Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (8 page)

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Honolulu Branch. How may I help you?”

“This is Agent Scott, Angie.” Marcella rattled off her ID number. Angie was the graveyard-shift dispatcher, a veteran operator recruited from HPD emergency 911 when she got “too stressed out” by years on the job. The Bureau maintained its own twenty-four-hour dispatch. Though technically closed during nonbusiness hours, the dispatch kept the communication loop humming within the agency.

“I need you to run a plate on a Toyota RAV4.” Marcella rattled off the number, keeping the Toyota in sight and half a block away.

“Just a minute, Agent Scott.”

Marcella took a turn a little too quickly, nervous as the Toyota headed into heavier traffic. They were headed farther downtown. Dinner out?

“That Toyota is registered to a Dr. Ron and Julie Truman. Need the address?”

“No. I have it.” Marcella punched off.

She wasn’t terribly surprised, given how cagey they’d both been about their alibis—Dr. Handsome Truman was meeting Natalie Pettigrew. A more unlikely pairing she had yet to see. She kept her eyes on the Toyota until it turned in to an underground garage. She circled the block and then entered, rolling up and down the rows until she spotted Natalie and Truman walking toward the stairs.

She pulled the Honda into the nearest stall, grabbed her purse, and hurried after them. She was glad she’d worn pants and low-heeled sandals this time, because she was able to hurry up the metal stairs and poke her head out the exit in time to see them walk down the block.

Ron Truman looked great, not that that had ever been a problem. His blond hair shone gold under the streetlights and he was all in black—and suddenly the pairing didn’t look that odd. They turned into the entrance of a building. Marcella hurried to catch up, pulling up short in front of a pair of double doors.

Techno music thumped from inside. A blue neon scripted sign above the black doors spelled out
BATCAVE
.

Marcella pushed it open. A chain-covered bouncer eyed her. “Welcome to the Cave.”

“What kind of club is this?”

“First time? Well, the bar’s over there.” He gestured into a darkness lit by glowing orbs set in the walls. The music, all synthetic and percussion, thrummed through a packed dance floor. “We’re a Goth club. You know, vampires, bondage. Dark shit like that. I can show you around.” His incisors had been sharpened, and he showed them in a feral grin.

“No thanks. I’ll check it out myself.” Marcella pushed past him. At least her dark clothes would help her blend. She elbowed her way through ghouls of various sorts to the bar.

She had no idea the Goth scene was so alive in Honolulu, a city better known for surf, sun, and bikinis. Natalie was one of a handful of Goths she’d come across in a year of working the city, and here she was in a club jam-packed with the freaks. She appropriated a stool and ordered a cosmopolitan. Once the drink was in her hand, Marcella swiveled to survey the dance floor.

As she’d suspected, the couple was already out dancing. She wouldn’t have been able to spot them if it weren’t for bloodred spangles from a mirror ball hitting Truman’s tall blond head. Natalie—in black with black hair—was all but invisible.

Marcella spent the next hour fending off passes from various men and a few women and keeping an eye on the couple on the dance floor. Finally they headed for the bar, and on that cue, Marcella glided off her stool and onto the floor, quickly joined by a fledgling vampire who kept trying to bite her on the neck.

She kept the couple in visual. Quick consumption of drinks, then back out to the dance floor. They twined around each other in endless variations of foreplay.

Marcella checked the glowing dial of her dive watch—ten thirty. She’d seen enough and got some valuable intel. She brushed off the vampire and headed for the exit.

More than likely, Truman and Natalie would go back to Natalie’s place, and she didn’t need to see it to predict it. Interviewing them was going to be interesting—and she felt an unexpected tenderness for the clumsy way they’d tried to protect each other. They really seemed, if not in love, seriously into each other.

Marcella found herself trotting down the sidewalk, galvanized. Her mind was made up, and that ache south of the belt buckle was getting the final vote. She could put her mask on, pretend she didn’t know who he was, see where it all went. She roared out of the garage and the mere half mile to the Club. But as she turned on to the block, she felt her heart speed up with something other than anticipation.

She parked the car across from the red door of the Club, a move strictly against their policy—members were supposed to park in a nearby garage. She did some breathing. Clenched and unclenched her hands on the steering wheel. Looked at the door. Realized the unfamiliar feeling she had was terror.

She hated being afraid.

As if on cue, Kamuela came out through the red door. He wore the silky shirt, the worn jeans. Her palms itched to touch him as he looked up and down the empty street. Then he spotted her car. He looked at it, hands on his hips—the silly mask dangling from his fingers.

Her heart raced.

He couldn’t know it was her inside. She had tinting on the windows. Her plates were unlisted, a precaution agents had as a security measure, but if he ran them, he’d know the car was owned by someone in law enforcement.

He looked away. Paced a bit. Looked at his watch.

She slid down in the seat. He could still come over, and if he did, he’d see her.

She imagined opening the door, walking over to meet him, going inside. Dancing. And what came next. She broke out in sweat and couldn’t tell if it was terror or lust. Maybe a little of both.

She’d brought her mask, and her hands shook as she slipped it on. She peeked over the edge of the window—only to see the flutter of the back of his shirt as he disappeared into the parking garage.

It was only 10:55. He hadn’t waited until eleven! He’d left early. Dammit! She might have worked up the nerve to get out of the car in the next five minutes.

Disappointment was sour in her mouth.

Marcella turned the key, and the Honda roared to life. She didn’t want to be sitting there when he drove out of the garage and maybe got a look at her plates. She peeled out and blazed home.

Ever since Trevor, she’d told herself whatever she was afraid of, that was the thing she was going to do. And for the most part, she’d been true to that resolve. Until now.

It was a long time before she fell sleep.

Chapter 9

Marcella scrolled through her departmental e-mail the next morning, a third cup of inky coffee cooling at her elbow. Rogers hung his jacket on the back of the door, frowned at the sight of her.

“What you doing here so early? You look like you could have used a little more shut-eye.”

Marcella rubbed her eyes, sat back, took another sip of coffee. “You have no idea. How was the steak?”

“Excellent, thanks for asking.” He got behind his computer. “What did I miss?”

“A lot, in fact.” She swiveled her chair a bit. She’d worn her hot-pink heels today, hoping they’d give her a little energy boost. Sure enough, looking at them on her feet helped. “You first.”

“Not much to tell. Dropped off the camera and purse at the lab last night. Only Andy was on; we just inventoried the items. We should go down later, see how they’re doing with the computers from the lab, Dr. Pettigrew’s desktop, and if they’re going to be able to read the cards off the camera and phone.”

“Okay. Let’s do that.” Marcella yawned, shook her head. Her loosely pinned hair fell down. She scooped it up, wound it into a ball, and stuck a pencil through it. “I staked out Natalie last night. Guess who her mystery alibi is?”

“Hm. I’m betting on Dr. Truman, since he wouldn’t give up his alibi either.”

“Shoot.” She took another sip of coffee. It was bound to work, anytime now. “I was hoping to surprise you. Yup, around nine p.m., Natalie left her apartment and was picked up at the corner by Dr. Handsome in his blue Toyota RAV-4. They went dancing. Can you guess where?”

“No idea.”

“That Goth club on the corner of Kalakaua and Ellis—the BatCave. I had no idea there were enough Goths in Honolulu to have a club. Well, it was very much the dungeon-scene meat market. I watched until about ten forty-five, then called it a night. Got tired of fending off people who wanted a taste of my neck.”

“Did you see her leave with him? Did they go back to her place?”

“No. I didn’t stay to see the inevitable, but Julie Beecham Truman she’s not. Talk about an odd couple—and yet they seemed really into each other.” Marcella felt something like envy, remembering the way the couple’s arms had twined around each other, their passionate kissing.

“I liked Natalie. I don’t get her art, but hell—if you say she’s got talent, I’m sure she does. Maybe she and Truman brought something out in each other. Something more than the obvious.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil.” Marcella yawned again. “Okay. Let’s line up the day. At eight a.m., I’m going to call Cindy Moku and set up a time to talk. Then we have to check in with Waxman, bring him up to speed. After that, we’ve got the AgroCon interview at ten. How about we check in with the lab on the tech stuff when we get back from that?”

“Sounds like a plan. ’Course, you know things seldom go according to plan.”

“I know. But I like to have one anyway. We also need to go through Pettigrew’s financials. We should check with her lawyer and see what’s in her will, if there are any financial motives hanging around out there.”

Rogers lifted the thirty-pound barbell next to his desk, did ten pumps while his computer booted up. He did stuff like that—and she’d decided not to find it annoying.

SAC Waxman stuck his head in the door. “Briefing in my office at eight.”

Rogers looked at Marcella as the branch chief disappeared. “And so it begins. Don’t know why you think having a plan is a good idea.”

“It comforts me,” Marcella said. She shrugged into her FBI-gray jacket. “Let’s go.”

Marcella headed out of the building, her cell phone ringing with the third attempt so far to contact Cindy Moku. She left another voice mail as Rogers opened the Acura.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked her partner as they got in.

“What? That Cindy got cold feet about talking to us? Yeah.”

“Let’s go by her place on the way to the AgroCon meeting. Just swing by.”

“We don’t really have time.” The “briefing” in Waxman’s office had been slowed by Gundersohn, who insisted on a step-by-step review on the progress of the investigation.

“Okay. The way back then.”

Her phone rang again.

“Agent Scott.”

“This is Dr. Zosar Abed.” Mellifluous voice with an Indian accent. “I am calling with a concern.”

“Hi, Dr. Abed. How can I help you?” She glanced at Rogers. They were all coming out of the woodwork now.

“I have some information for the investigation.”

“Yes? What would that be?”

“I think some people were having a relationship. And maybe Dr. Pettigrew didn’t approve.”

“Is that so? What people would be having a relationship?” Marcella asked for Rogers’s benefit.

“Cindy and Fernandez. But he wasn’t good to her.” This last spoken in a rush. “He didn’t appreciate her. He took advantage.”

This wasn’t the pairing Marcella had anticipated—she’d been expecting something about Dr. Handsome and the Goth.

“Cindy and Fernandez had a relationship? And how does this connect to Dr. Pettigrew’s murder?”

“She didn’t want anyone having the relations in her lab.” From what Marcella could tell, the lab was a regular soap opera. “So maybe one of them killed her. But not Cindy. Cindy would never do that.”

“If it wasn’t Cindy, then you’re accusing Fernandez of murder. Do you have anything more to go on than this?” She frowned over at Rogers, who glanced at her, sandy brows lifted in question as they left downtown. They were heading into the foothills where AgroCon owned a complex of low-key buildings.

“Fernandez, he didn’t agree with Dr. P on a lot of things. And he came up with one of the main concepts of the research, and I don’t think he agreed with what she was planning to do with it. He wanted to get rich.”

“So you guys knew what she was planning to do with the research.”

“She had a lot of interest from funding sources. We know BioGreen is important—critical even. We know there were offers. And we also know Dr. P wanted to help the world.” The note of hero-worship was back in his voice. “But she hadn’t told us directly, no.”

“So Fernandez didn’t agree with Dr. P, whom you look up to. Sounds like you didn’t like him very much.”

A long pause.

“Jarod Fernandez took advantage of Cindy. And he didn’t understand Dr. P. That’s all I’m saying. If you don’t believe me, well, I’ve done what I can.” He hung up, an abrupt click.

“Hm. Could be sour grapes,” Marcella said, looking at her phone. “Or it could be a good tip. Either way, we need to schedule those longer interviews with the interns ASAP.”

Rogers slowed down as they approached the AgroCon complex. Protesters lined either side of the street, holding signs saying
LABEL GMOS
and Stop Poisoning Our
`Aina
.

“What’s all this about?” Marcella frowned.

“Been following it in the news. AgroCon grows a lot of test crops and tries their experimental products, including pesticides, here in Hawaii because of its geographic isolation. People aren’t happy.”

“Whoa. Wonder what AgroCon will have to say.”

“This should be revealing,” Rogers agreed, as they pulled up to a discreet gatehouse beside a mechanical metal gate that didn’t identify AgroCon Ltd. anywhere—but clearly the address had been identified by the protesters. He held up his cred wallet for the armed security guard in the booth. “Special Agents Scott and Rogers to see your vice president.”

Chapter 10

The director’s office was more like a fancy lawyer’s than an agriculture company’s, with deep carpets, Swedish modern furnishings, and a huge view of Honolulu spread out below them. Vice President of Operations Lance Smith came out from behind his minimalist desk to shake their hands and inspect their creds with equal thoroughness.