Black Jasmine (2012) (16 page)

“Is this legal?” Magda asked the lawyer.

“She hasn’t been Mirandized,” Chapman finally said.

Omura simply repeated the Miranda catechism. A moment passed in which Kennedy and Omura exchanged stares. The lieutenant shrugged.

“I’ll leave you to think about your choice.” Omura gestured to Torufu, and they left the room.

Captain Corpuz broke into a grin almost as big as the one on Lei’s face as Magda Kennedy gave a shriek of rage and cursed the lawyer with more fluency and imagination than Lei would have believed. Omura came into the peanut gallery, took a seat. Aimed hard dark eyes, sparkling with the light of battle, at Lei.

“I want a full background workup on her. Dig up everything; make phone calls. Something doesn’t smell right about her.”

“We already ran a quick one—she’s clean. Not even a parking ticket. And I don’t want to miss the interview!”

“What interview? I’m leaving them in there.” Omura looked at her watch. “For two hours. After two hours, they can launch a civil complaint, so get me everything you can. I imagine she’ll need a pee by then—and in the meantime, cut the air-conditioning to the room. I find that woman annoying.”

Lei hurried to obey. She wondered what Omura was capable of when she was more than annoyed. Torufu showed Lei to the computer lab—a dim, cool room equipped with a row of high-speed flat screens. Lei logged in and began searching for Maui art maven Magda Kennedy.

The woman appeared to have moved to the island sometime in the last ten years, and a search pulled up reams of information on her. Media appeared to be in her pocket. Lei scrolled through articles on her busy social life, where she always appeared immaculately dressed in signature shades of white.

But prior to 2000, the trail went cold.

The magic combination of birth date and social security number generated very little—Magda Kennedy, born in Westport, Massachusetts. No schools, no early life that Lei could find with either of the search programs the MPD used for background. Her criminal record was clean, not so much as a parking ticket. She moved on to researching Pacific Treasures Gallery, and the lawyer, Robb “Keoni” Chapman.

Bunuelos stuck his head in. “Anything?”

“Not much. She moved here and started Pacific Treasures in 2000, apparently had connections to New York and East Coast galleries that helped open doors for the enterprise in Lahaina.”

“Anything earlier?”

“Not really. I’ll try to figure out where she went to school. She doesn’t appear to keep in touch with anyone from her past—no Facebook or LinkedIn or anything. That’s weird for someone of her type—it’s all about who you know in that world.”

“Maybe she just needed to drop the Kennedy name around and that was enough.”

“Yeah. But not all Kennedys are ‘the’ Kennedys. It’s actually a pretty common name.”

Bunuelos disappeared and Lei went on digging. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed when Omura rapped on the door frame.

“Got anything for me?”

“Nothing tying her to prostitution,” Lei said regretfully. “What’s more interesting is that she seems to have so little history prior to moving to Maui.”

“When was that?”

“In 2000. That’s when she started Pacific Treasures Gallery and really hit the map.”

“Well, that’s about when everything started to be available online. Prior to that, most things were written records, so I’m not surprised. Anything on the lawyer?”

“Yeah. He’s one of Maui’s priciest defense lawyers. Belongs to the golf club, the country club, all the right memberships in Rotary and such. Works the Hawaiian angle by doing some work for Kamehameha Schools. Guy’s well connected and has probably been working his cell phone the whole time we left them in there,” Lei said.

“Damn cell phones,” Omura muttered. She narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Probably going to have to let her go anyway, I haven’t been able to get the DA to sign her warrant.”

“Too bad,” Lei said. “I was really hoping to see how that white outfit held up in the drunk tank.”

“Me too.” Omura cracked a smile, spun on her considerable heel. “Oh well. I’ll get her next time.” She clacked down the hall. Lei hurried after her, carrying her notes, and ducked into the peanut gallery. She grabbed a seat next to Captain Corpuz, who barely glanced up, intent on the drama taking place inside.

Omura was once again at the table, and she tapped the white business card. The click of her shiny nail echoed through the speaker on the counter into the observation area.

“Let’s start again. Who gave you this card?”

Magda had chewed off some of her red lipstick, but her mouth was set in a stubborn line and arctic-blue eyes hadn’t warmed in two hours. She glared at Omura, refusing to answer.

“Lieutenant Omura. Yes, I know who you are.” Chapman stood up, sucking in his paunch and thrusting out his beard. “I have the mayor on the phone, and he’d like to know what possible grounds you could have to hold us in this hot box without even the courtesy of a restroom.” He held out a squawking cell phone to the lieutenant.

Omura reached out with one of those nails and punched the Off button.

“Need the restroom? Torufu will take you. We aren’t Neanderthals here.”

Abe Torufu lumbered to his feet and cocked his head at the door invitingly.

“I don’t need the restroom,” Kennedy said. “You’re harassing me. We’ll be pressing a civil suit.”

“We are within procedural rights,” Omura said, as the lawyer’s phone chimed. He read the ID, answered the phone, and then held it out to Omura.

“This is the district attorney. You might hang up on the mayor, but this one makes your cases. I think you want to take this call.”

She took the phone and left the room. Everyone in the peanut gallery sighed as Chapman leaned down to his client, patting her shoulder and whispering in her ear.

Captain Corpuz said, “I think the show’s over,” just as Bunuelos returned to the interview room with Torufu and a handcuff key. Bunuelos uncuffed Magda Kennedy.

“You’re free to go.”

“Where’s that bitch lieutenant?” Kennedy said, lips barely moving and face bone white as she stood up, rubbing her wrists.

“She had other business. Said to pass on her apologies for the inconvenience,” Bunuelos said with a straight face, holding out the cell phone to Chapman. The gallery owner’s teeth bared in rage as she tossed back her shimmery hair and cocked her arm. The lawyer caught it, pulled her in and held her against his side.

“Your department will be hearing from our firm regarding this outrage,” he said, marching Kennedy through the door and down the hall.

“Conference room,” Captain Corpuz said. “Find Lieutenant Omura.”

Lei and the other detectives spread out. Lei went straight to the women’s room, where she guessed Omura was holed up, hiding from the rest of the team and hoping Kennedy would need to make a potty stop.

Sure enough, a pair of pointy toes were visible from under the stall.

“She took off,” Lei said. “She waited to pee somewhere else.”

“Dammit!” Omura slammed the door open and put her hands on her hips. “I was hoping for one last word.”

Lei almost liked her at that moment.

“Captain wants a confab in the conference room.”

Omura stalked off. Lei followed, feeling like a remora following a tiger shark.

Chapter 24

The conference room was hot, its AC on the same circuit as the interview room, and Torufu, Bunuelos, Pono, Stevens, and Captain Corpuz appeared in various stages of overheated. Omura was immaculate as usual—the woman hardly had a pulse. Lei sipped a bottled water, feeling itchy in the ill-fitting muumuu and wig.

Captain Corpuz opened the discussion.

“We need something more to tie this whole thing together. So far we have a dead Jane Doe prostitute, a runaway Thai girl, a business card with a procurement service number on it, and someone so pissed off they’re trying to kill Texeira and Stevens. Or at least Texeira. This is a random collection of maybes, not a case. Omura? Opinion?”

“That Kennedy woman is involved,” Omura said. “We have to keep digging. We’ll find something on her. Her past is sketchy.”

“So maybe we find she left a sketchy past behind. So have a lot of people who end up in Hawaii; that doesn’t make her a madam or a murderer. Besides, she’s connected. We aren’t going to get anywhere without some hard evidence.”

“So what about getting the coast guard involved? Make a few calls through our FBI connection and get them searching those ships for sex slaves, money, and drugs. Or, hell, maybe even prizefighting cocks.” Stevens plucked Pono’s overlarge aloha shirt away from his body. “I want to bust not just Magda Kennedy, but the House. Who else has brass ones enough to torch a house where two detectives live? And what’s happening with our injured hit man?”

“Still out, unfortunately. I have a uniform outside the door,” the captain said. “Oh, and the tox screens on Jane Doe came back—she was four times the legal alcohol limit.”

“No big surprise there. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make that scene look like suicide. I agree with Stevens’s idea about the coast guard,” Omura said. “Captain, we don’t have any authority on those ships, and I think we have a viable tip that there’s something illegal going on.”

The captain inclined his head in agreement, and Omura turned to Lei. “Call your FBI friend.”

Omura was showing qualities Lei respected. Decisiveness. Skill. Persistence. Just because she was tiny, perfect, and wore fancy shoes didn’t mean she wasn’t a good cop. Lei hurried into the chilly computer lab, closing the door to make the call on her cell phone.

“Marcella? We need your help.” She described the team’s conclusion and the fruitless interview with Magda Kennedy.

“I know the commander of Maui Coast Guard Station,” Marcella said. “I was hoping you guys would give us enough to move on.”

“Well, we still don’t have anything totally solid. The captain is requesting assistance based on some reliable info.” Lei crossed her fingers at the idea that Silva was reliable, but the man had implicated the House, and so had Anchara, if indirectly.

“I’ll call and see if they can search everything currently in harbor.”

“How about getting a schematic map of the ships and looking for false compartments or mislabeled rooms?”

“Yeah, the coast guard know all those tricks. I’ll give them a call. Commander will probably call back and look for a formal request from the captain.”

“I can get that,” Lei said. Her fingers were still crossed. She hurried back to the conference room, where the team meeting was breaking up, everyone with assignments.

Lei reported to the captain, who agreed to fax over a request for sweeps looking for weapons, drugs, money, and human cargo on all ships docking anywhere on Maui—and a general alert to all Hawaii ports.

Omura ran an eyeball over Lei. “You can’t be seen in public, and I don’t just mean that outfit.”

“I don’t have any clothes.” Lei suddenly remembered the ring, left in the kitchen drawer. That, and everything else she owned, burned to ash. Her eyes filled and she sat abruptly. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Omura blanched, either at the prospect of losing all her clothes or of Lei crying.

“I think we better get you back to the safe house. Someone can pick some things up for you. You’ve put in enough of a day.”

“Guess it’s catching up with me.” Lei blinked hard, still surprised by Omura’s kindness. The tears receded. “My headache’s back. Stevens and Pono able to shake anything loose?”

“Yes. Sounds like they’ve got some confirmation on Silva’s story about the House. No apparent connection between House and the Kennedy woman, though. That must be through the smuggling and human trafficking.”

“That’s good.” Lei yawned, her jaw cracking. It really was all catching up with her. Omura stood up. “I’ll have Larson drive you to the safe house and keep an eye out. He’s not directly involved with the investigation, but he’s offered to help.”

“Okay.” Lei trailed Omura out and met Detective Jed Larson in the bull pen area. Larson, beefy with a receding hairline, had a forgettable but kind face that helped in law enforcement.

“Sorry to hear about your bad luck,” he said as he led her to the unmarked Bronco he drove.

“Nothing lucky about it.” Lei’s eyes darted around the parking lot, looking for threats, but she felt suitably invisible in her disguise. “I hope we get some breaks on this case soon.”

“Yeah, I heard. I offered to help if your lieutenant or the captain wants any more manpower. We gotta look after our own.”

He turned the key of the Bronco, and the roar of the engine drowned out his voice as she glanced at him.

“Seems like someone’s got a hit out on us. We have an idea who, but nothing to pull it all together,” Lei said, leaning back in the bucket seat and indulging in another jaw-cracking yawn.

“Who are you thinking?”

“Organized crime on Oahu, guy they call the House.”

He whistled. “He’s deep. Good luck getting anything on him.”

“I’d be happy with just getting a good night’s sleep, at this point.”

Lei shut her eyes and leaned back in the seat. In no time they were pulling up to the steep driveway bisected by the six-foot chain-link fence that surrounded the modest ranch “safe” house. Keiki ran back and forth in front of the gate, making sure they knew she was on the job.

Lei got out. “I can take it from here.”

“I’ve got to keep an eye on you until the uniform gets here. Let’s go through the house, do a quick security check.”

Lei opened her mouth to object, to say that Keiki would have kept out any intruders, but someone setting the fire at their house had been able to get past the guard dog, so she shut it again and punched in the code for the gate.

Larson followed her up onto the porch as she unlocked the front door. She took her Glock out of the canvas shopping bag from Tiare, and they did a quick room-by-room check of the house.

“All clear,” Larson said, holstering his weapon.

“Thanks.” Lei put the Glock back into the canvas bag and set it on the gimp-legged Formica kitchen table—the house was furnished with police department castoffs. “This has to pass for both my purse and shoulder rig right now. Pretty sad.”