“So you’re going to trek all the way over to the police station?”
“It won’t take that long,” I assured him. “And I should turn over Marnie’s tape to them anyway.” But I didn’t sound very convincing, not even to me.
Nick sighed. “Jess, what happened to that reporter is horrific, and I understand that it shook you up. But I thought coming to Maui for your veterinary conference was supposed to give us an excuse to take a vacation together. Not for you to get involved in something as dangerous as a murder!”
I opened my mouth to argue my case further, then realized there was no point. “Tell you what. After I get our room changed, I’ll run over to the police station and talk to them about what happened, and then you and I can meet back here at the hotel at six o’clock for the poolside Polynesian dance show.”
Nick thought for a few seconds. As he did, I searched his face for a crack in his stoniness. And then: “Will there be umbrella drinks?”
I laughed, relieved that he was finally coming around. “Plenty of umbrella drinks. Mai tais, piña coladas, you name it.”
“And dinner afterward—with mahimahi and pupu platters?”
“Enough for our own private luau.”
“Okay. Six o’clock.” He cast me a wary look, just to make sure I knew he thought I was making a volcanic mountain out of a molehill.
“This is just one of the many reasons I love you,” I told him, sprinting across the room and kissing him on the cheek.
In less than a minute, I’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed the canvas sun hat I’d brought, tucked Marnie’s tape into my backpack, and dashed out. I was suddenly in a hurry to get out of that hotel room, a place that just minutes before had been occupied by some unwelcome visitor, and settle into a different room in some other part of the hotel.
But I was also in a hurry to talk to the Maui police. And while I hadn’t managed to convince Nick that something was very wrong, I hoped I’d manage to do a much better job with the cops.
The good news was that the Royal Banyan Hotel had a car rental service right on the premises, reachable by a stairwell that was accessible through the lobby. The even better news was that its inventory of available cars included a nifty dark blue Jeep Wrangler that came equipped with something called Command-Trac four-wheel drive. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but from the way it looked, the sturdy little vehicle could have made it through the Haleakala crater, zipping along the forbidding terrain as if it were no more challenging than a few irritating speed bumps. Daredevil antics aside, scuttling around a tropical island in a Jeep was undoubtedly going to be more fun than lumbering around Long Island in a veterinary clinic on wheels, or even in my beloved red VW Beetle.
But I hadn’t come to the fun part of the vacation yet. I still had some nasty business to take care of.
Before leaving the immense underground parking garage that sprawled beneath the Royal Banyan, I tried out all the Jeep’s buttons, levers, and other technological toys, wanting to make sure I wouldn’t encounter any surprises once I got it out on the road. As I fumbled around for the seat adjustment, my hand made contact with something plastic. I pulled the mystery item out from underneath the seat and discovered I was the proud new owner of a pair of sunglasses.
Unfortunately, they were so badly scratched that they’d outlived their usefulness. The fact that one of the earpieces was also pretty wobbly didn’t help.
So much for doing a crackerjack job of cleaning out the rental cars, I thought with annoyance, looking around for a garbage can. Since none was in sight, I tossed the shades into the glove compartment.
I did a quick search for other leftovers. Then, once I was sure any additional clutter that accumulated in the car would be the result of my own carelessness, I took off for police headquarters in Wailuku.
Guided by the map I’d picked up at the car rental counter, I headed south along Honoapiilani Highway. As I traveled along Maui’s scenic western coast, I tried to think positive. My hope was that this Detective Peter Paleka who was mentioned in the newspaper, or whoever else I managed to speak with at police headquarters in Wailuku, would put the whole incident of the missing envelope and how it might be related to Marnie’s murder into perspective. Or maybe he’d simply do a better job than Nick had of convincing me that I’d imagined the whole thing.
I was still trying to convince myself of that possibility when my stomach suddenly lurched, an annoying phenomenon that seemed to occur pretty much every time an unsavory thought popped into my mind. I instinctively grasped the steering wheel more tightly to make sure I didn’t veer off the road.
What if whoever wanted that cassette badly enough to break into my hotel room thinks I know something? I thought. What if he assumes I know what was on the tape he was so desperate to get his hands on?
And what would happen once he realized he’d snatched the wrong tape? I wondered. Sooner or later, he was bound to discover that the one he grabbed out of my hotel room contained nothing more interesting than some jovial veterinarian relating amusing anecdotes about the zany antics of his clients and their pets. Would he come back, determined to get hold of the right one?
For all I knew, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time had put me in serious danger. Maybe even as much danger as Marnie.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. I told myself that Detective Paleka would help me sort it all out. Meanwhile, I attempted to distract myself by rolling down the windows, breathing in the sweet, warm air, and taking in my surroundings.
I could see that this part of the island didn’t cater to tourists. There were no humongous hotels here, no dense complexes of condos. Instead, this was where the real residents lived. I knew from Nick’s guidebook that Wailuku had its share of attractions to lure visitors: antiques shops, an old theater, a very old church, and a museum of Hawaiian history inside the nineteenth-century home of a sugar plantation owner. But as I drove through, I was inundated with signs of modern-day life. I passed low-rise office buildings occupied by doctors, lawyers, and accountants, video stores and supermarkets, and a few national chain stores that were guaranteed to cure any tourist who might be suffering pangs of homesickness.
The Maui police station on Mahalani Street was a modern two-story building with lush trees decorating the front lawn. To the east was a dramatic view of the ocean. As I pulled into the parking lot, I was still trying to convince myself that I was simply letting my paranoia run away with me. The idea that I had inadvertently become involved in whatever Marnie Burton was involved in—a situation that had led to her murder—was almost too much to process. I’d come to Maui to learn about the latest developments in veterinary medicine, strengthen my relationship with Nick, and do something I rarely had time for at home: relax. Even I recognized that letting my overly active imagination get in the way of these three noble causes would be a major mistake.
I pulled open the glass doors of the station, hoping that by the time I left, I’d be laughing about how silly I’d been.
But I wasn’t there yet. I squared my shoulders and approached the uniformed officer sitting at the front desk. He was wearing a dark blue shirt emblazoned with a shield-shaped patch. In the middle was an eagle, printed with the words Maui County Police—Hawaii.
“I’d like to talk to someone who’s involved with the investigation of Marnie Burton’s murder,” I told him.
I braced myself for an argument, or at least a smirk. After all, that was certainly a typical response from the Norfolk County Homicide Department back at home. Instead, the police officer picked up his phone.
“I’ll see if Detective Paleka is available. Your name, please?”
Nick was right, I thought, amazed. People really are friendlier in Hawaii—even though I wouldn’t expect a police station to be a bastion of aloha spirit. I only hoped the warmth and mellowness that seemed to pervade every aspect of life on Hawaii would carry through my meeting with the police.
Fortunate
ly, that meeting was with the man at the top. “Afternoon, Ms. Popper,” Detective Peter Paleka greeted me with a curt nod as I entered his small, cluttered office. “Thanks for coming in.”
I studied the stocky middle-aged man with dark brown eyes, jet black hair, and an expressionless face. He sat up straight in his chair, his back rigid and his hands placed palms down on the surface of his large metal desk. The red-and-blue-striped necktie he wore with his short-sleeved white shirt was held firmly in place with a tie tack so that it formed a perfectly straight line. His militaristic demeanor served as a startling contrast to his Hawaiian-American features, which I’d already come to associate with a relaxed island attitude.
He struck me as someone who was about as approachable as another Chief of Homicide I’d been forced to deal with: Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, who ran the Norfolk County Homicide Department back on Long Island. Falcone also had dark eyes that bore into me with such intensity that I frequently ended up squirming.
And he had that same stiff demeanor that invariably made me feel I was wasting his time. While Falcone had no qualms about coming right out and saying as much, Detective Paleka seemed much more polite. Still, aside from the governor and his entourage, I gave this man the award for the most uptight individual I’d encountered so far on the laid-back island of Maui.
As I studied him, I got the distinct feeling he was studying me too.
“I understand you have some information about Marnie Burton’s murder,” he said, staring at me with disconcerting intensity.
“Not information, exactly.” I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. Now that I was sitting in the hot seat, I wished I’d put more thought into how this conversation was likely to go. “But given the timing of her death, I believe I was one of the last people to speak to her.”
Interest flickered in his dark eyes. “And did she say anything about where she was going or who she was meeting?”
“She said she was meeting someone she referred to as a ‘secret source’ later that night.”
I searched his face for a reaction, expecting him to be impressed. If he was, he didn’t show it.
“The two of you were close friends?” he asked in the same even voice.
“Not exactly. I just met her once.” In response to his look of surprise, I added, “I’ve only been here a day.”
The flicker of interest had vanished. “You’re a tourist,” he said flatly.
I got the feeling he didn’t mean it as a compliment. Sitting up a little straighter in my seat, I said, “Not exactly. I’m here for the veterinary conference at the Royal Banyan.” A technicality, I knew, but still something I felt was worth pointing out.
“I see. So you’re Dr. Popper, not Ms. Popper.”
“Either is fine.” I appreciated the show of respect, even though the wary look on his face was already clueing me in to the fact that my revelation about Marnie’s “secret source” hadn’t made quite the impact I’d expected.
Detective Paleka folded his hands together. “Look, Dr. Popper,” he said, “I’m sorry about your friend, but I’m afraid there’s not much of a mystery here. I just got off the phone with a witness who saw her coming out of a bar near the airport, the Purple Mango, at approximately nine-forty last night. She was accompanied by a man who’s most likely the person who killed her. We’ll be looking into whether she had a boyfriend, but this incident is probably the result of your friend picking up the wrong guy. Unfortunately, young women do it all the time. I can promise you we’ll find out his identity. At this point, we don’t have any reason to believe that what happened is any more complicated than that.”
I took a deep breath. “How was she killed?”
“We don’t have the autopsy report in yet, but it looks like strangulation. Afterward, whoever killed her deposited her body in the bay.”
I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I took a couple of seconds to get past that horrifying bit of news before I reminded myself that I’d come here with some important information of my own. “I don’t suppose you found her cell phone when you discovered her body, did you?”
“No, as a matter of fact.” He looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think there’s a lot more to Marnie Burton’s murder than the scenario you just described,” I replied. “And the fact that her cell phone was missing is part of it.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows about a millimeter. “And why is that?”
In a low, even voice, I related all the events of the past twenty-four hours. Meeting Marnie after the governor’s aide pushed her—at least, according to Marnie. Talking to her in my hotel room, when she’d mentioned, among other things, that she was on her way to meet with an informant. Discovering that she’d accidentally left an audiocassette in my room, no doubt because it had fallen out of her chaotic, overstuffed tote bag. Leaving a message on her cell phone that anyone—including her murderer—could have listened to, saying I had the tape and giving the name of my hotel and the room number. Then, soon after she was murdered, having an intruder break in to my hotel room and steal only one thing: an envelope that looked very similar to the one containing Marnie’s tape.
After I finished, I watched the police detective’s face expectantly. I was certain that this time I’d witness an explosive reaction.
Instead, he calmly asked, “And what exactly is on this cassette?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to come across as forceful, but my words sounded pretty wishy-washy, even to me. “I haven’t actually listened to it, since I don’t have access to a tape recorder.”
“I do. Did you bring the tape with you?” He pressed a button on his phone and asked whoever answered to bring in a tape recorder. Within seconds, he was popping the cassette into the machine.
Detective Paleka and I sat in silence as it began to play. My heart pounded so loudly I hoped it wouldn’t block out the sound. I was certain we were about to hear something that would incriminate Marnie Burton’s murderer—or at least put the cops one giant step closer to knowing who had killed her and why.
I listened, motionless, to the sound of static. Then more static. Then even more.
“There’s nothing on this tape,” Detective Paleka announced, looking more puzzled than annoyed.
“Maybe later on? Or on the other side?” I tried hopefully. “We didn’t listen to all of it.”
A deep crease had appeared in his forehead. “I’ll have someone play the whole tape, but so far, the only thing I can conclude is that you’ve been wasting my time.”
Aha. So he was annoyed. He was just better than some people at hiding it—probably the secret behind aloha spirit.
In a voice that came out sounding much meeker than I’d intended, I said, “Marnie mentioned she’d been having problems with her tape recorder, so maybe—”
“Let me make sure I understand all this correctly,” the detective interrupted, his voice suddenly loud and obviously strained. “You’ve come all the way into the station to tell me that you may have been one of the last people who saw Marnie Burton alive. But you literally meant see her. You didn’t have any meaningful conversations, you didn’t notice that she expressed any fear or apprehension, and she didn’t give you any indication of who she was going to meet, aside from her boyfriend and some unnamed person she referred to as a ‘secret source.’ In fact, you barely knew her. And then, shortly after she was murdered, you discovered that you’d misplaced the registration packet from the conference you’re attending. Is that pretty much it, Dr. Popper?”
I glowered at him, wondering what the odds were that a Hawaiian police detective on the Maui police force could manage to look and sound so much like the Italian-American Chief of Homicide I was used to dealing with at home. Was it possible that Anthony Falcone and Peter Paleka were twins who had somehow been separated at birth?
“Look,” the Hawaiian half of the duo continued tersely, “I suggest that you go back to your hotel, find a comfortable spot on the beach, an
d enjoy the rest of your vacation. The most sensible thing you can do is leave this investigation to the professionals.”
I could feel my blood starting to boil. “But don’t you see?” I protested. “I’m already involved in this! I left that message about the tape’s whereabouts on Marnie’s cell phone right before she was killed. Don’t you think it’s more than coincidence that her phone is now missing—and that hours after she was murdered, somebody came to the exact spot I described, looking for the tape? And don’t you think it’s likely that whoever stole the envelope out of my hotel room thinks I heard what was on it? That he thinks I know whatever it is they’re so anxious to keep quiet?”
“There’s nothing on the tape,” he pointed out.
“But they don’t know that!” I insisted, trying not to sound as frustrated as I felt. “There was supposed to be something on it. Even Marnie thought there was. Don’t you see? I could be in danger!”
The expression on the detective’s face told me he didn’t see at all. That, like Nick, he thought the business about the stolen envelope with the audiocassette inside was all in my head.
“I’ll tell you what, Dr. Popper,” he said, his voice once again calm and unflappable. “I’ll call you if we need you. Or if we come up with anything new on the case.
“As for your alleged hotel-room theft,” he continued, “I don’t know that there’s much we can do. According to what you told me, the only thing that was taken from your room was an envelope full of conference booklets. I suggest that you file a report with the hotel—and that you ask the nice folks at the conference to get you a replacement.
“My other piece of advice,” he added, “is to forget all about Marnie Burton and the terrible thing that happened to her.”
Right from the Gecko Page 4
