Twisted Vine (12 page)

“Just wait and see what develops.”

“She called me to go out last night. Girl time at the pool hall with Ang.”

“Woulda been fun. But we were having fun too, weren’t we?” He reached out, tugged a curl. It stretched out, sprang back. “I never get tired of this hair.”

“I have to call her back.”

“You don’t have to say anything right now. Let Kamuela do what he does. See where it goes. This could end up taking care of itself.”

“I just don’t know how it could end any way but badly.”

“We were supposed to be getting your mind off it.” They’d pulled up at the parking lot by the Waikiki Yacht Harbor. On the left was the towering rainbow-tiled Hilton, further down the serene beach  the famous pink Royal Hawaiian Hotel. On the right, sparkling white boats anchored in the harbor. And straight ahead, perfect little waves with only a few people out. “Shake it off, Texeira. Bumbye you come stress out.”

Stevens’s attempt at pidgin made her smile.

“As how, brah,” she said, getting out. She wore a bikini with a Lycra surf shirt over it; Stevens was in board shorts. “I’ve only been surfing for a little while, so you get to laugh at me.”

“I’ve been surfing only a little while longer. We can be kooks together.”

They carried the boards down to the beach.

In the concentration of mastering a difficult skill involving clear water, gorgeous scenery, and more fun than she could remember having learning any sport, Lei was finally able to forget the ghost of Kwon.

Sophie woke up late, though it was hard to tell with the blackout curtains closed. She’d always had trouble sleeping, and a completely dark room with no sound but the hum of air-conditioning was the only way she could truly rest.

She felt the throb of a hangover in the base of her skull, and the sandpapery dryness of her mouth confirmed it. She cleared her throat, and someone stirred beside her in the bed.

“Is it morning?”

Marcella’s voice.

“I don’t know.” Sophie tried to remember how that had happened—they’d had a lot to drink; that was it. And taken a cab home. And gone to bed together.

She swung her feet out of the bed, padded to the bathroom. She didn’t turn the light on; it was too bright. She brushed her teeth in the glow of the night-light, then got in the shower.

She soaped her body, read her tattoos, reminded herself it was just a hangover and she’d feel better eventually. Clad in a silk robe, she walked through the room as Marcella was sitting up in the dim light from the bathroom. Her friend wore last night’s shirt and panties, a tumble of long brown hair brushing her waist. “God, what a hangover.”

“I know. Shower helps. I’ll go fix some coffee.”

In the kitchen, Sophie put her teakettle on and dug out the drip filter for guests. She knew Marcella didn’t find life worth living until the second cup of coffee. 

She had her own tea ready and had drunk two large glasses of water with aspirin by the time Marcella came out, wrapped in a towel with another one wound turban-style around her hair.

Sophie had set a cup of inky, drip-filtered coffee and two aspirin beside a halved papaya with a slice of lime and a silver teaspoon. She’d opened the slider to the little balcony off the kitchen, letting in fresh morning air above a dizzying view. Marcella walked across the expanse of teak flooring to face the bank of windows looking out over the city to the ocean,
Diamond Head in the distance.

“What a spread. I couldn’t see anything last night between the late hour and drinking too much. I had no idea you had a place like this.”

“It’s my father’s. Just caretaking for him.” Sophie busied herself with organic sprouted wheat toast and homemade passion fruit jam from the housekeeper.

“I’d never leave if I had a place like this. It’s amazing.”

Sophie didn’t reply, thinking of the irony.  She hated being home now that her network was down. Waxman was right; she needed some other interests.

Marcella returned, sat down at the modern, brushed-steel table. “Oh, thank God for coffee. You’re an angel.”

Her phone rang and she looked down. Sophie could tell by the color that rose in her cheeks that the caller was Kamuela. “I have to take this.” She got up and walked away across the expanse of hardwood, the phone cupped like a shell against her ear.

Sophie got up, mixed honey in her tea, picked up her toast, and carried it back into the bedroom, turning on Kamala, her home computer, and pulling a cord so the blackout drapes folded open on another glorious
Honolulu day.

She sat down and logged in, sipping her tea and munching the toast as Marcella came to the door. “Hey.” The other woman carried her coffee in. “Mind if I get dressed? I’ve got to get on the road.”

“No problem,” Sophie said.

Marcella dropped her towel, picked up her clothes from the night before. “Ugh, I hate wearing dirty clothes.”

“Look through my closet.” Sophie kept her eyes on her computer, but a reflection in the corner showed Marcella’s lush outline as her friend opened her closet and riffled through.

“Do you mind if I grab some underwear too?”

“You won’t fit into my bra.”

“No, just bottoms. These yoga pants and shirt are fine.”

“Take anything.” Sophie watched the reflection as Marcella dressed, feeling guilty and aroused at the same time. She remembered how angry she’d been when Alika suggested she was gay—she didn’t think so. She was just lonely and miserable, not getting action of any kind nor likely to at the rate she was going. She logged into her e-mail as Marcella unwound the towel from her long hair, combing it out with her fingers.

“What are you working on?”

“Still hoping to lure out the system admin from the DyingFriends site.” Sophie scanned the e-mails as Marcella sat on the bed behind her, picking up the half of papaya and digging into it.

“Mmm. This is good. The lime makes all the difference. Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Anytime. What are you and Marcus up to today?”

“Oh, you guessed that was him. Yeah, he wants to take me to the zoo.” Marcella blew a little raspberry. “I’ve never been. He wants me to see all the major
Oahu sights. We made a list and we’re checking them off. I didn’t realize until we started going out how little I had seen of Oahu.”

“That sounds fun.” Sophie knew her voice was wooden. She’d been exactly three places in
Honolulu on a regular basis: Fight Club, work, and the apartment.

Marcella finished the papaya, sipped the coffee. “Mind if I take the toast to go?”

“Not at all.”

“My hangover’s getting better by the minute. There must be something magical in papaya and aspirin. So, I’ll see you Monday?” Marcella got up, toast in her hand, plainly eager to leave.

“I’ll be there.” Sophie got up, walked her friend to the door. “See you Monday.”

Sophie shut the door behind Marcella, shot the bolt, and turned back to pick up the small traces of their breakfast. She made the bed, and the usual silence descended over the apartment. She tried to ignore the heaviness that came with it.

She went back into her e-mail, where she’d spotted something from DyingFriends. She opened it. Another invitation, to the “next level of deeper sharing and support.” She read the disclosures, hit “agree.”

Now what? There was no DAVID to work on, no network to extend her work to, and the system admin had responded to her challenge with one of his own, a sensible precaution on his side. He probably had IP address tracking software too. She wasn’t worried—she had a blocker on her computer’s location, the most effective one government contract money could buy.

Sophie could disappear, become ShastaM, and see what she would see in the forums. Work on her DAVID software, at least check through it some more. Or she could get outside this apartment and do like her boss had told her: find some other interests. Life
was
short. DyingFriends was a potent reminder of that.

Sophie’d never hiked
Diamond Head, that famous volcanic landmark visible from her windows. She didn’t need a boyfriend to make the plan to do one new thing a week a good idea. She should experience the beautiful place she lived in. She’d heard the hike up the famous crater was fairly rigorous and uphill—she might even get some cardio in.

Feeling the first anticipation she had all day, Sophie put Kamala to sleep and got into running clothes. Maybe she wasn’t capable of finding another interest outside of exercising, but at least she’d be doing it outdoors in a new place.

There might even be other people there.

Lei got into the office early on Monday morning after dropping Stevens off at the airport for the earliest flight out to
Maui. He’d ended up changing his reservation so they could spend one more night together, and not only was her hair disorderly this morning, but her eyes and lips were puffy from tears and kissing.

The loss of goodbye felt like a flu coming on, heaviness in her very bones..

Lei reached into her desk for her emergency Visine, dosed her eyes, and wound her rebellious curls into the FBI Twist, which her hair was finally long enough to do. Smoothing lip gloss on, she booted up her computer just as Ken stuck his head in the door. “Got another suicide. Let’s go.”

Lei felt the hit of adrenaline that made law enforcement so addicting light up her body. “Who? Anyone we know?”

“Yeah. Betsy Brown.”

“Oh no,” Lei said as adrenaline turned to the nausea of dread. She reached for her crime kit, freshly restocked after the Shimaoka death. “Dammit.”

Betsy’s body was dressed in a silky white nightgown, and she was laid out in a pose that was eerily familiar. Head on the pillow, hands crossed on the chest, hair curled and brushed. She even had makeup on. Other than her pallid face, she looked like she’d wake up at any moment, pretty and young.

Lei exchanged a glance with Ken as he got out the Canon and began photographing. “What made you call us?” Lei asked Detective Reyes, a midfifties Portuguese man with a weathered face and a basketball midsection. She took out her pencil and spiral notebook.

“We have a general alert on all suicides right now. We’re supposed to look for inconsistencies and call you guys in, especially if there is an association with a site called DyingFriends. When Betsy’s mother told me she was an active member, I called Dispatch.”

“Thank you; you did right. Were there any other inconsistencies besides the connection to DyingFriends?” Lei tried to ignore the flash of the Canon as Ken moved in close to the body.

“Well, Betsy couldn’t get out of bed, and she was dressed in a nightgown she’d never worn.” Reyes gestured to the body. “Her mother said she’d ordered it online a few weeks ago, and it was still in the box over there.” He pointed to an ornate clothing box. “It’s wedding lingerie. Sad.”

“Her illness was especially sad. ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Debilitation, paralysis, then death,” Lei said. She’d Googled the neurological nightmare after their first visit to Betsy. She walked over to the garment box, lifting the lid to peek inside with her pen. “Did you dust for prints? Don’t see any powder.”

“No. Stopped working the scene after I called Dispatch.”

“Okay, thanks. Is there a note?”

“Yes. It was in a sealed envelope, and she was holding it. Where she got it was another inconsistency. The mother, name of Annie, said she’d brought the stationery in for Betsy to use a couple weeks ago. Said that was around the time Betsy bought the nightgown. Annie hadn’t seen it since. So Betsy must have hidden it.”

“Interesting.” Lei glanced over at Betsy’s body. “She’s wearing makeup. Where’s the makeup kit?”

Reyes pointed. The kit was on a bureau across the room. Lei caught Ken’s eye, and the senior detective turned to Reyes. “Thanks so much. Can you secure the scene outside, move the mother out? We’re going to treat this scene as a homicide for the moment. We’ve already called the medical examiner.”

“Okay,” Reyes said, giving his golf shirt a tug downward over his potbelly. “Please keep me posted on what you find.”

He left and Lei put on gloves, tucked her hands behind her back, and began a slow perambulation of the room in “see mode”—a state where she let her vision roam over the scene without overly focusing, just allowing the information to register and “blip” into consciousness—until something caught her attention.

It was a humble room, with a cheap pressboard bedroom set, a bulbous purple china lamp beside the bed, along with various toiletries where Betsy could reach them, and an empty water glass. Beside the water glass was a pill bottle. Ken photographed it before picking it up, shaking it.

“Ambien. Empty. I bet we find that they were kept elsewhere. I can’t imagine Annie Brown leaving this where Betsy could reach it. She had to have some idea of her daughter’s state of mind.”

“Maybe Betsy could still walk and was concealing that for some reason,” Lei said. “Let’s check the soles of her feet.”

“Good idea. I’m done shooting, so we can move things now.” Ken set the camera back in the case, and they lifted the rose-covered comforter up to reveal Betsy’s body. 

The first thing Lei noticed was a smell of urine and feces wafting up from under the comforter when it was removed, but nothing marred the perfection of the pristine, lace-trimmed cream satin nightgown. Through the fabric, around the woman’s hips, Lei glimpsed a bulkiness. She poked the woman’s waist. A crinkling sound answered.

“She’s wearing adult diapers. Do you think she’d have worn those if she could walk?” Lei looked at Ken.

He shook his head. “Seems unlikely.” He bent to inspect Betsy’s feet. “They look totally clean.”

Lei bent down, shone a high-powered flashlight on them. The toenails had been recently painted. In fact, everything about this woman was perfectly groomed. She’d ritualistically prepared for her suicide, had apparently wanted to look her best. Lei touched the sole of the foot, pressed gently. Rigor was setting in, so the flesh was hard, but the skin was thin and soft.

“She wasn’t walking, Ken. This skin on her feet is like a baby’s butt. It hasn’t touched the ground in months.” Lei straightened back up. “She was planning for this.”

Dr. Fukushima, in scrubs and with her medical kit, appeared in the door. “Got another suicide, I see.”

“Looks like. But we’re thinking it’s another one of those fishy ones,” Lei said.

“I’d imagine, if you two are on the scene.”

“We interviewed this woman a few days ago in connection with a website we’re investigating. She had ALS.”

“Interesting.” Fukushima advanced, her sharp brown eyes moving quickly around the body. “I think it’s significant that from the waist down mobility was compromised, but she still had full functioning in her breathing and arms. ALS doesn’t usually progress that way. Maybe I can tell something more in the post.”

The two agents straightened up, looking at each other. “We were trying to establish if she was walking, because her makeup kit is across the room and she is dressed in this fancy nightie from that box over there.” Ken pointed.

“Aha. Where’s the note?”

“Actually, don’t know. Can you find Reyes, Agent Texeira, and locate the note?”

“Sure.” Lei had begun to find the smell of Betsy’s diaper suffocating, and she was happy to walk through the tiny apartment to the front stoop. Reyes and his partner had strung crime scene tape around the area and helped Betsy’s mother pack a bag. The woman sat weeping on the steps while the detectives interviewed some neighbors who had gathered.

Lei sat beside her on the wooden step. “Mrs. Brown. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

More weeping. Mrs. Brown had long dark hair threaded with silver, and the streaming face she lifted to Lei was surprisingly young and unlined. “She didn’t need to do this. She wasn’t a burden. It was my joy to take care of her!”

Lei reached out, rubbed the woman’s shoulder. “I need the suicide note. Do you know where it is?”

“The detective tried to take it. I wasn’t ready to give it to him.” Mrs. Brown reached into the pocket of the flowered muumuu she wore, took out a crumpled card-stock envelope, handed it to Lei. Lei stifled the apprehension she felt about opening it. It had been torn open roughly.

“Where was this found?”

“She was holding it in her hands.” Mrs. Brown covered her face with her hands, but the sobbing had stopped, to Lei’s relief. Crying still made her edgy.

“May I?” Lei held up the note.

“Yes.”

Lei eased the note out of the envelope with gloved hands. The card was a plain drugstore style, printed with
Thank You
in gold leaf.

“She asked me for a box of ‘thank you’ notes. For when people brought her things, which they did sometimes.” Annie Brown stared ahead. “She never wrote any though, until this one.”

“Did you have any idea she was suicidal?”

“Yes. I didn’t think she was dealing with her diagnosis well. She would get angry and throw her food, then cry when she saw it just meant I had to clean it up. Lately, though, I thought she was improving. She was still on that site a lot, but her mood was much better. She was even cheerful. I thought the worst was behind us. I knew the illness would progress and she’d get more paralyzed, but I thought she was working through it. Accepting it.”

Lei was familiar with the burst of happiness and generosity some suicide victims exhibited once they’d made a commitment to kill themselves. She wondered if she’d have made the same choice Betsy had if she’d had ALS. She didn’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt Annie’s flow. “She bought that nightgown, said she wanted to pretend she was going to have a wedding night. I thought it was sweet, a good sign.” Annie shook her head. “I was wrong.”

“What did you know about DyingFriends? Did anyone from their organization stop by, ever visit your daughter in person?”

“No. She got a lot of comfort from that site, from socializing on there as everyone else in her life dropped her as a friend. They didn’t seem to know what to say or do around her.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”

“No.” Annie turned red-rimmed eyes on Lei. “Do you think someone came in? We keep the back door open, and someone could have. Because I wonder how she got her nightgown on herself. It was on the dresser across the room when I tucked her in last night. Also, I keep the Ambien in the bathroom. She only needs it once in a while, and I’d never leave it where she could reach it.”

Lei didn’t respond to that, asking another question instead.

“Could she walk? Enough to get those things?”

“No. Her nerves were damaged. At the doctor’s, they even poked her with a needle to her feet and she couldn’t feel it, let alone walk.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown. I can’t imagine how this must be for you. We’ve got your contact information. We’ll call you if we need anything more.” Lei got up and went back into the apartment, meeting Ken coming out with a box full of evidence-bagged items.

“Done for the moment. Dr. Fukushima has the scene. Let’s go back to HQ and report in to Waxman.”