"You talk to her?" Jack said, his first words since we got here.
Cypher shook his head. "It's . . . complicated. Stuff like that, when you leave, you can't make contact again. It isn't safe. Or that's the excuse you give yourself, when the truth is that you know if you do call, she'll hang up. Better to say you're keeping her safe by staying away. You know how it is."
Jack grunted as if he did. When Jack and I got together, though, he'd admitted that he hadn't had a relationship since he was sixteen . . . right before he signed up with Irish resistance fighters, who made the IRA look like Greenpeace. After that--and the fallout from his exit a few years later--he wouldn't let anyone take the risk that came with being part of a hitman's life. Even for me, being with Jack put a target on my back, and it'd taken a long time to convince him that I was okay with that.
Right now, though, someone else wore a target, for an entirely different reason--a good and brave and righteous one.
"So this woman . . ." I said.
"Angela. Her name's Angela."
"Angela took on these cases, and now she's determined to keep them, despite the fact it endangers her life."
"Fucking stupid, huh?" Even as he shook his head, his voice swelled with pride.
"Not exactly a wise survival strategy," I said. "But she does deserve help."
"That's what I hoped you'd say. So here's the deal. I'll fly you both to Hawaii. First class, round trip, best fucking hotels they got, all expenses paid. And that's on top of the hit, which will be double your usual rate, for the inconvenience of a rush job."
Jack glanced at me. When he started to nod, I cut in with, "We'll think about it."
Jack's brows arched. He knew this was exactly the sort of job I'd want. But so did anyone who knew my professional reputation.
"One more hour," I said. "You'll have your answer in an hour."
Chapter Six
Nadia
"You want to research it first," Jack said as we headed to our chalet.
"I do."
He nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Shouldn't have jumped like that."
I looped my arm through his. "You knew I'd want it."
"You do, right?"
"All-expenses-paid first-class trip to Hawaii? Hell, yeah."
His look said I could get that anytime. I would argue that having someone else foot the bill eased the voice that fretted about how much of "his" money we spent. But I knew what he meant.
"Yes," I said. "This woman is taking personal risk to help others when no one else will. Like I said, that deserves help. And someone is killing people for doing their damned jobs? That deserves stopping--permanently, if necessary. But I'm still worried."
"That Cypher's bullshitting. That it's a trap."
"We all have our weaknesses. We expose them with every choice we make. Anyone who's done basic research on 'Dee' knows she'd drool over this one. So there's no way I'm going to say yes until I've done some basic research myself."
Cypher hadn't been lying. There was a killer stalking representatives of the Honolulu family court system.
It began a year ago with the apparent suicide of a social worker. Fifty-year-old Mindy Lang had been found dead in her carbon-monoxide-filled car. The profession suffered from one of the highest incidences of burnout and depression, and Mindy had recently gone through a divorce herself, so no one questioned the initial findings.
Three months later, Albert Kim, a family court judge died in what looked like another suicide, this one death-by-gunshot. That case, though, gave the authorities pause. The deceased was a very successful judge, who'd been about to buy his dream home. Suicide didn't fit. That led to deeper investigation and the discovery that it'd been a staged murder. The police then took another look at Mindy Lang, who had often worked with the murdered judge. An exhumation and secondary examination found bruises on her neck, plus signs that she'd been unconscious when she went into the car. That meant murder.
At this point, the killer must have realized that disguising the deaths as suicides was pointless. If anyone working in family law died under suspicious circumstances, the police were going to investigate.
The next target was a lawyer, Charles Atom. The killer booby-trapped the family grill with an explosive device. Atom's teenage daughter had been the one to open it. She'd been killed instantly. Atom, who'd been standing nearby, suffered head injuries, including the loss of an eye.
Atom's injuries meant he wasn't able to handle his clients' cases. When no one at his firm would take them, Angela Kamaka stepped forward. That, as Cypher said, made her a target. Six weeks ago, she came home to find her dog dead, poisoned. A week later, someone planted a bomb in her car, but by that point, she was already checking it before she turned the ignition. She'd found the device. Then someone had fired shots into her backyard, shattering the glass tumbler her live-in boyfriend was holding. He'd packed his bags and left, while she stood her ground, living under nightly police protection.
I was surfing through articles, making notes, when Jack came in and walked up behind me.
"Pack my sunscreen?" he said.
I craned my neck to look back at him. "I think so. Is that okay?"
"As long as you don't make me wear Hawaiian shirts."
"I won't make you wear any shirt at all." I stood and gave him a quick kiss. "Let's go talk to our new client."
Chapter Seven
Nadia
Cypher caught the next flight out. He was heading to Honolulu, which wasn't quite what I'd expected--or hoped--but that wasn't up for discussion. He would stay out of our way, but he wanted to be there. I supposed it didn't hurt to have an extra pro on hand, though I suspected I'd come to regret that.
Our guests were all weekenders, meaning they'd be checked out by noon tomorrow. They had the option of using the property until the end of the day, but with no Sunday night guests, there were no scheduled afternoon or evening events. That meant I could take off after breakfast, leaving Emma to handle checkouts.
Jack and I were on a plane Sunday afternoon. We hopped from Toronto to Vancouver and then down to Hawaii. Two long hauls, but as Cypher promised, we went first class, which helped, considering that one of us was flight-phobic. Jack could manage--flying was unavoidable for overseas jobs--but if he could drive, he did.
The time difference meant it wasn't even nine p.m. when we touched down. We'd both managed to get some shut-eye on the flight, so we were wide awake when Cypher met us at the airport.
My first impression of Honolulu was lights. Endless lights stretching up the volcanic mountain range. That wasn't quite what I expected. Every image I'd seen of the islands featured sand, surf, sun and the kind of empty paradise that I suspected was tough to find these days. The weather was gorgeous, even after dark, and I marveled at the partly open-air terminal until I realized that they didn't need to worry about winter cold, let alone snow and ice.
I put my window down as Cypher drove, and if I squinted, I could make out the ocean to my right. Soon Cypher left the highway and headed up a winding road.
"Angela lives out here?" Jack said.
"Yeah," Cypher grumbled.
I could see their concern. When I twisted to look down the mountain behind us, the view was incredible, but this wasn't some condo apartment in the city. That made it easier for a killer to get access to her. The neighborhood was residential enough, though--a proper subdivision.
"I'll drive past her house," Cypher said. "Cops are out front in a unmarked black Jeep. Dee? Keep your window down."
I didn't ask why. The police would be on the lookout for unfamiliar vehicles. One with a woman in the passenger seat--her window down and arm out--would seem a lot more innocent than an SUV with rolled-up tinted windows.
"On your side," Cypher said. "The little gray house."
The speed limit was low enough for him to roll past slowly. I snapped shots with my camera held low. The officers in the Jeep glanced over. Cypress had his window down, too, and he lifted his fing
ers in casual greeting. The officers nodded, and we continued along the road.
"We should do it at night," Cypher said. "But those cops mean it'd be tricky. Daytime's always tricky, though."
"For what?" I said.
"Taking Angela."
"What?"
He spoke slower. "Taking Angela into protective custody while you guys find the asshole who's trying to kill her."
"I think the word you actually want there is kidnapping, Cypher," I said. "And the answer is: hell, no."
"Ty."
"What?"
Again, that slowed speech. "Call me Ty."
"How about I just call you crazy motherfucker? Does that work?"
Jack snorted from the back seat.
Cypher chuckled. "Sure. Wouldn't be the first time. Or the second. Or the--"
"We are not kidnapping Angela. That wasn't part of the deal."
"Because I figured it was obvious. How else are you going to keep her safe? We'll take her into protective custody for a few days. She won't be happy about it, but she'll be safe, and we'll make sure she's comfortable and--"
"And no. Hell, no." I twisted to look at Jack. "What do you say?"
"Yeah. It's problematic."
"That's one way of putting it." I glanced at Cypher. "There will be no kidnapping the woman we're here to protect. You want to know how we'll keep her safe? By watching out for her. And by catching this bastard. She's been smart enough to survive so far. She'll be fine for a few more days. I'll make sure of it."
"How the hell do you plan to do that?"
I told him.
Jack and I spent the next morning enjoying the truly spectacular lodgings Cypher had booked for us. We were outside Honolulu proper, at a five-star hotel with all the sand, surf and sun I'd imagined.
We slept soundly and woke before dawn, our internal schedules completely screwed up by the six-hour time difference. I jogged while Jack hunted down Kona coffee and macadamia nut buns, which we enjoyed on a dock, our bare feet dangling in the clear, warm water. Afterward we walked the empty beach, talking. Back to our room, with the salt-scented wind blowing in from the ocean, the sheers billowing as we took full advantage of our king-sized bed. Then, appetite renewed, it was off to breakfast, dining on a balcony as surfers headed out below.
After breakfast, we shopped. Not exactly our thing, but there was a row of high-end boutiques just outside the resort, and any good walk needs a destination. Jack insisted on buying me a pair of designer sunglasses, and I bought him a watch that I caught him admiring. Well, I tried to buy it. He distracted me at the till and traded credit cards, and while I'd have loved to insist on paying, the truth was that the watch would have gobbled up my entire line of credit.
They were real credit cards. "Real" in the sense that we would pay them off. They were also "not real" in the sense that they had fake names and were attached to fake addresses. It might seem tempting to just get fake cards altogether, but neither of us wanted to be the hitman brought down by defrauding the credit card company for a few grand.
A morning well spent. And, despite what it might seem, not a morning wasted in leisure. I worked my ass off. Or, more correctly, I worked my mouth off.
Being a sociable person meant that I found it easy to start conversations with strangers, and strangers found it easy to start them with me. It didn't hurt that I gave off that kind of vibe. I looked approachable. Thirty-five years old, dark auburn hair to my shoulders, hair with a tendency to curl, and skin with a tendency to freckle. People told me I had an open face, very genuine, very girl-next-door. Which meant that I intimidated absolutely no one. Extremely useful in my line of work. I was the person most likely to be asked for directions or just asked for the time. Also the person most likely to be asked to give up my window seat to a fellow traveler, or the person most likely to be cut off in a lineup. Those last two did not go so well. I am friendly. I am approachable. I am not a pushover.
So I found it extremely easy to get information from total strangers. And that was how I spent my morning, whether it was jogging on the beach or eating breakfast on the balcony or browsing in the shops. I worked through every part except, well, the sex, for obvious reasons, but I figured I'd done enough by that point to take a little time off.
Wherever we went, Jack and I talked about Angela and the murders. Sometimes I'd use that as an opening to ask questions, like to our breakfast server. My husband just told me about those horrible murders. Is it true? Other times, locals would overhear us and interject a comment or an opinion. When it came to high-profile crimes, everyone had an opinion.
While Honolulu was a city of three hundred thousand, being on an island two thousand miles from the mainland made it feel as insular as a small town. It seemed as if half the people I talked to knew someone involved in the case. And they were all happy to chat. Tourism is Hawaii's number one industry, and I was right in the heart of it, which meant that the staff probably got a little tired of dispensing alohas and island charm. They seemed happy to discuss a side of their city that didn't arise in their usual tourist chatter.
Most of what I got was wild conjecture, mixed with rumor and innuendo and a liberal smattering of conspiracy theory. But there would be some truth in there, too, and I filed it all away for the next stage of my investigation, which I launched right after lunch.
Chapter Eight
Jack
"Are you fucking nuts?"
That was what Cypher had said about Jack's afternoon plans. He'd said more than that, too, ranting about how Nadia called him a crazy motherfucker, and if Jack screwed this up--or endangered Angela in any way--he'd nail Jack's balls to the nearest coconut tree.
Jack had let him rant. Then he'd looked at Nadia, who'd considered the suggestion. She'd opened her mouth and started, "Can you--?" and then stopped herself and said, "Sure. That's a good idea."
Can you pull it off?
That was what she'd been about to say. She hadn't finished because she knew Jack didn't take chances. He'd never been what one might call a natural risk-taker like Nadia, with her love of extreme sports. She'd taken chances on the job, too, leading to their first real fight. He'd been furious, a shock to her, who'd never even heard him raise his voice. She'd taken an unnecessary risk, putting herself in extreme danger to catch a killer. Part of that fury--a large part--had been the mirror it reflected back on him. On his past. He saw Nadia take that risk, and he knew why she was taking it because he'd been there himself.
He had taken chances, early in his career. Huge ones that had paid off, but at the time, he hadn't really given a shit if they did or not. Hadn't given a shit if his choices landed him in a body bag. He'd gotten his family killed, and so he didn't particularly feel he deserved to keep walking around.
Nadia hadn't been suicidal--not since he'd met her, at least--but there were always threads of that in her professional risk-taking. The feeling that she owed a debt. And she could say it was because she'd shot a serial killer, but that was bullshit. Sure, there was shame and grief for the loss of a career she'd loved. But her true guilt went back to her murdered cousin, the fact that she'd failed to stop it, failed to get help in time. It didn't matter if no one else would ever hold her accountable; that kind of guilt never goes away, as Jack knew very well.
Jack's plan for today was a calculated risk that wasn't much of a risk at all. He didn't take chances these days because he wasn't just taking them for himself. He had Nadia to think about, and sure, there was the fear of her getting picked up if he was arrested, but there was also a far more selfish reason to play it safe: he was happy in his new life, and he damned well intended to keep it.
His task that day? Breaking into Angela Kamaka's house. All attacks against her--the dog, the car bomb, the shots fired--had happened at home. While he did want to get a look inside her house, he held some hope that he wouldn't be able to break in, which would mean she was safe. That was, unfortunately, not the case.
Angela lived in a neighborhood of s
mall, older homes on large lots, and she had no neighbor to the rear. A gate at the back of her fence suggested she appreciated that openness and used the walking trails. The fence also made it easy to approach her house without being spotted.
A security camera watched the gate, but there was no reason to enter that way when the fence itself was more boundary marker than security perimeter. He hopped it easily. All right, he climbed it easily, being about a decade past hopping, which he'd finally admitted a few years ago when he fucked up his damn ankle on just such a jump.
Two more security cameras monitored the rear yard. They were well placed, difficult to spot, but Jack had a device that picked up their signatures. It was easy enough to slip up alongside the house and get the back door open without being spotted. Inside, he found an impressive security system, one that rivaled the Sabatos'. He disabled it and then set about tracking the camera feed to a computer in the main room. An old computer without even password protection. Jack reviewed the security video and confirmed he wasn't on it.
He took a minute to check the computer for data. That wasn't really his thing, but Nadia had been teaching him. From what he could tell, this was a basic terminal, mostly just for the security system cameras. Angela must keep her personal and professional files elsewhere, probably on a laptop.
As Jack prowled the house, he made mental notes of all the security enhancements needed to make it safer. He had to admit someone had done a decent job. If the killer was, as they expected, a disgruntled client, then he wasn't going to have Jack's skill set. Still, Jack wasn't betting a woman's life on that. The best scenario would be the one Cypher wanted--getting Angela to a safe place in the city. If she insisted on staying here, though, these security gaps had to be fixed.
As Jack walked through the house, he didn't snoop--this was already an invasion of a victim's privacy--but he couldn't help forming a fuller picture of Angela Kamaka. A visual picture, for one thing, from the photographs. Photos of a woman with her parents, with friends, with lovers. One figure featured in enough pictures to tell him this was Angela. She looked mid-thirties. Brown skin. Average height. Sturdy build. Always with a smile, one that lit up an otherwise plain face.
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