by Toby Neal
“So what makes you think you should be the person to raise her son?”
“Because, however things started, he’s my son, too.”
“Well, he could have brain damage. Disabilities. Because of the oxygen deprivation. Are you prepared to deal with that?”
“He’s my son. It doesn’t matter what needs he has. I’ll stand by him.”
“And your new wife? How does she feel about raising your ex’s child? One who might even be disabled?”
“She’s just as committed as I am.” He bit the inside of his cheek, hoping that was true.
Fujimoto turned to the control panel and pressed the floor number. They started moving again. “I appreciate hearing your version of events.”
They rode up to the neonatal floor in silence.
As he stood in front of the glass viewing window into the nursery, Stevens’s heart raced. He could see Fujimoto inside, talking to the nurse in front of one of the square, glass incubators. Around the open room, he could see babies in various levels of care, from tiny preemies in isolation units with spaces where hands could be inserted into gloves inside, to ones like the one his son was in, a rounded Plexiglas orb. He couldn’t see much, but his eyes fastened, as if magnetized, on the tuft of dark hair not hidden by Fujimoto’s bulk.
As if he’d conjured a response, Fujimoto turned and gestured to him to enter.
Chapter Fourteen
Stevens’s hands broke out in sweat as he pressed down on the door handle. His heart pounded. Was he scared? Excited? He didn’t know. He wished suddenly and desperately that he hadn’t undertaken this alone and that Lei was by his side.
He navigated the unfamiliar setting and came to stand in front of the unit, gazing in at the tiny swaddled form.
The baby’s eyes were closed, and even though he looked as anonymous as any newborn, there was a pleasing symmetry to his round head, rosebud mouth, and delicate, shell-like ears. His hair was jet-black, thick and long, and reminded him of Anchara, which brought a stab of sorrow. He’d heard the baby was almost full term, but Anchara had been a small woman, so perhaps that explained how ridiculously little the child looked, no bigger than a football.
Blood was roaring in his ears so loudly it was hard to understand the nurse. “You can sit and hold him,” he heard her say. “Put on this gown and gloves. He’s doing great, but we keep a sterile environment in here.”
“Okay.” Stevens got the gown on over his clothes, put on gloves and a mask. Fujimoto put one on, too. He sat down on the rocking chair next to the unit, feeling stupid, inept, terrified—as if poised at the top of a roller coaster ride that would change his life forever.
The nurse opened the pod. Stevens felt a draft of the warmth that surrounded the baby, and the next moment she handed him the child, wrapped in a pale blue blanket.
His son’s head fit perfectly into Stevens’s palms, and the baby’s body lay easily on his forearms. There was a light, springy quality to the tiny body in his arms, as if any moment the child could arch into the air and fly. He could feel the baby warming him. Stevens stroked the tracery of an eyebrow, and as his finger brushed the baby’s cheek, the pink mouth opened, making kissing movements.
“Rooting reflex,” the nurse said. “Touches to the face activate the baby looking for the breast.”
“Afraid he’s going to be disappointed in me.” Stevens’s voice sounded squeaky.
“Not necessarily. Would you like to feed him? It’s almost time. He eats every two hours.”
The baby’s eyes opened. He arched his body, stretching, a surprisingly strong movement, and yawned. His gaze steadied, fastening on Stevens’s face. His eyes were cloudy gray, a shade somewhere between blue and brown. He yawned again and turned his head to mouth the side of Stevens’s glove-covered hand.
Stevens felt something powerful seize hold of his heart, and he knew he’d just fallen into a love as strong as the one he had for his wife.
The nurse had been preparing a bottle, and she handed it to Stevens. She showed him how to tuck the child against his chest in the crook of his arm and to keep the bottle at an angle to minimize bubbles: “or else he’ll get gas and be all fussy.”
Stevens felt like he could gaze at the child’s face all day. The baby seemed equally smitten, staring up at Stevens as he worked the rubber nipple, jaws pumping energetically.
“What are you going to name him?” Fujimoto asked softly.
He glanced up at her, surprised. “I get to name him?”
She shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “The child needs a name.”
“I have Lei looking into what Anchara was going to name him. She deserves that we do our best to honor her wishes.” Stevens looked back down into the baby’s hypnotic face. “What color are his eyes going to be?”
The nurse answered. “Probably brown, given his hair color—but with your blue eyes, they could be green. You won’t know for a few months.”
Stevens stayed through feeding, burping, and changing under the nurse’s tutelage until Fujimoto began getting restless. Finally, reluctantly, he handed his son back to the nurse. “How soon will we know if he’s sustained any brain damage?”
“There’s no easy way to tell. All his reflexes and vitals are normal at this point. It could take as long as school to show up, perhaps as a learning disability. You just have to stay positive,” the nurse said.
“I will definitely do that.” Stevens tore his gaze away from the baby as the nurse put him back into his pod. Stevens stripped off the scrubs and threw everything in a bin, and made himself walk away. His heart lurched at the thin wail he heard from the unit.
Fujimoto patted his arm, and he realized he’d forgotten she was even there.
“You’ll do fine,” she said, and he heard support in her voice. He blinked hard, and as they stepped into the hallway, he turned to Fujimoto and shook her hand.
“Thank you so much.”
“I’m sorry how things started for this little guy, but I think they’re going to end up fine.” Fujimoto’s eyes were misty, too. “I’ll be in touch to give you the foster family’s contact information.”
“Is it okay if I just stay here awhile?” He thought he could still hear the baby crying.
“Of course. Perhaps you can see him again tomorrow.”
“Definitely. Please, if you can make the time. I’ll get a hotel for tonight. I have some police business I can do here, but I want to see him every minute I can.”
“In that case, I’ll sign a waiver that you can visit him as long as the nurse stays with you. I’ll leave it at the front desk.”
“Thank you.” Impulsively, he bent and kissed her cheek.
Darlene Fujimoto flapped a hand and blushed. “See you tomorrow, Lieutenant.”
He was already looking back through the window into the nursery.
Chapter Fifteen
Lei uploaded the dead man’s prints into AFIS and Interpol. Though they’d found no ID at the scene, the sleek hair and pricey clothing of the victim spoke of Europe to her. She and Torufu logged the evidence items in one by one, but even as she worked on building the case file, one part of her mind was on Stevens.
Going to Oahu to see his baby.
They had to clear him in Anchara’s murder quickly, or the child would go into foster care. Probably no way around it, the way things were going.
She remembered her own stints in foster care way too well; the one where she’d slept in a bed with another little girl who wetted. Nightly humiliation, sheet-changing, and doing laundry with the foster mom yelling at them and the other little girl blaming Lei. The home where she got on a truck with the other kids every afternoon and worked on a taro farm, knee-deep in mud from when school ended to dark, for “character-building.” The one where “Uncle Joe” and “Aunt Sarah” had them pray for hours, on their knees, and fast once a week. Most of all, never belonging, minimally cared for by people who couldn’t emotionally afford to love her.
Even as she typed th
e scene report, the last resistance to the idea of adopting the baby evaporated. However unprepared, she and Stevens were the baby’s family, and she wouldn’t let him stay stuck in foster while there was breath in her body to stop it.
“Abe.” She turned to her partner. Torufu looked up from the hand-held jack on the worktable—he was dusting it down for prints. “I need to go talk to someone. Can you finish up here?”
“Sure.” He had one of those toothpicks he liked to chew between his front teeth. “Everything okay, Mrs. Stevens?”
“Not really.” She described the situation with the baby. “We need to get Stevens cleared on his ex’s murder as soon as possible.”
Torufu’s expressive brown eyes were compassionate. “You know it looks bad.”
“I know. But that shroud tells us it’s the perp who threatened us. We just need to prove it. I want to see what’s going on with the case.”
“Go.” He flapped a hand. “I’ll say you’re out on a smoke break, if anybody asks.”
“Right.” She snorted a laugh. “I’ll be back soon.”
Lei found her ex-partner and oldest friend on the force, Pono, in his office with Gerry Bunuelos. “Got a minute?”
Pono followed her into the empty break room. She poured a mug of coffee. “I need to know what’s going on with Anchara’s murder.”
“You know I got taken off the case.” Pono had a line between his brows, and he rubbed his lips under the bristly mustache. “For this very reason.”
“I get it, but we need to get Stevens cleared ASAP. Our baby’s going into foster care for as long as it takes for him to be removed as a suspect.” She described what was happening. “Also, we need to find out what Anchara wanted to name him. How prepared she was for him.”
He took down a mug and filled it beside her. “Ready to call the kid ‘our baby’ huh? Okay. Well, I’ve been keeping my ears out, and I think the shroud thing does have them tracking down who bought it—but I’m afraid they’ll find a receipt planted somewhere at your house. You should do your own search before McGregor comes by with a warrant.”
“Crap,” Lei said. “I agree.” The house was empty but for the guardianship of their faithful Keiki—but if the receipt or other evidence was planted, it would have been done earlier. She should check Stevens’s car—and follow up with the GreenDeath Place, where the shrouds were purchased. She’d better move fast. On the way out to her truck, she called Stevens.
He picked up right away. “What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“In the hall outside the nursery, watching the baby.” Lei heard a wondering note in Stevens’s voice. “He’s beautiful, Lei.”
“I bet.” Lei felt a jealous twinge, followed by guilt—how could she be jealous of a baby? Perhaps it was because she knew that, with Anchara’s beauty and Stevens’s good looks, the kid had a head start in the gene department. But he’d lost his mother because of the shroud killer’s vendetta, and for that Lei felt responsible. “Listen, I have a lot to tell you. I want to search your truck and our house for planted evidence related to the shrouds or something from Anchara’s murder. Pono thinks McGregor is going to serve us with a warrant and they’ll find something. I’m also going to go by the GreenDeath Place myself, ask them about the shroud. Where did you park the Bronco at the airport?”
“The Bronco’s in stall J-14.” She heard the frown in Stevens’s voice. “That’s good you want to check out her place, but I worry about you duplicating their investigation. It could muddy the waters. Give the wrong impression, if they find out.”
“Do you want to go to jail? Or bring home the baby?” Lei found she couldn’t say Anchara’s name.
“You know the answer to that. Now, more than ever.” She heard him sigh as she turned on her Toyota truck. “But we have to be careful. I also need to check in with Mahoe, see what he’s been able to pick up about the Heiau Hui from the inside.”
“That’s the other big thing that’s happened.” Lei filled in the details on the bludgeon murder. “Torufu and I think this could be connected to your heiau desecration case. This guy had a jackhammer with him. Torufu’s testing the residue, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it matched rock dust from your heiau site.”
“I better get ahold of Marcus,” Stevens said. She could tell he was walking now. “I was planning to see him anyway, but now I should tell him about your case. I wonder if the Heiau Hui had anything to do with the bludgeon murder.”
“Right, we were thinking that, too. There were three perps, and the murder weapon was a crowbar. Not exactly sophisticated, but definitely effective. When are you coming home?”
“I was going to stay overnight, visit the baby some more. I’m still not cleared for duty.”
“I’ll miss you,” Lei said, and hung up. She stuffed down her mixed feelings about the baby and opened the Toughbook computer on her dash. She typed in Anchara Mookjai’s name. The Department of Motor Vehicles address didn’t mean that was where the woman currently lived. Still, it was a place to start. She was sure the team investigating the murder would be done searching Anchara’s residence by now—but it was still worth going by to see what she could find out about what the woman had wanted to name her son, and who might have murdered her.
At the airport, Lei parked near Stevens’s Bronco and felt around for the magnetic key box in the wheel well. It was crusted with red Maui dirt, but she slid it open for the spare key and unlocked the vehicle.
She didn’t bother with gloves, because her prints would be expected in the car, but she found her hands prickling with nervous sweat as she searched it.
In the front seat, shoved down in the crack where she located it by feel, she found a receipt for one pure white linen shroud from the GreenDeath Place. Hidden enough for Stevens to miss it but in a plausible location to have been lost.
She slid it into an evidence bag, her heart hammering, and relocked the vehicle. Getting into her truck, turning it on, waiting a minute for the air-conditioning to blow her frizzing curls off her face, she considered what to do with the incriminating scrap of white paper.
The receipt was evidence in a murder case, but if she turned it in, it would only confirm Stevens as a suspect. She doubted there were any prints on it, but if she sprayed it with ninhydrin to check and then decided to submit it, they’d be able to tell it had been tampered with. She needed to turn it in, but how?
That paper was as deadly as a grenade, and it had been intended to blow them up.
Lei drove to the GreenDeath Place location. The little storefront in Haiku was shuttered and closed, and a handwritten sign on the door said by appointment only, listing a cell number.
She couldn’t use her phone to call for an appointment—if her phone were subpoenaed, they’d know she was investigating. She pulled the silver Tacoma in next to a pay phone and called the number.
A male voice answered. “GreenDeath Place.”
“I’m here near your establishment and would like to speak to you about your products.”
“Sure. I live next door, so I’ll come right over and unlock for you.”
The owner had the lean, oiled-looking muscles of a yoga practitioner and was decked out in wooden beads, clad only in a sarong. He was bald, but even his head was tan and toned-looking.
The GreenDeath Place interior was dimly lit, with spotlights on plain wooden coffins. A strong herbal smell, not unpleasant, infused the room. Lei identified herself and told the man that she needed to know about a purchase.
He shook his head. “I talked to the cops yesterday.”
Lei nodded. “I’m just following up.” She showed him the receipt. “See the date? I need a description for who purchased this.”
The proprietor frowned. “Cash. I remember this because we usually get orders online or over the phone. Yeah, this was a medium guy, dark hair. Asian. Wore a ball cap. Didn’t get a good look at his face.”
Lei felt a thrill. That description could match Terence Chang,
heir apparent of the Big Island crime family—and a known enemy.
“Did the other cops ask you already about working with a sketch artist on a drawing of this man?” Even as she said it, she worried. Terence Chang wouldn’t be caught so easily. Surely he hadn’t bought the shrouds in person. Still, as long as this physical description didn’t match Stevens, she wanted to pursue and document it.
“Yeah, they said they were sending someone, but he hasn’t come yet. He bought two more,” the proprietor said, tapping the plastic-bagged receipt with a finger. Lei felt herself stiffen in shock.
“Did he pay separately for them? With cash?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell the other detectives this? About the description and the other shrouds?”
“I didn’t have this receipt with the exact date, but I did tell them about the transaction—it was odd enough for me to pay attention. Hey, aren’t you working together?”
“Of course. We’ve all just been running around so much I haven’t had time to coordinate all the information our team has gathered.” Lei snatched back the receipt with a smile she hoped was reassuring. “We’ll be in touch about the sketch artist.” Now that she knew McGregor and his partner knew what she knew, there was no point in turning in the receipt right away.
She could only hope this witness didn’t tell them about her visit.
Lei took a breath of fresh air outside and went to the nearby market to pick up a Spam musubi and an apple for lunch. She’d learned the benefit of having something, anything, in her stomach.
She also picked up an island map. She didn’t want to enter any addresses into her truck’s GPS. Back in the car, munching her lunch, she plotted the route to Anchara’s address, somewhere in the heart of Kahului in a neighborhood that she knew—a sprawl of elderly cement block homes punctuated by rusting cars and parked boats.
On her way, she put the Bluetooth in her ear and checked in with Torufu. “I’m still processing the vic’s belongings, but his fingerprints came back: Norm Jorgenson, Norwegian. Wanted for art theft by Interpol.”
