Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (37 page)

“He’s more than dangerous,” Sione said. “He’s a crazy, cold-blooded sonofabitch …”

Sione grabbed the back of his neck, massaging it as he stared at the footboard.

He needed to calm down and get himself together, but it was hard. It was always damn near impossible to control his anger when it came to Ben Chang and the history they shared, the bloody past he always tried to forget, that he’d barely escaped.

“How do you know he’s dangerous?”

Staring at her, Sione was relieved to see only concern, and no suspicion, on her face. It was risky, presenting the information about Ben to her as though, like her, he’d never met the man. He felt like a hypocrite, trying to find out if she knew Ben when he wasn’t willing to admit his own connection to the bastard.

“Dangerous
how
is what I meant,” Spencer said, staring at him, like she wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you think Ben Chang could have killed Maxine Porter?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Sione said, though he wasn’t exactly sure. “But I want you to know this—I’m not going to let Ben Chang hurt you.”

“John, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he said, pulling her back into his arms. “If Ben tries to hurt you, I will kill him.”

“Don’t say that,” Spencer said, resting her hand against his jaw. “I don’t want you to kill anybody because of me! It’s my own fault that I got involved in delivering money and fake passports, you can’t—”

“Listen to me,” Sione said, holding her face in his hands as he stared at her. “I’m going to keep you safe from that bastard. I promise. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Manager’s Office

Sione played the recorded voice message again. For the fourth time. The message had consumed his attention from the first time he’d heard it, and as much as he wanted to ignore it, to erase it and move on with his life, he didn’t think he’d be able to.

“You don’t know me, but I really need to talk to you.” The woman’s voice was a tense, rushed whisper, as though she only had one chance to leave the message and she had to be clear and convincing. “My name is Karen Nelson.”

Karen Nelson.

Sione knew the name. D.J. had told him all about Karen Nelson. Her image from the fake passport came to him along with the surveillance photos D.J. had snapped of her during the cave exploration excursion. A freckle-faced blonde.

“I need to talk to you about Maxine Porter and Carla Garcia,” she said. “Can you please meet me? I don’t want to talk over the phone.”

The message continued with Karen Nelson’s furtive whispering, telling him where she was staying, giving him the exact address, and promising to be there later this evening around six o’clock.

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but …” She trailed off for a few seconds and then said, “I really need to tell you what I know.”

The message ended.

Again, for the fourth time, Sione sat back in the leather chair, confused and wary. He wasn’t sure what to do or whether to believe Karen Nelson’s frantic murmurings.

After listening to the message the first time, Sione had wondered why had Karen Nelson decided to call him? How did she know that he knew about Maxine Porter and Carla Garcia? What did she need to tell him about the two women?

And did he want to know? What if she wanted to tell him she knew who killed them? What if Karen Nelson confirmed his suspicions about who had murdered the women and chopped their hands off?

When he’d first seen the severed hand in Maxine Porter’s condo, he’d had a feeling he knew the killer. The gruesome dismemberment was a grim memento he was too familiar with. It was like a calling card, the killer’s sick, twisted signature.

The severed hand was Richard’s sick, twisted signature.

Exhaling, Sione sat back in his chair. What if Karen Nelson wanted to tell him that his father had killed Maxine Porter and Carla Garcia? Did he really want to know that? Because if Richard had murdered the women, then he would have to do something.

He would have to call the cops. He would have to rat on his father.

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, Sione decided. He didn’t know what Karen Nelson wanted to tell him, so maybe he should ease up on the speculation. It was possible she knew nothing about who killed the women.

I really need to tell you what I know.

Standing, Sione headed out of his office.

San Ignacio, Belize

Bullet Tree Village

Fifteen minutes outside of downtown San Ignacio, Sione turned the Mercedes onto a two-lane dirt road, heading toward the address Karen Nelson had given him, a house in the Bullet Tree area. An enclave for expats, it was a quiet and peaceful neighborhood where many of the homes had been renovated and were used as rental properties for tourists due to its location near the Mopan River.

The sun made its steady descent, leaving behind a hazy smear of pink and purple, as he drove past clusters of trees, a green blur of leaves and branches. Ahead, less than a quarter of a mile away, Sione spotted the house, a small ranch with a few lime trees in the front yard. Turning off the main road, the chassis rocked as he increased his speed, gravel popping and pinging beneath the car. Sione steered the sedan toward the house and then parked parallel to the porch, a long, wide veranda running along the front of the house.

He cut the engine, hesitant to get out of the car. Driving from the resort, he’d been plagued with indecision. Did he want to find out what Karen Nelson wanted to tell him about Carla Garcia and Maxine Porter? Or did he want to turn the car around, go back to the resort, and start the impossibly frustrating process of trying to pretend he had never gotten a frantic call from her?

Sione sighed. Why did the woman really want to talk to him? Was it possible Karen Nelson had some proof of Richard’s crimes? Did she want him to give that proof to the police? Could he do that? Would he be able to rat his father out to the cops?

Opening the door, Sione stepped out into the heat and humidity. His shoes crunching gravel and rocks, he walked to the front door. Pushing past the reluctance, and the urge to turn and flee, Sione knocked on the door and waited. As the seconds passed, he tried to prepare himself for what he suspected Karen Nelson would tell him, but it was damn near impossible. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she told him Richard had killed Carla Garcia and Maxine Porter.

Not if …
when
she told him.

“Ms. Nelson,” he called out, banging on the door. “Karen? It’s Sione Tuiali’i.”

Seconds turned to minutes. Frustrated, Sione glanced back at the Mercedes, eager to leave, to forget about having his suspicions confirmed. Maybe he didn’t need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his father was still in the business of taking lives.

Cicadas and crickets provided an annoying accompaniment to his closed fist thudding against the wood. Sione glanced at the doorknob. Thoughts formed, but he didn’t want to acknowledge them. Despite his wariness, Sione grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The door separated from the frame, and with a gentle push, it opened. His heart thudded. Hesitating, Sione stood just outside the entrance, staring inside.

A basic open floor plan with little imagination. A cramped living area washed in the golden glow of fading sunlight and an L-shaped kitchen with a small table. Designed to be more practical than luxurious, it was for travelers who required few amenities and just wanted a decent place to sleep and shower.

As he stepped over the threshold, Sione felt a twinge of unease, sensing something wasn’t right. Another step into the living room and he realized what it was. Quiet. It was too quiet.

Apprehensive, Sione took a few steps left, scanning the sparse furnishings in the living room—a couch, coffee table, and large recliner adjacent to the couch. Frowning, Sione stared at the coffee table again, his gaze drawn to a dark, wet splotch on the bamboo surface.

He took a seat on the couch and reached a hand toward the dark, wet spot. His fingers hovered above it for a few seconds, during which a battle raged in his mind. A struggle between involvement and ignorance. Find out what the dark wetness was or get the hell out of that house before he had a chance to determine if his suspicions were true.

Swiping a pinky across the dark, wet spot, he held the finger in front of his face, inspecting it. In the slant of coppery afternoon sunlight from the kitchen window, the wetness coating the tip of his finger showed its true color. Red. Blood.

Rising from the couch, Sione saw another dark splotch on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. On his feet, heart slamming, he stared at the tile. Quarter-sized splotches crowded around his feet in a semi-circle that soon opened and formed a line.

Sione followed the blood splatters, a gruesome trail leading out of the living area, around the corner, and into a spacious bedroom. The room was dim. Hazy sunlight bathed the bed and the figure lying on top of it.

A woman, Sione could tell, sprawled on her stomach. Sione approached the bed, his pulse racing faster with each step. Much too soon, he stared at the woman’s head, face down on a pillow stained with blood, her blonde ponytail trailing down her spine.

Trying to push away the panic creeping upon him, Sione pushed the body over onto its back. His pulse jumped as his eyes trailed down her right arm, from her shoulder to the crook in her elbow to her wrist …

The right hand was missing.

Richard Tuiali’i’s bloody signature.
 

The woman had been shot between the eyes. At close range, he could tell. Someone had been inches from her when they’d squeezed the trigger and put a bullet in her brain. Blood had pooled beneath her head, staining the pillow and soaking the strands of her blonde hair.

A strange jolt zipped through him. Eyes narrowed, Sione focused on the woman’s pale face. He knew her. He knew those freckles dotting her pallid skin.

Karen Nelson.

Sione took a deep breath, trying to focus, to determine the next steps. He needed to call the San Ignacio police and tell them what had happened.

But did he really know what had happened?

A woman had been killed. Murdered in cold blood. Other than that, what did he know? Nothing. Except Karen Nelson was a former employee of Ben Chang and a stolen passport and money had been delivered to her by Spencer.

What did he know? Too damn much. And yet, not enough. Sione still had questions.

The police would have questions too. A lot of damn questions. Questions he didn’t know how to answer. Questions he didn’t want to answer. The cops would want to know why he had come there. And did he know the dead woman or who had killed her?

He couldn’t tell them the truth, couldn’t tell them he suspected his father had put the fatal bullet between Karen’s eyes. But he couldn’t stay quiet about the woman’s murder either. Maybe he couldn’t call the cops, but he could tell D.J.

His cousin had taken care of the situations with Maxine Porter and Carla Garcia. D.J. would be able to deal with Karen Nelson. But D.J. was in New York, Sione reminded himself. The damn divorce mediation. His cousin wouldn’t be able to get back to San Ignacio for a few days. Maybe until next week, D.J. hadn’t been sure.
 

Sione cursed. What the hell now?

Couldn’t call Jared. He was a detective true and through. Jared would demand answers. He wouldn’t let Sione get away with vague, evasive responses. Truman maybe? Maybe. Dead bodies weren’t Truman’s area of expertise, but he could count on Truman to be on the same page as he was about calling the cops.

Confident he and Truman could come up with a plan, Sione turned.

A piercing jolt ripped through his body, leaving him disoriented and reeling, feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut. Time seemed to stop as a strange silence settled upon him. A silky laugh, like an enticing purr, floated toward Sione and grabbed him, shocking him senseless.

“What the—”

“Yeah, I agree,” she said, smiling. “This is quite a surprise.”

Blood roaring through his head, Sione stared at the woman standing in the doorway.

Exotically beautiful, her dark, thick hair hung in silky ribbons, framing a heart-shaped face complimented by eyes full of mischief and a luscious mouth. Clad in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans, she was tall and lithe, and as she walked toward him, her gait was predatory, like a jungle cat. She looked beautiful and vibrant despite the gleam of mayhem and larceny in her gaze. He had a feeling she was enjoying his confusion and apprehension.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sione asked, trying to recover from the shock, not sure he ever would, or even could.

Her smug smile highlighted the defiant and arrogant tilt of her head as she stared at him with those dark eyes, midnight with a flash of indigo.

Laughing, she said, “Don’t you mean, how the hell am I still alive?”

He didn’t know what to do, or think, or how to believe what the hell he was seeing.

His ex-fiancée …

Moana.

She wasn’t dead.

It didn’t make sense. How was she still alive? How was she standing in front of him when she had been killed during a prison riot?

“You seem to be struggling for a response.” Taking a step toward him, Moana said, “I’m sure you’re shocked and dismayed. But more dismayed than surprised, I suppose.”

Sione said, “I’m disappointed and angry.”

“Angry?” Her frown held a hint of amusement. “It’s a miracle that I’m alive and you’re pissed off?”

“The fact that you’re alive is not a miracle,” Sione said. “It’s a tragedy.”

Disjointed, he didn’t know if he should step back or move closer to her. She was like a magnet. He’d forgotten how easy it was to be enticed into coming too close. She’d always been like a lure, drawing him into something decadent and wicked. Something hard to deny; something impossible to resist.

“I’m not surprised you feel that way,” Moana said. “I didn’t expect you to be happy that I wasn’t stabbed to death. When you heard about my death, I’m sure you hoped I’d suffered and wished you could dance on my grave.”