by Neal, Toby
“Some wine would be nice.”
I switched to Maker’s Mark and splashed the last of the Silver Creek into a long-stemmed glass for her. I followed the detective out onto the deck, where Hector was giving her the once-over. He decided she was okay, and wound around her ankles, commenting as he did so. Siamese are never short on comment.
“Beautiful place.” She took the wine from me. I held on to the railing, realizing my feet were a very long way off. It was important to keep it together, though.
“Thanks. It’s got a name. Hidden Palms.” I sipped my drink. That whole thing about mixed drinks causing a hangover is an urban legend, in my experience. “My ex designed it.”
“Well, he has good taste.”
“Not anymore,” I said, and knocked back the rest of the drink. “I think I better eat something. How about you?”
“Sure.” She sat on one of the teak Adirondack chairs, Hector climbing aboard her crotch and purring. I walked back into the house, taking careful steps so that I got there without running into anything. I opened the fridge, one of those big silver side-by-sides we all got before the economic bad times made them outré.
“Got some cheese and crackers,” I said, bringing a wedge of Gouda and a row of saltines on a cutting board back out onto the deck. Thank God Bettina hadn’t stopped picking up a few food items for me during the week—I’d forget to shop.
“Thanks.”
I set the snack on the low teak coffee table, sat next to her, and ate a cracker with cheese on it. Something in my stomach was a good idea—I had that floaty feeling, like nothing and no one really mattered. A good feeling, a feeling I liked—except when a detective was eyeballing me with that assessing look.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.
“You do?”
“You’re feeling sorry for me. Poor Dr. Wilson, all alone after her divorce in this big empty house, drinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.” Kamani sat up, helped herself to a cracker and cheese. “Should I be feeling sorry for you?” Her big, brown, long-lashed Hawaiian eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Because I know a lot of people who’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
“Forget I said that.” I ate another cracker. It was time to focus, and the food was helping drown out the siren song of another drink. “What do you need help with?”
“I wanted your opinion on a case. But I’m thinking I should have made an appointment.” Kamani stood, brushed crumbs off her dark slacks, brushing all the way down to the floor so that Hector’s hairs fell off too. “How about I meet you at your office tomorrow morning?”
“Let me check my book.” I got up, made my careful way across the room to the entry, dug my beaded reading glasses out of my purse along with the little dog-eared date book that makes me feel more secure than saving anything in my phone. “I can do nine o’clock.”
“Good.” She came over, and to my surprise, embraced me. I felt the strength in her strong arms—she probably lifted or something. I needed to do something like that, but for now I just enjoyed her vitality, my second hug in three days. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I shut the door behind her. I teetered my way down the hall and took a shower. I had a good cry in the stall, where I wouldn’t scare Hector. After all, I was the one feeling sorry for myself. I might as well do it up big.
I went to bed, wet hair and all—but not without drinking a quart of water and taking three preventive pills: two Advil and one Tylenol. One thing I knew how to do was head off a hangover.
Chapter 2
I unlocked my office at the South Hilo Police Station to meet with Kamani Freitas the next morning. I’d been able to unsnarl my hair by spraying it with detangler, dragging a comb through it with water, and blow-drying the whole thing. I’d spackled concealer onto the bags under my eyes and wore my reading glasses, choosing the pair that were partially shaded, an effect that was almost as good as wearing sunglasses indoors. In my usual outfit of blue polo shirt—supposedly the color of my eyes—orderly blond bob, and twill skirt, I was the epitome of respectable.
Maybe that would erase Freitas’s view through the side door panel of me dancing alone to the Eagles with my cat and a bottle. Probably not, but it was worth a try.
I got behind the desk with my thermos of extra-strong black coffee and decided to stay there, keep the high ground. I’d brought my laptop, and I had a boatload of e-mail to pretend to be busy with when she got here. I glanced around the space. I hadn’t done much with it in the last two years. Still had a couple of my son’s high school paintings on the walls, my lounge chair, a leatherette sofa, and a coffee table with a Japanese sand garden on it, rake invitingly angled.
A penis, complete with testicles, was outlined in the sand garden.
Someone had pranked me. This wasn’t the first time—my office door was locked, but everyone knew where the key was kept—in the key closet in the supply room.
I had to get rid of it before she arrived. I scuttled out from behind the desk and dragged the rake through the genitalia, had it all but gone, when I heard a knock. I saw Freitas’s face looking curiously at me through the little glass window in the door.
I opened it for her, but stood back. “Detective Freitas, please, come in.”
A full retreat to formal was in order, and I went back behind the desk to seal the deal. Kamani Freitas followed me over, set her giant Starbucks cup down on my desk, looked around, found a chair off the stack in the corner, and damn if she didn’t carry it over and park it right next to me on the corner.
I unscrewed my thermos, poured some coffee into the shiny silver lid. “So. Glad we could reschedule. What is this regarding?”
“Sure you got enough coffee there?” Freitas’s voice was dry. I tilted my head so my eyes were behind the tinting and sat back, doing my inscrutable psychologist face. I wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. “Well, I’m here about a case.”
“I remember that much,” I said, my tone equally dry. “What can I do for the Kona Police Department?”
“It’s a new case. Someone’s embezzling from the Big Island Land Trust, a big nonprofit that leaseholds and manages state lands. We have several candidates, and I wanted your take on who seems the most likely.”
Freitas set a file folder on the desk.
“Detective Freitas. Kamani. This seems like the kind of case best solved by a money trail. Why are you approaching me with this?” I sat back, crossed my legs at the knee, brushed imaginary lint off my skirt.
“True dat.” She used a bit of pidgin. “We’ve uncovered three strong possibles. None of them have clear financial motive or anything solid tying them to the case so far. My chief has authorized me to get your opinion on these three to give us some more direction.”
“I’m going to need fifteen hundred dollars, minimum, plus travel expenses,” I said, thinking of putting in the security measures at my office with this windfall. “I charge five hundred dollars per evaluation, as you know.”
Freitas gave me a long look. “I’m not asking for a full evaluation of each suspect.”
I shrugged, making sure the blue tinting on my glasses covered my eyes. “Take it or leave it. I’ve got plenty of work.” Truth was, I really needed this, but it wouldn’t do to let her know that.
The detective sighed. “Okay, I’ll tell the Chief you played hardball. Submit a bill.” She stood up, tapped the folder. “I’ll e-mail you everything else we have. When do you think you can get to this?”
“Next couple of days. I’ll call you if I’m missing anything. Do you have any video on the suspects? Interview transcripts, things like that?”
“We do have some surveillance footage. I’ll send it on.”
“Sounds good.” I stood up and walked behind her to the door.
“Do people often get into your office?” Freitas turned at the doorway, a tiny wrinkle between arched brows.
“Oh, you saw that.” I shook my head. “Some
of the guys are pretty immature. That’s not the one that worries me.”
“What do you mean? I’m still a little worried about you, Dr. Wilson.” Her dark brown eyes were wide with sincerity.
“Well, I’m going through a bit of a rough patch. Divorced six months ago. Son left for college.” I found myself tearing up behind the screen of my glasses. “It’s just a lot to get used to, but I’m handling it. Anyway, it’s something else. I told Captain Ohale about it already.”
“Tell me too.” She wouldn’t be pried out of the doorway, though I’d angled my body and held the door so she’d get the message.
“I don’t think it’s anything serious, but we’re keeping an eye out and I’m going to use the money from this job to put in some security measures at my office.” I told her about the lineup of odd items outside my door.
“I don’t like it,” she said immediately. “That’s a huge red flag, especially in your line of work. Please call and put that security system in today. I’ll grease the wheels to get you a check as soon as possible. Keep my private number on your cell.” She rattled it off.
I went back to the desk, fumbled around for a Post-it and a pen. I had to have her repeat the number. I kept my back to her so she wouldn’t see me blinking back tears and how bad my hand was shaking as I wrote it down, the numbers almost illegible.
“Thanks,” I said when I was pretty sure my voice was steady. I turned back around and there she was again, giving me a hug. Whispering in my ear.
“Hang in there. You’ll get through this.”
I felt her strength, smelled her smooth black hair with a hint of coconut shampoo, and then she was gone, waving from the door. “I’ll get you the rest of that information. Call the security company today, please, so I don’t worry about you.”
“Okay,” I said, through stiff lips, and she closed the door.
I was alone. I checked the clock—I had fifteen minutes before I had to leave for my private practice office and the first therapy appointment of the day.
I walked deliberately back to the door and locked it, checking that the window shade was down. I picked up the box of tissues, lay facedown on the couch, and let myself have a good cry into the cushion, padded by Kleenex.
The fact that a detective was concerned about my weird stalker had me scared too. The last thing I needed right now was a stalker complicating the shreds of life I had left. That grief I’d been suppressing and distracting rose up to swamp me again.
I craved a drink. The nerves in my body were reaching through my skin, questing through the air and reaching for it like vibrating, hungry antennae. Fortunately, I knew I had an emergency bottle of vodka locked in the file cabinet. After five minutes of full-blown howling, I sat up. Blew my nose, wiped my eyes. Went back behind the desk, unlocked the cabinet. I took out the bottle, unscrewed the top, and downed several big swallows of Grey Goose.
The relief was immediate. A bomb of warmth went off in my belly, roared down along my veins, and my twitching nerves settled like a cobra into a snake charmer’s basket. I savored the feeling for a long moment and took another swig, resting the cool bottle against my forehead. I screwed the top back on, slid it into the drawer, locked it.
I got on the intercom to Captain Ohale. “Bruce, I need who you guys recommend for home and office security,” I said when he picked up.
“So you decided to put in a system?” I heard him flipping through the fat Rolodex on his desk. “We hear good things about Hi-Alarm.” He gave me the number. “They have good response time and sensitive systems, and I hear they’re reasonable. I’m glad you’re doing this. I was going to offer to front you something for it.”
“That doesn’t actually make me feel much better. Detective Freitas was concerned too. I have an alarm system at home, but do you think I should do something more?”
“Send your company out for a full system check and upgrade,” he said. “It can’t hurt. I want you to feel safe and secure. We need you to deal with our stress, not the other way around.”
I chuckled, but I knew it sounded wobbly. “I’ll feel better when all these things are in place. Thanks, Bruce.”
I made the calls to the two alarm companies and ordered a new, full system with video recording for the office and an upgrade to the house system.
I stood and picked up my briefcase. Discovered that I felt better. Calm, clear, ready to face the day—and also ready to have another swig of Grey Goose. But I wouldn’t. I wasn’t an alcoholic. Just going through a rough patch.
On my lunch break, eating a yogurt and an apple at my desk, I scanned Freitas’s file. She’d put together three stapled pages of background and history on each suspect. I’d need more, preferably some audio or video footage of their interviews or surveillance. Seeing the subjects really helped with my assessment process—the way they spoke, moved, their mannerisms and demeanor. The best scenario was always to do my own interviews, but there was no way to do that in a lot of these law-enforcement cases.
The first possible embezzler, Randy Pappas, was a midfifties vice president whose background was in marketing. Financial pressures presented themselves in the form of multiple children in college. I definitely knew how those pressures felt. I used my pen to underline “financial pressures.”
That made me think of Richard and remember again that first breathless stab when he’d told me, “I’m leaving you.”
I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d known there was a continental drift going on, that middle-aged, less-than-thrilling rut, but we’d just finished Chris’s senior year of high school. It had been a whirlwind of applications, deadlines, the trip to visit his chosen school—our alma mater, University of California, Santa Barbara. The graduation, the parties, the departure in a flurry of leis and excitement had finally ended, and I’d had a big case on Oahu. Richard had taken Chris to his dorm in California, gotten him settled, and flown out to Vegas, where his lover was performing at one of Cirque du Soleil’s semi-fixed shows—a factoid he’d told me upon his return.
“I waited to tell you about this until Chris was settled at UCSB,” Richard said. “I didn’t want this to interfere with his transition to college.”
“Wow,” was all I remembered saying, as he went on to tell me he’d been seeing this woman for two years, and he’d filed papers to divorce me that morning. I could have the house if I took over the payments, and he was sure we’d both be better off in the end.
“You don’t really love me anymore, either,” he’d said. And in spite of my paralysis, my overwhelming panic at such an upheaval, I realized that much was true. I was in the habit of thinking I loved him, and that had gone on for twenty years. Honestly, it had been good enough for me.
I wrenched my thoughts back to the present and grounded myself in my surroundings: papers on the desk before me, pen in my hand. My cool, cream-walled private office with its good impressionistic Hawaii landscapes surrounding me. The leather couch, my armchair, my desk, and interesting work to do. A bottle of water at my elbow and another appointment on the way. These things had not changed even though the ex, as I’d decided to call him now and forever, had changed everything else.
I just have to keep on keeping on. Another of my therapeutic sayings, right there to bite me on the ass.
Chapter 3
I stood up and hugged Alison. I’m short at five foot three inches, but she was even tinier. She’d always reminded me of a dandelion, a slim stem of body with a fluff of bleached-blond hair and nothing much to hold her down but the huge black purse she toted around—and used to shoplift.
Alison was a kleptomaniac, and she couldn’t look sweeter or less likely to steal. She had big blue eyes and a Southern accent that pegged her as a Hawaii transplant, if the lacquered nails and jangly jewelry didn’t give that away first. She’d stolen everything from diamond bracelets to a flat-screen TV, and she’d never been caught.
“Thanks, Dr. Wilson.” We’d just finished our session. I’d been experimenting with hypnosi
s with her—kleptomania is an anxiety disorder, and it’s resistant to treatment. None of our substitute behaviors seemed to beat the craving, obsession, and triumph cycle that she had going, setting off a cascade of feel-good brain chemicals as she “stuck it to the man” every time she stole. At least we’d identified her triggers—feeling frustrated or lonely.
I wished I could hypnotize away my own craving for booze. It wasn’t a bad idea.
“Keep me posted. Please remember to track each day—triggers, how bad the cravings were, did you use your alternatives or give in, et cetera.” I walked her to the door that led to the outer office, and Alison spotted the row of items on the inside of the exit door.
“Hey. That’s my dog’s collar,” she said. “At least I think it is.” She went over to the lineup of items, picked up the rhinestone-studded collar. “Yeah. The name tag came off a while ago. I thought it must have just fallen off somehow. How’d it get here?”
“I don’t know. I found it outside.” My heart lurched—what did this mean?
“Oh. I guess I had it in my purse and must have dropped it or something. Well, see you next week.” She tucked the collar into that bottomless black bag and left with a little wave.
Well, good. One item had an explanation.
I followed her to the door and watched Alison walk to her car, a late-model BMW, and throw the big purse in. Pippi, her white toy poodle, had jumped up and had her paws on the dash. Alison reached into the bag and put the collar on the dog. She looked over and saw me watching, waved again. I waved back.
Mrs. Kunia drove up in her rusty blue Ford truck as Alison pulled out. Her husband, Frank, had built a wooden box on the back where he stored his tools, and a cluster of ti leaves dangled from the license plate for luck. A bumper sticker read, slow down. this ain’t the mainland.
Apelila Kunia got out, a tall, heavy woman in her late sixties, wearing a knee-length muumuu and rubber slippers. She made her deliberate way down the gravel path toward me, carrying a papaya the size of a bowling ball.
