Stolen in Paradise (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (11 page)

Marcella had listed each name under
Pettigrew Murder: Fernandez, Kim, Moku, Truman, N. Pettigrew, Abed.
She crossed off
Moku
with a big red X. Damn, she hated that girl’s death.

A little distance away, she wrote,
AgroCon LTD.,
and jotted what they knew under the heading
: million-dollar grant, sense of ownership, opposed to other uses of the research
.

“Take a look at the next report. Dr. Fukushima faxed this in. Traced the three hairs on Dr. Pettigrew’s body to Natalie Pettigrew. Agent Scott, when did Natalie say she saw Dr. Pettigrew prior to her death?”

“She didn’t say. She wouldn’t give up her alibi, which I’m pretty sure is Truman.” Marcella enjoyed seeing Waxman’s eyes widen in surprise. “I staked out Natalie’s apartment the other night and witnessed her meeting Truman. They went dancing at a Goth club.”

“Did you see them going home together?”

“No. I stayed until almost eleven p.m., watching them,” Marcella said, keeping her eyes off Kamuela, who was staring at her from across the expanse of mock burled wood. “I’m pretty sure they ended up back at her place. I can stake her out again. It seems like a real attachment, as neither of them would give the other up in the initial interviews.”

“Natalie Pettigrew is looking as good for this murder as any of the rest of them. Maybe Aunt Trudy was going to cut off funds or something if she didn’t stop seeing Truman.” Waxman tapped the folder. “Take a look at the workup on Natalie. Girl’s got twenty-seven dollars in her checking account. A couple million will come in handy launching her as an artist.”

“I’m willing to bet she doesn’t know she’s the heir or how much Pettigrew was worth,” Rogers said. “She seemed genuinely grieving when we interviewed her. She didn’t mention any expectation of anything but disapproval from her aunt.”

“Right now our suspect pool is too large—we’re looking at Pettigrew, Truman, Abed, Kim, and Fernandez and possibly a contractor for AgroCon Ltd. The only one we’re fairly sure isn’t the killer is the one who left a note saying she was,” Marcella said. “I think we need to reinterview them all, shake the trees, and see what falls.”

“Just what I was going to suggest. Along that line, Agent Ang here brought in some interesting evidence,” Waxman said. “She’s spent some time on Dr. Pettigrew’s home computer and discovered Pettigrew was watching Kim—she had some questionable e-mails highlighted and a keystroke clone program activated on his computer. It looks like Kim has a connection with a lab in Korea.”

“Excuse me. I haven’t met all of you—I’m Marcus Kamuela with the Honolulu Police Department,” Kamuela said from his side of the table.
Marcus—that was his first name
. Marcella kept her eyes on the board, feeling a prickling flush making its way across her chest. “I went by the banks and pulled the suspects’ financials. Nothing interesting on the other three, but Kim has some suspicious deposits. Check the next report.”

Marcella and Rogers flipped to that page. Halfway down the sheet, two recent cash deposits for $9,999 were reflected in Kim’s account.

“Just under the amount that requires the bank to send a form to the IRS,” Marcella commented. “Let’s set up the interviews, see what pops.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Waxman said in rare approval, inclining his head in her direction. “Also good work to you and Detective Kamuela for retrieving the wallet and phone out of the canal yesterday.”

Marcella capped her pen. Maybe she wasn’t in the doghouse after all—that unfortunate takedown of a Honolulu city councilman a few cases ago was going to be forgiven any day now.

“Any progress, Agent Ang?” Waxman went on.

“We’re still working on them, but we should have something soon,” Sophie Ang said. “We’ve got warrants to monitor all the Internet activity on the suspects, so hopefully more will be revealed soon. I still have several of the lab computers to go through.”

“That’s good, because maybe one of the lab people is working for AgroCon. After all, they knew the project was a success before anyone else did,” Marcella said. “Kim could be the one—maybe he’s double-dipping to both Korea and AgroCon.”

“That’s an angle worth pursuing,” Waxman said. “Everyone keep an eye out for that when you schedule the interviews and keep me posted. I want to monitor them. Well, people, get to it.”

Marcella was working her phone before she got out of the room.

“Natalie? Hi. It’s Special Agent Marcella Scott with the FBI. Can you come down to our office for an interview?”

Marcella and Rogers stood waiting as Natalie Pettigrew stepped out of the elevator into the reception area outside the FBI headquarters. Natalie’s hand was wound in the tanned, square one of Dr. Ron Truman. The young artist wore black boots that elevated her height, a plain tunic of some silvery reflective material, and narrow black jeans. Her purple-blue eyes were outlined in kohl in a Cleopatra style, but there was no color to her delicate, finely cut lips. Her black hair was brushed straight down in an ear-length bob.

“We’re here for Natalie’s interview.” Truman’s square jaw was set belligerently. Dark shadows under his green eyes and the roughness of a day or two of beard just made him more handsome: Ken doll having an emo day.

“Hi. What’s your interest in our interview with Natalie?” Marcella wanted to hear what he said.

“We’re together.” Truman, once he’d made up his mind to come clean, didn’t flinch.

“Interesting. Sorry, but you have to wait in the lobby—you’ll have your own interview. Had you heard Cindy died? I heard HPD was going to notify you as head of her project.” Rogers gave them down-home charm and Marcella doled out a smile with dimple bonus.

“I did hear. They told me not to tell anyone—but I told Natalie. I don’t have any secrets from her.” Truman just shook his head, exuding distress. “They said it was a suicide. I can’t believe she’d take her own life.”

“I hardly knew Cindy,” Natalie volunteered.

“Let’s talk inside,” Rogers said, swiping his card. Truman and Natalie hugged one last time, and she followed the agents down the hall and turned right into tactfully labeled Conference Room A.

Some FBI interview settings employed a different philosophy than police interview ones. The rooms contained all the same high-tech recording and visual-surveillance equipment, but attempted to use psychology rather than intimidation to support the interview process.

A love seat, too small for two and too large for one, took up one side of the room. Corner table with artificial plant. Several armchairs, set at angles that kept people seated in them from looking at one another. A coffee table in the center created the illusion of hospitality. The table was bolted to the floor, as was the rest of the furniture, to preserve the psychologically designed layout.

A carafe and Styrofoam cups on the coffee table awaited them. Just a cozy visit, the room seemed to say. Nothing scary or intimidating here. Let your hair down, trust the nice agents—and tell them everything. Marcella chose the love seat. “Coffee?”

“Okay,” Natalie said.

Marcella poured two cups, handed one to Natalie and sipped her own. “Mm. Delicious. The elixir of life.”

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Natalie sat on the edge of her armchair, clearly uncomfortable, as the chair was designed to throw the sitter back at a reclining angle—the better to suggest relaxation. The innocently papered wall piped a live video feed into several monitors in the room next door.

“Why don’t you start by telling us about your relationship?” Marcella took another sip. The coffee really was good—the New Agent Trainee minding the reception desk took his duties seriously. She’d heard he actually ground the beans each morning.

“Don’t see how that’s relevant,” Natalie said. “And you should know I’ve called a lawyer.”

“Well, of course that’s your right, but you aren’t being charged with anything. This is simply a routine interview of all Dr. Pettigrew’s lab and close connections. Would you mind telling us where you were the night Dr. Pettigrew was shot?”

Natalie tried to move her chair closer to the coffee table, discovered it was bolted to the floor. She wriggled it. Hard. It should have been funny, but Marcella felt a twinge of something like embarrassment instead. She’d always thought the room didn’t do what it was supposed to—it often just pissed people off.

“We were together that night. You happy?” Natalie wriggled the chair again, to no avail.

“This isn’t about what makes me happy,” Marcella said. “It’s about who had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Dr. Pettigrew. So you were with Truman when he was supposedly working late at the lab. Was Dr. Pettigrew aware of your relationship?”

“Yes. And in answer to what you’re going to ask next, she didn’t approve.”

“How did you two meet?” Rogers asked.

“I came to the lab to visit Aunt Trudy, drop off a painting she was buying from me. I met Ron and…” Marcella was surprised to see Natalie’s smile, a transcendent expression that made her look like a fallen Goth angel. “I just thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.”

“So going back to the night Dr. Pettigrew was shot. Where were you?”

“We were at my place,” Natalie said. So far no real surprises, other than Truman showing up with Natalie.

“Natalie, were you aware you’re your aunt’s heir?” Marcella kept her voice neutral.

“Uh. No. But I guess I might be, since she didn’t have anyone else.” Natalie blinked.

“Well, you are. And we found out something else. Your aunt was a very rich woman. She is a millionaire several times over. She owns the building you live in. She has a three-million-dollar life insurance policy on herself, and you’re the beneficiary. All of this wealth goes to you.”

Natalie absorbed this, her pale face getting paler. She clenched her fists, stood up. Looked up at the ceiling.

“Bitch!” she said. Stomped her high-heeled boot. “You bitch, Aunt Trudy! How could you do this to me!”

She burst into tears.

Marcella cleared her throat. “I should warn you that anything you say can and will be used in a court of law, should we charge you.”

“You reminding me of my rights? I don’t care. I didn’t do it, and I want you to find the fucker who did.” Natalie reached over for one of the coffee napkins, honked her nose. “I had no idea Aunt Trudy had money. She wore those awful polyester pantsuits, lived in that poky little apartment, and all she did was work. I thought she was bitter, and lonely, and hardly made ends meet herself, always saving for some autoclave or something for her precious lab.” Natalie fought back more tears with a visible effort. “I loved that old bitch despite everything. I really did. And mean as she could be, I knew she loved me too. I would never do anything to hurt her. In fact, if I could have, I would have tried to make her happy.”

Marcella thought of the “poky little apartment” Dr. Pettigrew had lived in, whose only beauty was the life captured in Natalie’s riveting paintings.

“I think you did make her happy,” Marcella said softly. “I think you did.”

Rogers sat forward against the force of his chair. “Well. I’m afraid you’ll have to go on record with this alibi, and I’m not sure if that can be kept confidential.”

“It’s okay. Ron and I want to be together, no matter what.”

“All right, then. This is it for now.” Marcella stood and led Natalie back down the hall to the waiting area. “Can I speak with you alone for a moment?” she asked Truman, who stood to embrace Natalie upon their return.

“Sure. Natalie, do you want to wait?”

“No. I’ve got to get to work.” The Cleopatra makeup had not been a good choice—most of it was on her cheeks. She pulled another tissue out of the box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. “Call me later.” She pushed the call button on the elevator. Truman patted her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

Marcella gazed at the girl thoughtfully. She just couldn’t see Natalie cold-bloodedly pulling the trigger on her aunt—let alone strangling Cindy Moku and hoisting her up from the ceiling fan with those stick-thin arms. The doors opened and she got on. They closed, and her pinched, smeared face, eyes like bruised violets, disappeared.

“Come on back,” Rogers said. In the conference room, Truman took the same chair Natalie had.

“So. Where were you on the night Dr. Pettigrew was shot?” Rogers asked.

“With Natalie. At her place.” Truman ran a hand through his Ken-doll locks. Marcella made a note on her pad, more for show than anything. Both their alibis were confirmed. “She was crying. What did you guys say to her?” He frowned.

“Talked with her about her aunt. She got upset. Actually, we have some more bad news that we didn’t share with her. I know you must have heard Cindy killed herself—but actually, she was murdered.” Marcella kept her gaze on Ron Truman’s face. His eyes widened, color drained, and his hands fisted—his shock looked genuine.

“What? How?” he asked, his voice thready.

“Strangled. Hung to look like suicide.”

“Oh my God.” He covered his face with his hands. “What the hell is going on in our lab?”

“Where were you last night?” Marcella asked.

“We were together—I was with Natalie. We went to dinner at a restaurant downtown. Then—we went back to her place. I went home about one a.m.”

A tinny voice came from a speaker on the multiline phone beside the plastic plant.

“Special Agents, there’s a woman in the lobby here. She’s very upset, says she demands to see her husband.”

“What’s her name?” Marcella asked.

“Her name’s Truman. Dr. Julie Truman.”

Truman stood up. He was pale under his tan. “I don’t know how she’s here. I have to go talk to her.”

“Maybe it would be a good time to let her in on what’s going on,” Marcella said. “She’s going to find out about your relationship sometime.” Truman nodded, and Rogers escorted him out of the room.

As Marcella gathered the coffee things, a cry rent the air from the direction of the lobby—and even through closed doors, the sound that echoed down the hall had a terrible rage and devastation to it. Dr. Julie Beecham Truman was not taking the news of her husband’s infidelity well.