by Toby Neal
Her voice released him from the spell of profound terror. He took a deep breath, blew it out, rolled his shoulders back, and strode to the bedroom door. “I’m here, Sweets.”
Lei was lying on her side in the big, wide bed of their room in that flowered house muumuu. A scented candle on the side table warmed the air with soothing vanilla. Tiare stood up from where she’d been seated on the bed beside Lei, her tall, commanding presence as reassuring as Stevens had always found her.
“She’s fine.” Tiare spoke in that calm professional nurse voice that had probably soothed a thousand distraught relatives. “It’s going a little quickly, but there’s no fetal distress and Lei’s progressing nicely.”
“I’m not. I suck at this. It’s way worse than I imagined.” Lei’s face was shiny with perspiration, her hair a frizzing halo. She reached for him with both hands. He knelt beside her on the floor, pulling her into his arms to hug her. He could smell fear on Lei, too, and somehow it made him feel not so alone.
For better or worse, they were in this together.
“I’m not sure I can do this. Can you do it for me?” She gave a weak giggle.
“Oh, honey, I wish I could. Honest to God.” He buried his face in her hair. “You’re everything to me. I’m scared as hell.”
He lifted his head and gazed into Lei’s big brown eyes. They filled with tears, making his own prickle. “I’m scared too,” she whispered. “I was all brag. I should have known better.”
“Sweets. How could you know what this is like? But we’ve done lots of hard things before, haven’t we? We can do this together, too. Can’t be worse than when the doc pulled the packing out of my infected side,” Stevens said. “Or when I got stabbed. Or when you hurt your head or got hit by the car. Or when that perp bit you.”
Lei smiled wanly. “It’s a different kind of pain.”
“You’re both pretty freaked out. Why don’t you go take a shower together? Chill out in there with the hot water. You can see how things are for her, Stevens. So far it’s textbook, if moving faster than I thought things would go. I’ll give you guys some privacy,” Tiare said. She left them alone.
“Tiare’s right. I felt better in the shower. Help me up. Let’s at least get the stinky sweat off.”
Stevens steadied Lei as she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. She’d made it halfway down the hall when a sudden gush of fluid rushed down her legs to puddle on the floor.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. She clung to Stevens, racked by a contraction, as Tiare ran around with towels to mop up the amniotic fluid.
“I think we should call an ambulance,” Stevens said over Lei’s head to Tiare. His eyes felt strained and dry—they must be wide with panic. His wife leaned on his forearms, head down, breathing deeply, her spine arched by the powerful muscles at work. “I want to get her to the hospital.”
Tiare straightened up, holding the towels. Her warm amber-brown eyes were calm and steady—if she was worried at all, she was damn good at hiding it. “Of course. You two are in charge. Why don’t you get into that shower, and I’ll call the ambulance and get your bags ready. I’m sure it will take them a little while to get here in this weather.”
“Sounds good.”
He could see the contraction ease as Lei’s breath came easier and her hunched back straightened out. She finally stood upright, pushing her hair back with a trembling hand. “Whew. Big one.”
“You did great.” He gave Lei a brief squeeze, his arm around her shoulders. He was nervous, but not as worried as before—they were going to the hospital, where there would be drugs and doctors if needed. “We’re just gonna get that shower Tiare recommends and get you cleaned up. She’s calling the ambulance and getting us organized. Everything’s under control.” He was speaking to himself as much as to her.
In the bathroom, Stevens turned on the water and helped Lei undress, making sure the water was a good temperature as he quickly stripped and joined her. Lei sat on the bench as he soaped up, all business, relieved that they’d be out of the house soon.
The power went out with a little pop, and the bathroom went dim and gray.
“What the hell?” Stevens rinsed off the last of the soap and handed the bar to Lei. “Let me see if a breaker blew.”
He grabbed a towel and threw it around his waist, heading into the living room where the breaker box was, dimly aware of Tiare behind him in the kitchen—and as he looked out the big picture window, he saw one of the massive eucalyptus robusta trees right outside their compound, a nasty invasive that didn’t have enough of a root foundation for its tremendous height, begin to topple.
Tiare arrived to stand beside him and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. They watched the catastrophe unfold in slow motion. The tree seemed to be fighting to stay upright, weaving back and forth, its branches catching on the trees beside it—but there was open space on the side where their driveway was. Another gust hit the behemoth, and with a teeth-jarring, rending roar, the huge tree gave, crashing to the ground with a tremendous thump that shook the whole house.
A fallen giant lay directly across the driveway in front of the gate, sealing them in.
Chapter Eighteen
Brandon
Brandon
Brandon was opening the door to the interview room when Captain Omura exited the observation booth to join him. As usual, she looked beautiful and scary. The zippered portfolio under her arm meant business.
“I’ll be taking the lead on this interview, Mahoe,” she said.
He felt his testicles tighten. “Yes, sir. Where’s the LT? I was just down at the evidence room photographing the clothing scraps to show the witness.”
“He got a call. Looks like the baby’s on the way.”
“Isn’t it too soon?” Brandon frowned. “That can’t be good.”
“Babies do what they want, from what I can tell. Now, from my read on Métier, he’s feeling guilty and dying to confess. I want you to go on the aggressive so I can be the sympathetic shoulder he cries his troubles on.”
Brandon glanced at her steely eyes and immaculate jacket with its decorative bars and knifelike pleat. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s do this.”
Brandon nodded, took a breath, and pushed the door open forcefully. He was already reciting the Miranda warning as he strode in, not meeting the suspect’s eyes. Instead, he went to the recording equipment switch and turned it on.
“This is a formal interview in the matter of the murders of François Métier and Sage Bukowski. Present are André Métier, who has been living illegally in the United States under the name of Felipe Souza. Also in attendance are Shannon Fogarty, attorney, Captain C. J. Omura, and Detective Brandon Mahoe. Do you understand these rights as they were explained to you?” Brandon pinned Métier with a glare.
The man nodded, looking stunned. Brandon felt a hit of power—he was in control here, running the room, intimidating the witness. The captain had seated herself, but he remained standing, leaning in on his knuckles toward Métier, eyes locked with the other man.
“Tell us what you know about the murder of Sage Bukowski.”
Métier’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.
“We have you cold—running from police. Living illegally in the country under a false name. Burning clothes that test positive for blood. You might as well confess, tell your side of things.”
“No comment,” Métier quaked. Fogarty patted his arm approvingly.
Beside Brandon, the captain cleared her throat, a delicate rustle. “Perhaps our witness needs a moment to collect his thoughts, Detective. Or a glass of water?”
Métier’s head moved like a Taco Bell bobblehead. “Water. Yes, please.”
The captain caught Brandon’s eye. She jerked her chin meaningfully toward the door. He couldn’t believe it—one minute he was going after the witness, on the aggressive as she’d told him, the next he was the water boy? Brandon muttered a curse and grabbed the door handle, yanking it
open. As it closed on the pneumatic hinge, he heard Omura schmoozing.
“Sorry for my detective’s attitude. He’s young and enthusiastic about the job, gets a little hot when he thinks he knows what’s what. Now, what can you…?” Her question was cut off as the door shut.
Brandon had reached the break room, stomping with irritation, by the time he calmed down enough to think through the captain’s strategy. Likely the perp was telling her everything right now. Omura had moves, all right.
Brandon needed to keep a lid on his temper—they were on the same team, with the same goal. Served him right for getting all pissed in there. He knew better. He filled a glass and hurried back.
The three at the table looked up as he reappeared. He set the water down in front of Métier, who picked it up and drank in great gulps.
Brandon leaned against the wall and folded his arms, setting his jaw in a surly line as he stayed in character. Métier avoided his gaze and picked up the thread of whatever he’d been telling the captain.
“So I thought my expired visa had been discovered because of the investigation. I just panicked when I heard ‘cops’ were at the door looking to talk to me.”
“You know that running just makes people look guilty.” Omura smiled. Brandon had always found her smile chilling.
“I’m sorry for the hassle.” Métier finished the water and set the glass down.
“So other than my client inadvertently looking guilty because he ran, on what basis is he implicated in these recent murders?” Fogarty asked.
“Ah, yes.” Omura pretended to consult some notes in her zip-up binder. “I’m sorry, I’m filling in at the last minute for Lieutenant Stevens, who was called away on a family emergency. Detective Mahoe, perhaps you’d like to share why you were questioning this witness.”
“Definitely.” Brandon stood away from the wall and pulled out a chair, sitting forward to address Métier. “We have a witness who let us know that you were, quote, ‘not yourself’ on the day of Bukowski’s murder—and at a time when the body hadn’t been discovered yet.” Brandon let that sink in. “What do you know about Bukowski’s death?”
“No comment.” Métier fiddled with the water glass.
“All right.” Brandon leaned back. “Let’s talk about motive. Back to the first victim, your cousin. Who you stood to inherit millions from in the form of a life insurance policy.” The public defender’s eyes widened—Fogarty hadn’t known that. “Why were you working with him in the same restaurant, under an assumed name?”
“No comment,” Métier said.
Brandon shot an annoyed glance at the captain. “Guy’s too much of a coward to tell his side. That’s all right. We can make this case on the evidence. Don’t need a word from him, right, Captain?”
“Well, a man is entitled to defend himself. I, for one, am interested in what Monsieur Métier has to say.” Captain Omura leaned forward, making a steeple with her shiny red nails. “Why don’t you fill us in on why you were traveling under an assumed name? Surely your cousin knew you were working with him in the restaurant?”
“You don’t have to answer,” Fogarty said.
“No, I want to.” Métier picked at the handcuffs, making them jingle. Clearly ‘good cop’ worked better to get him to talk than ‘bad cop.’ “François didn’t know I was his cousin. We’d never met—I’m actually only his second cousin, and he’s ten years older—it’s all part of some trust his parents set up and I’m the last Métier relative. I went in to interview at Feast and couldn’t believe it when I found out he was already working there. I mean, I knew he lived on Maui, but what were the chances?” Métier looked up at Omura, brown eyes appealing. “He was the rich cousin who had everything. I didn’t want him to know I was trying to get a job there so I could be on the island kiteboarding and living in a dive. I started as a busboy, but I wasn’t so good with people, so they put me in kitchen prep, too. And sure enough, I got to see that my cousin was a real asshole.”
“So you never identified yourself to your cousin?” Brandon asked.
“The more time that went by, the less I liked François. I knew he’d take every opportunity to rub it in on me that I was the poor cousin while he had everything.”
A pause. Omura moved in. “So you realize this speaks to motive to kill him, don’t you?”
“But I didn’t kill him. It was like I said—I went in the day he was killed to pick up my check. I saw him breaking up with Kitty Summers. I left. That was it.”
“And why were you so upset the day Sage Bukowski was murdered?”
“I was worried that lying on my application and getting hired under a false name would be discovered and that it would look bad.”
“Well, you’re right. It does,” Brandon said. “You had means, motive, and opportunity to do in your rich cousin who ‘had everything.’” He made air quotes with his fingers.
Métier put his head down. “No comment.”
“Let’s move on for the moment.” Omura flipped a page in her folio. “So there was no other reason for you to be upset the morning of the day Sage Bukowski was killed.”
“I was stressed about the situation. In general,” Métier mumbled.
“But isn’t it true that Bukowski is also your cousin, if a more distant relative? And that he’s a part of the Bukowski Group, a coalition trying to break the Métier trust?” Omura’s voice sounded warmly curious.
“Yes,” Métier whispered. “I knew about the Bukowski Group. Sage and I were close. But I had nothing to do with that. Nothing to gain by it. All the Métier fortune still goes to charities, not to me in any form.”
“Except for his huge insurance policy,” Brandon said sourly.
Métier just shook his head.
“I have a theory.” Omura gazed at Métier with a slight smile on her perfectly red lips. “My theory is that you and Bukowski were in on the scheme together. You came to Feast to spy on Métier, gather information to be used to break the trust—and then, one day you heard that François was getting ready to get married. If he did so, your only asset, the insurance policy, would go to someone else. So right after he ditched Kitty, you followed him into the walk-in. Stabbed him. He never even knew it was you—but Sage did. We have his testimony already. He’s stated that he was working at a prep station with a line of sight to the walk-in door. He saw Kitty and François go in. I’m betting he saw you go in after François, and only you come out.”
“No, no. That’s not what happened.” Métier’s complexion had gone sallow with fear.
“Don’t say anything else,” Fogarty warned. “They can spin theories all they want, but they have to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt if you don’t implicate yourself. You don’t have to respond to any of this.”
“Allow me to finish,” Omura said icily. Fogarty shut up. “As I was saying, you killed Métier, an impulsive act driven by your jealousy, frustration, and greed. Bukowski saw. And he blackmailed you.”
Métier jerked in his chair like he’d been poked with a red-hot pin. Brandon had to admire the captain’s technique.
“Don’t respond.” Fogarty touched Métier’s arm.
“So you went to Bukowski’s apartment. Perhaps to talk, perhaps with payment he demanded or a contract handing over a portion of your insurance policy. Something.” Omura flicked a nonexistent bit of lint off her jacket, her eyes fixed on Métier.
Brandon filled in. “The witness who told us about how upset you were also told us that you and Bukowski appeared to be close. Friends outside of work. Bukowski knew you were André Métier.”
“No comment,” Métier said.
“All right, if that’s how you want to play it.” Brandon opened the file he’d carried into the room with him. The photos inside, of the burned clothing, had taken him extra time to process and print, which was why he’d missed Stevens’s exit. “These scraps of material were found at your home.” He slid two photos, one of the T-shirt scrap, the other of jeans, over to Métier and
Fogarty. Using his pen, he pointed out the dark stains on the jeans. “Something you may not be aware of, Ms. Fogarty, was that Sage Bukowski was violently stabbed twenty-seven times. There was blood all over his room: the walls, the ceiling, soaking the bed he collapsed on. And no doubt, blood all over his murderer.” He tapped the photo. “These stains tested positive for blood. We’ve sent samples to Oahu for DNA testing.”
“No,” protested Métier. His eyes went so wide, white showed around the iris. “Maybe Phillie’s dad or someone killed a pig and burned those clothes in her fire pit.”
“I never said where the clothes were burned.” Brandon felt a heady sense of power, of being about to win. “You said they were in the fire pit. How would you know that?”
“I . . . ah. It makes sense,” Métier said. “But I swear, I know nothing about it.”
“Well, we sent our best crime scene guy out to go over your bedroom, bathroom, and shower. We found more blood evidence there. The samples are all going to Oahu for DNA processing, so we’ll know if they match the victim soon. Within days. This is your chance to tell your side of the story.”
Métier sagged in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Fogarty tugged her skirt a little toward her knees, but it didn’t move much.
“I again advise my client not to comment on these matters,” she said. The sideways flash of Fogarty’s eyes at Métier showed she was angry. No wonder—clearly her client had kept her in the dark about his actions.
Omura closed her folio. “Your lack of cooperation is noted, Monsieur Métier. You are under arrest for the murders of François Métier and Sage Bukowski.”
“I didn’t do it!” Métier protested again as Mahoe came around the table and hoisted him up by the arm. “Really. I didn’t.”
“We don’t need you to tell us anything to be able to lock you up and throw away the key,” Brandon said.
“But it was Kitty,” Métier said. “I swear, it was Kitty. And I can prove it to you.”
