Chapter Four

 

Malia had no evidence to hold Damon, so, as the sun set in a blaze of coral, she dropped him off at his apartment. “Don’t leave town, Shaw,” she said.

He darted a sharp look at her, then shot out of the car without a backward glance. She sat with the motor idling and watched his wide, erect stride, detecting nothing to help her build a case either for or against him. All she could tell for sure was Damon Shaw was a man who couldn’t get away from her fast enough. But he couldn’t escape. Although he’d met the first challenge, the gauntlet had been thrown down, and he still had a long way to go to clear himself.

Malia thrust the car into gear and headed for her parent’s place, unable to shake Damon from her thoughts. He’d been caring and attentive to Kiki’s parents, not at all like the usual estranged husband. Or maybe he was just very clever.

When Malia arrived at her parents’ Portlock beachfront home, she pushed her thoughts of Damon to the edges of her mind.

After she gently told her folks the sad news, her dad’s face went pale. He closed the hard copy of the investment journal he was bringing up-to-date and sat still, stiff. Her mother stilled like a frightened fawn. Their eyes filled with tears, but no sound came from either of them.

She hadn’t heard them cry since the unknown man had murdered her sister over thirteen years ago. They had cried nightly for a month straight, and then all tears stopped. Laughter, too. She waited for some further show of emotion and received only stunned silence. The room went so quiet that Malia heard the rhythm of her own breathing.

Through the open slider, sweet fragrances of plumeria mingled with salt air. To the unaware it was just another day in paradise. Why didn’t her parents say something? After what seemed like an eternity, her mom threw down her knitting and jumped up from her chair and paced the plush carpeting. “This is a sign,” she said, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “You can’t stop the senseless killing, Malia, and if you stay with the force, you’ll end up dead, too.”

She had heard it all before, over and over. She stared westerly out the wall-of-windows across the expanse of sparkling bay to Diamond Head, faintly aware of the brilliant sunset dipping behind it. How could she convince her parents that nothing they said would change her mind? With two such stubborn parents Malia figured she came by her own intractability naturally. Her mom was born in Hawaii to Japanese immigrants, her dad from Scotch-Irish stock. Whether they liked it or not, the blend had given her the strength and determination to stand up to them when necessary. But she hated it. “I understand your feelings, Mom. But I’m a cop. And now, more than ever, I’m committed to being the very best cop I can be.”

“It’s too late to help Kiki,” Dad said, approaching Malia and putting his hands on her shoulders. “But you’re our only daughter, now.”

She twisted from his hold and whirled away from him. “This is about Kiki, Dad, not me.”

“You’re such a little thing, Malia.” Dad went on as though deaf to her words, “barely a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Being a cop takes brawn and size. Get a ladylike job, and let the men in the H.P.D. take over.”

Her dad had spent twenty years as an officer in the Air Force and should have known better, but when it came to his wife and daughter, he was as much a chauvinist as the jerks who’d given her such a bad time when she first joined the department. “I’m outta here,” she said. She forced herself to give each of her parents a hug, which they received stiffly, and then she slammed out the door.

As usual, not willing for her to have the last word, her dad stuck his head out the door and shouted, “Next time you park in front of our place, take that rack and cop light off the top of your car.”

She rolled her eyes and climbed into her vehicle. Wasting no time, she quickly gunned the engine to life. Her parents hated the signs that she was a cop almost as much as they hated her job. To them, lights and her gun symbolized the danger she faced every day. She pulled away from the curb, fighting her desire to speed and burn some rubber. It had been hammered into her that good cops controlled their emotions.

In her rearview mirror, Malia saw a blue Nissan Altima parked down the street make a U-turn and follow her. The sky wasn’t completely dark, but tinted windows made it impossible to see the driver. She thought of the hang-up calls she’d been getting. Her skin prickled. “Getting a bit jumpy, are you, Detective Reed?” Malia asked herself, using her cop name to steel her nerves. Although the driver pulled out the same time she did, that was no reason to go on alert. Still, she gave an occasional glance at the rearview mirror. The driver hung back.

At a stop light on Kalanianaole Highway, Malia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her mind turned back to her parents. They didn’t understand. She’d chosen a life of purpose, sacrificing dating and the stirring touch of a man. It was hard at times, but her determination was unshakable, a single goal ever in mind – get as many violent perps off the streets as possible.

A wave of guilt washed over Malia. Her sister had always been the smiling agreeable one. Malia, on the other hand, was the one who’d given her parents most of their gray hairs. Secretly, they had to wish that if one of their twins had to die... Malia bit down on her lip, fighting an incredible ache within. Why couldn’t her parents understand that because she was the one still alive, it was essential to make her life count?

The traffic started again. The Nissan disappeared into the maze of cars. Good. If the driver was following her, he’d blown it. Driving on mental automatic, Malia headed out H-1 toward the home she’d had built in Makakilo. Why did life always have to be such a challenge? Her parents weren’t the only ones who thought the job wasn’t for women. Even after she and another female recruit, Toni Sharpe, passed the test and the grueling training and became police officers, the guys bitched that because women didn’t have the brawn to handle troublemakers it would force the men to protect them, endangering their own lives. She remembered the day that attitudes started to change. In spite of her five-foot, six inch frame, too tiny for police work her dad always harped, she had chased down a two-hundred pound perp high on crystal meth and cuffed him. A feat even the male cops had trouble with. After that, the men in the department had finally accepted and respected her. Once she passed that trial, she set out to prove that women were better able to use conflict resolution skills, using verbal acuity, keen insight and compassion, which cut down on unnecessary injuries. She had another aptitude the department chiefs liked. She was especially good at paperwork, which a lot of the guys hated, and her persistence and thorough follow-through on a case earned her convictions. By the time she got a perp to court, she had the evidence to back her up. She persevered and rose to the top, becoming the first female homicide detective in the Honolulu Police Department.

And she wasn’t through moving up yet. With all the progress since 1975 – when the first woman, Lucile Abreu, filed a lawsuit to break the barrier and gotten admitted as a full-fledged police officer, there were still no women among the department’s assistant chiefs and deputy chiefs. If Malia had her way, she’d be one of the first.

Her climb up the ranks wouldn’t be easy. It seemed with all the struggles she’d had to face as a female cop, she shouldn’t have to battle her own family, too. Her parents had humored her at first, believing that when faced with all the roadblocks she’d get the so-called crazy idea out of her system and quit on her own. Fat chance. Now, more than ever, she wanted to be part of the force – to avenge Kiki’s senseless and brutal murder.

Before the killer had snuffed out Kiki’s life, Malia had, in many ways, secretly envied her. Kiki easily juggled a successful career in real estate and a full personal life. When Kiki told Malia that she’d finally found Damon, the man who could fulfill her needs, Malia had been delighted for her. For a while Malia had believed Kiki was on her way to having it all, not only a great career, but a dream husband who could give her the love she desperately needed and heal her damaged soul. Unfortunately, even during the engagement, Kiki had kept right on dating whomever struck her fancy. It was sad seeing her throw away what seemed like a storybook romance. Then Kiki had married Damon. Maybe the marriage wouldn’t have fallen apart if the Air Force hadn’t sent him on an isolated tour for a year only three weeks into the marriage. When Damon had returned after arranging to cut his tour to nine months to surprise Kiki, he had caught her in their bed with his best man, of all people. A few days later, it was a guy from her office. Damon gave her a third chance, but a week later she was in bed with the pool man, unable to survive without the constant attention of her string of lovers.

Malia tried not to judge Kiki. She knew what had triggered her friend’s strong need for men, for sex – a long-term molestation by Kiki’s Uncle, Pete. Until an angry father of another victim shot and killed Pete, Kiki had never told anyone. Then she told only Malia. By that time, she and Kiki had entered their teens, and the damage had been done. Kiki needed the constant touching, cuddling, and sex like a drug. She became the huntress, always searching for the next conquest, insatiable. Probably no man could have ever given Kiki what she needed.

Malia sighed. Could any man give a woman what she needed? It was an intriguing question, but she was too obsessed with her job to find out. Oh, she’d dated a few times, but guys who weren’t cops didn’t want to date a woman who packed a 9m.m. Smith and Wesson or her personal weapon, an eighteen-round Beretta. That left other cops. Most of whom were married. Which for her, meant they were kapu. Off limits. The few single ones didn’t interest her either. Dating coworkers never worked out. Besides, overall, cops made poor spouses. It wasn’t because they didn’t try. On the contrary. It was just that the stress and crazy hours killed marriages.

Malia glanced in the rearview mirror. Darkness had settled over O’ahu, and all she saw was a sea of headlights, one pair following too close for comfort. It was 8:00 P.M. when she left the H-1 Freeway and stopped to collect the mail from her post office box in the Campbell Building Complex. She parked on the street, right in front. Fighting a prickling in her neck – the same needle-like sensation she felt when she entered a dark alley after a perp – she forced herself to leave the car. She jerked as dried leaf skittered across the road. Her gaze followed its path as it tumbled into the dark recesses beyond the street lights. Was that the glint of metal in the shadows? Hand going instinctively to her gun, she squinted into the darkness.

A loud yowl broke the silence. She whirled, ready to shoot. Frozen in place, she watched a trio of feral cats scurry past her into the bushes. Did something frighten them?

God, what am I doing? Seeing perps in every shadow? In her stressed-out state she was a menace to herself and anyone passing by. Malia could just see the headlines now – police homicide detective fires on innocent cats. She quickly punched in her code and slipped inside the post office lobby. She opened her box and grabbed her mail. Trusting her earlier instincts, she wasted no time getting back into her car.

She headed up Makakilo Drive. The hollow rhythm of the road under her wheels and the eerie sound of her radio playing something that sounded like it belonged in Tales Of The Crypt increased the stiffness in her spine. She flipped off the radio and pressed harder on the gas pedal. Several turns took Malia to the neighborhood of new homes at High Point. Seeing no car lights behind her, she pulled into the safety of her garage and closed the door.

Inside her house, a one-story with sixteen-hundred square feet of sweet privacy, she inhaled the fragrance of new oak and turned the two deadbolts on the door leading from the garage. Still not feeling safe, she pressed the button lock, fastened the chain and dropped the wooden blockade into its steel brackets, desperate to barricade her home and shut out the world. Her precautions weren’t just because someone dangerous might have followed her; she’d been a door-locker ever since her twin, Melody, had been abducted right out of the room where they both slept peacefully, believing they were safe.

Malia unhitched her weapon and gently laid it on the counter top. Kiki was dead. Malia splashed water on her face to wash away the tears that had trickled silently down her cheeks most of the way home. She opened her bunny’s cage, took him into her arms and cuddled him, burying her face into his downy fur. “Ivan,” she told the bunny, “I miss Kiki so much.” She placed the rabbit on the floor and gave him some blueberries.

Malia shoved a mug of water with a bag of French Almond Vanilla tea into the microwave. Working on automatic, and not really hungry, she fixed herself some toast and opened a small can of “lite fruit cocktail”. Food was her comfort, better than any drug. After draining off the juice, she dumped the fruit onto the toast and covered it with nonfat Cool Whip. She plopped a cherry on top and pulled a bar stool up to the breakfast counter. Kiki had liked this toast and fruit concoction, especially the cherry.

Malia rubbed her forehead, trying to ease away the splitting headache. Let the whiplash from the case happen around me, not to me, or I won’t survive this. Her silent mantra had little chance of working. It was always difficult to detach herself from victims and their families, and this time it was impossible. Kiki had been as close to her as her twin, Melody. A scene flicked into Malia’s mind: the three of them, nine-years-old and baking Santa Claus cookies. Laughing like only little girls can do, they had gotten into a flour fight, dusting the counters with a white film. Melody had gotten flour in her hair and went to wash it out. As usual, Malia and Kiki had been stuck with the clean up.

Although a talented work dodger, Melody had been Malia’s day-in, day-out sidekick. They were into band, cheer leading – you name it, they went out for it. After the police had found her twin’s body, Malia dropped all of the activities she’d once loved and withdrawn into herself. Her parents had been lost in their own grief. It had taken Malia a year to decide that going into a shell didn’t work for her. She set about getting mentally and physically tough so she could be a cop and chase down scum like the evil bastard who’d killed her twin. Kiki had been supportive from the beginning. They both had things in their lives to overcome, and sharing their pain had brought them closer. Malia rubbed her throbbing head. Kiki is gone – her energy and spirit brutally silenced. Now there was no one to confide in.

Malia headed for bed, checking the locks again, taking her Beretta with her. She put the gun on the bedside table and drew back the comforter. After a quick shower, she slipped into her cotton shortie pajamas, and got down on her knees like she’d done every night since her twin was murdered. Since she’d joined the force, the prayer always ended with, “Lord, give me the strength and wisdom to catch and provide enough evidence to convict people like the man who killed Melody.”

Damn him. Suddenly, the violence of Melody’s and Kiki’s murders connected in a grotesque bloody blot in Malia’s mind. After all these years, she couldn’t get Melody’s murderer, but she sure as hell could get Kiki’s killer.

Mentally tired and emotionally spent, Malia climbed into bed, hoping sleep would come quickly. An image of Damon flashed in her mind. She wasn’t through with him, not by a long shot. Something about him disturbed her deeply. She didn’t want to think of him or the case now, but her mind wouldn’t shut off. Had someone followed her home? She drew her gun a little closer. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d be a mess tomorrow. It took a while, hearing every sound inside and outside, but she finally drifted off.