Paradise Crime Mysteries

by Toby Neal

  “Watanabe is holed up at the Maui Beach Hotel.” Ken slipped his phone back into his belt holster. “That’s handy, since that’s where the Bureau put us up for the night.”

  “Good,” Lei said. “Let’s go get her.” They climbed into a borrowed SUV and roared out of the busy station parking lot.

  The Maui Beach Hotel, located in the middle of Kahului across from the mall, was a three-star establishment built in the 1980s whose main attraction was convenience. Lei and Ken checked into their rooms (double beds in lackluster pastel tropical print, rattan furniture) and reconvened at the bar, where the front desk clerk had directed them.

  Wendy Watanabe perched on a bar stool in front of the mirrored bar, a five-foot powerhouse in a purple suit. Her cameraman had set his equipment on the floor near them, and both of them were blowing foam off pulled pints of beer. Lei settled herself on the stool beside Watanabe and flipped open her cred wallet for the reporter to see. Ken took the stool on the other side of the cameraman, a gangly young man sporting patchy whiskers.

  Watanabe took a sip of her beer, expressionless. “Took you guys long enough to come talk to us.”

  “We’ve been busy chasing the kid. What do you call him? The Smiley Bandit,” Lei said.

  “He calls himself that.” Watanabe took another sip, reached for a pretzel. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like your cooperation in how you share info on this story,” Ken said. “Barring that, we’re working on a gag order.”

  “Gag order.” Watanabe circled the rim of her stein with a finger, licked off the foam. “That’s never gonna fly. And I’m simply reporting what the public wants to know—deserves to know. This is a great story, and the Bandit approached me with it.”

  “Sounds like you’re a sympathizer.” Lei realized she was hungry and barely stopped herself from reaching for the pretzels—but instinctively knew that eating in front of Watanabe would be a sign of weakness.

  “Well, it’s not like the kid’s keeping the money. He’s finding causes that deserve some attention and bringing that attention to them—even if they have to return his contributions. Did you know the homeless shelter brought in close to twenty-five thousand in donations in the days after the Bandit left that box on their steps?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The Bandit’s a thief, and it’s our job to catch him and lock him up.” Lei felt defensiveness flare—a reaction to her own ambivalence. She hated shades of gray, and there were so many in this case.

  “Hey, did it ever occur to you that this kid isn’t hurting anyone? Taking a little loose change from the superwealthy, redistributing it to organizations that need it—how is that so wrong?” The cameraman, whose dangling plastic ID tag read CRAIG SALTZMAN, worked up some heat.

  “That’s for a court to decide,” Lei said. “We can’t have vigilantes and burglars trying to equalize society.”

  “Besides, there’s the dog,” Ken said. “It’s almost like a hostage.”

  “You mean the little Chihuahua we saw in the video?” Watanabe asked. “That’s what makes this kid a reprehensible criminal? There’s been no hint of any threat against the dog.”

  “Wow, reprehensible is a big word.” Lei gave back some attitude. “Trying to obfuscate the case with moral overtones doesn’t change the fact that the unsub is breaking into houses and helping himself to whatever he can carry. We want access to all of your communication with the Smiley Bandit. You can spin this story any way you want when it’s over and he’s in custody.”

  A long pause while Watanabe and the pimply faced cameraman thought this over. “We’ll keep airing whatever he sends us until we get that gag order,” Watanabe said finally.

  “There’s another thing—the unsub is armed. He took a loaded gun from the safe of the Witherspoons’ Kaneohe house. Just having that gun means he could use deadly force and changes the measures law enforcement will use to bring him in. So we need to take him peacefully, for his own safety.” Lei wondered if she’d made the right choice telling the reporter even as the words left her mouth, especially as she felt Ken’s sharp glance.

  “Can I quote you on that?” Watanabe asked.

  “No way. Probably shouldn’t have told you. But we’re worried someone’s going to get hurt now—most likely, the Bandit.” Lei realized as she said it how true it was, how much she really was worried the kid would get shot in the course of the chase—or, God forbid, create some sort of “suicide by cop” situation when capture was inevitable.

  “All right, then.” Watanabe drained the last of her beer and plunked it down. “I’ll share what I have.”

  “Would you help us bring the kid in? Offer an interview or something?”

  “You think I haven’t already tried that?” The reporter snorted delicately. “Not that I planned to trap him—but I would have loved to interview him, backlit or something. But he flat-out refused. I’ll forward the emails.” She slid off the stool, bent over her shiny patent crocodile briefcase, and pulled out a laptop. “Give me an email address to forward everything to.”

  “Why don’t we do a clone of your hard drive?” Ken asked. “Then we can see what comes in as it comes in.”

  “No way. My computer’s privileged.”

  Ken sighed as he told her the agency e-mail address, and Watanabe’s fingers flew over the flat silvery keys.

  “So he got my e-mail at the station, and he’s been sending in the videos. There’s been a little back-and-forth between us, but the IPs of each computer sending in the material are all over Honolulu—I already had our IT guy trying to trace them.”

  “Has he gone back to the same Internet café twice?” Lei asked.

  “No. But there have to be two of them operating—the one flying the plane and the one making the videos—unless he’s figured out how to have someone else just upload the videos for him after he sends them.”

  “An interesting conclusion.” Lei was not about to add anything more than she already had to Watanabe’s conjecture.

  “So do you have a profile worked up on the Bandit?” Watanabe asked, slanting a look at Ken.

  “This information flow is going to be one-way,” Ken said. “Until we know we can trust you.”

  “I’m wondering what I’m getting out of all this.” Watanabe wrinkled her pert little nose.

  “I think you can be confident in having the exclusive inside track on the story.” Ken glanced at Lei. “We have to check with our special agent in charge on Oahu, but it seems reasonable.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Watanabe stood and tugged down her tiny purple jacket. “What a concession. So who are you looking at in terms of suspects?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” Lei smiled. Persistence was a trait she’d always admired. “Why do you think the unsub chose you?”

  “I cover a lot of youth events. I got my start reporting on high school football games and such. I think he must have become familiar with me that way. Perhaps I even interviewed him at one time.”

  Ken narrowed his eyes at Lei. “Get Ang on that,” he said. Lei slid off her stool and walked out through the glass sliders overlooking the hotel’s claim to fame, a wind-ruffled pool skirted in palm trees and cement. She speed-dialed the Honolulu lab.

  “What’s up?” Ang answered.

  “Aren’t you supposed to answer, ‘Special Agent Sophie Ang’?” Lei said.

  “Yeah. But I saw it was you. What do you need?”

  “Can you pull up footage of Wendy Watanabe’s youth reporting coverage on events? She thinks the kid might be someone she interviewed, or someone whose event she covered a few years ago before she switched to Features.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll run a cross-reference with all employees of Paradise Air and their offspring.”

  “Great. That could help. Keep us posted.” Lei punched off and went back into the bar. Watanabe and her cameraman were settling up the bill.

  “Ms. Watanabe thought of something. A videotaped appeal to the kid to turn himself in. She says
she won’t need a gag order if we do that for her,” Ken said.

  “Whoa.” Lei glanced at Watanabe. “What does Waxman think of that?”

  “I’ve got a call in to him.” Just then Ken’s phone rang, and after a brief exchange, Ken hung up. “Okay, Waxman’s all right with it. He wants you to do the recording.”

  “Oh shit, really? Me?”

  “The new face of the FBI in Hawaii—young, female, and multicultural,” Ken said. “Let’s work out what you say.”

  Wendy Watanabe eyed Lei critically. “Got any makeup?”

  Lei didn’t dignify that with an answer as Ken pulled her aside. They jotted the main points Waxman had authorized her to cover and rejoined Watanabe and Staltzman, who were setting up a chair and portable light in one of the corners of the nearly deserted bar.

  Lei sat in the chair and Watanabe sat in another one kitty-corner to her.

  “I really have to touch you up.” Watanabe reached over to button Lei’s jacket. “Let’s have your badge visible, too. If your boss wants you to be the “face of the FBI in Hawaii,” we have to make you look good.”

  Lei’s sweaty palms and racing heart weren’t helping things any. She rubbed her hands on her pants, unclipped her badge from her belt and clipped it onto the slit of a breast pocket. “Okay. I guess.”

  Watanabe whipped out her makeup bag and touched up Lei’s eyes with plum eye shadow, a flick of mascara, powder over nose and forehead, and finally, a raspberry lip stain. She sat back and admired her handiwork. “You should wear makeup more often.”

  Lei flipped open the powder compact and took in her changed appearance. She really did have big brown eyes and a nice mouth. Even her freckled olive skin looked better. She fluffed wind-frizzed curls. “Can you do anything about this, though?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Watanabe took another zippered pouch out of her crocodile briefcase. “Shut your eyes.” She spritzed Lei’s curls with water and scrunched them with some sort of product.

  Minutes later, Lei blinked into the mirror again. “Can I have you work me over every day?”

  Watanabe smiled. “You learn a thing or two getting made over every day for work, but most of the time I’m in the field and have to do my own hair and makeup. So I’ve picked up a few things. You always have to put on a little more for the camera.”

  Saltzman had his camera on a tripod. He aimed at Lei and switched on the light. She was now looking into brightness, but she could see Watanabe beside her.

  “Ready?” Watanabe asked, shuffling a couple of cards she’d been working on while Lei and Ken conferred.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Lei straightened her jacket for the fourth time.

  The little red light on the camera began blinking as Watanabe turned that high-wattage smile on. “Aloha from Maui. This is Wendy Watanabe reporting on the case everyone’s talking about—the remarkable story of the Smiley Bandit. If you’ve missed it so far, the Bandit is a modern-day Robin Hood who began a burglary spree at the mansion of Max Smiley, owner of Paradise Airlines. Taking his moniker from Mr. Smiley, the Smiley Bandit stole an ultralight plane and has hit three houses, donating the proceeds to some worthy and relatively unknown charities.” She turned that toothy smile on Lei. “With us today is Special Agent Lei Texeira. Agent Texeira, what can you tell us about the investigation so far?”

  Already this wasn’t what Lei was prepared for. Dammit, Watanabe was going to try and knock something loose on air. Lei licked her lips and tasted raspberry lipstick. “Well, we can’t give out much information at this time. But we know that the unsub made it across the channel to Maui, and that’s why we’re here.”

  “And right away, the Bandit hit another house in Haiku.” Watanabe shared the details of the burglary as Lei sweated under the light. She finally turned to Lei, extending the wand of her microphone like a scepter. “What is the FBI doing to apprehend the Smiley Bandit here on Maui?”

  “As I said, it’s an open investigation, so I can’t comment much.” Lei swallowed. “We have a high-alert Be on Lookout and a tip line established, so anyone spotting the aircraft, please call in. We are working closely with Maui Police Department personnel, and our first concern is safety for all concerned.”

  “What is the Bureau’s position on the donations the Bandit has made?”

  “The Bandit’s gifts to charity are merely a gesture on his part, since the money and goods he’s donated have been taken into evidence and are being returned to their rightful owners.”

  “That’s not entirely accurate, Agent Texeira. Both Mr. Smiley and Dr. Witherspoon have chosen to let the donations stand, and it’s likely today’s donation to the Hana Dialysis Clinic will also be allowed.”

  “That’s their right, of course.” Lei narrowed her eyes at the smug reporter—more information Watanabe hadn’t shared. She saw movement behind the camera—Ken working his phone, checking the facts. “Perhaps they weren’t aware of these worthy organizations before.” Lei straightened her jacket, looked straight into the camera, and tried to project warm and kind. “I’m here to ask the Smiley Bandit to come in peacefully. We are concerned for your safety.”

  “Safety, Agent Texeira? You’ve mentioned that twice now. What makes you concerned for the Bandit’s safety?”

  Watanabe was going to try to get her to admit the kid was armed.

  “The ultralight is a very small craft, and accidents happen.” A long pause as Watanabe continued to stare at her, the mike extended. Finally Lei said, “There are a lot of people involved in an investigation. We are relying heavily on Maui Police Department to help support us here on Maui.”

  “Yes. And we know there’s a concern that sometimes police officers shoot first and ask questions later,” Watanabe said triumphantly.

  “I never said that! You’re twisting my words. Smiley Bandit, if you can hear me, please turn yourself in!” Lei stood up. “This interview’s over.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have any further leads?” Wendy asked Lei’s retreating back. “It seems KHIN-2 knows more than you do at this point.”

  “I have one further thing left to say.” Lei whirled, put her hands on her hips, and raised her voice. “Gag order!”

  “You heard it here first.” Watanabe’s voice carried across the bar after Lei as she stomped away. “The FBI plans to silence this reporter, and from then on all the public will know is what they decide.”

  Her voice continued, but Lei stopped hearing it as she stabbed the Up button repeatedly in the lobby.

  “That went well.” Ken spoke from beside her.

  “Dammit, I lost my temper. Oh God. Waxman’s going to have my head.”

  “At least you didn’t give anything more away. And, hopefully, the gag order will come through before they run that story,” Ken said. “We’ve got to get an early start tomorrow, and who knows what the unsub will get up to tonight.”

  “Ang’s on the video thing.” Lei stepped into the elevator. “She’s cross-referencing any Paradise employees or their offspring in Watanabe’s coverage.”

  Glum silence wrapped them as the elevator stopped at their hall, smelling of rug cleaner over cigarette smoke.

  “See you in the morning.” Ken slid his card into the door slot next to hers and stepped into his room. “I’ll let you know what Waxman says tomorrow. No sense worrying about it tonight.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Lei whispered as she entered her room.

  She looked around—at least the room had a sliver of deck overlooking the pool, and she could see the twinkling lights of Kahului Harbor in the distance. Lei shrugged out of her light cotton jacket, hung it up on an empty plastic hanger, unbuckled her shoulder harness, and hung her weapon off the corner of the rattan headboard, unclipped her badge and set it beside the bulbous turquoise jar lamp beside the bed.

  She felt a strange, nervy kind of exhaustion that reminded her she’d been through the adrenaline wringer more than once today. Smart thing would be to take a shower, order room service, watc
h some mind-numbing TV, and fall asleep.

  Instead her mind turned toward Stevens. She imagined him watching the interview on TV, the way she’d been played. Raspberry-red lipstick was not enough to counteract how she’d been made to look a fool—and how she’d lost her temper. She mentally replayed her conversation with him in the Bronco, the tension—the pain of their meeting that had smothered her breathing.

  God, it hurt that he was married. She wondered when it wouldn’t anymore and couldn’t imagine it.

  In the bathroom, Lei stripped out of her dirty clothes and red-dirt-stained black athletic shoes. Water as hot as she could stand pummeled her tight neck and shoulders in the shower. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile and felt tears prickle her eyes. What a God-awful day.

  She remembered her father’s words: “If you believe in your heart and confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, you will be saved.”

  Maybe she did need a little saving after all, whatever that meant. Lei bent her head forward, warm water streaming over her head, down her face, washing away tears as they welled before she could feel them. Her lips moved even as she felt like a hypocrite: “God, help me. Please.”

  She scrubbed down briskly and turned off the water. There was nothing more to be done but go through whatever came next. What she really needed was a good night’s sleep and to bring the Smiley Bandit in safely.

  Somehow, some way, she felt a little better.

  Lei blew on the surface of her hot coffee as she strode across the parking lot behind Ken to the borrowed SUV, on the way to their early-morning briefing at Kahului Station. She’d slept surprisingly well and felt rested and energetic. Her phone buzzed against her hip, and she slipped it out of her jacket pocket.

  “Special Agent Texeira.”

  “Lei, it’s Marcella. Listen, Ang came up with something. Both Rezents and Blackman were in high school sports—Rezents played soccer, and Blackman played football. Ang found video clips where they were each interviewed with a sound bite or two by Watanabe on KHIN-2.”