Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (7 page)

Marcella took a look at the murky water before them. “Can’t believe it’s looking good to me, but I’m hot enough to be ready to get in there.”

“You got that right.”

The last touches were mask and fins, which they put on while sitting on the cement edge of the canal. Marcella was the first to slide forward into the murky, briny water, bobbing easily with the BC fully inflated.

Marcella and Kamuela turned on the flashlights and gave each other thumbs-up. Marcella reached up to compress a valve on her vest. A stream of bubbles emitted, and she sank into greenish dim pierced by the yellow lances of their lights and a silver stream of bubbles. She tracked Kamuela beside her, descending at the same rate, and let herself smile a little around the rubber regulator in her mouth.

He looked even better in the wet suit than she’d imagined.

They hit the bottom in seconds—the canal was no more than twelve feet deep. Marcella’s fins sank into the muck on the bottom, and as she pushed up, a cloud of mud obscured visibility even further. They were going to have to get very close to the bottom and try not to disturb the silt.

Marcella took a compass reading and set her first tracking beacon, a triangular cone with a flashing light on top of it. Two feet over, per protocol, Kamuela set a second beacon.

Marcella inflated the vest slightly without moving her legs and rose a couple of feet off the bottom, high enough to reach down into the muck with her hands. She experimented with height by manipulating the air in the BC until she was able to hover at just the right depth. Kamuela rose to parallel her, and they waited for the silt to settle.

The deep inhale of her breath followed by the singing stream of bubbles was remarkably soothing; Marcella felt herself relax. Suspended weightless in the dark, no sound but the mysterious song of her own breath, safe with Kamuela beside her, she finally stopped thinking.

When the silt had settled a bit, she pointed her light down into it, and they began systematic passes, looking into the silty mud with the lights and keeping their movements small. As they suspended in the hypnotic environment, time seemed to slow.

Marcella was surprised to see her O2 gauge begin flashing a yellow warning on the dive computer dangling from her BC. She glanced at the built-in clock—they’d been down an hour. Kamuela suddenly kicked forward, engulfing them in a brown cloud. She shone her handheld light on his face, grinning around a stream of bubbles.

He was holding a cell phone.

They still had around fifteen minutes of oxygen, and moments later found a beige purse drifting gently against a cement piling, a few feet away from where Kamuela had found the phone. Marcella photographed both items where they were found.

The purse was weighted with something or it would have washed away even in the slow current. Marcella’s heart picked up speed with excitement, but now wasn’t the time to investigate its contents. Hopefully the .22 Pettigrew was shot with was weighing down the purse.

Marcella’s O2 meter began flashing red. She caught Kamuela’s eye and pointed up. He nodded, and they inflated their BCs, rising at the speed of their silvered breath to the surface. They were mere feet from the concrete lip of the canal.

Kamuela held up the purse, streaming water, and Rogers reached for it, grinning. “Yes!”

“This too,” Marcella said, holding up the phone. Rogers took the items as the divers reached up for the edge. Kamuela was able to haul himself out with brute strength, his gear still on, but Marcella was rendered too clumsy and heavy without the buoyancy of the water. She took off her weight belt, handed it up to Rogers, then her BC. He hoisted the gear up onto the cement, and Marcella took hold of the edge, pulled herself up. She flopped on her back, panting. The sky had gone dark, streaked with the flame of sunset, and late-evening shadows surrounded them. She sat up.

“I’m hoping the purse was weighted down with a weapon,” Kamuela said. He’d stripped out of his gear and squatted beside her.

“Let’s see.” Rogers turned the purse upside down.

Out poured water, a ballpoint pen, a Nikon digital camera, a metal pill canister, a comb, a ChapStick, a pair of sunglasses, a soaked paper datebook, a roll of Tums exploding out of their wrapper.

No gun.

“Must have been the camera weighing it down,” Marcella said. “Maybe we can save the SIM card.”

“Same with the phone. Hopefully the water didn’t get all the way into it.” Kamuela shook his head briskly. “We need to get this water off us—I can feel an itch coming on. Everywhere.”

“Yeah. Why don’t you guys take off? I’m going to run this stuff back to headquarters and hand the SIM cards and whatever else over to IT. They’re going to need some time to process it, so let’s call it a day.” Rogers glanced at his watch. “My wife’s given me an hour, tops, to get home before she and the kids break into the steaks without me.”

Marcella’s stomach rumbled at the mention, and she glanced over at Kamuela as she heard a similar sound come from his direction. He grinned, the first time she’d seen that blaze of smile without a regulator in the way.

“No such luck for me,” Marcella said, pulling off her fins. “I just want to get home to a hot shower. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much when you’re down there, but you sure feel it when you get out of the water.” She stood, hunched her shoulders. “Can someone unzip me? Damn zipper tag is gone.”

“No problem.” Kamuela pulled the zipper down to her waist. She wriggled her shoulders, and he tugged at one side of the long sleeve so she could pull her arm out. She tugged the other side down, turned with a smile. “Need any help?”

“Sure.” His tag was still on, but she pulled the zipper down anyway, enjoying the deep groove of his spine, his supple height, the way his muscles seemed to swell out of the confines of the suit as the zipper moved down. He shrugged; she pulled the shoulder of the suit—and he pulled his right arm out.

On the inside of his biceps was a small gray hammerhead shark tattoo. It made her wonder what else might be tattooed on that big brown body.

Marcella moved over to unscrew her regulator and unclamp the BC from the oxygen tank. She busied herself with the various tasks of taking off and sorting her gear, hauling it to the Acura, peeling off the wet suit, toweling off her sleek black tank suit. She didn’t want to be attracted to Kamuela, someone she worked with. Nothing good could come of it, she told herself sternly.

“See you guys tomorrow,” she said to Kamuela. Ching, who’d been napping in the SUV, had woken up to help his partner with the gear. Kamuela lifted a hand as she climbed into the Acura. She didn’t wave back.

“Get me home, Matt. I can feel the bacteria multiplying as we speak.”

“You got it, babe.” The Acura laid down a little rubber as they pulled away, and Marcella thought that expressed her frustration nicely.

Chapter 8

Marcella finally got out of the shower when she felt parboiled. She wrapped her long hair in one towel and dried herself carefully with another, checking for any wounds that could harbor bacteria. Nothing on her but the mole on her hip and the bullet scar on the outside of her triceps, where a bank robber had winged her a year ago. She slipped into her terry-cloth robe, and with the towel on her head tucked in turban-style, went in search of food.

She hit the On button of her computer and put a Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave. The calm the underwater world had wrought might have been a dream. The e-mail icon was lit up on her computer, and she opened it to find a message from the Club.

Funny timing. She’d been going to surf their catalog. She clicked on the icon.

Kamuela appeared in a photo avatar, under the name “Mano,” asking her to meet. She knew
mano
meant “shark.” He wore a black mask, a silky unbuttoned aloha shirt, and worn jeans. Part of the Club’s anonymity, and its sexy appeal, was that everyone wore masks—but he was easily recognizable with his broad chest and muscled arms.

“Oh my God.” Marcella clapped her hand over her mouth. “He must have recognized me. Oh my God.” She clicked over to her own avatar, where she appeared with the mask on, her lush hair down, looking flirtatiously over a bare shoulder, under the name “Maria.” In the photo, she was wearing a bustier that laced up the back, showcasing her curves.

She was probably as recognizable to him as he was to her.

Marcella got up and went to the fridge. There still wasn’t much in there—a withered apple, some dubious leftovers—but there was a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She grabbed it, splashed a glassful, took a swig.

He had to know it was her. He was a detective, for godsake, used to assessing people, memorizing them, mask or no mask. She remembered his arm brushing hers in Pettigrew’s apartment—his nearness had activated something subliminal, a sizzle they must both be feeling. But why approach her through the Club? Why not just ask her out?

But maybe he hadn’t recognized her. Maybe he was just looking for someone to hook up with.

No. The timing couldn’t be coincidental, she told herself. He’d been trolling profiles and he’d seen hers. He could even blackmail her with it, ruin her reputation. The Club wasn’t illegal, but it was definitely inappropriate—too much vulnerability for the agent and the Bureau.

She went into the bedroom, picked up Loverboy’s bowl. “This is what other women have girlfriends for,” she told the betta fish, carrying him into the kitchen as she sat at her little table with the Lean Cuisine. “They call each other. Talk over men. Take a vote and decide what to do. My only girlfriend is Lei Texeira, who’s as messed up about men as me—maybe more so. She’d shoot herself in the head before she’d sleep with a stranger, like I have so many times. She’d never understand this weird situation. No. I need to figure it out myself.”

Loverboy had little to add to this monologue.

Marcella shoveled in the woefully small portion of food in minutes, then tore into a loaf of bread sitting on the shelf and ate a couple of slices. Sipped the wine. Loverboy fanned his fins at her, and she dropped a few bread crumbs into the bowl. Rogers and his family had given her the fish for Christmas, and she was surprised at how attached to him she’d become.

“Who says fish aren’t good companions? Okay. I know. I wanted to check out Natalie’s place, see if I can get a look at whoever she’s sleeping with. I’ll go do that for a while, see what that kinky artist is up to, then just drive by the Club. Have a look. I don’t have to decide now.”

Loverboy did a few laps, gobbled at the floating crumbs.

“Okay. It’s a plan. I can do this.” Marcella went back into the bathroom and blew out her hair with the hair dryer, reveling in the sensation of hot air blowing over her squeaky-clean skin. When it was thick and straight, brushing her waist, she touched up her full mouth with fire-engine red. She whisked mascara over thick, curly lashes and slid into thin black silk pants. A loose velvet tank top completed the ensemble.

She put on the heavy gold Scatalina family cross her parents had given her for First Communion. It felt a little superstitious as she did so—as if warding off some sort of spell. She decided not to overthink it. She might be promiscuous, but she was no slut. There was a difference—and the difference was, she was in charge of whom she slept with.

Marcella slid her cred wallet and the small .19 caliber into her soft black leather purse. On her way out, she picked up the fish bowl and planted a kiss on it. A bright red lip print remained. Loverboy attacked it, bumping the glass.

“Love you too, baby.” She locked the door behind her.

Marcella took the elevator for once, feeling a very real physical tiredness masked by nervous energy—scuba diving really did have a sneaky physical effect. In the building garage, she got into her car, a black Honda Accord two-door.

She whipped the light canvas cover off, tossed it to the front of her parking stall. The dim lights of the garage gleamed off the chrome of custom rims, and Lei’s humorous gift of a pair of fuzzy purple dice dangled from the mirror.

She rolled out and, ten minutes later, drew up in front of Natalie’s dilapidated building, parking across the street in the shadow of a tree just enough to be hidden but not so deep in shadow she couldn’t see out. Seeing the dice reminded her to call her friend Lei, and she speed-dialed Texeira. It went to voice mail again.

“Damn, girl! Call me back. I need to talk to you.” What the hell. She doubted Lei would have any idea what to do, but the impulse to tell someone her ridiculous situation was strong—and this situation reminded her how few people she had to really talk to.

Marcella looked up the building to Natalie’s windows. The lights were on in the tenth-floor apartment, but no movement appeared. Marcella reclined the seat, turned the radio to a Latin guitar station.

It didn’t take long before she began to have trouble keeping her eyes open, and she checked her watch. Only nine o’clock. The time frame for partners to meet each other at the Club was between nine and eleven. If she waited here long enough, she’d be making her decision.

A pang somewhere south of her navel informed her that some parts of her body were casting a vote for going.

The lights went out abruptly in Natalie’s apartment.

Marcella waited. Five minutes more, and she’d leave, Natalie no doubt tucked up for the night.

She put her hand on the key to turn on the car and spotted Natalie. The girl was all in black, coming out the glass front door of the apartment building. Natalie walked rapidly along the sidewalk to the corner, head down, then stopped. Raised her head, looked around. Marcella scooted down in her seat.

Natalie’s hair was spiked in tufts, and a metal-studded collar gleamed around her slender throat. Her hands were buried in the pockets of narrow black jeans, and the pale skin of her arms gleamed under the streetlight like poured cream.

A car rolled up—navy blue Toyota RAV4. Light-colored hair gleamed in the driver’s seat, height consistent with a man. Natalie hopped into the vehicle, and the little SUV pulled away on the opposite side of the road. Marcella spotted the plate as they passed, memorized the number, and did a U-turn out of her spot to follow the Toyota. She speed-dialed HQ as she cranked the U-turn.