Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (5 page)

Her next stop was a manicurist on Woodlawn
Drive. A young woman gave Darlene the full fingers and toes
treatment. Seemed innocent enough, I thought, ruling out for the
moment that the affair was with another woman. I took pictures
anyway just for the hell of it.

Things finally began to get interesting when
I tailed Darlene to a community park on Aala Street. She walked
hurriedly to a shaded area, where she met with a thirty-something
Hawaiian man of medium build with a short dark ponytail. My first
thought was:
Gotcha, Darlene!

But it looked like I'd jumped the gun.

They exchanged a few words before she handed
the man an envelope. I captured it on digital and watched through
the telephoto lens as he riffled through what could only have been
money. More words were exchanged before he reached into his pocket
and quickly—his eyes darting left and right as though scared to
death that someone might catch them in the act of committing a
crime—placed a small plastic bag into Darlene's palm, and curled
her fingers around it for good measure.

My guess was that I'd just witnessed a drug
transaction between a dealer and the wife of a former prosecutor
and now wealthy businessman. Suddenly this case had far greater
implications than merely a wife who was having an affair. I found
myself almost wishing it had been something as simple and
non-criminal (unless it happened to be your own spouse) as
adultery. Was this the essence of Darlene's "affair"? Drug abuse?
Did Carter even have a clue that his wife was doing drugs and
willing to go to risky lengths to get them?

CHAPTER
FIVE

My favorite place to unwind was at a Waikiki
watering hole on Kuhio Avenue called Clyde and Bonnie's. Named
after the infamous bank-robbing couple from the 1930s, the walls
were lined with images from a time gone by. The music piping out
was also vintage jazz standards, featuring the likes of Sarah
Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and other great crooners of
that era.

I sat with Ridge at a small table near the
window, sharing a pitcher of beer. His brow furrowed as he studied
the photograph I'd just handed him.

He turned his eyes to me. "Looks familiar,"
he said. "I think I'll run it by the guys in vice."

I grabbed the picture of Darlene and the man
she had met at the park. "Strictly
unofficial
, remember?"
Against my better judgment, I had shared with Ridge my suspicions
about Darlene and her probable drug dealer. "I can't really be sure
what I saw," I said waveringly. I'd held back the more
incriminating pictures. "The last thing I want to do is betray the
confidentiality of a client—particularly one who was once a top
prosecutor in this city—by providing dirt for every cop on the
police force who may have had, or still has, a beef against
him."

Not to mention those nervous investors
Carter mentioned. And just plain old media folks who like to jump
on any story that seems remotely newsworthy. At the very least, I
figured that Carter deserved to hear it from me first if there was
any substance to my suspicions.

Ridge put the beer mug to his mouth and
flashed his deep blue eyes at me drearily. "Do I detect some
sentiment for Carter Delaney and his female problems?"

I stared at the tricky question while
tasting beer. "I'm not going to pretend we were never married"—as
if that was an option—"or that there aren't some lingering feelings
that come with the territory," I conceded, hating to admit it. "But
right now my only interest in the man is as a client who entrusted
me with a job—one that doesn't include smearing his name and
reputation. Or, for that matter, his wife's reputation at this
stage."

Ridge drank more beer and studied me
thoughtfully. "Whatever happened to the woman who just two days ago
wouldn't touch this case with a twelve foot pole?"

I fixed him with a narrow gaze. "Do I need
to remind you
who
talked me into taking the case?"
Or at
least he helped push me in that direction
, I thought.

He smirked. "I just hope my big mouth
doesn't get you in over your head. Looks like Delaney may end up
with a hell of a lot more than he bargained for."

I put the mug to my lips, spilling beer down
my chin, and concluded painfully: "Most clients do."

The only real question in my mind was just
how much more dirt was there to find concerning Darlene Delaney?
And was Carter prepared to deal with the fallout?

* * *

I got up at the crack of dawn for my morning
run with Ollie. For some reason, he seemed more out of it than me.
I half-expected him to call it quits about halfway through and get
his ass back home, but he managed to keep pace with me.

When we returned home, I noticed my
housekeeper's dark blue Chevy Malibu in the driveway. Natsuko
Sasaki was a twenty-five-year-old Japanese graduate student with
bold sable eyes and a stylish black bob. She was petite, sassy,
sarcastic, and often too damn opinionated for her own good. She
also had a strong anti-male philosophy in life, but insisted that
it had nothing to do with her sexuality. Who was I to argue with
that?

Natsuko cleaned my house once a week after I
convinced myself that I had neither the time nor desire to keep up
with my housework, much less pet projects. She also happened to be
great with Ollie, which in itself made my life a whole lot
easier.

We found Natsuko in the kitchen where she
had managed to get rid of last night's dirty dishes by way of the
dishwasher, and had actually fixed breakfast.

"Aloha kakahiaka," she said.

"Hey," I responded.

Ollie gave her his unique brand of good
morning by jumping up on her, nearly knocking Natsuko down. She
recovered nicely, maintaining her balance by grabbing the
counter.

"Ollie, I missed you too," she claimed. "I
made some toast and scrambled eggs to go with orange juice and
coffee. That all right?" She regarded me with uncertainty.

In fact, I wasn't too big on egg yolks these
days and their cholesterol, preferring to use only the egg whites
for cooking. But I wasn't in the mood to spoil Natsuko's good
intentions. Besides, my nearly empty stomach was ready for just
about anything.

I grabbed a piece of toast, bit into it, and
said with a smile: "Thanks, Natsuko. It's great."

She gave me a toothy grin and turned to
Ollie. "I didn't forget about you either, boy—" She led him to his
bowl that was filled with tasty looking dog biscuits.

"I just signed up for a course in
self-defense," Natsuko said in the breakfast nook where she had
only black coffee. "One can never be too careful these days."

I forked some scrambled eggs into my mouth.
"I think a self-defense course is a good idea," I told her while
trying to imagine Natsuko on the attack. "Let me know how it
goes..."

In the police academy, I learned my fair
share about self-defense strategies. Even took up boxing a few
years ago, mainly as a way to increase my upper body strength.
Although I'd like to think I could kick anyone's ass who messed
with me, the reality was that most confrontations were not about
hand-to-hand combat, but who had the more powerful handgun. Nine
times out of ten, the thugs seem to be better equipped these days,
which was a problem for everyone. Including Natsuko if she happened
to encounter the wrong assailant.

I took a shower and dressed before stepping
into some comfortable slip-ons. I had just tied my hair back when
Natsuko walked into the bedroom. She was holding a dust rag that
didn't look particularly dusty.

"So what are you working on these days?" she
inquired, moseying over to the window. "Anything interesting?" Her
eyes bulged with fascination while she casually ran the rag across
the faux wood blinds.

"Not really," I said and added
unenthusiastically: "Just your standard cheating wife case—" There
certainly was no need to go into the details concerning my ex and
his drug using wife. As it was, I had no evidence yet that she was
cheating.

"Not the worst thing that could happen,"
Natsuko said.

I agreed, were Darlene's actions confined to
that. Nevertheless, having been the victim of a cheater, it still
left a bad taste in my mouth. "I can think of a lot better things
to do with your time," I told her.

Natsuko's face flushed. "It's not that I
believe in adultery, but men have been getting away with it for
years. Maybe it's time
we
put the shoe on the other
foot—"

I frowned and said: "Just who do you think
the vast majority of men have been, as you say,
getting away
with it for years
with?"

She looked stumped. "So women can be bitches
just like men can be bastards," she conceded. "No one ever said we
were perfect."

"Far from it," I admitted, putting on some
lip gloss. "That doesn't mean we can't try to be." I grabbed my
purse, and told Natsuko: "I've got to go. Don't forget to lock up
when you leave—"

"No problem," I heard her say as I headed
out the door, all the while thinking about Darlene Delaney and the
trouble she appeared to be in.

* * *

Another day, another two grand
, I
thought while staking out Carter's impressive estate. Once again,
Darlene left home bright and early, whizzing by as if it was her
last day on earth and time was of the essence. And, once more, she
was dressed to kill, figuratively speaking, in what could only be
described as provocative designer clothing. Only this time Ivy was
not with her.

I followed Darlene to a hair salon on
Dillingham Boulevard, where she emerged an hour later with a new
look. Her hair was shorter, lighter, and curlier. I liked the old
look better. But it was doubtful my opinion would count for much. I
found myself wondering if Carter's opinion would matter to her.

Darlene went from the hair salon to a motel
on Nahua Street called Palm Tree Lodge. There were a few palm trees
on the property, as if strictly for effect. Something told me that
Darlene had not come there to meet Carter. But who? Perhaps the
drug dealer she'd met the day before at the park.

I eased into a parking spot inconspicuously
on the other side of the lot. I'd barely noticed the shiny black
Mercedes that Darlene had parked next to. I was too busy watching
her take one more look at the new hairdo, put on a fresh coat of
lipstick, and get out of the car.

She sauntered to a first floor room where
the door opened before she could knock. A man greeted her.
Definitely not the drug dealer from the park—or Carter. This man
looked to be in his early to mid forties, and was tall and well
built with thick graying hair. He was wearing a kimono style robe
and apparently nothing else.

Through the telephoto zoom lens of my
camera, I snapped pictures as the man in question greeted Darlene
with a big, juicy kiss. She was more than reciprocal as she kicked
the door shut. So much for the freebies! Not that I hadn't already
seen enough to earn my pay. Carter's suspicions about the wife were
right on the money. Darlene had a lover.

In that moment, I actually felt sorry for
Carter. If the truth be told, I suppose part of me had hoped his
qualms were not unfounded. Perhaps I wanted to make him feel
renewed guilt for cheating on me, but not the pain of being cheated
on. None of that seemed to matter now. Only the hard reality that
Darlene Delaney was seeing another man and very likely doing drugs
at the same time, if not the same place.

An hour or so later, the two emerged from
the room. He had ditched the robe in favor of a dark suit. They
barely exchanged words before she went to her BMW and he to the
Mercedes. I was left to wonder what he did with his time when he
wasn't bedding Carter's wife, given that the man could obviously
afford to drive in style.

I realized that I was perhaps overstepping
my bounds in speculating on the man's net worth and source of
income. My only interest here was to confirm that Darlene was
having an affair. She was. That should have been the end of it.

But, knowing Carter, he'd want more than
merely confirmation. I needed to find out who the lover was. I took
down his license plate number as Darlene left the lot. He drove off
in the opposite direction, as though their worlds together began
and ended at cheap motels. I followed him while dialing Ridge at
work on my cell phone, putting it on speaker.

"Detective Larsen—" his voice boomed.

"Hi, Ridge—" I said in the cozy tone I used
whenever I needed a favor. "Got a minute?"

"Barely..." he said. "What's up?"

"I need you to run a make on a license
plate." I cursed silently as I pressed on the brake at a red light
while the Mercedes disappeared down the street.

"Let's have it," Ridge said. "Just remember,
you owe me one."

"Just one?" I joked. "I'm sure a repayment
plan can be worked out to your satisfaction, Detective Larsen—"

"Yeah, I'm sure it can, and I plan to hold
you to it," he replied.

I could only imagine what he might have in
mind. "The plate is EHA 849."

"Okay, hold on," Ridge said. "The car is
registered to Edwin Hugh Axelrod of 813 Onaha Street," he informed
me in short order.

"Axelrod..." The name sounded familiar. And
with good reason.

"He's a criminal attorney," Ridge said,
filling in the blanks. "The man defends some of the city's low life
elite who can afford the best that money can buy, even if the money
is soiled."

He was also having an affair with the wife
of a former prosecutor and current success story in town who
happened to be my ex-husband, I thought. Was it a coincidence? Or
was there something more to it?

This was something Carter would have to sort
out himself, along with his wife's apparent drug use.