Rob Kanahele’s cell phone alarm clock rang hard.
It was December 20th. Kazuma Ueshiba had been dead for the better part of a week.
Rob put on a pot of coffee and showered and shaved. He ordered eggs and sausage patties and toast and fruit. Yesterday had been an off day, where the second murder had changed everything and confused an already murky investigation, but today would be different. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Rob Kanahele did not do well with scarce hours of sleep. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, to get 6 or 5 or 4 or 3 hours, especially when in the thick of an investigation. There was just more work than hours, sometimes. He’d had to struggle with sleeplessness for decades. But he’d never gotten used to it. His body rebelled every time he got less than a solid 7 hours. And his mind was less than sharp.
Rob resolutely put the groggy day of yesterday behind him as he reviewed his notes. Facts. Two people had died. One or more people were responsible. Those people were probably in this hotel. Right under his nose. Someone right under his nose.
Fujita showed up at 8:30, bright and chipper as always. Her aunt, who lived in San Fransisco, had settled in splendidly and was already enjoying the Hawaiian sun. Oosterhout had given the security tapes to be sorted and edited to focus on the relevant times, and had given her more information, beside.
“Seeing as the second body was found inside a guest room, I asked about who would have had access. Apart from Anne Reynolds herself, that would have been anybody on the cleaning staff – 22 people – or anyone in security – 16 people – or Mr. Oosterhout himself.”
“There’s, uh, 39 universal keycards out there?”
“More,” Cindy said. “He showed me some in a drawer. There must be maybe 50 in total.”
“None of them conveniently missing?” Rob hazarded, with a smile.
“Sorry,” Cindy smiled back. “All are accounted for.”
“Okay,” Rob said. “So unless Anne is the killer, Villenza either got in with his own keycard or the killer is a member of cleaning staff, security, or the hotel manager. Yes?”
Cindy reflected on this for a moment. “I guess, yes.”
“But?”
“Well, aren’t we assuming Villenza got in with his own keycard, since he had one?”
Rob drummed his fingers on his leg.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“He had it on him, right? When they found him?”
Cindy smiled.
“I’m pretty sure he did, yeah.”
“But he didn’t have his cleaning cart.”
“No. He wasn’t on duty.”
Rob nodded.
“Sergeant?” Rob looked piercingly at her. “Do you think the two murders were committed by the same person?”
She didn’t even have to think. “Yes, sir. And even allowing the possibility that the person who killed Villenza isn’t the same person who killed Ueshiba, the fact remains that Villenza claimed to be relevant to the Ueshiba investigation.”
“Or the killer wanted people to think he was. You still think the underwear could have been a plant?”
“Can we confirm with anyone that those are his underpants, sir?” Cindy asked. “Or that that’s his handwriting?”
Rob blinked slowly. Yes. Of course, they needed to do that. His brain really had been working slowly yesterday.
“Get a sample of Villenza’s handwriting sent to graphology, to compare with exhibit A. We’ll start there. It doesn’t really matter if the thong was his. He could have just bought a new one or something. But the handwriting does matter. Actually,” Rob looked at his fingernails thoughtfully, “maybe send a sample of Kunitz, Wakamoto and Anne Reynolds’ writing too. Just in case we get a perfect match.”
Cindy nodded. “Yes, sir!” The possibility of finding the killer based on handwriting was exciting. A clue planted to divert attention… the police outsmarting the killer…
“When you’re done, let me know and we’ll go over the security tapes.”
Fujita nodded.
“I’ll be back soon, inspector.”
***
Cindy Fujita liked being in uniform, but she especially liked working in civilian garb. There was something exciting about being just another pretty girl, about keeping it to herself, that dirty little secret that she was an agent of the law. She liked the way people looked at her when she was just another pretty girl. She liked how nonchalantly people said things to her, when she was in civvies. She’d gotten more information out of people by being charming than by pulling rank. And if people happened to be uncooperative, well, out came the badge, and that usually convinced those who weren’t convinced by dimples and nice legs.
Today was tan slacks and a dainty aquamarine blouse, and high-heeled platform sandals with rattan sides.
The young sergeant prided herself on being good at reading people, and through her interactions with him she had become fairly convinced that Hendrik Oosterhout was not homosexual in the least. He was an entrepreneur; he simply knew where the money was. He didn’t own the Grotto Beach Hotel, but he wished he did. Rumour had it that he’d been buying stock in the resort whenever he could. He loved the hotel and the money it raked in, and he loved Cindy’s swaying walk and glittering smile, and for these reasons he was an extremely cooperative man.
She brought her high-heeled sandals and nice smile into the hotel manager’s office as soon as he arrived for work.
“Hi there.”
“Miss Fujita! Sergeant.” Oosterhout smiled, and stood to greet her formally. “How can I help you today?”
“Actually, I do have a few little things I’d like to have access to,” she said…
“Of course,” he sat back behind his desk, and crossed his legs. “You know your investigation has my full collaboration.”
Cindy smiled.
“Well, primarily it’s those security tapes I mentioned.”
“Yes, I apologize for the delay,” he bent over to pull a small stack of DVDs from his desk drawer. “The technician was a nightmare, even though I told him it was for a murder investigation, well, I suppose he thinks of himself as an artist, really since all he needed to do was cobble some things together I don’t see why he would – I won’t be working with him again,” Oosterhout smiled, a little sharply. “Here you go,” he handed her the recordings. “All the footage from every camera active within 12 hours of either er, accident. If you want more complete records, just say the word. Those should be easier to provide.”
“Thanks, this is great, just what I asked for,” Fujita accepted the recordings cheerily.
Oosterhout watched her. She was the best thing about this awful mess, and the only thing that made the constant police presence at his hotel bearable.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” she sparkled. “We’re looking for writing samples of some of your guests and employees. It doesn’t matter what, really, just, we want to be able to compare it to something.”
“Compare…?”
“I’ll let you in on it if you promise to keep it a secret,” Cindy winked elaborately, leaning forward.
The manager eyed her, distracted, and nodded.
“We have a really compelling clue. But we need to run it through our top-notch graphology department.” Aka Melvin Makalauea.
“Mm, and you need … to compare it to something.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well.” Oosterhout seemed hesitant. “I suppose you’ve got all the necessary paperwork…?”
“Of course,” Cindy assured.
Oosterhout eyed her, then got up and went to a filing cabinet. He returned with a heavy ledger.
“Employees, you’ll find in here. This is the form they fill out when hired. For guests, you’ll want to ask the front desk. People are required to sign in.”
Cindy smiled, and thanked him, arms full of information.
***
“Gooood morning ~!”
Adam slung himself happily into the chair across from Anne, and slid a hotel-issued notepad across the table to her.
“Morning, Adam,” Anne smiled over her hot chocolate, then picked up the pad. “What’s this?”
“Been talking with Ken. Started taking notes,” he wagged a finger towards the pad, encouragingly.
“Oh?” Anne perused the text. It was scribbly and disorganized, but seemed to be a list of facts and questions. “That’s good.”
She glanced up at him.
“Things going more smoothly with the boyfriend now?”
Adam had a ferocious grin.
Anne chuckled, and looked back to the pad.
She sipped her hot chocolate.
“Well, you look at that, I’m gonna get some of that breakfast buffet stuff before it’s all gone. Back in a bit.”
Adam pushed his chair back and trotted his way to the buffet table.
She nibbled a danish and tried to make out Adam’s handwriting. There was nothing in here so far that hadn’t been talked about already. She flipped through the pages, and reached one where the original heading ARE THE POLICE STUPID had been altered after the fact to read THE POLICE ARE STUPID. She smiled a bit, even if she disagreed. There was a childish charm to Adam Kunitz. She hoped Wakamoto could appreciate it.
He returned with a full plate.
“They were out of bacon, can you believe it, so all I could get is this rubber ham stuff,” he prodded it with a fingertip. “Ooh, you’re on the good page,” Adam peered over the edge of the notebook to what Anne was reading. “That’s the page full of stuff I think the police are ignoring.”
Anne nodded slowly, reading.
“How do you know?”
“Sorry?”
“Well, how do you know they’re ignoring it?”
Adam shrugged expressively.
“Just from what it looks like they’re doing. The questions they ask and stuff. The people they suspect.”
Anne allowed herself a glance up, then returned to her reading.
“And Ken helped you with all this?”
“Mm hm. We talked for hours.”
“He could have joined us for breakfast,” Anne offered. She had never really met the man at the center of this mystery.
“Ah, you know him,” Adam sighed. “He’s always in some business thing or another. Can you imagine? Even on vacation, even grieving his dead boyfriend, even suspected for murder, the guy still works.”
Anne shrugged.
“Probably his way of coping,” she remarked. “It gives him something familiar to hold on to, some busywork he can do to keep his mind off of how everything is falling apart.”
Adam nodded.
He cut a rubbery morsel of ham.
“Things are being really tough to him, that’s true,” he admitted, in a lower tone of voice. “Apparently, if any of this breaks into the media, or even among his peers, he’s finished. Or at least, that’s what he thinks.”
Anne had a sympathetic expression…
“I know what that’s like. In the legal office where I work, we see that a lot. Clients who are so scared, scared to lose their jobs, their families, their reputations. ‘Scandal’ is such an old-fashioned word, isn’t it? But it’s still enough to make some people tremble in their boots.”
“The more arrived you are, the more you can be afraid of losing face, I guess,” Adam agreed.
He sighed, and took a sip of strawberry milk.
“Poor Ken.”
They sat a moment in silence.
“Ok, so,” Anne tapped the table with the end of the pen. “If this gets solved without implicating him, he’s got nothing to worry about, right? So what do we know? What do we think we should start with?’
Adam gave her a grateful smile.
“Well, I think we should focus on the fact that none of the police’s main suspects are guilty. Who else does that leave?”
Anne shrugged.
“Six billion other people.”
“No,” Adam stuck his tongue out at her. “Come on. There can’t be more than a half dozen reasonably likely suspects.”
“Ok, fine,” Anne admitted, sipping her orange juice. “Like who?”
Adam cut his egg. “Beats me.”
Anne sighed.
“Okay, okay,” Adam made a face. “So I’m not an investigative genius. Maybe, maybe uh, one of Ken’s work colleagues wants to destroy his reputation and take his place at the head of the company. Business can be cutthroat, and all that. Maybe this time it was bashhead.” He mimicked the use of a blunt instrument.
“Yeah, that was tasteful,” Anne raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” Adam chuckled. “Or, okay, a jilted lover. Someone who was with Ken before Kazuma was. Driven mad with jealousy and heartbreak, he stalks them here and kills one by framing the other.”
“Uh-huh. And how do I come into this?”
“Maybe the person knows we’re trying to solve the crime and things are getting too hot so he tries to throw suspicion on you to discourage you from further investigation!”
“You really aren’t afraid to look like an idiot, are you.” Anne leaned on her hand. “We only started investigating after I became a suspect.”
Adam tapped his fingertips on the table, and pursed his lips.
“Well,” he resumed, fairly unfazed, “what if it’s someone who’s mad with jealousy and heartbreak over you?”
Anne laughed. It resonated through the restaurant.
She covered her smiling mouth with a napkin, embarrassed.
“No. But thanks for the laugh, I needed it.”
“No jilted lovers?”
“Let’s put it this way, you probably get more action in a week than I do in a year.”
“How dreadful. We’ve got to look into changing that.”
“Preaching to the choir, Adam. Coming to a goddamned gay resort was not my idea.”
“Eh, I’ve met girls like Stacy in these places before. It’s like extra entertainment for them. They usually come in pairs or groups and are always well-behaved. Go to any gay resort that is open to women as well as men, and listen carefully, and you will hear the titters.” Adam cupped his hand to his ear, attentive. “In the distance, they’re always there.”
Anne had a soft chuckle.
“And no men do the opposite, and come to these co-ed gay resorts to gawk at the sexy lesbians?”
Adam pulled himself tall, tossing the copper plumage of his hair.
“And risk fags like me?” He flashed perfect teeth, a knowing, predatory smile.
Anne rolled her eyes, but grinned too.
“Point taken.”
“Getting back to murder,” Adam crossed his legs and resumed his natural semi-slouch.
“Right.”
“I really think Ken’s the target in this.”
“You mean, the killer meant to get Ken but got Kazuma instead?”
“No no, I mean Kazuma’s murder was intended as a smear on Ken’s reputation.”
Anne eyed him carefully.
“Is that what Ken thinks?”
Adam fidgeted.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Self-centered much?”
Adam chuckled.
“Leader of industry, remember?”
“But he’s not the one who got killed. If someone hates Ken so much, why not kill him directly?”
Adam looked at his fingernails.
“From what I understand, Japan’s got a messed-up system of morals.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that disgrace, for Ken, could well be a fate worse than death.”
He glanced up.
“He’s sort of hardcore like that,” he explained, with a what-can-I-do smirk.
Anne pursed her lips, and looked thoughtfully at her danish.
***
On the tape, the white wall loomed pale green in the eye of the night-vision camera. Palm fronds swayed grittily, the same colour as their shadows. There was no sound.
Three windows, two lit, one dark; from the one furthest right, almost out of the frame, a leg, and then a body exited. The body looked around then sped towards the left. Towards the beach.
“Well, that solves our locked-room mystery,” Sgt. Fujita leaned on her hand, looking at the security footage.
Rob didn’t even glance her way. He knew her too well by now.
“We never had a locked-room mystery.” He paused the DVD, rewound, and watched Kazuma Ueshiba crawl out of the window again. “Guy goes into his room, locks the door, and is later found dead on the beach doesn’t count. I thought these places had windows you can’t open?”
Cindy shrugged. “Guess not,” she narrowed her eyes. “Sneaking out for a date, you think?”
Rob shrugged.
“A date with Death…” she mused.
Rob ignored her. “Thought there was a bylaw. About the windows.”
Cindy eyed him, then watched the sequence for a third time.
Wind, palms, leg, body.
“I could ask Hendrik I guess.”
This did get a glance from the inspector.
“First-name basis?”
Cindy smiled, blushing a little under her freckles.
“I don’t think he’s gay, you know.”
“Oh I see.”
Cindy watched the footage, smiling.
“Well that explains the high heels,” Rob mused, also watching the television screen.
Cindy self-consciously tucked her feet under her chair, and paused the tape on the clearest frame of Ueshiba.
“You know, he doesn’t really look all that happy, to be going on a date,” she noted. His handsome face was blurred into a scowl on the grainy image.
Rob looked at him carefully.
“This is the last image we have of him, right?”
Cindy nodded.
“Hmm.”
Fujita sat back.
“See, what I don’t get is, why sneak out?”
“To meet somebody. The killer.”
“But why not go out the front door like any normal person?”
“…” Kanahele considered this. “In order not to be seen. Or maybe, so he could claim to have been in his room all night?”
“So we can rule out Wakamoto,” Fujita remarked. “He wouldn’t sneak out like this to go meet his own boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend. But no, you’re right.”
“Well, then, Kunitz?”
Rob leaned back his his chair, eyes finally leaving the screen.
“Sergeant, if he never went back inside the hotel, as seems to be the case, that means he was killed outside the hotel. So that means our two guys are off the hook.” Rob ran a hand over his scowling brow. “Neither of them had the time to run outside and off Ueshiba if both their testimonies hold. Shit.”
“And neither of them show up on any of the security cameras watching the entrances, either,” Cindy noted.
“Shit.”
“So assuming nothing really sneaky is going on and no one’s trying to fool the cameras, what have we got for potential killers?” Cindy stretched out her legs.
Rob rubbed his forehead again, irately. Fuck.
“Assuming that the killer was outside the hotel during the time Ueshiba was murdered, and that record of his or her entrances and exits are on tape, it could be any one of dozens of people we’ve seen, drifting in an out,” the inspector groaned. He couldn’t believe they were going to have to start over. Why couldn’t they have gotten the tapes earlier?
“So, you want me to go over the tapes and take down everyone I see going in or out?”
Rob heaved a sigh.
“No,” he said. “No, I’ll do it.”
Sgt. Fujita could take care of the rest. This, he wanted to slog through himself.
***
Four hours into the slogging, Kanahele’s phone rang. He picked it up.
“Yep.”
“Inspector? Tim Duncan.”
“Yeah, good to hear from you,” Rob leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a break from the endless video and the growing list on his yellow legal pad. “Got something for me?”
“Uh-huh. Phone records for Anne Reynolds: once to one Susan Reynolds in Indianapolis, probably a relative; it was the first call made from the hotel phone so my guess is, mother, telling her she arrived safely or something. Other calls are all hotel-internal. Stacy Lynch in the room next door, four times, and Ken Wakamoto twice.”
“Wakamoto?” Kanahele frowned. “What’s she calling him for?”
“Dunno, sir.”
“Around the time of the first murder?”
“No, just in the last couple days.”
“Hmm. That’s it? No outside calls since her arrival?”
“That’s it, apart for room service, and she called you once, inspector,” Tim’s smile was faintly audible.
“Alerting me to the presence of a corpse in her room,” Rob huffed. “Fine. What about the other guy?”
Tim turned a page.
“Yeah, Adam Kunitz. Lots of phone calls. Hotel-internally, he phoned Wakamoto too, and room service. Then there’s two private numbers on the island, John Roarke and Benson Kulawea. Kulawea has a record for drug posession and dealing.”
“So, probably just arranging some purchases, is that what you think?”
“I dunno, but it seems feasible.”
“Fair enough. Who else?”
“One number on the mainland, Eleanor Schwartzkopf.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dunno. Two cell phone numbers, too, one’s registered in the British Virgin Islands and really impossible to get the name for, but I’ll keep trying; the other’s registered in the US under the name Michael Patton Lebiesky.”
Rob flipped a page on his legal pad and jotted these names down, although he felt they would just be dead ends.
“Got anything on any of ‘em?”
Tim shook his head.
“Nothing, sir.”
Rob nodded.
“Okay. Was that everything?”
“No, there’s the Japanese cell you had me call,” Tim reminded.
“And?”
“No answer. I tried a bunch of times.”
Kanahele pulled the elastic from his hair and redid his ponytail, thoughtfully, phone cradled in his shoulder. He made a note to ask Wakamoto if he knew of another way to reach his daughter.
“All right,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Anything else?”
“Not for now.”
“Okay,” Tim grinned. “Uh, I’m leaving to see my mother on Big Island tonight, and I won’t be back until the 27th. I’ve let Daisy Sanchez know the gist of the case, so she can replace me if you need someone. Is that all right?”
Rob sighed, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it. It was the holidays, people needed to visit their loved ones…
He ran a hand over his hair.
“Of course, Duncan. Enjoy your trip.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, chipper. “Mele kalikimaka, inspector.”
Kanahele hung up with a sigh.
***
“Okay, so,” Anne took a satisfying bite out of a luscious crabmeat and celeriac sandwich, “I think we’re still overlooking the most important point. The fact that Ken’s convinced that Kazuma was acting all weird before he was killed. Before he even told him about the Misato thing. Why?”
Adam dipped a latticed fry into a mayo of delicate flavours. They were taking a late lunch in the hotel’s fanciest dining room.
“Blackmail,” he suggested. “Someone knew he and Misato were doing the horizontal mile and threatened to tell Ken unless Kazuma gave them tons of money, but Kazuma couldn’t afford it so instead of being shamed by someone else he decided to shame himself.” He looked at Anne, questioningly, and at Stacy, who was enjoying a shrimp cocktail with them before heading out diving again.
Anne considered this.
“Okay, maybe. But why freak out when he did? Unless the blackmailer was here at the hotel?”
“Possibly.”
“So that means they’re still here.”
“Probably.”
“Is it you?”
Adam sighed.
“NO.”
“Fine, fine,” Anne smiled. “It’s not me and probaly not Ken either.”
“Or me,” Stacy chimed in, before dipping another shrimp.
“It would have to be someone who knew Kazuma before,” Anne suggested. “Ken didn’t recognize any of he guests?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Oh, hey, what if Villenza did it and then -” Anne trailed off.
Adam raised an eyebrow.
“Then bashed himself on the back of the head out of remorse?”
Anne sighed. “Yeah yeah.”
Adam giggled, eating another fry.
“Well, okay, but what if Villenza was the blackmailer? Comes in to clean one day, or something, overhears a conversation between Kazuma and Misato and understands what’s going on, and blackmails Kazuma.”
Anne looked at him with level amusement.
“In Japanese, Adam?”
Adam blinked.
“You think Kazuma and Misato would be having a conversation in English for Villenza’s benefit?” Anne continued.
Adam sighed.
“Maybe he spoke Japanese,” he suggested, but sounded unconvinced.
Anne finished her sandwich and started on the tomato garnish.
“Or, well maybe -”
“Not him,” Anne cut Adam off, looking up. “But one of the other employees. The kid who cleans my room is Japanese. There are others too, all over the place. Maybe one of them overheard something and thought to make a quick buck.”
Stacy grinned, eyes sparkling.
“Fabulous!” She hit the table with a hand. “Anne, you’re brilliant.”
Anne allowed herself a grin.
“Thanks. But we’re no closer to finding a murderer,” she pointed out. “It would be stupid for the blackmailer to cut off his money supply.”
“Ah,” Adam raised an index, “but what if he wasn’t getting any money supply? Kazuma told Ken everything, rather than pay up. There was nothing to blackmail him with.”
“Hm? But then why turn to murder?” Stacy frowned. “I don’t get it.” She looked at the other two.
Anne shook her head.
Adam thought about it a while.
Then he thought about it a while more.
“If I was blackmailing someone,” he finally said, quietly, “and that person refused to take the hook… What if I was in big trouble if he told someone I had tried to blackmail him? You know, my boss or something? The person could have been afraid of losing their job. Or it could have been something worse. But the situation was such that the fact that Kazuma knew that the person had tried to blackmail him, was trouble.”
Adam’s tablemates tried to follow his logic, and Anne nodded.
“Okay. Sounds pretty plausible, I guess. But who?”
Adam had no answer.
***
Kanahele had his desk and his head full of case notes and was still poring over security videos when word finally came of the hotel’s missing dinghy.
It had been found by a pleasure diver, slashed and tangled up in weights at the bottom of a reefy crevice. There were traces of blood still clinging to the grooves and creases of the rubber fabric, and Kanahele had no doubt they’d be identified as Ueshiba’s.
He briefly washed his face to refresh himself from the day’s mind-numbing activities, and made his way down to the beach.
***
“So I guess he was killed in the dinghy,” Sgt. Fujita mused.
“Or killed on the beach and put in there right after. But yeah.” Kanahele responded. They were slowly walking along the beach, away from the dredged-up wreckage and towards the hotel.
“You think the murder weapon is down there, too?”
“Who knows if they’ll find it even if it is,” he said, pragmatically. “It’s a big ocean, Sergeant.”
“But it’s bound to have been something heavy. It would have sunk right down.”
“Right, but the dinghy could have drifted a while before it sank. My guess is, the killer slashed the rubber with the body still in it, strung weights around the whole thing, and swam to shore. Dangerous, but not impossible. We’ll have to wait to see if there’s still gas in the tank, but they could even have kept the engine running so that the dinghy goes as far away as possible from shore and from the hotel before it finally runs out of air, and is pulled down by the weights. That would have been the smart thing.”
Cindy walked carefully in her platform heels, wondering how smart the killer is, musing that it would have been smarter for her herself to not wear these shoes on a day where she was going to end up trudging through the sand, although really, she couldn’t have known.
“Any interesting leads from the security videos, sir?” She asked, changing the subject.
Rob shook his head.
“A lot of people walked in and out of that place in the late hours, Sergeant,” he sighed. “It’s been quite a riot trying to identify them all. There’s nothing like the grainy backs of people’s heads.”
Fujita smiled.
“So no luck, huh?”
“Ehh,” Kanahele grumped. “I mean, some it’s pretty obvious. A dozen partyers cavorted their way in, a few at a time. Two amorous couples who couldn’t keep their hands off each other even as they walked into the hotel,” Rob made a face showing what he thought about that. “Cleaning crew taking out the trash. Stuff like that.”
Cindy nodded.
“Any familiar faces? Or familiar backs of heads?”
A grudging chuckle.
“Yeah. Villenza was one of the cleaners. Him, and a couple others who we interviewed.”
“Which ones?”
“Not sure. The really tall one, I think, and one of the little ones. I can’t remember their names now. Japanese.”
Cindy nodded.
The waves pounded the sand, slow and inevitable.
“There was someone else, too,” Kanahele admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Anne Reynolds. And her friend, Lynch.”
Cindy glanced at him.
“In the right time window?”
Rob nodded, with a sigh.
More waves hit the shore.
“But you don’t think she did it.”
Rob breathed, thoughtfully.
“I want to believe that she’s not that good an actress, Sergeant.” He walked. “Take her reaction when she found Villenza’s body. Anyone faking innocence would have had histrionics. Would have been horrified. She was just shellshocked and drunk and tired,” he frowned… “It seemed to be an honest reaction. A weird one, but honest.”
Cindy walked beside him, not sure what to say.
Rob sighed.
“Right. But… damn, if she didn’t kill the guy, I sure as hell want to know why he ended up in Anne’s room.”
“With her name in his undies,” Fujita pointed out.
Rob huffed.
The hotel was in sight, above the palms.
“I brought a big box of stuff down to the station for graphological analysis,” Cindy mentioned, looking at her boss. “Melvin made copies, he said he’d have something by tomorrow.”
Kanahele glanced back.
“That’s great. You think the underwear clue might be a forgery?”
“It could be. A red herring, you know? Someone felt we were sniffing too close and tried to send us off the trail.”
Rob considered, brow furrowing.
“Could the fact that the second body was found in Anne Reynolds’ room be a red herring too?” He asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, assuming Villenza did witness the first murder. The killer wants to get rid of him, and has for whatever reason decided to make that young lady the scapegoat. The room and the underwear could be two sides of the same coin. Or whatever.”
Cindy paused and looked at the ocean.
“It could be, sir.” She glanced at her superior, brushing a blond curl from her face. “Or she could be the killer.”
Kanahele had a gruff exhale, and started walking again.
“Right. One way or another, I need to talk to her again.”
***
“Don’t look now, honey, but your boyfriend’s right behind you,” Adam leered a grin.
Anne blinked, frowning confusedly.
“Miss Reynolds?”
Anne turned, to see Rob Kanahele standing uncomfortably in the bar.
“Oh,” Anne said, flushing a bit. She stood. “Inspector.”
“You’re a hard woman to find, miss,” Kanahele put his hands in his pockets. “They told me you were in the Sapphire dining room.”
“We’ve been bar-hopping,” Adam interjected. “Boring to always stay in the same place all the time, don’t you think?”
Anne tucked a strand of hair behind her ear shyly.
“It’s a very nice hotel,” she said. “We’ve been exploring.”
“I see,” Rob noted.
“Seeing as, you know, we can’t leave,” Adam chimed in.
Rob ignored him.
“Miss Reynolds, do you think you could come with me for a bit?”
Anne hugged herself nervously.
“Oh? Wh.. what’s going on?”
“Nothing like that,” Rob smiled. “I just want to ask you a few more questions.”
“…Okay……” Anne stood. She looked at Adam.
“Ah, don’t worry, girl, I can take care of myself,” he grinned. “Go on.”
She followed him, sheepishly.
***
“So, you and Mr. Kunitz became fast friends,” Kanahele mentioned.
Anne shrugged, settling into the big armchair.
“Common struggle, I suppose,” she said.
“Against me?” he couldn’t suppress the playful smirk.
She flushed.
“N – of course not,” she said, pushing her hands into the fabric of the chair.
“Haha, it’s okay,” he pulled a notepad into his lap. “I’m a homicide detective, I’m used to being the big scary bad guy.”
“Big scary good guy,” Anne pointed out.
Rob grinned.
Anne sighed.
“Is this getting any closer to finished, Inspector Kanahele?”
Rob gave her a sympathetic look.
“We’re making progress.”
“Is that code for ‘no’?”
“We’re making progress, Miss Reynolds. With everyone’s continued collaboration, this will be resolved soon.”
Anne slumped tiredly into the chair.
“Am I still suspect number one? Cause I didn’t do it. Really.” Her eyes held a little bit of fear.
Kanahele looked at her, then stood, and walked to the window.
“I have to ask you what you were doing on the night of the 14th.”
“When was that?”
“The night Kazuma Ueshiba was murdered.”
“Oh.”
She fidgeted.
“I went out to a nightclub. Stacy was trying to cheer me up.”
“Cheer you up from what?”
“I was sort of hoping I’d meet a nice guy, on this trip,” Anne confessed, with a shrug. “But she ended up taking me to a gay resort, so how do think that’s been working out?”
“Tough break.”
“Yeah, well. Finding a couple of dead bodies has been worse than not getting laid, really,” Anne closed her eyes.
Kanahele pursed his lips, realizing that this was probably indeed the case.
“At what time did you come back from the night club?”
“I dunno, maybe 2:00 or something.”
“You went with your friend?”
“Stacy? Yeah.”
“You were together the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do when you returned to the hotel?”
Anne thought back.
“Went back to my room, took a shower, ordered a cheesburger because I was starving. Watched some TV for a bit. Then went to bed.”
“When was that?”
“Late, like 4:30 or 5:00.”
Rob noted this down.
“Can anyone support this, you think?”
“Well, apart from Stacy, the room service guy, I guess,” she said. “That would have been at like 2:30, maybe.”
Rob nodded, and passed to the next line of questioning.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
She looked up, confused.
“Yes? But I didn’t bring it with me.”
“We checked your phone records,” Kanahele explained. “Haven’t been calling anyone outside the hotel since you arrived. Why is that?”
Anne shrugged.
“I wanted a break, I guess. A getaway. Is it weird for you guys, who live in these wonderful islands, I mean, do you fly up to Pittsburgh or something for your vacations? Or look for someplace even more tropical than here – like, like the Bahamas or something?”
Rob smiled. “For me, a vacation is just not working. Take a week off, stay at home with, sleep in.”
Anne had a small grin, despite the exhaustion in her eyes. “Maybe I’ll do that when I get home.”
Rob nodded.
He was looking out of the window, looking for the right thing to say, when he heard a soft sound from the place where Anne sat. He turned to find her hugging her arms around herself, knees tucked up. He frowned.
“Is… it really awful of me… that the thing I feel the worst about is my ruined vacation?” Anne asked, voice quiet but wavering.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“I mean,” she continued, “I mean, two people are dead, you know?” She sniffed. “I’m not dead. No one I’m close to is dead. I’ve really got it good, you know, compared to some people,” she explained…
Kanahele sighed softly and approached her.
“I got so mad at Stacy for bringing me here, but for a stupid reason, you know?” She said, frowning, hugging herself tighter. “It would have been fine if all this hadn’t happened. I see him in my sleep, sometimes, all bloated and nibbled by fishes, eyes open and ugly like boiled eggs,” she shuddered, and tucked her face down.
Rob wasn’t much for comforting. He stood there awkwardly, wondering whether he should put his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, Miss Reynolds,” he attempted, voice soft.
“But don’t you see?” Anne frowned, lips pressing together. “It didn’t happen to me. It happened to Ueshiba, and that other guy,” she sobbed… “I got off easy, you know? So why am I so messed up?”
Kanahele exhaled. He put a warm hand on her shoulder, patting avuncularly.
“Crime scenes aren’t easy for anyone. It’s normal for you to be troubled by what you saw. Would you like to speak with a psychologist? We have a very nice lady doctor at the station, for these kinds of things, hm? It’s free of charge.”
Anne made a growl, that turned into a wail of sorrow.
“It was my first real vacation,” she moaned! “I finally got myself somewhere tropical, you know! It’s normal that I’m angry that the vacation crashed and burned, I mean, I mean, augh!”
She stood, fleeing to the window where Kanahele had stood previously.
He followed her quietly and tried the shoulder pat thing again.
“I’m 36 and I have a difficult but stimulating job,” she shivered, looking out the window. When she turned, her face was wet with tears. “I’m the type of woman who doesn’t give herself a break, you know?” She squeaked. “Overtime’s not an issue. At home, I keep everything really neat. I don’t even have that many friends. I th – ” she sniffed – “I thought taking a vacation might be a sane thing to do, for once, and, and what happens? All this!” Face angry and bewildered and sad, she softly pounded Rob’s chest with a clenched hand. “It’s like God doesn’t want me to take it easy, like I don’t deserve it,” she pounded his sturdy chest again, tears streaming down her face. “And now I’m gonna get arrested for assaulting an officer, aren’t I,” she blubbered, and fell into Kanahele’s arms, a fountain of tears.
Rob blinked uncomfortably, but mostly surprised, as the crying woman hid her face in his shoulder. He pat-patted in a tender way.
“Shh,” he smiled. “You’re not going to get arrested. And you sound like someone who definitely deserves a vacation.”
Her wailing intensified. Rob made a face, wondering how what he said was wrong, not realizing that saying something right was just as likely to renew her tears.
“I know what it’s like to be married to your work,” he tried again. “It doesn’t mean you’re antisocial. It just means you found the right job, which isn’t something everyone can say for themselves, huh?”
She snuffed.
He rubbed her back a little.
“Come on. It’ll be all right. You’ll come out of this fine, I’m sure of it.”
She squeezed him, face hidden, unwilling to accept that she needed comforting, not wanting to be that weak.
He patted.
“I’ve got peppermint hot chocolate powder,” he said, gently. “I could make you one. Would you like that?”
Silently, after a moment, Anne nodded.
***
Cindy had taken a quick late lunch after leaving the beach, and then returned to the manager’s office to bring back the ledgers she had borrowed.
“Done with them already?” Oosterhout asked. “You people certainly are efficient.”
Fujita smiled.
“We made copies,” she said. “The graphic analysis will take a couple days, or at least until tomorrow.”
“Hm.” Oosterhout carefully replaced the ledger in its slot on his shelf. He drummed his long fingers on the edge of the bookcase, thoughtfully.
“Miss, er, Sergeant, do you know how long this lockdown will continue? After poor Carlos’ death, my other employees are on edge.” His pale eyes flitted to her, and sought her gaze. “One of them quit this afternoon, and others are threatening to follow. It’s not easy to make someone who is frightened enough to prefer unemployment stay on,” he said, only his soft spot for the young sergeant keeping the bitter edge off his voice.
“Who quit?” Cindy asked, intrigued by this.
“Taki Sawada. One of the cleaning staff. I’m now short two housekeeping, and where am I supposed to find new employees just before Christmas, can you answer me that?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Oosterhout,” Cindy said graciously. She knew police investigations could be severely disruptive to workplace morale. “Why did you say Sawada quit?”
Oosterhout steepled his fingers and leaned his hands on the back of his chair, standing tall behind it.
“He was frightened he would be next, I suppose. The boys are certain there is a serial killer on the loose.”
Cindy nodded.
“He and Carlos were friends?”
“Not especially, I don’t think. But I don’t keep tabs on my employees’ relationships.”
Sgt. Fujita tried to connect a face with the name of Taki Sawada, which struck her as familiar. It was someone she had questioned, she was sure of it.
“He was on duty the night Ueshiba was killed, wasn’t he?”
Oosterhout shrugged, like a heron fluffing its feathers.
“How should I know? Probably, oh I suppose I can check,” he huffed, and found the schedule for the night shift.
“Yes, there he is, he was on carpet duty on the ground floor.”
Cindy nodded. So maybe Sawada had seen something, too… Or…
“If he was so frightened, why not come to the police?”
“Not everyone likes our brave law-enforcing men and women as much as I do,” Oosterhout said, with some biliousness.
She nodded, not taking it personally. It was the truth.
“Where can I find this Taki Sawada?”
“Rooms have been made available for staff during the lockdown.”
“Where?”
“Basement and first floor. I believe Mr. Sawada is in B4. That’s basement level.”
Cindy gave him a dimpled smile.
“Thanks – I think I’ll go have a look.”
“All right.” She headed to the exit, then changed her mind.
“Oh, Mr. Oosterhout? the hotel windows, do they usually open from the inside?”
“First-floor windows do, as emergency exits,” he explained. “Why do you ask?”
Cindy smiled.
“Just curious. Thanks a lot!”
Oosterhout leaned an arm on his chair back, and watched her leave.
***
The usual elevators didn’t reach the basement, so Cindy loped down the stairs and used her passkey to let her into the service area. Most employees traveled to and from their homes each day, but there were four double-occupancy rooms, bare and simple, for the use of visiting students working summer jobs, or others who preferred to rent on-site while working at the resort.
B4 was at the end of the row, nearest the kitchens. Fujita knocked, then opened the unlocked door.
A tall white boy with impressive muscles was lounging shirtless, book in hand, cigarette quickly extinguished when she entered.
“Uh?” he said.
Cindy flashed her badge.
“I’m with the police. Is this Taki Sawada’s room?”
“Uh, yeah,” the young employee said. He looked worried. “Why?”
“Do you know where Mr. Sawada is?”
The boy frowned.
“Not really. Did something happen?” He asked. “He said he was going to get some air,” he had an apologetic nod at the ashtray.
She frowned.
“Air, huh. How long?”
“Like half an hour maybe.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
The boy shook his head.
“Probably the beach, I mean we’re not allowed to go anywhere else, are we,” he said, crossing his arms cynically.
Cindy nodded. Feeling a nervous thrill flutter in the pit of her stomach, she ran back up the stairs.
***
“This is Sgt. Fujita, anyone guarding the exits of the Grotto Hotel, respond,” Cindy ran down the hall towards the lobby, clutching her radio.
There were some positive replies from the police frequency.
“Did anybody leave in the last half hour?”
“Not through the front exit, sir,” came an officer’s voice.
“A laundry van left about ten minutes ago through the back,” came another.
Cindy trotted through the lobby.
“Can you get that van followed? I’m in pursuit of a possible suspect or important witness, male, 5′4, 115 pounds, Japanese. Gone AWOL from the lockdown within the last 30 minutes. Make sure he’s not inside.”
“Gotcha. Right away.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cindy clipped her radio back on her belt and dashed out the hotel’s sliding doors.
Sawada could have been another witness, but he could have been something else, too. She considered the facts. He had known Villenza. He could easily have been the one on the security tape, taking out the trash in the time window where Ueshiba had been murdered. He’d have had a pass key for Anne Reynolds’ room.
One way or the other, if he was scared enough to risk arrest by running, and to quit his job, he was in this big time. He either had killed the two men, or knew who had.
One way or another, Fujita had to find him.
Assuming Sawada hadn’t left in that laundry van, that only left the beach. He could have followed the beach out of hotel jurisdiction and made a run for it from there.
Problem was, the beach was swarming with officers, recovering the dinghy.
She looked up and down the sandy expanse, ankles twisting in her platform heels. It was a beautiful day, and there was a crowd. It would have been possible to disappear in it.
She repeated the suspect’s description to the beach patrolmen, who also claimed that there had been no noticeable exits from the beach area within the last hour. Taking off her shoes, she left them with a bewildered sunbather and sped towards the rentals area.
There was one more way Sawada could have escaped. He could have fled by sea.
The dreadlocked equipment-rentals attendant greeted her with a smile.
“Good afternoon missy. You sure look in a hurry for someone in Paradise.”
“Police,” she pulled out her badge. “Did anyone come through here to rent a boat or scuba equipment in the last half hour?”
The man’s handsome face grew stern.
“No way, I just come back from break, there wasn’t anyone here between 5:15 and 5:30. And nobody come get a boat in the time just before that, I was here.”
“During your break, the place is left unattended?”
“Nah, it’s locked down,” he showed her a padlock. “People leave it outside if they return equipment in that time.”
Cindy looked inside, grimly.
“You could tell me if anything’s missing, couldn’t you?”
The man gave a white-toothed grin.
“Nothing missing, I’m telling you.”
“Could you check, please?” the sergeant was getting impatient.
“Sure, sure,” the man said. He led her inside the little hut.
“Well, there’s the boat been missing for a few days, but you know about that, huh?”
Cindy nodded. The dinghy Ueshiba had been murdered in. Would this place have been padlocked then too? Could Sawada have gotten a key somehow, and used it then, as well as today? Her eyes quickly scanned the space.
“That would be here, normally, on these hooks, you see how all the other hooks got boats on ‘em,” he extended an arm.
“What about over there?” she pointed with her chin.
The man looked.
“Well,” he said. “Would you look at that.”
It was another empty slot.
Cindy exhaled.
“What’s the fastest boat the hotel owns?”
***
Kanahele had heard all the excitement on the police radio. He had heard it, tinny and distant, but had had a crying woman in his arms, and not being particularly experienced with comforting crying women, had elected to keep awkwardly patting Anne’s back because he didn’t know what would happen if he stopped.
After a few more minutes, she had calmed down, and blown her nose in a tissue Kanahele had handed her. She’d given him a burningly apologetic look, yet also burningly thankful, and those big murky green eyes in that cute, tomboyish face had made Kanahele feel a little bit like he had indigestion. She’d drank his hot chocolate, and they had talked briefly about parents and Christmas.
And then she had left.
Slumped in his armchair, Rob grabbed the radio.
“Fujita, what is all this about you tailing a suspect?”
There was no answer. The inspector put his volume up and tried again.
“Sergeant Fujita, this is Inspector Kanahele, what’s this I hear about you being in pursuit of a suspect, over?”
Cindy’s voice came finally, distorted by a noisy crackle.
“I’m sorry inspector, there wasn’t any time to get you. A suspect ran.”
Rob frowned irately.
“Which one?”
“One we hadn’t considered yet. One of the cleaners. Taki Sawada.”
Rob paused, then sighed.
“I presume you have strong grounds on which to implicate this guy?”
The radio crackled.
“… I think so, sir,” said Fujita’s voice. “He had the opportunity for both murders and a key to Reynolds’ room.” Noise filled the radio, rough and loud. “And he quit his job today, inspector, and made a run for it. He stole a hotel vehicle. I think I’m on to something, inspector,” Cindy insisted. “I think he’s more than a witness.”
Kanahele sighed again. Cindy had gone on wild goose chases before, but that didn’t mean they weren’t sometimes right.
“Well, best of luck then. Sergeant, where are you?”
The radio crackled roaringly when Cindy’s voice returned.
“Motorboat, sir. Suspect fled by water.”
***
The Pacific blue churned and foamed, split by the motorboat’s prow. Cindy Fujita stood gripping the wheel of the small metal runabout, curls blown viciously back from her freckled face.
The other craft could not have more than a 20 minute lead on her, and although the other boat had a motor as well, it wasn’t as fast as this one. She was going to catch him. She was.
Choosing a direction in which to go had been the major concern, so she’d followed her common sense. Up the beach, police boats were still searching the area where the dinghy had been found, looking for the murder weapon or other clues. Straight out, there was nothing but open sea for miles. So Cindy chose to turn left, and follow the clearest path, the most unwatched one, by which a terrified witness or, she was increasingly willing to believe, a clever serial killer, might seek escape.
As the shoreline sped by, the sergeant considered the facts of the case, through the lens of Sawara as killer. Taki Sawara would have been who Ueshiba was meeting that night – maybe for an illicit rebound rendezvous, maybe for something else. He sneaked out the window for a reason yet unknown, but met Sawara while the cleaner was ostensibly taking out the trash. Somehow, that night turned fatal for Ueshiba. Maybe he rejected Sawara, and the young cleaner got violent. Maybe it was an attempted robbery, or blackmail, or threat, or maybe Sawara was just really, really pissed at having to clean the carrot soup out of the dining room carpet. He bludgeoned Ueshiba with something; maybe he wasn’t alone, maybe Villenza was in on it, maybe that’s why he witnessed it – but guilt got the better of Villenza, and so the accomplice cleaner decided to come clean. But Sawara couldn’t have that, so he gave Villenza the same treatment he’d given the other guy, and tried to frame Anne Reynolds. Maybe forged the underwear clue. Acted innocent in questioning, tried to wait it out but ran when the heat got too hot, once the dinghy was found. Something in the dinghy to implicate him, maybe. Reason enough to run.
It had holes, but it was solid enough to hold together.
Cindy wiped the sea spray from her sunglasses and squinted, and emitted a yelp of triumph. Yes! There was another craft on the horizon! It looked to be the right shape and size for one of the hotel’s dinghies, and to only be carrying one passenger.
“This is Sergeant Fujita, requesting backup, heading west in Honokohau Bay,” she called into her radio. “Expecting intercept with craft carrying murder suspect in Kulaokaea area in less than five minutes. Can you get me a squad car there, over?”
Some silence. Cindy watched the grey dot on the endless blue get bigger as the orange sun got lower. Her radio crackled.
“This is officer A.J. Marshall, car 14, repeat your request please, Sergeant?”
Cindy did. Officer Marshall pointed his car to the craggy coast of Kulaokaea point.
As she drew ever nearer to her quarry, Cindy Fujita struggled with the question of motive. Sawada was also Japanese – Japan-Japanese, not Hawaii-Japanese – and young, no older than Ueshiba. Could they have known each other from before? Was there a history there?
Was it all too far out of left field?
Cindy was able to positively identify the craft as belonging to the hotel at around the same time as Taki Sawada realized he was being followed. He gunned the engine and tried to get a burst of speed. Fujita pressed on, determined. Only a guilty man runs so hard.
Taki Sawada. The fact that it was someone they hadn’t thought of at all both bothered Cindy and relieved her. She had been willing to consider Wakamoto, Kunitz or Reynolds as guilty, but the inspector was right, none of it felt quite correct. They’d been worrying that it might have to be someone else entirely. And now it was. Maybe.
Sawada looked behind him, and Cindy could see the fear and rage in his eyes. She cursed silently, wishing she had brought a megaphone onto the boat – but there had been no time to run back to her car before commencing the chase. Already, Sawada was nearing the shore, and had still a dozen boat lengths between then. She hoped the squad car would be there in time. What if Sawada had a vehicle waiting on the shore? What was he expecting to gain by this? Didn’t he know the police would always catch him?
The suspect’s dinghy veered suddenly towards the coastline, trying to cut Fujita off, make better time to land.
Cindy growled in her throat and swerved the runabout to follow, but the larger, faster craft was slower to react, and she had to backtrack. She cursed. Sawada was gaining distance.
The cleaner turned to see her swerve and follow, and stared at the pursuing boat, transfixed with dread. When the policewoman started waving and shouting, almost inaudible over the din of the engines, he sharply jutted out his arm and gave her the finger. He wasn’t going to let her intimidate him.
Cindy waved harder, trying to explain with her arms what her voice was failing to communicate.
“You’re heading for a reef!” She cried. Her hands made helpless crashing gestures. She’d only noticed seconds before that they were headed on a collision course with the sharp rocks that waited just below the surface by Kulaokaea.
The rubber dinghy sped recklessly towards them, not even noticing the crashing surf, Sawada focused on glaring at Cindy.
“Stop!” Cindy called, but uselessly. “You’re gonna rip your boat up! oh, god dammit,” she added, in a frustrated undertone. She was used to the waters around Maui – she knew trouble when she saw it. Grudgingly, she slowed her runabout, looking for a safer course through the nearly invisible rocks.
Sawada’s little craft bounced recklessly towards shore, until the inevitable happened, and the reef’s sharp stone punctured rubber. The dinghy tipped and swerved, motor still running at full blast, crashing it into another pointy spire, and then another, seawater crashing around it, obscuring the suspect from view.
Cindy cursed and dropped anchor. Whipping off her sunglasses, she dove into the sapphire waters.
The dinghy shuddered and rocked only a few dozen yards away. Fujita closed the distance rapidly, and sought Sawada in the surf crashing and foaming like spittle around the brutal teeth of the stone reef. The rock cut her bare foot as she treated water. The dinghy was in shreds, subjugated by the waves, and the boy was nowhere to be seen.
Then Cindy spotted a hand, and dove, eyes searching underwater.
Sawada was there, a gash on his forehead slowly seeping a red cloud, struggling, weakening in the misleadingly beautiful waters, shallow but treacherous. She plunged after him, pulling at him, dragging him up, but he shoved back against her and attempted to swing a punch, underwater fist slow and determined. Cindy dodged it and pulled at Sawada’s shirt, trying to bring them both up for air. A long, wide strip of fabric floated out from under his shirt, pale and heavy, towards the ocean floor. Sawada and Fujita both watched its slow fall – one with horror, one with confusion cut short by a doubling of violent rage from the little cleaner. Cindy battled to bring them to the surface as Sawada clawed and kicked and bit at her, feral and desperate, screaming mutely in the water, then breathing in, gasping, coughing, taking water with every inhale until his eyes bulged and his fighting spirit diminished.
Cindy held on and resolutely dragged the cleaner up to the surface.
Filling her burning lungs with wonderful air, Cindy pulled Taki’s head above water and swam to shore, picking their path carefully. She crawled onto the hard stone beach, catching her breath for a moment before pulling them both up and clutching him from behind, Heimlich maneuver forcing the water from his lungs. The cleaner was smaller and lighter than Cindy – and there was something else about him, something that made the sergeant’s head spin. She continued undauntedly, stomaching the surprise. Sawada spat and coughed, retching out seawater from his mouth and nose.
Cindy breathed and carefully let the suspect down to the ground. Like this, shirt drenched and clinging, it was easy to see what had so shocked her moments earlier, when her hands had sought purchase around Sawada’s chest. And what explained the strip of fabric, thick and stretchy like a medical bandage, that had slipped off in the fight.
And what explained a whole lot more, beside.
Once you knew, it was almost obvious. Not a boy. Pretty face, pretty even for a girl.
“Misato Wakamoto,” Cindy said to the coughing young woman, clipping on handcuffs, “you are under arrest for the murders of Kazuma Ueshiba and Carlos Villenza.”
Misato coughed and glared, but didn’t struggle further, and didn’t say a word.
The sun sank into the sea.
Police sirens grew near.
- THERE’S STILL AN EPILOGUE ON THE WAY! THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE, AND THANKS FOR READING! -
