by Toby Neal
“I know.” Lei reached out, clasped one of the girl’s small, cold hands as it covered the gruesome photo. “I get it. I always did.”
Consuelo told her all she knew, and Lei left the room working her phone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lei was the last in line, hunched over in the dim light of evening, behind the Homeland Security and SWAT teams. Perspiration beaded up on her lip as her heart thundered inside the tightness of the boldly marked FBI vest. She wore a helmet with a face guard, too, and her FBI teammates, ahead of her, were anonymous in their gear. They were primed to move on the intel she’d brought in from Consuelo.
She hoped like hell the girl hadn’t hung her out to dry.
They crouched in the alley of a run-down downtown building, the heat of the day’s sunshine radiating from the stucco-covered cement beside Lei and increasing the sweat she felt collecting between her breasts. She held her Glock in the “down” position. Marcella’s shapely backside was directly ahead of her, recognizable even in the anonymity of their navy uniforms. She scanned the area, eyes checking for movement, but the alley was empty except for their crouched forms. At the front of the abandoned building, another team was poised to breach the other door.
She focused on her breathing and lowering her heart rate: In through the mouth, out through the nose. In through the mouth, out through the nose.
Just when she didn’t think she could stand the suspense another minute, the team leader gave the signal and two of the agents swung the door cannon. The metal-reinforced door smashed inward with a boom.
The SWAT team poured in, well-coordinated as a martial-arts drill, and Lei followed Marcella, Rogers, and Ken as they trailed the team, checking through the empty, abandoned warehouse for the door that led to a downstairs cellar—a room Rezents, Blackman, and Consuelo had used as their recording studio for the videos and as a secure headquarters.
Lei waited at the top of the stairs as the rattle of gunfire broke out going down. This was the protocol—Homeland was in charge and the FBI were just there to observe and support.
Another rattle of gunfire; then she heard a laconic, “Proceed.”
She sidled down bare, run-down wooden stairs behind Marcella, the Glock a welcome and familiar weight that gave her eyes and hands a focus as her heart thundered in her ears, amplified by her helmet.
The floor of the cellar area looked like a frat house in a bad movie. Futons decorated the floors, and the video area was a chair in front of a black curtain tacked against the wall with a camera on a tripod pointed at it.
Tom Blackman lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him, turned away from her with his arm extended and a pistol still in his hand. Lei recognized him from his photo, even with a beard shrouding his face. His dirty blond hair was longer, and his eyes were closed.
One of the Homeland agents kicked the pistol away while another knelt and felt for a pulse at his neck. He turned back to them, shaking his head.
“Damn.” Marcella’s voice came through the comm in the helmet. Lei could tell by the flatness of her tone that the agent’s comment wasn’t out of sympathy. The fact was, now they’d have no way to get any more information on the Smiley Mafia from Blackman.
Lei holstered her weapon. “Rezents?” she asked.
“No sign,” the Homeland agent said.
One of the agents had been hit, and a few of his fellow officers were administering first aid. It looked like a shoulder wound, not serious. She could hear the cry of emergency response sirens, muffled but penetrating even to this underground bunker, scented with the tang of blood and an overnote of unwashed bodies and mildew.
Lei looked around at three futons in a row against the wall. There was one rumpled sleeping bag on one of them. Accumulated trash from packaged food overflowed a plastic bag, and a stack of pizza boxes towered against one wall, adding a twist of rotting food to the smells she was already battling.
Against another wall was a table littered with the detritus of bomb making—sticks of dynamite. A can of gunpowder. A jug of ammonia. Duct tape, sections of pipe, bags of nails.
Nothing good could come of such things.
Her heart sank for Consuelo—had she known this was where the Smiley Mafia movement was headed? Or had Blackman and Rezents been the ones to take it there? There was only one of them left to bring in, and hopefully the “virus” would be contained.
But even with Blackman dead at her feet, Lei had a bad feeling about it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lei drove her Tacoma home along busy Ala Moana Boulevard through the cooling blue light of evening two days later. She realized she hadn’t seen the ocean in days—in fact, ever since they’d chased down the Hummel, time seemed to have both speeded up to a blur and slowed down to a series of snapshots that was all her memory seemed able to maintain.
On impulse, she turned off onto the little side road that led to Waikiki Yacht Harbor.
Lei parked the truck near the breakwall, pulling up against the decrepit cement parapet. This public parking area was a holdout for locals, even in downtown Waikiki, and she watched surfers as the sun set behind the turquoise-blue waves peeling near the harbor jetty.
She hadn’t slept well the last few days, those snatched dark hours between endless briefings, conference calls, and scrounging through the crime scenes for any prints or DNA that would tie their three suspects to the crime sites in Kahala and Kaneohe. Other than the comfort of Angel sleeping in her air mattress with her, curled up against the back of her neck, there wasn’t anything in her life she was enjoying right now.
Lei actually missed the time in her career when a good day in law enforcement had been breaking up a bar scuffle, chasing down a purse snatcher, or ambushing a cockfight. The last few days, filled with interagency meetings and all the detail work of piecing together the case, had rendered the back of her neck stiff. A headache lingered at the base of her skull, and she hadn’t had time to run since the Smiley Mafia debacle began.
On impulse she got out of the truck, stripped off her gun, badge, and shoes, rolled up her pant legs to the knee. She beeped the truck locked and walked down to the water, the sand massaging delightfully between her toes, the last of the setting sun gilding the coconut trees and rigging of the moored boats with ochre light. Dramatic cumulous clouds massed along the horizon, separating rays of sunset into bars of gold.
This was the Hawaii tourists came to experience—and it felt like another world entirely to Lei, shut up in a series of boxy air-conditioned rooms and crime scenes with nothing to look at but ugliness and bad smells.
The scent of the ocean, green and fresh, felt as good as a shower to her, the simple shush of the waves on the sand, a lullaby.
She sat in the sand, rubbing the coral and bits of shell back and forth against her feet, and propped her hands on her knees as she watched the sunset.
The Smiley Mafia movement continued, but seemed to be losing steam. The latest incursions had taken the form of graffiti and vandalism, and recent burglary attempts on several houses had been unsuccessful due to increased security.
The focus and intelligence that had marked the campaign as it began had dissipated—and so had the deadly turn it had taken.
Rezents was still at large, but Homeland suspected the disorganized gestures they’d been dealing with were done by copycats, followers, a few misguided kids looking for an excuse to act out against the obvious target of “the one percent.”
Lei’s phone vibrated a message reminder at her. She slid the phone out of her pocket and spotted three voice mails on it—Stevens, Alika Wolcott, and her grandfather, Soga Matsumoto. Her heart picked up speed.
She listened to her grandfather’s voice mail first. He wanted to confirm their lunch—which she’d forgotten in all the drama with the case—and he concluded with “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.” No further explanation. She wondered what he meant and noted the date of the lunch in her phone so she’d remembe
r it.
The next message was Alika. “It brought up a lot seeing you at Women’s Fight Club. I wonder if you want to get some coffee sometime.” Oh God—did she want to open that door again? She was shocked he’d even give her another chance, and she honestly didn’t know what she felt about it.
She saved Stevens’s message for last.
“What’s going on with the case? We hear a lot of rumors over here, and we’re having some trouble with vandalism and graffiti with the Smiley Mafia symbol all over it. Wondering when you want me to come over and bring you your dog.”
She closed her eyes and listened to Stevens’s baritone voice talk to her again.
And again.
And again.
She couldn’t go out with Alika while she was still doing shit like that. It just wasn’t fair to the guy.
She texted Alika, just to get it over with: Thanks for the invite to coffee, but I’m still in transition and I’m not dating for a while.
At least she wasn’t leaving him hanging.
Lei stood up, dusted off her pants, and headed for the truck. The phone in her hand rang, as if on cue. It was Ken.
“Special Agent Lei Texeira,” Lei said automatically.
“Lei, get to a TV. Watanabe’s on with Rezents. He’s turning himself in.”
Lei jumped into the truck. “I’m coming back to the office. Are you still at the Bureau, Ken?”
“No, I’m at home. Damn reporter—she called Waxman just as they were beginning the interview. Some of HPD’s finest are on their way to arrest him, but he’s going to have his fifteen minutes of fame.”
Lei punched up KHIN-2 News on her phone. “I’ll head back. I’m sure Waxman wants us to come in.” She clicked off the phone and turned on her Bluetooth, listening to the broadcast and glancing down at the video as she headed back toward the FBI office.
Watanabe, brilliant in a cardinal-red suit, sat across from Tyson Rezents. The young man’s brown hair was bisected by comb tracks and his cheeks were pink with nervousness and a recent shave. Wide blue eyes tracked nervously around the studio as he pleated his chinos with his fingertips. He looked handsome, sincere, and too impossibly young to be a terrorist bomber.
“Tell us about the Smiley Mafia,” Watanabe said.
Rezents combed his fingers through his forelock, mussing the comb tracks. “The thing people need to know is that when Consuelo and I began the movement, we never meant for anyone to get hurt. We just wanted to draw attention to the imbalances here in Hawaii, to some people who take from our islands and don’t give back, and some causes that need more resources.” His earnest blue eyes stared into the camera with the hypnotized gaze of a rabbit at a snake.
Watanabe verbally nudged him. “So what was your plan?”
“Consuelo wanted to do a stunt. She felt like all these people in the service industry are like Oompa Loompas in that old Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie—seen but not heard, keeping everything pretty and running smoothly for all the off-islanders to enjoy. She was angry and grieving her dad’s death, and she had this idea to embarrass Max Smiley and some of the one percent that just keep homes here.
“Anyway, it was all Consuelo’s idea—at first. I was the one who brought Tom Blackman in. I knew him from work. He got fired from Paradise Air and he was mad at Max too. I asked him to help us out, to help with the videos, keep things going while Consuelo flew around and hit the targets. I didn’t know he had his own agenda.”
Rezents seemed to run down. He began plucking at his pants, and one of his knees bobbed. Sweat pearled on his forehead and upper lip. “He had a lot of ideas. Consuelo started her plan to launch Smiley Mafia—she flew off and left—and Blackman wouldn’t listen to me. Once Consuelo was caught, he said Smiley Mafia needed to go viral and make change, and the only way to do that was with bombs. I think he was off in the head—crazy.”
“Well.” Watanabe gave Rezents a patronizing smile. “One might say the same of you and Consuelo. Couple of pretty crazy kids.”
“Consuelo was sad and angry. I love her. I was doing this for her and because I believe in righting some inequalities. But neither of us would kill anybody!” Rezents’s voice rang with conviction. “I tried to stop Tom with the bomb making and he threatened to kill me. I left the bunker after Consuelo was captured on Molokai—I took off. I was scared and hiding. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe it when I saw he’d blown up the Smileys!”
“So you didn’t know he planned to do that?” A loud pounding, cries of “Open up!” penetrated the background, and Watanabe glanced off-camera before Rezents answered. “We don’t have any more time, Tyson. Anything else you want to say?”
“I’m sorry we ever started this. People, if you’re vandalizing and robbing houses for the Smiley Mafia, stop it. It’s over. Consuelo’s the only one who’s a real hero, and she’s…” Lei glanced down to see his expression on the tiny screen of the phone, and she could swear there were tears in his eyes, and the sight brought an answering prickle to her own. “She’s really brave. She really cares about changing things.”
The doors burst open, and two police officers rushed forward and horsed him out of the chair, hustling him out of the camera frame.
“And there you have it. Tyson Rezents, the young man behind Homeland Security and the FBI’s massive manhunt, wanted in the murder of Paradise Air’s owner Max Smiley and his wife, Emmeline, has turned himself in here on KHIN-2 and said his piece. It will be interesting from here on out to see how our domestic agencies make their case and who they blame for the ongoing vandalism going on across the islands by the movement calling itself Smiley Mafia.”
Lei punched off the phone and concentrated on getting into the office. This was going to complicate the prosecution no end. Rezents had very effectively biased the jury pool in Hawaii—but at least he was now in custody. As things currently stood, they were having a hell of a time tying anyone but Blackman to the Smiley murder. She hoped Homeland had at least been able to tie the explosives at the last two sites to the materials found on the bench in the basement.
Once in the office, she joined Waxman and Ang in the conference room. “Good evening, sir,” she said.
“Is that sand I see?” Waxman’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he pointed to her shins—she’d forgotten to roll her pant legs back down, and her backup pair of rubber slippers were on her feet.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Lei pushed the pants down. “I listened to the broadcast on my phone after Ken called me.”
“Well, we’re backseat to Homeland now, so let’s not bother rushing down to interview Rezents. We probably won’t get access anyway. They’re really focusing on the bombs and bomb making, and hopefully he has more to say about that than just blaming it all on Blackman. Agent Ang, can we watch the video again?”
“Yes, sir.” They were doing that, with pauses to discuss how to support the prosecution’s case, when Ken arrived.
Trailing in his wake was Barry Kleinman, attorney general for the city of Honolulu, a transplant to Hawaii back in the 1970s who still wore the beard and thick-lensed glasses he’d probably sported back then.
“We’re going to need to block a change of venue for this case, for starters,” Kleinman said. “I’ve been in touch with Homeland, and they’ve verified that the bomb-making materials found in the basement were used in the Smiley explosion—but not the vandalized estate in Kahala. So that was probably a copycat.”
Lei listened as they discussed the building of the case and the changing role of the Bureau since the entry of Homeland. Tom Blackman’s hands and clothes, tested at the morgue, were positive for explosives, and the missing quad had been found parked a block from the basement stronghold, making him a strong candidate as the bomber.
In contrast, Rezents appeared clean, the hourly motel where he’d been staying empty of anything but his sleeping bag and computer. Rezents insisted he’d left the basement and parted ways with Blackman the day Consuelo was ca
ptured and had just been trying to figure out how to turn himself during the intervening days, terrified as Blackman took the situation from bad to horrific.
“What about Consuelo Aguilar?” Lei asked. “What’s happening to her?”
Kleinman’s watery blue eyes blinked behind his thick lenses. “I thought you guys heard.”
“Heard what?” Waxman asked, leaning forward.
“Dr. Wilson prepared a report recommending psychiatric care and making a plea for “mitigated circumstances” for Consuelo as a minor. Bennie Fernandez and I met yesterday, and we’re drafting a plea agreement.”
“What is it?” Lei asked, her palms itchy with nerves. She still hated the thought of Consuelo behind bars.
“She’s going to be in the hospital until Dr. Wilson says she’s off suicide watch, and then she’ll be transferred to Ko’olau Correctional Youth Facility to serve two years until age eighteen. She has mandatory counseling as part of her program, and she’ll be able to complete her high school diploma there.”
“That’s very generous,” Waxman said.
“Indeed it is. Girl’s got such a fan base, it’s been a balancing act to make sure she’s getting consequences, but not more than the public will tolerate. Bennie Fernandez says he’s been contacted by several Hollywood producers wanting permission to interview her and access to her story.”
“It’s a good story, as Wendy Watanabe well knows,” Ken said.
“Maybe you could draft an agreement that profits from her story will pay back the damages to the houses robbed,” Lei said.
Kleinman sat back in his padded chair, took off his glasses, cleaned them on the front of his tropical-print aloha shirt. “Not a bad idea, but the interesting thing about the owners Consuelo burgled is that they’ve all refused to press charges, and they’ve honored the donations she made in their names. So if the state department didn’t press charges, there basically wouldn’t be any. This has given us a lot of latitude, and her mental health situation, age, and gender are also factors. I feel satisfied with this plea agreement.”
