Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (22 page)

“Sure those are Cindy’s?” Marcella asked.

“Fernandez identified them as belonging to the victim.”

“But no weapon.”

“We found some e-mails from AgroCon to Kim on his computer,” Rogers said. “Nothing tying Kim to either of the victims.”

They looked at the small, inconclusive collection of items, and Marcella finally said, “I need more coffee.”

She spun on a cream-colored heel and headed for the door. Ang was right behind her. “Feeling okay from last night? I felt kind of bad. You’re picking it up so fast. I know I was a little hard on you.”

Marcella smirked at the other agent. “I think I got you a good one. Check your collarbone.”

“I know.” A bruise darkened the other woman’s golden-brown skin. “I saw it this morning. Sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine. Just tired, is all. I think I went all out yesterday. I was sure something was going to break on the case, and when it didn’t, I was so frustrated. Thanks for calling me. Fight Club took my mind off the day.”

“Did it take your mind off Kamuela? What’s going on between you?”

“Nothing.” Marcella sped up.

“I saw you guys looking at each other—a lot of hot vibes for nothing.”

“Okay, there was something. But not anymore. And it’s—a bummer, is all.” They reached the break room and Marcella hooked down her favorite mug, splashed coffee into it.

“Why? You guys seem perfect for each other.” Ang took the pot from Marcella.

“I’m not the relationship type. I like a good shag, but nothing more. It would turn into something more with him.” Marcella took a big swig. The coffee scalded her tongue, and she gulped it anyway, to smother the knot in her chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. Just curious.”

“How about you?”

“I’m divorced.”

Marcella started. “Really? You don’t look old enough to have that kind of baggage.”

Ang made a harsh sound that might have been a laugh and poured some half-and-half from the fridge into her coffee. “I was a child bride.”

“How’d you end up in the FBI?”

“Recruited. I actually grew up in Thailand. My mother was Thai, and my father’s an American diplomat—and yes, he’s black. I saw you wondering about my background. Anyway, I was working at a firm in Hong Kong. I speak five languages, one of them computer, and one day I got a call from a headhunting firm that finds talent for the Bureau. I was looking to get away from the husband, so I took the offer.”

“You speak American like a local.”

“Dialects are a specialty.”

“You’re full of surprises. Thanks, Sophie, for inviting me to the gym. It’s really a great outlet for me right now.”

Rogers stuck his head in. “Coffee klatch is over, ladies. We have surveillance detail. Agent Ang, they have you working over the computers we brought in.”

“No problem.” Ang strode off. Marcella watched her go thoughtfully, taking another sip of black coffee. Ang was intriguing—and an exceptional agent. She found herself liking the woman more than ever. Maybe she did have more than one other woman friend.

Rogers stuck his head back in. “C’mon, Little Shit.”

“Hey—my name is classified.” She punched him in the shoulder, not lightly.

“Mean right hook, Marcie!” He recoiled in exaggerated pain.

“Not Marcie either, dammit.” She socked him again. “Watch out. I’m training. Doing some MMA.”

“Yikes! I apologize, Agent Scott, for my inappropriate whimsicality.” They walked down the hall, bantering, and Marcella felt her world tipping back to normal.

Marcella sat in her Honda outside Fernandez’s apartment. The day had passed in relative comfort and boredom in the lookout room into the lab, with various discussions about the AgroCon injunction, the scanty and inconclusive evidence recovered in the searches, the behavior of Kim, who had been fired from the lab. That little scene had been entertaining to watch, as Kim walked back into the lab, casual as could be, to be confronted by his teammates and Dr. Truman with fire in his green eyes.

“You stole the research, sold it to AgroCon, and have the balls to walk back in here? Did you kill Dr. Pettigrew, too, you slimy little bastard?”

“I’ll get my things and go,” Kim muttered. Truman pushed him in the chest, so the Korean bounced back several feet.

“You’ll just go. And count yourself lucky you can walk out of here.”

Dr. Handsome in a snit had been enough to pucker up Marcella’s nipples—not that it took much these days.

She lifted a small pair of binoculars as Fernandez came out of the apartment in the blue-purple evening with its scent of plumeria from the tree beside the building. He was moving with the bold ease she’d glimpsed a few other times. She frowned as he strode to the stairwell and clattered down the stairs. He had a backpack on.

After the lab team disbanded for the evening, Marcella had followed Fernandez home with a brief stop for a singularly unsatisfying McDonald’s salad. Rogers was on Kim, and Gundersohn on Abed. Marcella lifted her radio.

“I have movement. Subject exiting the building.”

“Ten-four,” Rogers’s voice said. “Nothing here. Subject looks buttoned up inside.”

“Ten-four,” Gundersohn said. “Subject inside. Keep us posted.”

“Roger that.” She set down the radio.

Fernandez unlocked a door on one of the garage storage units. She’d wondered how he got around—none of them seemed to have cars—and frowned as he backed up a motor scooter and put on a helmet. She radioed again as she pulled out a good distance behind the young man on his scooter. This time, the helmeted head swiveled often and she saw him checking his mirrors. Fernandez was paying attention to his surroundings—this couldn’t be good.

“Subject is on the move in a scooter. I’m on him. He has a backpack.”

“Direction? What’s your location?” Rogers’s voice was sharp.

“Don’t know where he’s going yet,” Marcella said. “Heading into downtown.” She braked as Fernandez took a corner. “I’ll call for backup if needed.”

“I’ll let Dispatch know to have Agent Ang get ready—she’s the only one from our case still at the building.”

“Copy that, thanks.” Marcella set the radio down. Her palms prickled with nervous sweat—knowing Ang was getting ready to back her up if needed was reassuring. She kept another car between them as Fernandez turned onto Ala Wai Boulevard, the one-way road fronting the widest part of the Ala Wai Canal.

“Uh-oh,” Marcella said aloud.

Chapter 18

Marcella hung back a block as the scooter cut up onto the bike lane that ran along the edge of the canal. She lifted the radio to her lips. “Dispatch. Patch me through to Agent Ang.”

“Roger that.”

A
brr
of static later, “Agent Ang.”

“Scott here. Following subject on scooter along bike path beside the Ala Wai. I need backup.”

“Roger that. I’m on my way. What’s your twenty?”

Marcella gave the cross street, Kapahulu Avenue, and put the radio down. Better safe than sorry, if Fernandez was up to something.

The scientist slowed the scooter, turning into the bumped-out area of a parklet. A bike rack under a tree, cast into shadow, obscured him as Marcella drove by at her careful pace. She radioed again.

“Subject parking scooter. Parking and pursuing on foot.”

“I’m exiting the building,” Ang replied. “Ten minutes out.”

Marcella pulled into the nearest alley opposite the park and up onto the sidewalk. She exited the vehicle, thankful she’d put on dark sweats and running shoes in preparation for the surveillance shift. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up and, beeping the Honda locked, jogged back across busy Ala Wai Boulevard, even in the late evening a major artery of Waikiki.

Marcella ran with the purposeful stride of a jogger down the bike path toward the park, unobtrusively patting her pockets for her phone, checking that her weapon was unclipped in the shoulder holster under the sweatshirt, her FBI shield clipped to her waistband. She slowed as she reached the tree with the bike rack and almost cursed as she saw the scooter was chained to the rack and Fernandez nowhere in sight. She kept going, past the area, swiveling her head to see where he’d gone, oblivious to the mixed scents of plumeria and exhaust fumes.

Walking the opposite direction, head down and backpack a hunchbacked shape, was Fernandez. She jogged in a U-turn and angled across the grass, already wet with evening dew and scattered with a confetti of trash. A crazy quilt of colored light from the city scattered over the dark skin of the Ala Wai as she slowed her pace, following the cement walking path along the lip of the canal, tracking the dark figure ahead of her. She inserted her Bluetooth and speed-dialed Ang.

The other agent sounded out of breath. “Where’s your radio?”

“Left it in the car. What’s your twenty?”

“Just turning onto Ala Wai Boulevard.”

“We’re on the move, headed north on the walking path. I’ll keep this open.”

“Copy that.”

Fernandez stopped, and Marcella slowed.

There was nowhere to go but past him, as he stood looking out at the canal. She kept her pace steady and her head down, hoping that with her hood up, he wouldn’t recognize her. She passed by him, eyeballing the backpack—it looked empty but for something heavy at the bottom, forming a dip in the fabric.

She slowed once she’d passed him, moving up another fifty feet or so, then turning to face the canal. She lifted her foot against the parapet to tighten her shoelace, noticing a silver moon reflected in the water and high scudding clouds that contrasted with the yellow lights along the cement path. She slanted a glance back at Fernandez.

He had the backpack off and his arm was inside.

That couldn’t be good.

She pulled her weapon, dropped into a shooting stance as he took out something that gleamed dull black in the amber light of the nearby streetlamp.

“Stop! FBI!”

Fernandez froze. The object was still in his hand, arm extended and turned to the side to toss it into the canal. He shifted, arm still out, and turned toward her. His face was white under the shock of floppy hair, his eyes shadowed holes.

“Drop the weapon on the ground. Get on your knees and put your hands on your head. Do it now!” Her voice cracked over him, a whip of authority. Fernandez belched suddenly and moved his arm—from extended over the canal to straight in front of him, the black bore of the pistol looking Marcella in the eye.

That’s when she remembered she wasn’t wearing a vest.

Chapter 19

Marcella’s already amped-up heart rate took off to another level, and sweat burst out all over her body.

“Whore,” he said, followed by a series of grunts.

“I’m going to chalk that up to stress.” Marcella softened and lowered her voice, slowing down the words. Time to talk him off this ledge or they were both liable to end up dead. “Set the weapon down now and kneel and put your hands on your head and I won’t shoot.”

“Bitch,” he said, and fired.

She felt something smack her shoulder as she pulled the trigger, the Glock’s report muffled by the roar of blood in her ears. Fernandez toppled backward to land faceup on the cement.

“Report!” Ang’s voice screamed in the Bluetooth in her ear. “Marcella! Are you all right? I’m on foot, almost there!”

“I’m fine,” Marcella said, and then the pain hit, a feeling like a ten-ton wasp sting followed by numbness. Her arm fell to her side, and she felt the warm gush of blood, smelled its iron tang. Her head swam. “Oh. Dammit.”

She dropped to her knees and set the Glock on the ground in front of her with her good hand, then pressed her hand hard against her shoulder.

That’s how they were when Ang ran up—Marcella on her knees, the Glock set neatly in front of her, blood oozing through her fingers. Fernandez on his back, the .22 pistol still in his hand—and a hole in his chest. The lights of the city reflected in his open eyes and in the black puddle spreading like a halo from beneath him.

Marcella smiled at her mother, who stopped at the door to blow a few more kisses and said for the third time, “’Cella, I can spend the night.”

“No, Mama, really. I’ll sleep better by myself. Thank you for everything.” She waved her good arm at the balloons, flowers, and stack of baked goods beside her bed. “I’m only here until tomorrow. It’s just a little nick. I told you.”

“Come.” Papa Gio waved at Marcella over her mother’s worried frown. “We let her rest. She’s going to be fine.”

“Our baby was shot!” She heard her mother’s wail moving away down the hall. “How can that be fine?”

Marcella closed her eyes. The pain meds were kicking in at last. The round had gone into the notch of her shoulder beneath her collarbone and stuck there, millimeters away from her shoulder joint, causing agony and near-paralysis in her left arm. Surgery to remove the bullet had taken an hour or so, and she still felt a little nauseated from the anesthesia.

After that, the stream of visitors and her frantic parents had whacked whatever stamina was left right out of her. She’d lucked out and the bed next to her was still empty. Blessed silence reigned. She pressed the button, lowered the back of the bed. Dimmed the lights.

Closed her eyes.

Strange designs in red floated across the backs of her eyelids. Some sort of reaction to the meds? Exhaustion pulled at her, a heaviness in every limb, but she felt strangely disembodied—almost as if she could get lost in that red room.

She opened her eyes. Kamuela was standing next to the bed, looking down at her. His frown was enough to scare babies.

“You’re awake,” he said disapprovingly. Kamuela’s hands were on his hips. His curling hair looked windblown, and his mouth was tight.

“Am I? I didn’t expect to see you here. Thought there’d be a white light, angels—my dead grandma.” She laughed, a dry bark. “Don’t they have visiting hours? I just kicked my parents out.”

He pulled a chair up next to the bed, ignoring this. “How bad is it?”

The pain meds were definitely kicking in because she blew a raspberry and her lips felt numb, which made her giggle. “Nothing big. Shoulder. Hurt like hell, but I’ll be out tomorrow.”