Twisted Vine (4 page)

Sophie unlocked the red lacquered door of her apartment, carrying her gym bag. In the posh Nuuanu area of
Honolulu, her place was the penthouse suite atop a high-rise building. It was her father’s, one of his many real estate investments, and he’d insisted she be his “caretaker” now that Honolulu was her home, a situation she was grateful for. Her FBI pay wasn’t bad, but she could never have afforded the wide-open expanse of gleaming teak floor and the view, glass unbroken by anything but an occasional steel strut all the way across the wall facing the ocean.

At thirty stories up, the city was spread below in an entrancing tapestry of movement and glittering lights, trimmed in beach and ocean.
Diamond Head was an iconic silhouette in the indigo distance with the moon a glowing coin behind it.

Sophie toed out of her athletic shoes and carried the gym bag into the laundry room just off the sleek modern kitchen. Standing in front of the washer, she tugged off sweaty Lycra workout gear. Naked, she unzipped the gym bag and pulled out her FBI clothes from the day, loading everything into the washer and turning it on. She clipped her gloves and padded helmet to a hanging drying rack and walked across the apartment to the bathroom.

Sophie loved the feeling of being nude—cool air wafting across her flushed skin and tired muscles. She wasn’t worried about anyone seeing her; besides being thirty stories up, the expanse of glass was both tinted and foiled so that it lightened and darkened with the sun.

The bathroom was all marble and gold-plated fixtures. No one could accuse her father of restraint in the area of luxury. She stepped into the glassed-in chamber of the shower and turned it on. A large showerhead set to “rain” poured a gush of warm water over her, and under that flow she soaped herself, tracing the curli
cued letters of the tattoos running down the insides of her arms and outsides of her thighs, places where they could be easily concealed.

One arm said
hope
and
respect
. The other read
power
and
truth
. On one thigh was
freedom
and the other,
courage
. Circling her narrow waist, where no one saw them, were
love
,
joy
, and
bliss
. She had no trouble reciting the words she’d had inked on her skin after her divorce was final. They were words she tried to live every day.

She microwaved a dinner of brown rice and stir-fry the housekeeper her father employed had prepared and left frozen in individual ceramic containers and carried it to her bedroom. She’d rigged one side of the room to duplicate her office, and she fired up her workstation with the touch of a button.

DAVID was archived and networked to the Bureau computers so that anything she did here was automatically replicated there. For a woman who lived her work, it was a seamless transition.

She’d just settled into eating and putting DAVID to work on comparisons of the many suicide notes, looking for commonalities, when her FBI-issued smartphone rang—it was Lei.

“Hey, Texeira.” She was surprised to hear from the other agent.

“Hey, Ang. Sorry to bug you at home, but I brought home my laptop, and I’ve been researching Corby Hale, just searching him by his name. He’s popping up on Reddit, advocating for right to death in several chats. He went by the name of SurfHawaii, so you can run him under that, see what you find. Did you get started on his computer yet?”

“Not yet. I saw you left it at my station. I had to get through some stuff on my other cases before I could start on it, and I just ran out of time.”

“Yeah, I know you and Marcella had Fight Club tonight.” There was an odd note in Lei’s voice that Sophie, with her sensitivity to nuances and language, picked up.

“Marcella canceled, so I went alone. You never came back to Fight Club after that first time. Why?”

“Alika. You must have heard we used to go out, when I was stationed on Kaua`i.” Lei blew out a breath, a noisy gust. “It didn’t end well.”

“I think he might still be interested in you.”  Sophie had heard about Lei’s dating fiasco with her coach from Marcella. She liked Lei, and it didn’t surprise her that Alika might still be in love with Lei’s unforgettable face and physical bravery.

“God, I hope not. Stevens and I are getting back to together the minute his divorce is final. Alika’s a great guy, though—you guys should go out.”

“Ha,” Sophie said, her fingers flying as she opened a window and ran background on Alika Wolcott, something she usually did with anyone she spent time with. She’d cloned all her FBI programs on this workstation, so it was easy to do exactly what she did at work. “He’s my coach. It’s not like that.”

“Marcella said you wouldn’t mind it being like that.” 

Sophie frowned. “I’ll give her an extra beat-down for that. I’ve got a little crush, that’s all. He’s not interested in me except as a fighter.”

“Well. No let me stand in the way. All I stay sayin’.” Lei’s playful pidgin made Sophie smile. “Back to the case. Corby’s mom said he was really into some online activity that kept him busy when he was at home; he said he had people who ‘understood him’ online. So that points to gay friends, maybe, or maybe something to do with drugs.”

“Or maybe just Reddit. That site is one big time sink,” Sophie said, shrinking the window with the search on Alika and opening a new one in Reddit, the massive real-time chat and news site. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Welcome. Sooner we can get to
Corby’s computer, the better.”

“I’ll try to get to it tomorrow. Marcella’s still bugging me to do hers too, though. The embezzlement case.”

“You know, the cases we get at the Bureau—so much less dangerous than regular cop work. It’s not something you read in the brochure.”

“Not necessarily. Marcella’s been shot, assaulted, and strangled. I heard you’ve been through a lot as a police officer; maybe you’re ready for things to be calmer. Our criminals are more sophisticated, that’s all. I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything in
Corby’s computer.”

“Okay. Later then.” Lei clicked off.

Sophie set her phone down. She leaned forward, eyes intent and fingers flying, the stir-fry forgotten. Corby Hale and
the zone
sucked her back in.

Lei’s phone woke her at
six a.m., never a good sign. It bounced around on the side table on ring and vibrate, anchored by the charge cord. The noise brought Keiki and Angel’s heads and ears up from sleeping on their ratty old blanket at the foot of the bed.

Lei grabbed it. “Special Agent Texeira.”

“Caught a new case, Lei.” Ken’s voice was crisp. “Suspicious death. We’re called in because Corby Hale’s prints were found at the scene.”

“What the hell?” Lei tossed the blanket aside. She walked in her thin tank top and boxers to the preloaded coffeemaker in the kitchen, punched it on. She’d learned it was best to make the coffee the night before or she was liable to have to do without—and the blast of caffeine was really necessary this morning after her heavy exercise and late night.

“I know. It’s weird.” He rattled off the address. “Meet me there.”

Lei hopped under the brisk flow of the shower, reordering her wayward curls with a few handfuls of water. She dried off and dressed in her version of the FBI uniform in less than five minutes—white short-sleeved shirt, black chinos, black athletic shoes. Her badge clipped to her belt, shoulder holster strapped on, Glock loaded up. In the kitchen she made sure the dogs’ water bowl was full, threw a couple of handfuls of food in their bowls to tide them over, and unlocked the dog door.

Keiki looked at Lei plaintively as she filled a lidded travel mug with coffee, and Angel did a few experimental whines to see if Lei would pick her up. Lei succumbed, picking the tiny dog up and stroking her head.

“Be good. Keep an eye out for bad guys.” She put Angel down and gave Keiki an ear rub. “See you girls later.”

They followed her out into the dewy yard, a few stars fading from the sky with the morning blooming in the east—another gorgeous Honolulu day. Lei took in the sounds of morning as she unlocked her truck: a few cars, a rooster crowing, the chatter of mynahs and the rustle of a tiny wind in the nearby palm tree.

Lei drove her truck through streets too early to be choked with the commuter traffic that would come later. She’d plugged the address into the on-board GPS, and her navigator guided her across town to an older neighborhood near Punchbowl. She pulled the silver
Tacoma up behind a couple of HPD cruisers parked in front of a ranch-style home with an orchid-bordered walkway.

Lei slipped a pair of latex gloves on from a box under her seat and picked up her crime kit. She made sure her badge was clearly visible and identified herself to the uniformed officer guarding the yellow tape across the garage, signing the log and entering the time:
6:27 a.m.

The retractable garage door was still down, but the side door was ajar, and she pushed it open with a finger, poking her head in to see what she was getting into. She’d walked too fast into a few crime scenes in her time and had learned to go slow and let herself take in all the details before she zeroed in on the body—and Ken’s message had been devoid of detail.

Her partner had his back to her, looking into a parked beige Toyota Highlander. The garage and interior lights were on, and he was looking around the motionless driver with a penlight. Detective Ching, Marcus Kamuela’s partner, gave her a little salute from the wall. “You’re getting another of our cases,” he said. “Alfred Shimaoka, aged fifty-nine.”

Ken had the door ajar, and he pushed it all the way open and moved back so Lei could see into the vehicle. “Looks like a suicide.”

Lei could smell auto exhaust and a whiff of decomposition. “Asphyxiation, then?”

Ken nodded. Ching was still looking surly, doing something on his phone.

Lei approached, her eyes scanning across the tidy cement floor in “see mode.” The walls of the garage were lined with some sort of craft supplies: bundles of bamboo, clippers, cutters, saws, and bottles of glue, stacks of what looked like paper. Against the wall that faced the house was a washer, dryer, sink, and workbench. She spotted what Shimaoka did in his spare time: a tidy row of small square paper lanterns stood in a row.

She walked around the SUV, past Ching, to look into the driver’s side, but without opening the door all she could see was a man’s profile, his head tilted back, and the yellow interior lights of the vehicle gleaming on salt-and-pepper hair.

Ching pointed. “Your boy’s prints were on the tape connecting the hose to the exhaust pipe.”

Lei saw that the tape had been removed. The hose was detached and lay on the floor beside the SUV. “I’ll bag that.” She took a large paper evidence bag out of her kit, snapped it open, then coiled the hose carefully and inserted it into the bag, sealing it with paper tape and initialing it with the date and time. “Where’s the tape with the prints on it?”

Ching pointed. The evidence bag was already sealed, so Lei set hers next to it and rejoined Ken at the door of the car. Her partner was scanning the interior of the SUV with a forensic light. “Can I open the door on the other side?” Lei asked.

“Long as he doesn’t fall out,” Ken said.

Lei walked back around. The window was up almost all the way, and traces of duct tape still clung to the edge of the window and the doorframe.

“Thanks for securing the scene.” Lei addressed Ching. “I think we’ve got it covered.”

Ken spoke up from the other side of the vehicle. “Your commanding officer called us himself when you identified Corby Hale’s print. Quick work on that, by the way.”

“I scanned it in and it came right up—not much to it. We’re not in the Dark Ages, you know.”

“Well, do you think you could get started gathering some statements from the neighbors? We’d really appreciate it.” Lei tried a smile, wishing her dimple worked as well as Marcella’s.

Ching pushed off the wall abruptly. “Might as well air this place out.”

He punched the button on the wall and the garage door rumbled up. Lei opened her mouth to protest but spotted Fukushima’s van pulling up at the end of the driveway, breaking up the cluster of lookie-loos craning their necks at the end of the driveway.

She turned away. The air did feel a lot fresher with the door open, and what did she care if there were a few gawking neighbors?

Ching stomped off.

Lei looked at the driver’s side door. An ashy-looking drift of fingerprint dust decorated the ground beneath the door, but there was nothing on the handle. Odd. The dead person should have left a lot of prints. “Ken, do you know anything about the victim?”

“Alfred Shimaoka. Aged fifty-nine, an architect. This is his house. He’s Japanese and single.”

“Who found the body?”

“Neighbor. Heard Shimaoka’s dog barking inside, and he’s religious about walking it, according to what the neighbor told Ching. She peeked through the glass in the garage door and saw him. The SUV had run out of gas and turned off, so she thought he’d passed out or something until she approached the car.”

“That must have been a shock.” Lei heard a far-off yapping. “Did anyone deal with the dog?”

“Couldn’t. House is locked.”

Lei sighed. That would be next, as soon as they were able to leave the body to the medical examiner. She finally really looked at what was left of Alfred Shimaoka.

Shimaoka’s skin was pale but patched with red in the lips and extremities, an effect of the carbon-monoxide poisoning. His head was tilted back, mouth ajar, and most interesting, his hands were resting upright on his thighs, the thumb and forefinger close to touching, in a Buddhist meditation pose. The slender Japanese man, beginning to swell as decomposition began, was dressed neatly in a muted aloha shirt and chinos. Other than the strange coloration of his skin, he looked peaceful.

Ken pointed his penlight at a square of white paper propped up against the gearshift. “Can you bag that?”

“Sure.” Lei took out another evidence bag and picked up the paper carefully, leaning past the dead man to retrieve it. The fruity smell of decomp, faint but powerful, rose from the corpse. “If Corby’s prints are on that tape, he’s got to be dead at least two days.”

Ken had his camera out and shot the scene. “Just what I was thinking.”

Fukushima appeared, the gurney’s clattering wheels, pushed by her assistant, announcing their arrival. “What have we got?”

Ken told her, while Lei read the suicide note. It was written in beautiful calligraphic script on a translucent square of the paper used to make lanterns.

Dear friends. I have no family to shame with this choice to avoid my last months of suffering. I have pancreatic cancer, as many of you know, and I’m ready to go now—not in another three months when the doctors say I will. Please accept that I chose not to burden anyone with my end-of-life care and recognize my right to choose how to die. 

And to my friend Soga, I finished my lanterns. Please light one for me at the Floating Lantern Ceremony.

Alfred Shimaoka

Lei felt her heart do a little flip as she looked back at the row of lanterns. Chances were very good the Soga he referred to was her grandfather Soga Matsumoto, whose home was mere blocks away. Her grandfather also volunteered at the Shinnyo temple, helping to build and repair the beautiful lanterns lit annually and floated out to sea in
Waikiki on Memorial Day.

She slid the paper into the evidence bag without comment, sealing and marking it, as Ken and
Fukushima continued their conferring and Ken took more pictures, circling around to her side and shooting the body from every possible angle.

“We’re going to want to go over this vehicle inch by inch,” Ken said. “If there’s anything else
Corby left, we need to find it.”

Lei nodded, setting the bag with the others next to her kit. “I want to deal with that dog.”

“Poor dog,” Fukushima said. As usual, the fastidious ME was swathed in sterile wear and even wore a particle mask. Ken gestured to the keys, still in the ignition. “Chances are the door key is there.”

Lei lifted them out carefully, holding the side of the main key. She’d fingerprint that later—but for now, she walked across the garage to the back door and inserted a silver Schlage into the lock.

The dog that charged the door, yapping fiercely, was a wire-haired Jack Russell terrier, white with brown spots and a good deal of attitude.

Lei squatted down, lowering her voice and extending her closed fist for him to sniff. “Hey, boy. You hungry?”

The dog tentatively sniffed at her hand, and his tail wagged. She slowly stood up and advanced into the kitchen, spotting his bowls (both empty) against the wall. She picked up the water bowl first, turning on the sink and letting her eyes roam around the room, looking for anything out of place.

It was spotless and pristine except for a corner near the trash bin where the dog had succumbed to biology and defecated. She refilled the bowl and located a lidded trash bin filled with dry food. She refilled that too as the dog frantically lapped water.

Ken came up into the doorway. “We should search the house.”

“I know. Got a lot of detail work ahead, but I want to figure out something for this little guy.”

“Strange that Shimaoka didn’t give him away before he died. People planning their suicide usually do that. Another oddity.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe it came up suddenly,” Lei said, frowning thoughtfully as she set the dog’s bowl down. The little terrier chomped down the food as fast as he could. “Did Ching find out the dog’s name from the neighbor?”

“Ask me yourself.” Ching approached across the garage with his clipboard.

“Hey, Detective. Did the lady who found the body say what the dog was called?” Lei ignored his attitude.

“His name’s Sam.” They all looked at the little dog with his nose in the bowl. “She said Shimaoka usually took good care of the dog.”

“I wonder if she’d be willing to take care of him until a relative or something can be located.”

Ching leafed through the papers on his clipboard, removed one and handed it to her. “Here’s her contact information.” He was clearly not volunteering for dog care duty. “She seemed attached to Shimaoka. Cried a lot over the discovery. Said she knew about the cancer.”

Sam finished eating and darted out the open doorway and through the garage, past the open door of the SUV, where his master’s body was being awkwardly wrestled into a body bag by Dr. Fukushima and her assistant. Ching and Ken hurried to help while Lei ran after the dog. Sam trotted into the immaculate little front yard and did his business. Lei scanned the neighbors still clustered on the other side of the tape Ching had put up at the end of the driveway.

One woman, dressed in purple sweats and a T-shirt with a lei hand painted across the front, was crying into a dish towel. Lei approached her, glancing at the paper Ching had handed her. “Hi there. You wouldn’t be Sherry Thompson, would you?”

“Yes.” The woman looked up, brown eyes streaming. She had the kind of complexion that didn’t age well in
Hawaii, tissue-like freckled skin patched with red. “I was a good friend of Alfred. I can’t believe he did this to himself.”

“Tell me what happened, please.”

She listened to a recap of what Ching had already told them, with embellishments of shock and grief. Finally, when Sherry was winding down, Lei gestured to the little dog doing a patrol lap of the front yard. “Any chance you could take care of Sam? I’d hate to see Animal Control have to come take him to the Humane Society.”