Pleasing the Dead (5 page)

“Careful,” Storm called.

Lara plunged ahead. “You don't understand.” She held her mask and snorkel in one hand and her arms flapped with effort. “He's my
‘aumakua
. My family totem. He should never have done that.”

Storm tried to keep her feet from scraping across the sharp lava in the surging tide. “Lara, let's swim down shore a bit, where there's a sandy bottom.”

Lara didn't seem to hear, so Storm set her jaw and followed with tentative, careful steps. Each one hurt. Not only were the black rocks sharp, but on shore they were hot as skillets.

“Lara, don't take it personally. We scared it. Maybe it's a she—with babies to protect.”

“It's
supposed
to protect me.” Lara's voice held a sense of betrayal.

“Ouch.” Storm stepped on a sharp rock. “It's a wild animal. A wild pig would chase me, too, if it had to defend its nest.” She didn't mention that she'd be disappointed, though she didn't expect a sow to protect her over her own young. That was asking too much.

It was true that many Hawaiians had great faith in their
‘aumakua
. If a pig chased Storm, she'd find the experience distressing. But there were a lot of very good reasons it could happen.

“Shit,” Lara said, and picked up her foot. Storm could see a drop of blood on the pad of her big toe. Meanwhile, Storm's heel had a tender stone bruise. A spot of soft sand loomed ahead, an oasis in a lava field.

Storm headed for it. “Where are we going?”

Lara hobbled on. “The road.”

“How far are we from our cars?”

Lara's shoulders rose and fell. “About a mile.”

The hot sun beat down on the top of Storm's head, and a contusion over her eye stung. Must have been from when Lara banged into her, when the mask came off, which was why salt water still ran from her nose.

She picked her way carefully across another pitted lava spill. The irregular surface had holes filled with fine white sand, which gave it a polka-dotted appearance. At high tide, those
puka
would be filled with salt water and tiny forms of life, but now they were cushions for her sore feet.

The women limped inland to the narrow, paved road. Storm recognized the area from this morning's jog.

Lara perked up. “We're close.”

“Good.” Storm hopped from foot to foot. She could fry an egg on the tarry asphalt. “My feet are killing me.”

“Me, too.” Lara cocked her head. A truck was lumbering down the road, and Lara waved at it. “I know these guys. They work at one of the houses down near La Perouse Bay.”

“There's a lot of construction going on, isn't there?” Storm asked.

“Only a handful now, but there will be.” Lara hopped on the hot pavement. “Hey, Charlie! Got room for two more?”

Two men sat in the cab and two more in the bed of the pickup. They were shirtless and wore bandanas over their dark hair. One guy's arms and chest were covered with writhing dragons, mermaids, and geishas. It was hard to make the scenes out without staring. Not staring wasn't easy, either. The other guy merely had tribal bands around both biceps. He looked tame by comparison.

Storm felt self-conscious in her bikini. Lara let Tribal pull her into the cab, but Storm hopped in before either man could grab her. The truck bed was grubby with clumps of earth, and she'd bet the metal was hot as a frying pan. Not wanting to add her butt to her growing list of sore spots, she sat on her swim fins.

The ride wasn't long and the men dropped Storm and Lara at their cars. Storm pointed to the outside shower. “I'm going to rinse the salt off.”

Lara eyed the green moss around its base for a tenth of a second. “I'm taking off. I've got to meet Ryan for dinner.”

Storm checked the angle of the sun, and then looked at her diver's watch. It was five-fifteen. “Hey, the swim was great. Thanks for taking me.”

Lara looked out of the corner of her eye. “Right.”

“I mean it. Stop worrying about the shark. Your
‘aumakua
must be the
manō hae
, the fighter. Not a dinky reef shark.”

That got a small smile. “See you tomorrow.”

Storm stood in the cool shower while Lara walked to her car. Lara didn't have the same confident spring to her step that she'd had when they'd started their swim.

Chapter Seven

Storm didn't have much time if she wanted to meet Damon at seven. Depending on traffic, Lahaina could be a half-hour drive or more. The public shower's cool water had revived her, especially her burning feet, and she took another shower back in her hotel room, where she washed and conditioned her hair and slathered on the hotel's skin lotion.

A little lip gloss and mascara, and a black jersey tank dress with a short, flared skirt that was both comfortable and jazzy. Flat, strappy sandals. No way was she putting her beat-up feet into closed shoes.

She glanced at her watch again, and decided she had a few minutes. She dialed Hamlin's mobile phone.

He answered, and the sound of his voice was a comfort. “I'm glad you called,” he said. “I've been leaving messages for you.”

She peeked at the screen of her phone. Sure enough, there were three. “I've been trying to call you, too.”

“I've been worried—. No, no. I miss you.”

Storm was surprised when her heart leaped. “That's nice to hear.”

“I have a lot to talk to you about.”

“Are you coming home?”

“Soon. Do you have a minute now?”

“I'm meeting an old friend for dinner.”

“How long are you going to stay on Maui? Grace told me you left yesterday.”

“I thought I'd stay through the weekend.”

Storm's secretary Grace, who wore a voluminous mu‘u mu‘u and an array of fresh flowers in her hair every day, was a romantic. She also was efficient and watched Storm like a brood mare watches her colt.

“I don't blame you.” Hamlin sounded wistful.

“When will you be back?” Storm asked.

“Next week, if all goes well.”

“Good, I should be back by then, too.”

“I can't wait to see you.” His words were soft.

“I'll call you.” Storm slowly put the phone back in her purse. None of the old anger had been in his voice.

He'd gone to the Mainland for a few weeks and stayed two months. Part of the delay was due to the death of his mother, whose estate he'd needed to settle. After that, he'd had an excellent offer on a special project with a law firm in California.

Storm was no longer certain how he felt about her. Though they talked a couple times a week, reserve hovered between them like a screen.

Hamlin had been injured trying to protect Storm. When she was looking into the death of her uncle, the killer injected him with succinylcholine, a curare-like agent, and he nearly died. Another time, he'd fallen off a horse on Moloka‘i and injured his shoulder. That time they'd been working cases that coincided eerily, but the horseback ride had been all her idea.

Hamlin told her he couldn't bear to watch her wander into life-threatening situations. But she sensed anger, and believed his reservations about their relationship went beyond concern for her welfare.

She wondered if he felt their backgrounds were too different. She'd known since she was twelve and her mother took an overdose of sleeping pills that her welfare was her own responsibility. She couldn't rely on other people to protect her if her own mother would not.

Eme Kayama, who suffered from depression, had planned her suicide for weeks. It was a form of desertion, and Storm had grown up with the belief that people couldn't rescue one another. She had never asked Hamlin to be her white knight. Lover, partner, friend, yes. Protector, no.

His voice had brought a surge of warmth and hope, but by the time she'd walked to her car, her throat had tightened with anger and sorrow, feelings she still had trouble separating. She tried to shake off the negative emotions. Upsetting her was the last thing Hamlin wanted to do. He'd told her he missed her, and that was what she needed to think about.

***

It was a few minutes before seven when Storm reached The Fiddler Crab, and found she'd arrived before Damon. The hostess told her their table would take a few minutes to prepare and directed her to the bar, which overlooked the beach.

She sat on a stool with an unimpeded view of the fading day. The bartender brought a glass of wine, and she watched the eastern sky glow indigo, while gentle Venus climbed the darkening vastness. How appropriate, Storm thought, that the Greeks believed this mistress of sensuality sprang from the foam of the sea.

“Storm?”

She jerked around. “Damon, hi.”

“You were far away.”

She had been. “The view is wonderful.”

“That it is.” He sat down next to her, ordered a draught, and looked out at the water.

The bartender served his beer just as the hostess appeared to tell them their table was ready. They followed her to an outside table.

Damon studied Storm's face. “Life agrees with you.” He looked tired and older than she'd remembered.

“Thanks. I had time for a long, hot shower after the swim.”

“Lara didn't look as relaxed as you do.”

“She came by the shop?” Storm asked. “Then she was probably late for her dinner with Ryan.”

Damon sat back in his chair. “She's got a lot on her mind.”

“How's the construction project going?”

“It's fine. We're on schedule.” But his expression belied his words.

“So what's wrong?” Storm asked.

Damon gave a shrug and drained his beer.

“Planning the wedding is probably getting to her,” Storm said. “People tell me they're stressful.”

Damon tried to smile, but it didn't work. “That and her mom.”

“Because the dog died?”

Damon looked confused. “I didn't know about that. I was talking about the new home. She hasn't adjusted.”

“Lara's parents moved?”

“Her dad died a few years ago, and her mom's health went down hill.” He waved down the waitress and ordered another beer. “Maybe I shouldn't talk about this.”

Storm had the feeling he wanted to share his concerns, though. Whatever pressures were mounting in the dive shop seemed to be taking their toll on him, too. She sat back in her chair and took a slow sip from her wine glass.

After a moment, Damon filled the silence. “Her mom's in one of those assisted living places. Way I hear it, Barb doesn't always recognize Lara. She thinks Lara is her sister.”

“Lara resembles her aunt?”

“No, Lara's younger sister. I don't know if they looked alike, but from what I've heard, their personalities were quite different.”

Storm leaned toward him. “You're speaking of her in the past.”

Damon set his beer down gently. “Angela died about five years ago.”

“That's awful,” Storm said. “Poor Lara.” She remembered how quickly Lara changed the subject when Storm had suggested getting the mother a new dog. She felt a wave of embarrassment for the glibness of the comment.

“No kidding.” He wiped condensation from his beer glass. “Her mom is lost in the past. This is when your mother is supposed to help you buy a dress and bug you about the guest list, isn't it?”

“From what I've heard.” Storm pushed back a lock of wayward hair. “Does Lara's mom realize she's getting married?”

“I don't know.” He raised his eyes to Storm's. “So what's your secret to happiness? You look great.”

Storm gave a snort of laughter. “Nice stab at changing the subject.”

“C'mon. Who's the love of your life?”

“Damon, please. You haven't seen me for years. Why are you asking?” She squinted at him. “I heard you got married.”

“Yeah.” He took a long swallow from his beer glass, and then centered it on its coaster without looking up at her. “I did. Then she left. Took our two daughters with her.”

“That has to be tough. Do you get to see them?”

“She moved to Kauai. I get to see them once a month and they spend summers with me.” He showed his teeth in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

“This wasn't an amicable split, I gather. What happened?”

“The usual.” He heaved a sigh. “I was working too hard and staying out late. She fell in love with her doctor.” He winced. “Her gynecologist.”

“Oof.” In the candlelight, Storm could see the reddened capillaries in his nose and remembered the way he'd given the hung-over carpenter at Lara's shop another chance. Damon may have faced some demons in the bottle, too. Which could be another reason for the marriage breaking up.

“How old are your daughters?”

He smiled. “Maile's nine and Emily is twelve.” He extracted his wallet and dug out two pictures, which he handed to Storm.

“They're adorable. What grades are they in?”

After the waiter took their orders, Damon launched into stories about their school exploits, sports events, and how much he looked forward to the summer soccer league. As he related his experiences, his eyes brightened and he straightened in his chair. He loved talking about his kids, just like most of the good dads she knew.

Over dinner, she found herself talking about Hamlin and how he'd dislocated his shoulder falling from a horse during her last case, when a high school friend living on Moloka‘i asked for her help. The friend had neglected to tell her about a smoldering feud that involved betrayal and death.

“He thinks the accident was your fault?”

“He thinks I take unnecessary risks.”

“Do you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I do what I have to do. It's a matter of perception.” She searched his face. “Isn't it?”

“It sounds like something only the two of you would know.”

A disturbance from the bar distracted them. A dozen or so people had clustered around one of the televisions on the wall. Instead of sports, a local news program was broadcasting live. The bartender turned up the volume just as one of the patrons approached Damon.

“Hey, Damon. Isn't that one of your guys?” He pointed to the TV screen.

“Huh?” Damon squinted at the distant television and the agitated reporter who dominated the screen. “That guy?”

“No, your new employee.”

Damon and Storm stared at the television. A wailing police car added to the confusion on the screen. Over the commotion, the reporter blurted the names Hiroki Yoshinaka and Lloyd Construction Enterprises. The camera panned out to show a small, dilapidated frame house. The front door gaped like an open mouth.

“Jesus.” Damon shot to his feet and threw money on the table. He grabbed Storm's arm. “Come with me. Please?”

No one noticed their exit. Everyone was looking at the TV.

They jumped in Damon's pickup truck. “He lives nearby,” Damon said, and accelerated out of the restaurant parking lot.

An ambulance wailed behind them. Damon cursed and pulled over to let it pass. A few minutes later, he drove onto the dry front lawn of a small home. Both he and Storm jumped from the truck. The ambulance had arrived a minute ahead of them, and the policeman on the scene waved the attendants into the house. He held up his hand to stop Storm and Damon from going any farther, and then turned on the reporter. “Out by the street. Now.”

“C'mon, Sarge. I called it in.”

“Now!” the cop roared, and the news crew backed up.

Storm leaned against the truck, self-conscious. The name Hiroki Yoshinaka had come to her; it was the carpenter with the hangover. Why in the world had she come with Damon? It was an impulse she wished she'd ignored.

She looked down at her feet, at the patchy, dry grass. A doll, whose long blond hair tangled in the weeds, lay near her foot. Its staring blue eyes caught the glare of headlights. Storm picked it up and smoothed the toy's hair. Yoshinaka had two young daughters, didn't he? A wave of dread washed through her.

The cop spoke into a radio and turned to Damon, who stood about six feet away. “Hey man, this isn't a good time.”

“Yoshinaka works for me. You know his girls play with mine. Can I help?”

“It looks bad, buddy.” The cop spoke into his radio, turned back to Damon. “Hang on, okay?”

Two ambulance attendants burst from the front door carrying a gurney. As it passed, Storm saw a web of black hair against a face so white it was almost lost against the sheets. A third attendant kept the small form in place, and held his hand firmly over a spreading red stain on the white cover.

The cop walked over to Damon, his eyes on Storm. “Who's your friend?”

“Storm Kayama. Storm, this is my friend Carl Moana. Our girls play soccer together.” Damon shot a nervous glance at Storm and turned to Moana. “I hope she'll be Hiroki's lawyer.”

The cop looked between the two of them. “Hiroki won't need a lawyer.” He rubbed his face as if he wanted to erase the words. Storm noticed the tremble in his hand.

“Carl, what happened in there?” Damon asked.

“Hiroki's dead. So is the younger daughter.” He covered a break in his voice by clearing his throat. “Don't know how bad the older one is yet.”

“Jesus,” Damon's broken whisper carried above the sound of the disappearing siren.

“Damon, we might need to talk to you about Hiroki. He was holding the gun.”

Damon didn't react right away. His eyes tracked the arrival of another ambulance and three more police vehicles. When he met Sergeant Moana's gaze, the confusion on his face was being replaced by anger.

“No, he wouldn't do that. He couldn't. He loved his girls, and he was getting better at work. It's just not possible.”