Chang hammered at Marcella for a while from different directions, asking his questions in different ways and posing speculative scenarios about why Sophie had dispatched Ang the way she had. Marcella did her best, sticking to her statements: that Sophie knew the victim’s mindset, knew Ang had only harm planned for both Sophie and Lei Texeira, and had killed him to neutralize that threat and rescue her friend as expediently as possible. “If Sophie had wanted revenge, she could have taken it, maybe tied Ang to his sex torture wheel and cut off his relevant parts with her knife after a good flogging—and that still wouldn’t have been enough to even the score, in my opinion,” Marcella spat. God forgives; Italians do not. Marcella couldn’t muster even a mental chuckle about that old saying. She couldn’t imagine feeling any differently than she did right now toward Assan Ang. He’d gotten off light with a quick death.
“And yet the forensic evidence suggests that the victim was fleeing, and that she dispatched him brutally from behind with no warning at all,” Chang said.
Marcella had had enough. She stood, straightened her blouse, and locked eyes with the DA. “I don’t believe I have anything to add to this witch hunt. Good luck painting Assan Ang as a helpless victim.”
Lovett stood, joining Marcella. “Let us know if you need anything further. The FBI always seeks to work cooperatively with local justice and law enforcement.”
Marcella snorted. She pushed out of the office and the young man trotted to keep up as she headed down the hall.
Outside, she whirled to face him. “Thanks for all the support in there.”
“You didn’t need my help,” Lovett said. “And well you know it.”
That was true. Maybe the guy did have a pair. Marcella scowled. “I don’t like the way he’s trying to set Sophie up.”
“I don’t either,” Lovett said, and Marcella felt a chill all the way to her bones.
Chapter Eleven
Connor’s Ghost program searched the internet for keywords related to District Attorney Alan Chang.
Chang had lived in Hawaii twenty years, emigrating from China under the sponsorship of his uncle, Terence Chang. He’d gone to university in Beijing but had done his JD at University of Washington and moved to Hawaii upon graduation, taking a position in the public defender’s office and gradually working his way up the ranks. His immediate family consisted of Judy Wong Chang, a third-generation Chinese, and two sons aged ten and fourteen.
The man’s shiny Teflon coating had to have some flaw. Connor surfed over to the DA’s financials.
Nothing much of note; Chang’s checking and savings reflected the middle-class salary of a civil servant at the lower end of the nationwide spectrum—such jobs in Hawaii often paid less. Perhaps it was assumed that a pretty setting made up for low pay.
Was Chang likely to go after Sophie on a murder charge?
The Ghost scrolled through the man’s cases. A pattern of ambition shone through like a vein of fool’s gold: the prosecutor went all in when he had something or someone headline-grabbing or controversial.
Chang was out to make a name for himself.
But perhaps he had done that, in achieving his spot as the DA? Connor doubted it. Chang probably had his eye on a judgeship.
But would prosecuting a female former FBI agent, a documented domestic violence victim, be the kind of publicity that Chang’s career would benefit from?
Not likely, unless he had some other reason to go after Sophie—such as ties to Hong Kong, and the interests of Assan Ang.
Connor plugged a few more keywords into the search algorithm. As he waited for the network to assemble its findings, the Ghost stretched back in his chair, looking through the deeply tinted glass of his penthouse aerie overlooking Diamond Head and Waikiki. The glass was bulletproof and, even at night, opaque—but Connor’s view of the ocean and the panorama of active cloudscape was unimpeded. He preferred this view to any art; there was always something to see on the arc of beach or in the lineup of surfers off the breakwater.
It had all worked out perfectly.
Except for losing Sophie. But he would win her back, in time. He had to believe that.
Beside him, Anubis sat up, inserting his silky head beneath Connor’s hand for a pet. “Missed you, boy,” Connor said. “One more thing I owe Sophie for.” The Doberman was still moping for her and Ginger, her exuberant Lab.
Connor focused with an effort on his computer screen, willing his mind to engage with the streams of information tangled like visual threads on the monitor. He never used to have to make such an effort to focus. Sophie was still a big distraction—but not one he wanted to live without.
The Ghost’s online search for connections bore fruit. Chang had family connections in Hong Kong.
As Connor researched the names of Alan Chang’s relatives, they popped up as members of a well-known crime family with connections in Hong Kong, mainland China, and Hawaii. Terence Chang, Alan’s uncle, had died in prison on a racketeering charge, murdered by another inmate.
“You’ve got a few skeletons rattling in your closet, Mister District Attorney,” Connor muttered.
Could the man’s angling for a judgeship be more than personal ambition? What better way to help his criminal relatives than to be the district attorney, and later a judge? If Connor dug deep enough, he’d find the ways the DA was being influenced to help the Chang family. He just had to keep looking.
Chapter Twelve
The dark in the cave was so thick it felt like its own substance. Was it Jell-O, sliding across his skin? Or was it oil, parting around him, filling his lungs every time he breathed?
Thinking about the dark added to Nakai’s fear. “I am a blind man. And blind men get around just fine.”
Nakai’s voice echoed a little less. Maybe the lava tube was getting smaller; it was heading downhill, he knew that much from the direction of the stream, but would he be able to get out the same way the water was escaping? The water clearly changed height in this stream; hopefully it wouldn’t flood while he was stuck down here.
One more worry. Don’t think about it! Or turn it to something else. Like his thought about being blind. That had helped. He kept his eyes closed because blind men didn’t need open eyes. The waves of panic at not being able to discern even a glimmer of light had receded. He didn’t need to see to get around just fine.
He just had to keep moving and not give in to fear.
The fear felt like a monster, crouching with him in the dark, reaching out and tickling its claws across his skin, wrapping a freezing paw around his ankle.
He kicked his ankle, just to remind himself he could. A song came to him and he began to sing, remembering that the sound carried in the cave. If he sang, maybe someone would hear him. When he sang, the fear-monster drew further away. He didn’t know many songs, but the one he liked the most was the Hawaii state song. Singing it, he remembered all the years he had stood with his classmates, hand over his heart, facing the Hawaii flag and the United States flag in the corner of his classroom. School had been a happy place.
The Hawaiian words flowed out, filling the darkness, chasing away the monster, making him forget his hunger and cold as he crawled slowly. He sa
ng, until his throat was hoarse and he had to stop and drink more water. He rested a while, humming, and the humming was good, but not as good as the singing.
Maybe when he got out he would be a singer. He loved playing the ukulele, and he had an uncle who was a performer at one of the hotels. Uncle had taught him, and, sitting in the dark, Nakai held his hands as if he were playing the instrument, his fingers plucking as he hummed the simple song.
And when he had rested a while, plucking his imaginary ukulele, he felt calmer. No matter how long this took, he was going to get out. He was going to grow up, and be a famous musician. He would own a fine big home, and have his own family, and every evening he would light a fire because he didn’t like the dark, and he would play the ukulele and sing.
Nakai dug a hole in the loose pebbles near the underground stream, wondering if he could get warmer. He folded himself into the hole and pulled armfuls of pebbles over himself. Even though the stones made him colder at first, after a while, they felt like a blanket settling over him.
A worm wriggled in Nakai’s hand as pebbly sand sifted through his fingers. He’d found something to eat during this last period of wakefulness. Downing raw worms was gross, but he got through swallowing their slimy crunchiness by imagining he was a mongoose.
This mongoose, tough and determined, popped a worm into his mouth and chewed briefly, then swallowed it with a gulp of water. Mongooses ate anything and everything, and had no problem with worms or raw fish. If Nakai found a fish, he’d eat that raw, too.
Yes, he was just a blind mongoose, eating worms and curling up in a hole in the ground. He settled under the weight of pebbles over his body and curled up, almost comfortable in his snug hole.
He wondered if his mother missed him. Enola really didn’t care about much of anything beyond her bong and her pipe these days, but she’d been a good mom when he was younger, fixing him breakfast and making sure his clothes were clean. It had all gone downhill when she’d hooked up with that meth-head jerk, Regal, and had listened to his lies about how the stuff would give her energy and make her able to work double shifts at her hotel job.
And when she lost her job, and their little rental, and Regal had dumped her, Enola had pulled Nakai out of school to live in Kalalau, “where we can breathe free air.”
Nakai blew out a breath of the cool, musty “free air” he was surrounded with, fluffed his mongoose fur, and curled his long mongoose body tighter to stay warm until he fell asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Marcella dropped her purse onto the small, plantation style hutch inside the door of the little cottage just outside of Honolulu that she shared with Marcus Kamuela. Marcus’s mother had given the hutch to them as a housewarming present, telling her that these simple, screen-and-scrap-wood pie safes had been issued to sugarcane workers on the plantations back in the day. This particular one had belonged to Marcus’s grandfather, and Marcella appreciated what a family treasure it was. She pulled out the drawer at the bottom, made from the wood of an old crate. The markings from the Hormel SPAM company on the wood were still bright from lack of sun exposure inside the drawer.
Marcus loved SPAM musubi, a surprisingly delicious concoction of fried meat and compacted white rice, all wrapped in a piece of dried seaweed. It was so popular that Anna Scatalina was now serving a variation with Italian sausage as one of the breakfast choices at the restaurant.
Marcella and Marcus had been living together for several months now, and just when she didn’t think things could get better between them, they did. She felt guilty at her happiness whenever she thought of Sophie’s many challenges.
Marcella greeted her betta fish in his bowl on top of the hutch. “Hey, Loverboy.”
Loverboy had had several incarnations. This one was purple, with showy red tips to his fins, and he rammed the glass with his head at her tap. She sprinkled a few food pellets into the bowl. “Cool your jets. Mama’s home.”
Her fish fed, Marcella opened the small, heavy-duty gun case inside the hutch’s drawer and stowed her weapons. In the bedroom, with its casual rattan furniture, she changed out of her sweaty work clothes and took a shower.
Marcus would be home soon, and she had a couple of phone calls to make.
The day had gone smoothly after the ugly deposition. The meatball subs, soggy or not, had been appreciated at the office, and after sharing them with Ken Yamada and Matt Rogers, she’d spent time down in the IT department with Sophie’s young nemesis, Bateman.
That pink-cheeked, unassuming young man had surprising talent in his fingers and was helping her try to track Sophie online. They had looped into facial recognition at the airport to no avail, until Marcella remembered that Sophie would have Ginger. The large, friendly Lab was hard to miss. Scanning for Ginger in the footage, they had been able to spot the dog being shipped to Kaua’i.
Marcella took out the postcard, creased from being in her pocket. It appeared that she had found a clue. But why wouldn’t Sophie just have texted her where she was going?
Because she didn’t want to be stopped from going, and she didn’t want to do time for killing Assan, no matter what the DA decided. Marcella understood that much.
But a lifetime of running? That was a good idea? Frustration with Sophie’s choices rose up in a wave of heat. Marcella stomped across the dining area into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of Chardonnay, picked up her phone, and headed to the little screened-in back porch.
They had been lucky enough to get an old plantation home on the outskirts of Honolulu. Marcella loved having a yard, even though with their schedules they hardly had time to mow the scraggly grass. The huge mango tree, already dripping with fruit, shaded the porch against the late afternoon sun. Marcella sat on a rattan chair and scrolled through her contacts to the phone number she had extracted from Kendall Bix at Security Solutions. It was time to reach out to the Ghost.
She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang to a mechanical voicemail and no one picked up, but that didn’t help her frustration. She suspected it came across loud and clear as she left a terse message for Hamilton to call her back at this private number at his earliest convenience. Ending the call, she sipped the wine distractedly, staring unseeing at a pair of mynah birds hopping around in the long grass, looking for insects.
Sophie was on Kaua’i. And there was one person she knew well enough to call on Kaua’i. Maybe she was stirring the shit, but it was no more than her friend deserved after ditching Marcella and leaving her to clean up the mess.
Marcella scrolled to a number she hadn’t called in a year. Her mood lifted immediately when the phone was picked up. “Hi, Alika. It’s Marcella Scott on Oahu—got a minute to talk?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Hey Marcella. What’s up?” Alika didn’t know why he’d picked up the call from Marcella. He remembered Sophie’s bombshell Italian friend well—those two women sparring at Fight Club had brought the entire gym to a halt to watch them more than once.
“We’ve missed you over here. I was so sorry about how things went down, and that Marcus and I didn’t get to say goodbye when you left. How’s the recovery?”
“Fine. Great. Good as new.” Alika glanced down at his body. He’d worked hard to recover from a near-fatal beating with a metal pipe close to a year ago. An ambush by professionals had left him with a broken leg, arm, and ribs, and a concussion that had put him in a coma. Rest, rehab, family support back on Kaua’i, and physical therapy followed by grueling workouts with a personal trainer specializing in injury recovery had eventually won back his strength—but Alika had lost interest in the MMA fighting scene that had been his focus for so long. He now preferred surfing and paddling his solo canoe. Time alone on the ocean brought him the most peace.
Alika squinted at the building he was working on, a triplex townhouse in a planned “green” community outside of Kapa’a. The framing was going well, and his work crew was hard at it. Creating affordable, environmentally friendly housing while keepi
ng his business healthy had gone a long way to distract him from the terrible events on Oahu.
“I’m happy to hear you’re doing well.” Marcella cleared her throat delicately. “I’m calling about Sophie.”
Alika took off his hard hat and pushed a hand through his hair. A slight breeze from the north dried the sweat off his brow. He sighed, sorting through his response. “I’m sure Sophie told you we…said goodbye to each other.”
“Yes, she did. And normally I’d respect that, and your choices, especially after all you’ve been through that can be laid at her ex’s door. But she’s in trouble, Alika, and I think she’s on Kaua’i.” Marcella proceeded to tell him the chilling tale of Sophie’s struggles with her ex. “She finally got the better of him and killed him, but because of the way it went down, it’s not a clear case of self-defense. The DA wants her to come in and be deposed, but…she’s gone dark. No communication, no way to track her.”
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”
“I guess I need to spell it out. I know she went to Kaua’i, and I think she hiked to Kalalau. She’s traveling under an assumed name, but she has Ginger with her. Can you take that helicopter of yours out there and look for her? Seriously, I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t really worried that this DA will get wind of her running and issue a warrant for her arrest.”
Alika’s heart rate spiked as he remembered Sophie. God, she was beautiful, with a face like Nefertiti and an unbelievable body: all long legs, lean muscle, sweet tender curves, and skin like caramel—and she was so much more than that. In the five years that they’d trained together, he’d come to know a woman smart enough to be a rocket scientist, brave, persistent, kind, and shy. Breaking up with Sophie was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he hadn’t wanted her to have to deal with his troubles with the Oahu mob and the long road to recovery he’d known was ahead.
