Chapter Eleven

 

Sweat, Damon, sweat, Al Lee thought as he swaggered from the public telephone to his table in the darkened hotel bar. The surfers outside catching waves gave no thought to those who dwelled in the cool, tomblike quiet of the bar – or their black deliberations. Al stuck his hand into his pocket and with fervent fingers stroked the reunion announcement. Three down and counting.

He focused on his next prey, sitting alone two tables away. Bev Noni Nakata Hammel, once a sassy little cheerleader. Now a tub of lard. Judging by the desparate way she sucked up those Chi Chi concoctions, decorated with paper umbrellas and chunks of pineapple, Al figured she was trying to forget something. Maybe she wanted to forget that she wasn’t the svelte young thing of ten years ago. He might have pitied a fat chick back in high school when he still had a soul, but he felt only contempt now. In those days, she had thought she was too good for him, too good to even talk to him. She and her snobby clique had called him ghost and had drawn ghosts all over his locker. Now that he’d bulked up – and she’d flabbed-out – she wasn’t good enough for him. But to reel her in before getting even, he’d make her believe that she was beautiful again. Once he had her in his clutches, he’d hammer home his hatred, his blood-red revenge. The cool circulating air reeked of her strong perfume. Why do some women stink up the room with that skunk-juice? He sent her an easy smile. Come to Ghosty, Baby.

Perhaps sensing they were fated to meet, she gave him a coy glance with big, expressive, brown eyes. When he winked, she batted her mascara-laden lashes at him and crossed her legs provocatively. Her legs weren’t half bad.

Good legs reminded Al of Malia. Do you sense my deadly intentions, Malia? Do you feel helpless knowing you can’t stop me?

Afterwards, he’d give her a call – or maybe he’d follow her again. Do you feel me when I’m close by, Malia? Do you sense I’m getting closer?

****

Grimly striding side-by-side, Malia and Ku approached the steps leading into the HPD. A chilling gust of wind appeared from nowhere and stirred the previously still air. Malia shivered. The icy sensation, odd for such a warm afternoon, gave way to a sense of someone’s laser-focus on her. The powerful gaze seemed to fire shards of ice through her jacket, her blouse, clear to the skin. She drew her jacket tightly about her and glanced around. In spite of loathing her sense of vulnerability, she stepped closer to Ku.

Once they entered the police department – her element – the urge to cling to Ku lifted, and she snapped back in control. Running on adrenaline and determination, she called a briefing on the latest crime scene to compare it with previous findings from the other two. Crime scene consultants carried in their computers, and Malia brought her CDs, discs and files. A tech wheeled in a large video screen to show the hotel’s security tape of the hammer thief in action. Within seconds, laptops flashed on. Malia opened her file folders and splayed the crime scene photos across the conference table in a glossy reflection of horror. Information spilled from the group, fast and furious. Malia jotted notes in the personal shorthand she’d perfected in college and backed her scribbles up with her tape recorder. The consensus of the group confirmed what she’d been thinking. The killer operated on the island like a local, and he knew his victims.

Dr. Pukui, the pathologist, reported that they found heavy theatrical makeup under the nails of the last two victims. Evidence specialist, Lowell confirmed that neither of the women had that kind of makeup in their purses, cosmetic boxes or anywhere in their belongings.

Irene Chun, assistant medical examiner, said, “Two of the three hair samples are from a wig. We have a rush on the third, but I suspect it will be the same.”

Malia furrowed her brow. “It’s starting to sound like our perp might be an actor, or someone with connections to the theater.”

Ku shook his head, but said nothing.

Lowell looked up from his computer. “We found a trace of fingernail polish remover under the nails of victim number two. The perp must have used the remover to clean under the nails. We found a trace of skin as well, but it wasn’t enough. Bottom line, your unsub’s dermis DNA isn’t in CODIS. He’s like a ghost, invisible to the system.”

Malia sighed. She had counted on the national DNA data bank. Out of the thousands of genetic profiles of convicted offenders and unidentified profiles from crime scenes across the country, it was just her bad luck that her killer wasn’t among them. Twenty minutes of comparing data made one thing crystal clear – they were dealing with a careful and clever psycho, and she still didn’t know his agenda.

As Malia and Ku left the conference room, their chief signaled them to come into his office. He’d already heard about the hotel homicide and wanted an update. They took chairs in front of his immaculate desk. Malia rubbed her forehead, trying to ward off a headache.

“Okay brief me.” The chief’s husky cigarette-voice boomed off the walls.

She told him what little she’d learned and said, “The guy’s probably local and knows his victims. He might be connected to the theater.”

“All those man-hours and that’s it?”

“We have the best people on it. Something will break.” Even to her ears, the data sounded meager.

“Maybe it’s time to bring in the Feds,” the chief growled. “The Mayor’s riding me hard. First, it was the real estate community, and now it’s the damned Tourist Bureau. Dead tourists kill business.” Without even a pause, he said, “What about Damon Shaw? Is he still a suspect?”

In unison, Malia and Ku answered. She said no; Ku said yes.

The chief scowled at them. “Just what I need, disagreement in the ranks.”

Malia couldn’t let that pass. “Damon Shaw was in jail at the time of the third murder.” Defensiveness rang in her tone; she silently cursed the powerful emotion she’d revealed.

“With a million bucks hanging in the balance, Shaw might be working with someone,” Ku said, justifying his position.

The chief frowned and shook his head. “Catch this SOB, whoever he is. You have seven days. We want people to feel safe here in paradise.”

Malia left her boss’s office feeling like a cop caught in the crossfire. Why did politics always have to worm its way into an investigation and make things harder than they had to be? She entered her office and slammed the door. Seven days, her fanny! She drew a deep breath. Losing her cool was just what her male-counterparts wanted. Well, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. No emotional fits today, Guys.

Calmer, she sat at her desk and focused on the stacks of accumulated paperwork, papers everywhere, file folders lying open, copies of crime scene photos tacked to her bulletin board. She dug out the files on Kiki, Ainsley, and Nancy from a stack and stared at them. She made a list of everything the women had in common. Even the smallest similarities were crucial, because the habits of victims often led back to the killer. Malia clicked her pen repeatedly, raising and lowering the tip, a habit that helped her think. Three dead women, all classmates, all cheerleaders, all professionally successful. So what was the killer’s profile? Was he a classmate with some beef striking back? Or, was he someone who hated to see women succeed? Could he have been romantically involved with the three women and jilted by all of them? Being publicly humiliated would fit. It would also fit if he felt he was righting some perceived wrong. Perps seeking revenge were the easiest to understand, and the hardest to catch. Malia noticed the blinking red light on her message machine. She pressed play. Her breath caught at Damon’s words. “The killer just called me.”