“Do you know where to find him?” asked David.
“He has a P.O. box,” said Kahanu. “I already checked. He hasn’t picked up his mail in three days.”
“Do you have his address? Phone number?”
“Never gave me one. Look, I don’t know where he is. I’ll leave it to the police to find him. That’s their job, isn’t it?” He pushed away from the desk. “That’s all I know. If you want anything else, you’ll have to get it from Decker.”
“Who happens to be missing,” said David.
To which Kahanu added darkly: “Or dead.”
CHAPTER TEN
IN HIS FORTY-EIGHT years as cemetery groundskeeper, Ben Hoomalu had seen his share of peculiar happenings. His friends liked to say it was because he was tramping around dead people all day, but in fact it wasn’t the dead who caused all the mischief but the living: the randy teenagers groping in the darkness among the gravestones; the widow scrawling obscenities on her husband’s nice new marble tombstone; the old man caught trying to bury his beloved poodle next to his beloved wife. Strange goings-on—that’s what a fellow saw around cemeteries.
And now here was that car, back again.
Every day for the past week Ben had seen the same gray Ford with the darkly tinted windows drive through the gates. Sometimes it’d show up early in the morning, other times late in the afternoon. It would park over by the Arch of Eternal Comfort and just sit there for an hour or two. The driver never got out; that was odd, too. If a person came all this way to visit a loved one, wouldn’t you think he’d at least get out and take a look at the grave?
There was no figuring out some folks.
Ben picked up the hedge clippers and started trimming the hibiscus bush. He liked hearing the clack, clack of the blades in the afternoon stillness. He looked up as a beat-up old Chevy drove through the gate and parked. A spindly man emerged from the car and waved at Ben. Smiling, Ben waved back. The man was carrying a bunch of daisies as he headed toward the woman’s grave. Ben paused and watched the man go about his ritual. First, he gathered up the wilted flowers left behind on his previous visit and meticulously collected all the dead leaves and twigs. Then, after laying his new offering beside the stone, he settled reverentially on the grass. Ben knew the man would sit there a long time; he always did. Every visit was exactly the same. That was part of the comfort.
By the time the man got up to leave, Ben had finished with the hibiscus and was working on the bougainvillea. He watched the man walk slowly back to the car and felt a twinge of sadness as the old Chevy wound along the road toward the cemetery gates. He didn’t even know the man’s name; he only knew that whoever lay buried in that grave was still very much loved. He dropped his hedge clippers and wandered over to where the fresh daisies lay bundled together in a pink ribbon. There was still a dent in the grass where the man had knelt.
The purr of another car starting up caught his attention and he saw the gray Ford pull away from the curb and slowly follow the Chevy out the cemetery gates.
And what did that mean? Funny goings-on, all right.
He looked down at the name on the stone: Jennifer Brook, 28 years old. Already a dead leaf had blown onto the grave and now lay trembling in the wind. He shook his head.
Such a young woman. Such a shame.
* * *
“YOU GOT A ham on rye, hold the mayo, and a call on line four,” said Sergeant Brophy, dropping a brown bag on the desk.
Pokie, faced with the choice between a sandwich and a blinking telephone, reached for the sandwich. After all, a man had to set his priorities, and he figured a growling stomach ranked somewhere near the top of anyone’s priority list. He nodded at the phone. “Who’s calling?”
“Ransom.”
“Not again.”
“He’s demanding we open a file on the O’Brien case.”
“Why the hell’s he keep bugging us about that case, anyway?”
“I think he’s got a thing for that—that—” Brophy’s face suddenly screwed up as he teetered on the brink of a sneeze and he whipped out a handkerchief just in time to muffle the explosion “—doctor lady. You know. Hearts ’n’ flowers.”
“Davy?” Pokie laughed out a clump of ham sandwich. “Men like Davy don’t go for hearts ’n’ flowers. Think they’re too damn smart for all that romantic crap.”
“No man’s that smart,” Brophy said glumly.
There was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer poked his head into the office. “Lieutenant? You got a summons from on high.”
“Chief?”
“He’s stuck with an office full of reporters. They’re askin’ about that missing Sasaki girl. Wants ya up there like ten minutes ago.”
Pokie looked down regretfully at his sandwich. Unfortunately, on that cosmic list of priorities, a summons from the chief ranked somewhere on a par with breathing. Sighing, he left the sandwich on his desk and pulled on his jacket.
“What about Ransom?” reminded Brophy, nodding at the blinking telephone.
“Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“When?”
“Next year,” Pokie grunted as he headed for the door. He added under his breath, “If he’s lucky.”
* * *
DAVID MUTTERED AN oath as he slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the car door. “We just got the brush-off.”
Kate stared at him. “But they’ve seen Jenny Brook’s file. They’ve talked to Kahanu—”
“They say there’s not enough evidence to open a murder investigation. As far as they’re concerned, Ellen O’Brien died of malpractice. End of subject.”
“Then we’re on our own.”
“Wrong. We’re pulling out.” Suddenly agitated, he started the engine and drove away from the curb. “Things are getting too dangerous.”
“They’ve been dangerous from the start. Why are you getting cold feet now?”
“Okay, I admit it. Up till now I wasn’t sure I believed you—”
“You thought I was lying?”
“There was always this—this nagging doubt in the back of my mind. But now we’re hearing about stolen hospital charts. People breaking into lawyer’s offices. There’s something weird going on here, Kate. This isn’t the work of a raging psychopath. It’s too reasoned. Too methodical.” He frowned at the road ahead. “And it all has to do with Jenny Brook. There’s something dangerous about her hospital chart, something our killer wants to keep hidden.”
“But we’ve gone over that thing a dozen times, David! It’s just a medical record.”
“Then we’re overlooking something. And I’m counting on Charlie Decker to tell us what it is. I say we sit tight and wait for the police to find him.”
Charlie Decker, she thought. Her doom or her salvation? She stared out at the late-afternoon traffic and tried to remember his face. Up till now, the image had been jelled in fear; every time she’d thought of his face in the mirror, she’d felt an automatic surge of terror. Now she tried to ignore the sweat forming on her palms, the racing of her pulse. She forced herself to think of that face with its tired, hollow eyes. Killer’s eyes? She didn’t know anymore. She looked down at Jenny Brook’s chart, lying on her lap. Did it contain some vital clue to Decker’s madness?
“I’ll corner Pokie tomorrow,” said David, weaving impatiently through traffic. “See if I can’t change his mind about the O’Brien case.”
“And if you can’t convince him?”
“I’m very convincing.”
“He’ll want more evidence.”
“Then let him find it. I think we’ve gone as far as we can on this. It’s time for us to back off.”
“I can’t, David. I have a career at stake—”
“What about your life?”
“My career is my life.”
“There’s one helluva big difference.”
She turned away. “I can’t really expect you to understand. It’s not your fight.”
But he did understand. An
d it worried him, that note of stubbornness in her voice. She reminded him of one of those ancient warriors who’d rather fall on their swords than accept defeat.
“You’re wrong,” he told her. “About it not being my fight.”
“You don’t have anything at stake.”
“Don’t forget I pulled out of the case—a potentially lucrative case, I might add.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I cost you such a nice fee.”
“You think I care about the money? I don’t give a damn about the money. It’s my reputation I put on the line. And all because I happened to believe that crazy story of yours. Murder on the operating table! I’m going to look like a fool if it can’t be proved. So don’t tell me I have nothing to lose!” By now he was yelling. He couldn’t help it. She could accuse him of any number of things and he wouldn’t bat an eye. But accusing him of not giving a damn was something he couldn’t stand.
Gripping the steering wheel, he forced his gaze back to the road. “The worst part is,” he muttered, “I’m a lousy liar. And I think the O’Briens can tell.”
“You mean you didn’t tell them the truth?”
“That I think their daughter was murdered? Hell, no. I took the easy way out. I told them I had a conflict of interest. A nice, noncommittal excuse. I figured they couldn’t get too upset since I’m referring the case to a good firm.”
“You’re doing what?” She stared at him.
“I was their attorney, Kate. I have to protect their interests.”
“Naturally.”
“This hasn’t been easy, you know,” he went on. “I don’t like to shortchange my clients. Any of them. They’re dealing with enough tragedy in their lives. The least I can do is see they get a decent shot at justice. It bothers the hell out of me when I can’t deliver what I promise. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I understand perfectly well.”
He knew by the hurt tone of her voice that she really didn’t. And that annoyed him because he thought she should understand.
She sat motionless as he pulled into the driveway. He parked the car and turned off the engine but she made no move to get out. They lingered there in the shadowy heat of the garage as the silence between them stretched into minutes. When she finally spoke again, it was in the flat tones of a stranger.
“I’ve put you in a compromising position, haven’t I?”
His answer was a curt nod.
“I’m sorry.”
“Look, forget about it, okay?” He got out and opened her door. She was still sitting there, rigid as a statue. “Well?” he asked. “Are you coming inside?”
“Only to pack.”
He felt an odd little thump of dismay in his chest, which he tried to ignore. “You’re leaving?”
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” she answered tightly. “You went out on a limb and you didn’t have to. Maybe, at the start, we needed each other. But it’s obvious this…arrangement is no longer in your best interests. Or mine, for that matter.”
“I see,” he said, though he didn’t. In fact he thought she was acting childishly. “And just where do you plan to go?”
“I’ll stay with friends.”
“Oh, great. Spread the danger to them.”
“Then I’ll check into a hotel.”
“Your purse was stolen, remember? You don’t have any money, credit cards.” He paused for dramatic effect. “No nothing.”
“Not at the moment, but—”
“Or are you planning to ask me for a loan?”
“I don’t need your help,” she snapped. “I’ve never needed any man’s help!”
He briefly considered the old-fashioned method of brute force, but knowing her sense of pride, he didn’t think it would work. So he simply retorted, “Suit yourself,” and stalked off to the house.
While she was packing, he paced back and forth in the kitchen, trying to ignore his growing sense of uneasiness. He grabbed a carton of milk out of the refrigerator and took a gulp straight from the container. I should order her to stay, he thought. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. He shoved the milk back in the refrigerator, slammed the door and stormed toward her bedroom.
But just as he got there, he pulled himself up short. Bad idea. He knew exactly how she’d react if he started shouting out orders. You just didn’t push a woman like Kate Chesne around. Not if you were smart.
He hulked in the doorway and watched as she folded a dress and tucked it neatly into a suitcase. The fading daylight was glimmering behind her in the window. She swept back a stray lock of hair and a lead weight seemed to lodge in his throat as he glimpsed the bruised cheek. It reminded him how vulnerable she really was. Despite her pride and her so-called independence, she was really just a woman. And like any woman, she could be hurt.
She noticed him in the doorway and she paused, nightgown in hand. “I’m almost finished,” she said, matter-of-factly tossing the nightgown on top of the other clothes. He couldn’t help glancing twice at the mound of peach-colored silk. He felt that lead weight drop into his belly. “Have you called a cab yet?” she asked, turning back to the dresser.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be a minute. Could you call one now?”
“I’m not going to.”
She turned and frowned at him. “What?”
“I said I’m not going to call a cab.”
His announcement seemed to leave her momentarily stunned. “Fine,” she said calmly. “Then I’ll call one myself.” She started for the door. But as she walked past him, he caught her by the arm.
“Kate, don’t.” He pulled her around to face him. “I think you should stay.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not safe out there.”
“The world’s never been safe. I’ve managed.”
“Oh, yeah. What a tough broad you are. And what happens when Decker catches up?”
She yanked her arm away. “Don’t you have better things to worry about?”
“Like what?”
“Your sense of ethics? After all, I wouldn’t want to ruin your precious reputation.”
“I can take care of my own reputation, thank you.”
She threw her head back and glared straight up at him. “Then maybe it’s time I took better care of mine!”
They were standing so close he could almost feel the heat mounting in waves between them. What happened next was as unexpected as a case of spontaneous combustion. Their gazes locked. Her eyes suddenly went wide with surprise. And need. Despite all her false bravado, he could see it brimming there in those deep, green pools.
“What the hell,” he growled, his voice rough with desire. “I think both our reputations are already shot.”
And then he gave in to the impulse that had been battering at his willpower all day. He hauled her close into his arms and kissed her. It was a long and savagely hungry kiss. She gave a weak murmur of protest, just before she sagged backward against the doorway. Almost immediately he felt her respond, her body molding itself against his. It was a perfect fit. Absolutely perfect. Her arms twined around his neck and as he urged her lips apart with his, the kiss became desperately urgent. Her moan sent a sweet agony of desire knifing through to his belly.
The same sweet fire was now engulfing Kate. She felt him fumbling for the buttons of her dress but his fingers seemed as clumsy as a teenager’s exploring the unfamiliar territory of a woman’s body. With a groan of frustration, he tugged the dress off her shoulders; it seemed to fall in slow motion, hissing down her hips to the floor. The lace bra magically melted away and his hand closed around her breast, branding her flesh with his fingers. Under his pleasuring stroke, her nipple hardened instantly and they both knew that this time there would be no retreat; only surrender.
Already she was groping at his shirt, her breath coming in hot, frantic little whimpers as she tried to work the buttons free. Damn. Damn. Now they were both yanking at the shirt. Together
they stripped it off his shoulders and she immediately sought his chest, burying her fingers in the bristling gold hairs.
By the time they’d stumbled down the hall and into the evening glow of his bedroom, his shoes and socks were tossed to the four corners of the room, his pants were unzipped and his arousal was plainly evident.
The bed creaked in protest as he fell on top of her, his hands trapping her face beneath his. There were no preludes, no formalities. They couldn’t wait. With his mouth covering hers and his hands buried in her hair, he thrust into her, so deeply that she cried out against his lips.
He froze, his whole body suddenly tense. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.
“No…oh, no….”
It took only one look at her face to tell him it wasn’t pain that had made her cry out, but pleasure—in him, in what he was doing to her. She tried to move; he held her still, his face taut as he struggled for control. Somehow, she’d always known he would claim her. Even when the voice of common sense had told her it was impossible, she’d known he would be the one.
She couldn’t wait. She was moving in spite of him, matching agony for agony.
He let her take him to the very brink and then, when he knew it was inevitable, he surrendered himself to the fall. In a frenzy he took control and plunged them both over the cliff.
The drop was dizzying.
The landing left them weak and exhausted. An eternity passed, filled with the sounds of their breathing. Sweat trickled over his back and onto her naked belly. Outside, the waves roared against the seawall.
“Now I know what it’s like to be devoured,” she whispered as the glow of sunset faded in the window.
“Is that what I did?”
She sighed. “Completely.”
He chuckled and his mouth glided warmly to her earlobe. “No, I think there’s still something here to eat.”
Under the Knife Page 14
