Chapter Two

 

Damon Shaw tapped the table and glanced repeatedly up at the wall clock. It was 3:00 P.M. He’d been alone in this tomblike interrogation room for at least thirty minutes. How long were they going to make him cool his jets?

When the door finally burst open, he straightened, ready for a battle of wits, but was immediately disarmed by the slender Japanese-Caucasian female detective who entered briskly and slammed a recorder and a file on the table between them. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. She had slicked back wet strands of hair into a no-nonsense braided knot. A wrinkled pantsuit and blouse hung on her frame like damp laundry.

In spite of her wilted look, she reminded Damon of a woman general he’d known and admired in the air force, the same charge-forward manner, same quiet confidence and military posture. Damon judged the detective to be a little shorter than the general, probably five-five or five-six. It disturbed him that her squared-shoulder forceful entrance didn’t match her red, swollen eyes. Had she stopped in the restroom to cry her guts out? That would make this interrogation personal – and stacked against him.

Her fit-look screamed of a relentless regimen of workouts. Big deal. He worked out every day, too. But it looked better on her. How could someone so slim have such lovely breasts? Heat crawled up from his neck, and he quickly lifted his gaze and stared at her oval, intelligent face with its high forehead and delicate nose. Then it hit him who she was – Malia Reed, Kiki’s best friend.

Damon felt the walls closing in.

He’d only seen Malia a couple of times, during the rehearsal for his wedding, and at the ceremony. She’d been Kiki’s maid of honor, and had looked soft and beautiful in her long, formfitting blue satin dress – nothing like a cop. Her dark hair, with rich burgundy highlights, had flowed down her back. Her slightly slanted eyes, a deep, earth-brown sprinkled with gold flecks, glinted with happiness. His best man, Kirk, and all the single men in the wedding party had made a play for her with no success. Hell, if he hadn’t been in love, he’d have hit on her himself. She was probably the best looking woman any of them had ever seen. Now, seeing Malia looking drained and washed-out, he almost felt sorry for her. Until he remembered – she was the enemy.

Another detective, big enough to be a lineman for the U.H. Warriors, entered the room and stood with folded arms by a wall. Damon suspected the wall was a two-way mirror. His nerve endings burned. How many other cops were watching him, waiting for him to say something incriminating?

“This is Detective Rick Kulukulualani,” Malia said, gesturing to the big Hawaiian.

“That’s a real tongue twister,” Damon said dryly. “I may have to work on getting it right.”

The big guy glared at him.

“Most of us call him Ku,” Malia said.

As though that was the intimidator’s signal to take action, he slapped a file on the table, and the corner of a snapshot slid into view. He stepped back in place like one of King Kamehameha’s guards and resumed his gruff, silent vigil.

Damon loosened his collar. “Am I under arrest?” His throat felt dry, but asking for water would only alert them that they were getting to him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Shaw.”

Malia’s soft, compassionate voice took him off guard. He managed to thank her, although it irked him that she hadn’t answered his question. Although shock and waves of disorientation rolled over him in a continuous ebb and flow, he knew the full impact of his grief hadn’t yet hit. He’d filed for a divorce, but he still cared for Kiki as a friend, in spite of the fact that she’d slept with his best man and God only knows how many others while he was overseas. Damn. Every time he thought about the betrayal, anger shot through him like a hot bullet. His heart thundered in his ears. Could the detective hear it pounding out of control? He had to rein in his temper, and think clearly. The cops hadn’t brought him here to give their condolences. Husbands and ex-spouses were the suspects they always hauled in first.

Malia reached out and touched his arm. Stunned, he flinched and then silently cursed himself. “I have to ask you some questions,” she said softly, “for the report.” Then all gentleness disappeared, and her voice took on a hard edge. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you I take Kiki’s death personally. And I’ll get your wife’s killer.” Her gaze bored into him, turning the caring promise into a threat aimed directly at him.

“Look, Malia—”

“Detective Reed,” she said, clearly establishing their present relationship – cop and suspect.

Her barked statement stung like a slap, and then to his absolute bewilderment, she softened her voice again and said, “Try to relax.” Although Damon knew better, he allowed her silken voice to wash over him like warm honey. “We’ll make this as easy on you as possible,” she said with a sad smile. “After all, you and I can’t act like strangers since I was the maid-of-honor at your wedding.”

He fought the urge to trust her. Keeping his distance might be his only defense against this smooth cop who knew how to keep a suspect off balance. If the detective lacked anything in physical strength, she made up for it in human skills, and she was reeling him in like an onaga on a velvet hook. “I’d like to call an attorney,” he said before she completely addled his brain.

Her gaze hardened and challenged him with its intensity. He forced himself to lock in on it. Hot sparks charged between them, searing his senses. She thrust a cell phone and a yellow-page directory turned to the attorney section at him. “Pick one, and make your call.”

With knots in his stomach, Damon tried several attorneys, but only reached their damned recorders. “Looks like they’re all out chasing ambulances,” he muttered.

“Too bad for you. If you want an attorney, I can’t ask you any more questions without one present, but I can hold you until your counsel arrives. Which could be overnight.” She paused to let the threat sink in. “Or you can voluntarily answer some questions now and be home in a few hours.”

He boiled inside at her squeeze-play, but he sure as hell didn’t want to hang around here. Malia was good at her job, and to be the focus of her energy scared the crap out of him. “What do you want to know?”

Malia tapped the snapshot file. Her fingers were long and strong-looking for a woman, nails natural and trimmed short. “I have to ask you this question,” she said in an apologetic tone that didn’t fool him. He braced himself for the obvious inquiry. “Did you kill your wife, Mr. Shaw?”

“Hell, no!”

Before he could fully recover, she shot back, “Where were you between 2:00 P.M. yesterday and 3:00 A.M.?”

Sweat trickled down his back. “Holed up in my apartment.”

Her look intensified. Her gold-flecked brown eyes rested on him for the longest time. Silence stretched thin between them. “Can anyone verify that? Neighbors, mailman, pizza delivery?” The last was said with an underlying challenge.

“Holed up means I saw no one. On purpose. I’m writing a novel.”

“You’re a writer? Kiki told me you’ve been unemployed since you left the Air Force.”

The disdain in Malia’s voice galled him. He could imagine the garbage Kiki had told her. He knew how girlfriends could rake a guy over the coals after the romance went sour. “It’s only been three months. I’m not some shiftless bum, and I don’t consider working eight to ten hours a day unemployed. Kiki never supported my writing.”

Malia didn’t look sympathetic. “What was your job in the Air Force?” she asked. “Maintenance? Kiki said you were handy around the house. Good with a hammer, are you?” Malia tapped the file with the snapshots again.

He glared at it. “Are you going to show me the damn pictures, or not?”

She held his gaze, seeming to weigh the significance of his outburst. “After you answer my questions.”

“I worked in intelligence. Investigations. Is that how she was killed, with a hammer?”

Malia’s eyes sparked. “What gave you that idea?”

“It wasn’t a subtle question you asked, Detective.”

She gave an impatient toss of her head. “Will you take a lie detector test?”

Damon silently cursed the sweat that broke out on his forehead. When he’d first entered the room, air had blown steadily through the ventilation system. Now nothing stirred. The cops wanted to make him sweat in more ways than one. “I’ll let you know after I talk with an attorney.” He stood and headed for the door. Detective Ku blocked his way, silently, effectively.

With a jabbing thrust of her index finger, Malia pointed to the chair. “Sit down, Mr. Shaw. We’re not through here.”

Damon plunked down. “Enjoy the hell out of giving orders, Detective?” He admired her confidence and show of authority, but he’d never liked anyone who got off on ordering others around.

Malia merely looked at him. “Kiki said you came to her house several times over the last few weeks. What was that about?”

He felt his pulse quicken. He wished he could get up and walk around – better, he wished he could walk out of here. “I know what you’re thinking, and you got it wrong. Kiki kept some of my things, photo albums, books, files – personal treasures like that. I wanted them back.” Without an attorney’s counsel, Damon knew not to mention their ongoing argument.

Malia leaned forward clearly to intimidate. She was close enough for him to breathe in her scent, musky and salty from hours in the hot sun.

“So you pressured her?” she asked, her gazing boring into him.

Fighting an arousal that made no sense and trying to steady himself as he imagined the floor shift beneath his feet, he said, “That’s not my style.”

“Kiki received some hang up calls,” Malia said. “Was that you?”

“Hell, no. I was trying to keep this divorce amicable. And quick.”

“When did you last see Kiki alive?”

A truthful answer might win him a night in a cell. He shrugged. “A couple of days ago, I guess.” Now Kiki would never keep the crucial appointment. He was in deep bog.

“I need an exact date.”

“Seeing my estranged wife wasn’t something I wrote down on my calendar.”

“I’ll bet a sharp guy like you can figure it out.” Malia’s eyes bored into his.

He rubbed his aching head. “I can’t come up with it right now.” To live in his own skin, he had to help them find Kiki’s killer, but without implicating himself. Kiki, lovable but desperately promiscuous, deserved that much from him. And her family, whom he loved like the family he’d never had, deserved it as well.

“I know you’ve had a tough day,” Malia said with a hint of sarcasm, “but I’d like the date and time by morning.” Her hand rested on the file. Damon’s heart pounded. Suddenly she flipped the folder open to a close-up Polaroid color-shot of Kiki’s face covered with blood, her glassy eyes bulging.

“Jesus, no!” Bile shot into his throat. Damon had seen death while stationed in Kuwait, but nothing came close to this. This grotesque image was the woman he’d once loved.

“Any idea who could’ve done this, Mr. Shaw?” Malia fired at him, her voice hard as steel.

“No!” He shot to his feet and banged his fist on the table. “What kind of inhuman, unfeeling B.S. is this, Detective?” His throat tightened. Only anger held him together.

Malia watched him with suspicion in her dark eyes. She leaned closer, intensifying the tension in her attack pose. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw, but in a homicide investigation we can’t always be sensitive.”

“Dammit. You wanted to see my reaction. Well, did I pass?” He curled his hands into fists. He’d never hit a woman, never would. If only she’d been a man. And not a cop.

“Let me make something crystal clear to you,” she said, sidestepping his question without missing a beat. “If you had anything at all to do with Kiki’s murder, I’m going to make you wish you were dead.”

“We already covered that, Detective. I could never hurt Kiki. I keep thinking about what this will do to her family. Has anyone notified them?”

Malia studied him. Her gaze lost some of its fury, almost convincing him that she wanted him to be innocent. “Do you still have a good relationship with Kiki’s family?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t divorcing them. We had dinner together last Friday.”

“Good,” Malia said. “I have an idea that might help clear things up.”

He didn’t like the sly look that switched on in her eyes, but he wanted to get out of there. “If it’ll move this interview into high gear,” he said. “I’m all for it.”

“I’d like you to go with me to tell Kiki’s family about the murder. Having you there might make it easier on them.”

“On them, or you?” He knew at once what she was up to. She didn’t need him to make a rough job easier, or to give the family support. She wanted to see his reaction to their grief. And their reaction to him. “Will you show them the snapshots, too?” he asked.

“No, that was for your eyes alone.”

Resentment burned inside him, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “All right, let’s get it over with.” This is a nightmare. Kiki is dead, and the cops actually suspect I murdered her.