Chapter Five

Damon stared out the window at the mocking full moon, only barely aware of the CD playing softly behind him. When it registered that he’d subconsciously put on Kiki’s favorite disc, The Hawaiian Wedding Song, he turned and gently touched a framed picture of her. Kiki’s gone. Gone forever. Tears rushed to Damon’s eyes. With his thumb and forefinger, he wiped them away. Although their love was long dead, he still cared, would always care that some maniac-bastard killed her.

If only things had been different. Emotions boiled in him, grief, anger and even guilt. If he’d stayed with Kiki, would she still be alive? He knew that somehow her need for many men had finally caught up with her.

When he’d married, he’d thought he’d dated long enough to know the kind of woman he wanted. Not that he’d dated all that many women. He could count them on his fingers: two in high school, one in college, and several in the Air Force before he met Kiki. When he found her, he’d quit looking. Besides phenomenal sex, he admired her energy and drive. Looking back on it, he was simply ready to settle down and thought they’d make a good team. What he hadn’t known was that she’d never be satisfied playing on just one team.

If he ever exchanged vows again, he wanted a bride as committed to being faithful as he was.

Fighting the lump that lodged in his throat, he slid behind the monitor in his den, pushed the main switch and flicked on the computer. He pulled up the file with the working name, “Broadsided.” The title fit him as well as his novel. Detective Reed had a lot to do with the off-balance feeling. The whole time she questioned him she was sizing him up. She was disarming and tenacious, using few words and shock tactics to make her point.

Images of the ghastly snapshots she’d shoved at Damon brought bile to his throat. He lowered his head into his hands. Kiki’s dead – and I’m the prime suspect. Damn, I can’t let this eat me up. He typed in the heading, “Chapter Eight,” and then stared at the blinking cursor. Write something, man. Laying out a story would keep his mind off the last moments of Kiki’s life, the terror she suffered, the pain.

Now Malia suspected him. If only he’d stayed home that day. Like a fool, he had followed Kiki to Aina Haina, hell-bent on catching her alone for a talk. It messed up his plans when she joined Rosado for lunch. When they came out of Jack’s Restaurant, holding hands, he had followed them to the Martin house and watched her sashay up the brick walk with Rosado hanging onto her like a tomcat in heat. Damon shook his head. He had sat outside stewing for about ten minutes before he came to his senses and drove home. Following Kiki had been stupid. That stupidity could cost him his freedom.

He hoped the attorney he contacted a few hours ago was as good as Toby said. Damon knew he would need the best. Did Rosado kill Kiki? Damon frowned. He should have told Malia…Detective Reed…about the Romeo contractor. But this was murder, and without a strong, provable alibi, the truth could turn on a guy. Still, he hated himself for lying to Malia. He wasn’t a liar by nature. But if he’d admitted he hadn’t stayed holed up all day and had instead followed Kiki, he’d look like an angry ex, stalking his wife.

Damn, if he had put as much thought into his real life alibi as he did the facts in his novel, he wouldn’t be in this mess. It would be worse for him if Malia learned of the deception on her own. If he could catch her by herself, maybe he could make her understand. Was he insane? He was thinking of Malia as his wife’s best friend, the bridesmaid of honor at his wedding. But all those things that made her approachable also made her dangerous. He raked his fingers through his hair. How could he tell the truth after holding back without looking guiltier?

Failing to come up with an answer, he turned his attention back to his computer, but it wasn’t a scene from his novel that flowed onto the screen. It was what he knew about the murder. Writing was a lot like making up an alibi for the police, with every detail in place. Only he didn’t have details; everything was conjecture.

The phone rang, shattering the silence of the room. He glanced at the clock; it was almost 11:00 P.M.. Who would be calling him this late? Rushing to find out, he almost spilled his mug of day-old coffee. Disappointment washed over him. The unfamiliar female voice on the line didn’t belong to Malia.

****

The ringing phone awakened Malia. It was Ku. Frowning, she glanced at the large red numbers on the clock. 2:00 A.M. “This better be important!”

“Another murder,” he said. “Same MO. Female real estate agent. Bashed in head.” Ku paused briefly, as he always did when he thought he had a clever punch line. “You’ll never guess who found the body.”

Malia rubbed her eyes, trying to get her mind to function. “Who?”

“Damon Shaw.”

She was fully awake now. “I’ll be right there.”

****

Malia found the Waikiki condo crawling with cops from the CSU. She detected a hint of the metallic smell of blood in the air. The medical examiner and his assistant were bent over the body performing their in situ exam. Malia pulled on her latex gloves and slipped into her paper shoe covers. Then she saw Damon, down on his knees, hands handcuffed behind his back. Their gazes collided. The impact dispersed hot currents through her.

“Remind me to never report a murder again,” he said.

In spite of herself, she admired the calm disgust in his voice. “Let’s hear your story.” Her tough tone didn’t reveal the sinking feeling she got from finding him here. Images of Damon the day he’d married Kiki flashed in Malia’s mind. How handsome he’d been that day in his white tuxedo. Tall and magnificent. She’d been so happy for Kiki, praying that this man, who should be enough for any woman, would be enough for Kiki.

Malia stared at Damon, disturbed by the bond she felt with him. Her sixth sense rang an internal warning – he was the victim’s husband and a suspect. Guilty or innocent, this man was kapu – definitely forbidden.

“Ainsley Knowles called me,” Damon said. “She claimed to be a real estate agent from the Waikiki office. She wanted me to come right over. I didn’t know her, but she sounded upset, scared. She told me she had proof that Gabriel Rosado murdered Kiki. Naturally, I rushed right over.”

An alarm sounded inside of Malia’s head, but she tried to keep her tone and expression neutral. “On your white horse, I presume?”

He locked his gaze with hers, his eyes intense, measuring her as she measured him. “Look, you want to hear this or not?”

“What time was the call?” She’d had a high school classmate named Ainsley, Ainsley Carpenter.

“Almost 11:00.”

Malia glanced at her watch. It was almost 3:00 A.M. Damon, unshaven, wore faded jeans and a rumpled white T-shirt. The deep lines at the corners of his eyes suggested he hadn’t been to bed tonight. “What time did you get here?”

“Around 11:30.”

She met his gaze. “And I suppose she was already dead?”

“Unfortunately. I found the door standing open and called to her several times. When she didn’t answer, I went in. Normally, I would have waited at the door, but she had sounded so upset, so scared. I thought she might be hurt.”

“Can you prove Ainsley called you?”

“I’m way ahead of you, Detective. After you guys hauled me in the last time, I decided to record my calls. Call it self-preservation.”

She pressed her lips together to hold back a tiny smile. “Okay, Boy Scout, let’s give it a listen.”

Minutes later, in the dimly lit parking garage of Ainsley’s condo, Ku put his hand on Damon’s head as he assisted him into Malia’s unmarked car. Malia slid behind the steering wheel with the prickly feeling that someone was in the shadows watching them, but she saw no one. Ku got into the passenger seat beside her and adjusted the seatbelt to his big frame. When she heard the click of metal, Malia left the parking structure with a squeal of tires and turned into the light flow of early morning traffic. She glanced in the rearview mirror. No cars followed. She returned her attention to the road ahead. Then as if drawn by an irresistible force, her gaze flashed to the rearview mirror again, this time to glance at Damon’s shadowy head in the backseat. It was too dark to be certain, but she had the disconcerting feeling that, for an instant, their gazes met. She took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on the road. Full concentration didn’t last. Her thoughts returned to Damon. He was a puzzle of inconsistencies. She’d always been good at figuring out suspects. But somehow he was getting to her on a primal level and confusing her. Why did she hope so desperately that he was telling the truth about the tape?