by Toby Neal
“At least they got him. So often, they don’t.” Ken glanced at her, frowning.
She filled him in on her confrontation with Kwon, his murder. “It’s Kamuela’s case. He’s getting nowhere with it, but the guy’s like a dog with a bone. I’m afraid something will connect me to Kwon and that day.”
“Jesus. And I mean it as a prayer.”
“Yeah. So then I decide I need to find out who murdered him so I can stay ahead of it. Kwon had a lot of people with motive after him. My dad thought maybe my grandfather Soga Matsumoto had something to do with it, so I got over myself and reconnected with him. Which has been good, until he gave me this box of my grandmother’s things. And today I called a number I found in the box.”
“Yeah?” he prompted when she wound down into a long silence.
“Today I called the number. No answer. Then my phone rings and it’s Kamuela. Says my number came up on a murder victim’s phone.”
“Shit,” Ken said. They’d entered the maze of freeways that marked the edge of the city. “You don’t know whose phone it was, then.”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if there’s any connection to Kwon. All you know is you found a number in your grandmother’s things, you called it, and it’s the phone of a murder vic.”
“Right.”
“Not good,” Ken said. “But not necessarily anything to do with Kwon.”
“I know. Kamuela’s not going to believe I didn’t know anything about it. Especially with the source of the number. It’s on a fortune that says ‘shape your destiny.’” She fumbled it out of her wallet, held it up. “I hung up on him, but I know I have to talk to him, explain.” Lei’s stomach knotted. “I can’t be telling Waxman all this. Another skeleton in my closet, like the Changs.”
“What do you mean? The Chang crime family?”
“Yeah. We have history—my dad killed the Chang family head in prison. Self-defense, but that didn’t stop them from trying to take him out over the years—and one of their sons came after me too.”
“Your life is kind of a crime soap opera, you know.”
“I know, right?” She smiled at Ken. “Even though we scooped up a lot of organized crime connections in that big case on Maui, the Changs managed to wiggle out of any prosecution. I’ve been dreading a case that brings that old history out to bite my ass, like this Kwon thing is threatening to.”
“Nothing could be further from organized crime thugs specializing in gambling and drugs than an online suicide club. This case is a lot of things, but it’s not dangerous to anyone but the already dying.”
“I know. I’m just so freaked out about it all, with Kamuela breathing down my neck. Feels like those skeletons want to come out of the closet and dance. Wreck my career, wreck my life.” Lei pinched her leg through her pants.
“I’ll help you. We’ll keep it on the down low. For all you know, it’s a coincidence that your grandmother had the number in her belongings. That’s all you know right now.”
“You’re right.” Lei sighed. “I’m paranoid. I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“I’m glad you told me. Imagine how much worse it would be if you had to keep sneaking around, lying to me while you tried to deal with it yourself.”
“Stevens knows, but he can’t help me over here.” She reached over, touched his arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“I’m just glad you did. Big thing to carry and get through alone.”
Lei felt affection suffuse her, an unfamiliar feeling that made her eyes prickle with tears. She had people who loved her—and better yet, people she’d let herself love back. Ken had just joined that select group.
Back at the Bureau, Lei contacted Ang and the three of them converged on Waxman’s office to brief him on the activities of the day. Lei looked out the window, where late-afternoon sun sparkled on the ocean and poufs of cumulous cloud scudded across the bowl of sky. All of it was tinted gray by bulletproof glass. She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering to the call she needed to make to Kamuela, how it could make her a suspect and stress her friendship with Marcella.
What a mess.
“Agent Texeira!” Waxman’s voice snapped her head around. She’d tuned out Ang and Ken’s summary of their findings so far. “What are your thoughts here?”
“The situations of the DyingFriends members we visited are terrible,” Lei said, thinking fast. “The site seems to be providing some much-needed support and interaction for them. So far, no hint of any wrongdoing.”
Ang cleared her throat. “Actually, while you guys were canvassing, I was burrowing around in the site and planting suicidal threads under my identity. I got a ping on it just before I came here. An e-mail from a masked location.” She’d printed the e-mail and looked down to read it. “’Dear ShastaM, you have been invited to a deeper level of commitment and sharing on DyingFriends. If you accept this invitation, you commit to keep all interactions and communications confidential.’” Ang looked up. “I accepted. I’m waiting for a confirmation link that will take me into this deeper level. This could be the door we’re looking for.”
Lei didn’t envy Ang her role impersonating a dying person, making virtual conversation and trying to lure the administrator out of the shadows—doing techie things on a computer all day. Once again she was glad of the diversity of roles within the FBI.
“Good.” Waxman steepled his fingers, pale blue eyes tracking them. “So to summarize: We are looking for a group or individual practicing assisted suicide. The people who are participating are so far already dying. Have you come across any garden-variety depressed people so far? Not dying?”
“No, sir. The ones we’ve visited so far were definitely dying,” Lei said, remembering each face with a tiny internal shudder.
“I have come across people in the chat rooms who call themselves ‘existentially dying,’” Ang said. “The parameters of the site are such that actually having a life-endangering disease or condition is part of joining. But these people found a way around that. They have their own subgroups.”
“Okay. So when I account to my district director, I know what he’s going to ask me. Is this case the best use of the FBI’s time and resources? Is there a crime worth pursuing, that we can prosecute, being committed by an individual or individuals we can bring to trial?” Waxman narrowed his eyes.
The three of them looked at one another. Ken finally answered. “This is going to be one of those shades-of-gray cases, sir. It’s criminal to assist in another person’s suicide as the law stands. In the case of Corby Hale, his death was at worst a murder and at least an unnecessary suicide. The boy had AIDS but could have lived a normal life span with proper care and medication, which his family would have provided. Alfred Shimaoka still had up to six months to live—granted, painful and unpleasant, but still life he was entitled to.” Ken steepled his fingers, unconsciously imitating Waxman. “I don’t think we have enough information yet to say if it’s a good use of the FBI’s time and resources. I do know that this is a case that crosses state lines, may have a ripple effect and cause other sites to spring up, and at least once has resulted in a premature or unnecessary death: Corby Alexander Hale the third, a senator’s son.”
Waxman smiled, sat back. “Good. I wanted to hear our rationale articulated. I think we need to get to the heart of this site, who’s behind it—and that person or persons are whom we will bring to trial. Dismissed.”
Out in the hall, Lei glanced at Ken, relieved the meeting was over but apprehensive about where she was going next—to meet Marcus Kamuela. “I’m going to take off a little early. Got some personal business.”
“It’s Friday, so I won’t see you until Monday. Want me to come with you?” His eyes told her he knew what that business was.
“No, but thanks for asking. I’ll call you.”
Lei walked away and heard Ang. “What was that about?”
She didn’t hear Ken answer, but she knew he’d keep her secret. Th
at’s what friends and partners did—and maybe someday she could add Sophie Ang to that handful of friends.
Chapter 14
Lei had arranged to meet Kamuela at the dog park. Keiki was feeling frisky, at least as frisky as a middle-aged Rottweiler ever got. The sight of the big black dog lumbering and snorting with the tiny matching Chihuahua bouncing beside her as they played gave Lei a much-needed lift—that and looking out across the yellow arc of beach at the radiant sunset beginning, piercing the clouds over the ocean with golden arrow rays.
She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, did a couple of relaxation breaths, letting the freshness of a tiny breeze off the water ruffle the curls on her forehead, wicking the sweat from the run down off the mesh athletic shirt she wore. She longed for Stevens with a sudden hungry fierceness, wishing for his solid, calm strength beside her, his arms around her.
“Hey, Lei.” Marcus Kamuela’s deep voice. Her eyes snapped open. She sat upright as Marcella’s boyfriend, with his intimidating physical presence, sat beside her on the bench. “You were a million miles away.”
“Yeah, just thinking about our latest case,” she lied, feeling her cheeks heat up with that awful blush she’d struggled with all her life. “Long day.”
“Yeah, well, imagine being me at the scene of a homicide, picking up the vic’s phone, calling the last number, and having it be you.”
“Freaky it was a homicide.” Lei’s heart had jumped to trip-hammer speed. Stay calm, she reminded herself. You don’t know anything yet. “I kind of freaked out talking to you today. I was in the middle of a witness interview when I took your call, and the personal business was throwing me off. I apologize for hanging up on you. I knew I needed to talk in person to explain.”
Kamuela had a handsome Hawaiian face with classic features: broad brow, wide nose, full chiseled lips. Those lips were set in a line, and there was another one between his angled black brows. He hunched big shoulders. “I’m meeting you here and not at the station because you’re an FBI agent and a former cop and my girlfriend’s best friend. I really don’t want this to be something I have to bring you in for, but you hanging up on me didn’t help.”
“I know. So here’s the deal.” She sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees, giving him a lot of eye contact. “My grandfather gave me a box of my grandmother’s things last night. That number was written on the back of a fortune cookie slip. On impulse, I called it. I’ve been trying to find out more about her because she’s dead and I never got to meet her.”
“Fortune cookie,” Marcus repeated, incredulity in his tone.
“Yeah.” She’d brought the slip of paper, already in a small paper evidence bag. She handed it to him. “The number’s in her handwriting. I included samples for analysis if you want that. Didn’t seal the bag because I knew you’d want to look.”
Marcus nodded. His big brown hands were gentle and deft as he slid the slip of paper out without touching it, held it by its sides, and read it. “Shape your destiny.”
“I know, right? So it would really help me to know a little more about this strange man whose number my grandmother had.”
He ignored this, setting the slip on the bench and easing the letters she’d included in the bag out as well, giving them a quick once-over. Lei had included letters with characters, English phrases, and even some numbers. “Looks the same. She Japanese?”
“Yes. Full blood. She’s gone now, like I said.”
“How did she die?”
“Heart attack, a year ago.”
A long pause as he put the items back into the bag, still not touching them except by the edges, and folded down the top of the bag in a neat, ruler-straight line.
“I’ll take these in,” he said. They both looked at the sunset that had decided to go glorious, a Technicolor display of light and color against the purpling sky. Keiki and Angel belatedly realized their mistress had been approached by a stranger and bounded back, sniffing Kamuela thoroughly. As usual, Angel was the most suspicious, yapping. She looked like she was considering latching on to his ankle until Lei scooped her up and scolded her.
Finally the dogs took themselves off for more playing, and Kamuela turned to Lei. “So here’s the weird thing, other than this bizarre situation. I think I solved my old homicide case. Remember that one a year ago?”
Lei kept her face blank. “We both have a lot of cases.”
“Two years ago. Cold case. Charlie Kwon, child molester, shot dead in his apartment with a nine millimeter. This stiff we found today—his gun matches that bullet. Kwon and at least three other unsolved homicides. This guy was a professional, and someone offed him.”
Lei had to lean down and tie her shoe because she felt the hot blush prickling her chest at hearing Kwon’s name. Thank God she was off the hook for his murder! She had to get better at subterfuge in her line of work. She wasn’t that easily rattled anymore, but interviews didn’t get more stressful than this one.
“That’s a good day for you,” she said to her toes, tying her other shoe. “So great when criminals off each other and save us taxpayer dollars.”
“Yeah. Of course, I’m trying to solve the dead assassin’s case, but even more stoked to cross off four cold ones. My closure rate just bumped big-time.”
She glanced at him, smiled. “Congrats.”
“So what was your grandmother doing with a pro hitter’s number on a fortune cookie slip in her box?”
“No idea,” Lei said, and the blush that she’d just fought down surged up her neck. She jumped to her feet, dug a ball out of her pocket, and threw it for the dogs, who took off after it in a rush of excitement.
“You know something.” Kamuela had not been distracted by her camouflage.
Lei considered her options. If he dug deeper and found a connection to her some other way, lying to him even by omission at this early stage would look even worse. Her career could be endangered by being formally interviewed in connection with multiple murders even if she was cleared.
“I do know something, but nothing about this guy whose number it was.” She sat back down. “I know something about Charlie Kwon. You aren’t recording this, are you? Because you better turn it off if you are.”
“Holy crap. You think I came to talk to you in a park wearing a wire?” He sounded outraged, his eyes wide and nostrils flared.
Lei squinted at him. “It’s possible.”
Kamuela ripped the subtly patterned aloha shirt he wore off over his head, holding it bunched in his fist. “No wire. I don’t operate like that with my friends.” Lei was a little alarmed by the expanse of broad, muscular brown chest. No wonder Marcella was looking so happy and distracted lately.
“I’m glad you called me a friend. And I’m sorry.” Lei averted her gaze. She tried not to notice the other park visitors staring. Kamuela unbuttoned the shirt and shrugged back into it. She did some relaxation breathing. “This is really hard for me. Personally and professionally. Marcella might have told you I had a rough childhood.”
Kamuela seemed a little mollified as he finished buttoning up the shirt, a relief to her sensibilities. “She did. Said your dad was in the game and you grew up with an auntie because your mom died of an overdose.”
“Yeah. So the reason my mom died was Charlie Kwon. He had a score to settle with my dad, targeted us when Dad was in prison. Raped me while he was manipulating my mom and feeding her drugs.”
“Damn,” Kamuela said. “He really deserved what he ended up getting.”
Somehow she was able to glance at him with a bit of humor. “I know, right? I tracked him in prison, and right before I joined the FBI, I paid him a visit. I was in disguise. It didn’t go like I’d hoped, with him being sorry for what he did. I clocked him with my weapon and left him alive.”
“So that was the goose egg on the body’s head.”
“Yes. And I hope the ME could tell that happened several hours before he died.”
No answer. Kamuela just stared at her, brown e
yes inscrutable, the gaze of an investigator in “cop mode.” She was very familiar with that look.
Lei hurried on. “So, anyway. I was horrified to see on the news that he’d been shot that night, and I’ve been trying to figure out who did it ever since. I hid my clothes, gloves, and wig in a safe place, and they will exonerate me—they don’t have GSR.” She didn’t point out the obvious holes in this explanation. He would do that himself if he wanted to. “I want to help solve this, and that’s why I’m telling you all I know. Coming clean. I hope we can figure it out, because I’m tired of living with this hanging over my head.”
“God. Lei.” He leaned back against the bench, rubbed his face. “I want to believe you. Abused by Kwon. Shit.” His eyes narrowed. “But just because you didn’t kill him yourself doesn’t mean you didn’t call a professional hitter who did. My dead guy from today. And the hitter’s number written in your grandmother’s handwriting doesn’t mean a thing except that maybe she was the one to give it to you.”
Lei felt her throat dry. She’d been so focused on the physical evidence connected to the visit she’d made to Kwon that she’d forgotten how this other connection, her number on the assassin’s phone, would look.
“But I didn’t,” Lei whispered, and felt the blood drain from her head as his face telescoped into the distance, black encroaching from the sides of her vision. She felt despair swamp her. She’d thought these blackouts were over, and to have one in front of Kamuela felt like suicide.
Keiki’s bulk leaned against her leg, a heavy, warm weight she could feel, anchoring her back in her body. The rasp of Angel’s tiny tongue on her calf made the blackness recede.
“I didn’t do it,” Lei repeated. “And I didn’t hire anyone to do it. I don’t have a thing I can say or do to convince you. I know it looks bad.”
