Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  Russell joined a knot of crime scene personnel to the left of the banyans. A Gothic building—part of the palace complex—stood twenty feet away.

  That was where he found the medical examiner, Keiki Kuoko. “Aloha, brah.”

  “Aloha.” Russell blinked away a speck of dirt the wind had deposited in his left eye. “What’s the deal here?”

  “Sixty-one-year-old female. Worked for the state archives, that building to your left. Superficial examination shows a fit middle-aged woman, no overt signs of disease. Or trauma.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “It’s a toss-up. Cardiac arrest or asphyxiation. But until I get her under the knife, I’d have to go with the latter.”

  “Okay, so asphyxiation. But no signs of trauma?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why are we thinking this is a murder?”

  “Because there’s no reason for her to choke. Airway looks clear. I’ll confirm all this when we get her back to the morgue. But kind of looks like last week’s vic.”

  “Hmm. So that’s two.”

  “Yeah,” Kuoko said. “We can go years without seeing one and now we get two a week apart?”

  “What do you make of that?” Russell asked.

  “Nothing good, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I don’t like it.” Russell pulled out his phone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Buddy of mine I used to work with in San Francisco. Mentored me, kicked my ass about pushing to make detective when I moved here.”

  “He know about asphyxiation deaths?”

  “Nope.” Russell pressed SEND. “But he had a big serial killer case a few years back.”

  “Whoa.” Kuoko removed his reading glasses. “Serial killer? You think that’s what this is? You’re assuming the vics are related.”

  “Don’t know what we’re dealing with. That’s why I’m calling him.”

  Russell waited as the number began to ring. The wind ruffled his blond hair and he brushed it out of his eyes. “Yeah, this is Detective Adam Russell with Honolulu PD. Lance Burden reachable by mobile?”

  “I’ll put you through.”

  A couple of minutes later, Burden answered. “Adam. Long time no hear. You haven’t been on Facebook.”

  “I’m avoiding my ex.”

  “Just un-friend her.”

  “Already did. I divorced her.”

  “No, I mean remove your Faceb—your social media connection to her. Or use the privacy settings to lock her out. All you have to do is—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. This sounds like you’re trying to teach me some kind of technology thing. Must be, because my eyes are starting to glaze over.”

  “You’re such a fucking Luddite.”

  “Just TC. Technologically challenged.”

  “Listen, Adam, I’d love to catch up but I’m in Colorado. Pulling into the convention center parking lot. I’m speaking at a conference on violent crime.”

  “Can you spare a minute? Just wanna run a case by you.”

  “A minute. Need be, I can call you back tonight.”

  “Two murders. Both asphyxiations. Only a week apart.”

  “How old are the vics?”

  “First was sixty-five, second was sixty-one.”

  “They look the same? Physically?”

  Russell turned and studied the body. “Both were brunette, five-five to five-seven. Stout. Glasses.” He crouched closer and examined the head. “Maybe some similar facial structure.”

  “Hmm.”

  Russell heard a door open and then close.

  “You could have a serial on your hands.”

  “That’s what I was worried about,” Russell said. “Can you help me with this one?”

  “Really not my forte. Blind leading the blind kinda thing.”

  “C’mon, man, don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Got a better idea. I’ll text you the name and number of Karen Vail. Call her.”

  “Who?”

  “Profiler at the Bureau.”

  “Shit no, Lance. No FBI.”

  “Trust me. She’ll do right by you. Worked with her on that Alcatraz case. Couldn’t have broken it without her.”

  “Wait, the redhead.”

  “Yep.”

  “I remember her. I was in the room when Friedberg went missing. Never got to meet her though. You know, face-to-face.”

  “She’s worth the call. Trust me.”

  He sighed audibly. “You better be right.”

  “She’s a handful but all you gotta remember is that if she jabs you, jab her back.”

  “Don’t I always hit back?”

  “This is different. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Russell grinned. “Miss you, brah.”

  “Sweet Jesus. Please stop with that island lingo.”

  “I’ll call you next time I’m in town to visit my parents. We can grab lunch at your favorite place, the one by the Ferry Building. Slanted Door.”

  “You buying?”

  Russell laughed. “Don’t I always?”

  “You always forget your wallet.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Russell grabbed hold of one of the banyan tree’s vertical branches. “Hey, don’t forget to text me that fibbie’s number.”

  “Soon as I get inside.”

  “Break a leg. And Mahalo.”

  3

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Karen Vail was in an Uber on her way to McCarren International, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. Vail and airports did not get along well. It had nothing to do with air travel. If the place had been a person, she would have to admit, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  Her fiancé, Robby Hernandez, would say that she was always the problem. And she could not argue with him. Well, she could, and often did. But much of the time he had a point.

  And sometimes I even admit he’s right.

  Vail glanced back for one final look at the casinos. The last time she had been in Vegas she was working a wide-ranging case that exposed a criminal ring with roots in Northern California. It was one of those cases that stayed with you for your entire life. The only positive to come from it was the realization of how she felt about Robby.

  It was now time for them to get married.

  As she examined her calendar and pondered potential dates, her phone rang. It was a number she did not recognize. She had been getting spammed by stupid robocalls so she recorded a new outgoing voice mail message: “I’m screening my calls, so leave a message and I’ll call you back. If you’re a robocaller, may whoever programmed you be struck with pestilence and cyber plague.”

  Okay, so the announcement was not quite that harsh—but it was close. Robby suggested she make the outgoing message more, well, outgoing. More friendly, less angry.

  She countered that suggestion by pointing out that her tactic had worked. People stopped phoning her. Even her friends.

  Of course, that was her personal line. Her Bureau voice mail was another matter. That had to be professional. And she could not screen her calls because she never knew who might need to reach her.

  She caught it before it clicked over the voice mail. “Karen Vail.”

  “This is Adam Russell, Honolulu PD. San Francisco Inspector Lance Burden gave me your name.”

  “You a hitman?”

  “A what?”

  “An assassin.”

  “I’m a detective. Why would you th—”

  “Never know with Burden.”

  “Umm. Okay.”

  “So you’re a detective. Let me do some detecting. You’d like my help on a case.”

  “A couple of cases, actually.”

  “Two? Did not see that coming.”

  “What would it take for you t
o sit down with me and look things over? On these cases.”

  “I’m in Vegas on my way to the airport right now. Headed home. Virginia. Wrong direction—for you.”

  “Can I convince you to change your flight? You’re already halfway here. Be a shame, you know? You’re so close.”

  Yeah, a shame. “Not sure a five-hour flight is what I’d call close. There’s paperwork you have to fill out. And my unit chief has to approve it.”

  “You think it’d be a problem?”

  With my unit chief? You better believe it.

  “Shouldn’t be. If it’s legitimately something the Behavioral Analysis Unit should be consulting on, we’re at your service. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Vail listened to the quick summary and absorbed it all. She did not offer anything of value because, well, she did not have enough information to reach any kind of conclusions. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. I’ll email you the forms, check with my boss, and call you back.”

  Personally, diverting to Oahu was not a big deal. Robby was working long hours on a case for the Drug Enforcement Administration, so it was not like he would miss her much if she were gone another few days. Her son Jonathan, a student at George Washington University, could stop by the house and feed and walk Hershey, their brown—and gradually turning silver—standard poodle.

  Professionally, Vail had no court appearances for the next ten days and she was current on all of her cases. But Oahu was not her decision.

  She thought of calling her unit’s assistant special agent in charge, Thomas Gifford, and asking him, but she knew that would be overstepping. Now that she had a unit chief again, the request had to go through her. It’s not that Vail didn’t like Stacey DiCarlo. It’s just that she didn’t respect her. And DiCarlo could be a bitch at times, spiteful and jealous. She also overcompensated for being a woman and treated Vail with a double standard.

  Hmm. So maybe it is that I don’t like her.

  Vail’s call with DiCarlo went as she suspected.

  “Agent Vail, this isn’t how we do things. It’s not how I do things. Have the forms submitted and I’ll review them. If it makes sense for the unit to take the case, I’ll put it into the system.”

  “I understand that. But—”

  “This detective needs to know we have procedures for a reason. Otherwise he’ll expect an immediate response from us going forward. And then other departments will find out that we pushed his case to the top of the pile and they’ll want us to drop everything too. You need to understand that as well.”

  “I get it,” Vail said. “Wasn’t my idea, ma’am. He called me. And I am already out here on the west coast, so flying to Hawaii to get the lay of the land, see a fresh crime scene, and get a head start on this case is a big help. And a hell of a lot more efficient than flying ten hours again next week. Better use of my time. But believe me—I’d be very happy to come home.”

  “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “Yep, I sure did. If you give me the go-ahead, I’ll make it clear to him that this isn’t the way we normally do things.”

  And I’ll tell him you’re an anal administrator who doesn’t know a thing about profiling, let alone policing.

  “And I’ll let him know you’re making a special exception and that he owes you. Big-time.”

  Silence.

  “It does make sense,” Vail said. “And it’ll ultimately be a lot more efficient for us.”

  After a long moment, DiCarlo groaned. “Fine. Do it. Just don’t ask me for any more favors this month.”

  “I’m not asking for a favor here. I’ll do whatever you prefer. If you want me to come right home, I’m very happy doing that.”

  “Do you want to go Oahu or not?”

  Didn’t I just answer that? “Whether or not I want to go is irrelevant. It’s your call. Obviously.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  I think I’d rather have a root canal than continue this conversation.

  “Okay, I’ll just keep my scheduled flight and come home.”

  “No. Divert to Oahu. Lenka will email you your new itinerary.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Bitch.

  Vail dialed Russell and told him he was in luck. “I got approval to take the case. I’m obviously not packed for a longer trip, so as long as you can point me to a Victoria’s Secret to get some clean underwear, I can be on the next flight.”

  “We just had sensitivity, Agent Vail. I don’t think I should touch that comment with a six-inch pole.”

  Sensitivity training, eh?

  “Sounds like you need another course. Forget Victoria’s Secret. Macy’s is fine. Or even a local laundromat where I can do a wash.”

  “Boss wants you to get right to work. Tell me what size you need and I’ll pick up some underwear for you.”

  “And tampons.”

  “Maxi or mini?”

  Wise guy.

  “You’re married.”

  Russell laughed. “Let’s just say I have gone on shopping runs for the wife. You’d be surprised at some of the stuff I’ve bought. Tampons ain’t nothing. What about you?”

  “Married? Was. Divorced. Or actually widowed. Doesn’t really matter, I guess, because I would’ve killed him anyway.”

  Russell laughed.

  I wasn’t joking.

  “But I figured I can’t make the same mistake twice, so I decided to go for a sequel. Get it right this time. If my fiancé and I ever get our acts together.” Vail felt her Samsung vibrate: Lenka’s email. “Pulling into the airport. I’ll text you the flight info. Have someone pick me up?”

  “Already got it covered.”

  4

  Queens, New York

  May 19, 1982

  The air in their apartment was hot, humid, still, and stale. A cockroach scrambled by Scott’s feet. He watched it disappear under the beaten-up wood of the kitchen cabinet.

  A growling rumble of disappointment emerged from his mother’s throat. She was a stout woman built like a wrestler, with a constitution to match. “Whaddya want, an invitation? Eat your cereal.”

  Scott squirmed in his seat. “I don’t like it. It tastes bad.”

  Mary took a step forward, right up to Scott’s back, and leaned over his head. He hated when she stood behind him and issued orders. It made him uncomfortable. “Eat the oatmeal.”

  “I want Cocoa Puffs.”

  “Don’t got no Cocoa Puffs. Wasn’t on sale this week. Eat what you got. Or go hungry. Ain’t tellin’ you ’gain.”

  Scott craned his young neck back and looked up at his mother. “Okayyy,” he said, drawing out the word. He dug his spoon into the thick, congealed mass and dug up a well-formed crescent of muck. As he pondered it, wishing he had a dog to feed it to under the table, he saw another cockroach crawling on the windowsill. A train rattled by outside, the glass shaking and vibrating for a long moment as the subway passed on the elevated platform.

  “All right, gimme that.”

  She reached forward for the bowl—just a gesture, Scott knew—she was not really going to take it away. Not yet.

  He looked down at the red-tinged oatmeal in front of him. He stuck the oatmeal in his mouth and a syrupy sweetness smothered his tongue. “I don’t like it.”

  “You’re talkin’ back. Don’t talk back. Now eat.”

  “It’s too sweet.”

  “You knucklehead. What kid don’t like his sugar?”

  Scott shrugged. He liked candy. And chocolate. And Pop Tarts. But this wasn’t like any of those. “Why’s it red?”

  “I put some Hawaiian Punch in it. You like Hawaiian Punch.”

  He closed his mouth and made a face as he worked the mush to the back of his throat. Another spoonful and again he forced it down.

  His mother harrumphed and turned, walked over
to the sink and started washing the dishes, her back to him. He looked at the garbage pail that stood six feet to her right, about three steps away from him. He knew there were roaches in there, likely some ants too, but he did not want any more of this disgusting cereal. It never tasted so sweet like this before. Whatever it was, he was not going to swallow another bite.

  “You eatin’?” Mary asked, not bothering to turn around.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She did not respond, just kept scrubbing the pot with a Brillo pad.

  Scott quietly rose from his wood chair—it was the one that squeaked, so he had to be careful—and tiptoed over to the trash bin. He lifted the top—and dammit, there were about a dozen reddish-brown cockroaches inside crawling about the trash.

  He tipped the bowl over and the lump of hard, red gelatinous oatmeal fell inside atop the bugs. Scott smiled at his ingenuity and stealth, then turned and walked up to his mother.

  Her right arm stopped and she turned slowly, her brow hard and eyebrows downcast. “Whatchoo want.”

  “I’m done.”

  “Bullshit. You eat any?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Don’t believe you. How much?”

  “Half.”

  Mary stared at Scott. He had become good at disguising his emotions, at lying and not letting it show on his face.

  “Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out.”

  He did as instructed. She looked—perhaps inspecting it for the deep red shading of Hawaiian Punch as proof. “Fine. Go get ready for school.”

  “I have to go today?”

  “Well I don’t want you around under my feet all day.”

  “First grade sucks.”

  She slapped him across the cheek. “Watch your mouth. You ain’t allowed to curse in front of me.”

  Scott did not cry. He just stood there staring at his mother. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Now go get your backpack from your room. And wait by the door for the bus.”