Unforgettable (11 page)

10

G
reg drove along the frontage road to the Kehei Marina, where the Marine Research Institute was located, with Lucky beside him and Dodger in the backseat. Since he’d confronted Lucky she’d been very quiet, answering him in monosyllables. Her anger didn’t surprise him. She could deny it all she wanted, but she must know more than she was telling.

“The institute is open around the clock,” Greg explained.
“
Even on Sunday there are seals to feed, and someone brought in a shark.”

Lucky didn’t answer, and Greg stole a glance in her direction. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid, but it was so crimped that it looked like a gnarled branch. He sure as hell wasn’t an expert on women’s hairstyles, yet he knew a cheap bleach job and home permanent when he saw one. What kind of woman would deliberately make herself look so trampy?

Lucky was wearing conservative tan shorts and a sleeveless lavender blouse that deepened the green of her eyes. She hadn’t purchased any makeup, so she didn’t look at all like the woman he’d pulled out of the car. Still, she looked sexy as hell. No
doubt the volunteers who staffed the institute would be coming on to her.

He pulled into his parking place. “Nomo’s in charge of volunteers. He’ll find something for you to do, like feeding the monk seals or preparing their food.”

Lucky climbed out of the car without a word and followed him up the path, her eyes narrowing obstinately as she walked beside him. Yeah, she was pissed big time that he hadn’t fallen for her little act.

The institute was a concrete bunker just steps from the ocean. The lower floor of the building was a laboratory with very modem facilities, considering their tight budget. The upper floor, where Greg had his office, overlooked the two pools in which the injured and sick animals were treated. Under a cluster of palms stood a bamboo annex—not much more than a shed— where dive equipment was stored and volunteers changed clothes.

Another group of date palms shaded the pools, which were separated from the beach by a low wall of reddish-black lava rocks. Huddled in groups, some gulls were perched on the wall while others patrolled the shore, plunging headfirst into the waves to catch a fish, then returning to the sky with their prize. On the other side of the wall was a short stretch of crystalline sand where the waves tumbled onto the shore, leaving a tide line marked by seashells. Two dive boats with the Marine Institute logo of a whale’s flukes were moored just offshore.

“Hey,
aikane!
Look who’s back,” yelled Nomo.

Body like a tombstone, with graying black hair that toppled over his broad forehead and a toothy grin, Nomo had been in charge of the volunteers for three decades. Greg had first met him when he’d gotten into trouble for joyriding in the principal’s new car and the juvenile authorities had sent him to volunteer at the institute. The facilities had changed a lot since then, but Nomo was the same, still using Hawaiian words like
aikane
— buddy.

Greg greeted the older man with an affectionate slap on the
back. “This is Lucky. Think you can find something for her
to do?”

Nomo turned his megawatt smile on Lucky and clutched her hand in his usual bone-crushing handshake. “Get outta here. We don’t have
anything
for her to do.”

Lucky smiled, proving no one could resist Nomo’s charm. “What’s a monk seal?”

Greg studied her, thinking that he’d mentioned the Hawaiian seals during the ride here, but she’d been too angry with him to ask. S’okay. The less talking they did the better.

“It’s just a special type of seal found only in the islands,” Nomo explained as he led them toward the largest pool. “We’ve got a half dozen who are too old to survive on their own and three pups who’ve lost their mothers.” He turned toward Greg. “The big news is the tiger shark.”

Nomo stopped in front of the saltwater pool and pointed to the diver walking in slow circles, holding a young tiger shark under his arm.

“Why’s he carrying a shark?” Lucky seemed so intrigued by the unusual sight that she forgot she wasn’t speaking to him.

“Sharks have to keep moving to keep water passing through their gills, or they’ll die. When they’re sick, there’s no choice but to walk them twenty-four hours a day.” He turned to Nomo. “You know we can’t save him. Let him go.”

“He’ll die,
aikane.
You know that.”

Lucky squatted to get a better look at the shark, Dodger at her side. “What’s wrong with the shark?”

“Some fisherman tried to cut off his fins to sell for shark fin soup,” Nomo replied, “but they botched the job. Cut the fins with
…
looks like a machete, but didn’t get them off. Somehow the shark got away. One of the dive boats coming back from the Molokini Crater found him and brought him here.”

“Shark fin soup. You’re kidding.” Lucky looked so upset that Greg was tempted to put his arm around her.

“It’s no joke,” Nomo assured her. “It’s a delicacy in Japan. Trouble is, they butcher the shark just for the fins, then leave it to die.”

Lucky gasped. “That’s unbelievably cruel.”

“There’s nothing we can do to save him,” Greg said. “We have no way of reattaching his fins. We’re just wasting our time.”

“You have to try,” Lucky pleaded, making him feel guilty.

“The kids here on summer internships feel the same way,” Nomo said. “It’s better if he dies here, and everyone knows we tried.”

Greg realized Nomo was right. Summer interns were mostly pain-in-the-ass rich kids looking for an excuse to spend the summer in Hawaii, but they went back home and convinced their parents to donate to the institute. Without those funds, the institute’s projects with the monk seals and humpback whales would be in jeopardy.

“Okay, keep walking him,” he said and Lucky rewarded him with a smile.

He left Lucky with Dodger and Nomo and went upstairs, dreading the avalanche of paperwork that he knew was waiting on his desk. At the top of the stairs he found Rachel Convey gazing out the office window at Lucky and Nomo, who were still watching the shark. Rachel had a doctorate in marine biology and was the foremost expert on the humpback whales who wintered each year in Hawaii. For the past three years she and Greg had been working on a joint project, decoding the sounds whales made underwater.

“Pele’s ghost, right? She doesn’t belong here. She’ll only cause trouble.” Rachel’s voice was low and matter-of-fact, but she failed to conceal an undertone of bitterness. Greg would have to be brain dead not to know Rachel had a thing for him. He had never encouraged her, striving to keep their relationship professional.

“Her name’s Lucky. She’s volunteered to help with the seals,” Greg said, stretching the truth. He’d dragged Lucky
along because he needed to keep an eye on her. She hadn’t ran away last night, but who knew what she might pull. “Nomo will take care of her.”

“I ran the stats on those high frequency sounds the whales make,” Rachel told him, moving away from the window. “They’re on your desk.”

So was half the world. There were stacks of unopened envelopes, invoices, and requisitions to sign. It was hard to believe he was really a scientist, Greg spent more than half his time balancing the books. He might as well have had a degree in business for all the financial crap he did. It would be days before he could analyze the stats on the high frequency sounds they’d recorded last winter when the whales were offshore.

He was halfway through the first stack of letters when the phone rang. The institute was too strapped for cash to have a secretary, so he answered it. Cody was on the line.

“It’s all set up. I had to make several calls to Honolulu, but finally this Dr. Forenksi called me back. She’s flying in tomorrow afternoon to see Lucky. Have her at the Up-country Clinic at four.”

“I’ll have Nomo drive her—”

“No, Greg. I want you to be with her. If you find out her name, call me. I’ll take it from there.” Cody paused, and Greg heard the squawk of the pol
ice radio in the background. “
There was a reporter here a few minutes ago. Says he’s with the
Star Investigator.
”

“That’s like the
Maui Tattler,
only worse, right?”

“Yeah, junk food journalism. Aliens. The diet to end all diets. A story on Pele’s ghost is perfect. Fenton Bewley knows you posted bail. I couldn’t keep that from him. It’s public record, but I didn’t tell him where she’s staying. Watch for him. Mid-fifties, bald, big black mustache.”

Every protective instinct Greg had fired at once. He needed to get rid of Lucky as quickly as possible—for his own peace of mind—but he’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to humiliate
her. The scene in the jail replayed in his mind and he tightened his grip on the receiver.

“Cody, thanks. I owe you one.”

Greg dropped the receiver in the cradle.
I owe you one.
He and his brother used to say that to each other all the time. He hadn’t heard the words in over two years—and he certainly hadn’t said them.

He kept staring at the photograph of Jessica that he still kept on his desk to remind him just how treacherous women could be. The all-consuming rage he usually felt when he thought about his wife in Cody’s arms just wasn’t there. Okay, it still hurt, but not as much.

I
owe you one.
Cody was still smiling an hour later. How long had it been since he’d heard Greg say that? He missed his brother, and seeing him, talking to him, made Cody miss Greg all the more.

“Chief,” said one of his officers. “Tony Traylor’s here.”

“Again?” Cody couldn’t believe it. Traylor had called a meeting first thing that morning. Sunday. Unbelievable. The entire point of the meeting had been to bully Cody about Lucky. Cody checked his watch, knowing he would never make it to the church picnic now. He quickly called and left a message on the machine so Sarah wouldn’t worry.

“Arrest Pele’s ghost for possession of stolen property,” Tony Traylor demanded without preamble as he lumbered into Cody’s office, followed by two
mokes.
The island tough guys didn’t intimidate Cody. Their brains would fit in a thimble. As usual, Traylor was giving orders and expecting them to be followed.

Fat with swarthy skin that looked as if it had been sandblasted, Traylor was dressed in his trademark Hawaiian print shirt, the loud kind that had gone out of style in the sixties. His sharklike eyes zeroed in on Cody as he sat behind his desk, bracing himself for a confrontation.

“My lawyer says we can get that bitch on possession of stolen property even if we can’t prove grand theft.” Tony collapsed into the chair opposite Cody’s desk, and the
mokes
stood behind him.

“I don’t want to harass Lucky,” Cody replied, his tone firm. Why was this so important to Traylor? he asked himself. “Your cousin—you remember, the one y
ou insisted I hire as a jailer—
well, he was letting anyone with five bucks in to see Lucky. She’s considering a civil rights suit that could bankrupt the state.”

That stopped him. Traylor swiped with the back of his beefy hand at the sweat that peppered his brow. “Who the fuck’s her lawyer? I’ll fix his ass.”

Cody couldn’t resist.
“
Some hotshot from the mainland probably.”

Traylor hesitated; his influence didn’t extend to the mainland. “Where’s she staying? I’ll knock some sense into that bitch.”

“Hey, Tony, it was only a car. What’s the big deal? I’m building a case against her.”

Traylor shifted in his seat and the chair groaned. Undoubtedly the springs would be shot, and there wasn’t any money in the
budget to replace the chair. “
The bitch had my car for over a year. If she gets away with fucking me around, everyone will want a piece of my ass.”

There would be plenty to go around, Cody thought, struggling not to grin. “Let me take care of her. That’s my job.”

With a grunt, Tony heaved himself to his feet and sauntered out of the office without saying goodbye, the
mokes
obediently trailing in his wake. Cody rocked back in his chair, wondering if that was the real reason Traylor wanted Lucky in jail. Maybe, the man had an ego the size of the Hindenburg.

But Cody wondered. He suspected that Traylor was behind the “Maui Wowie” business. High in the inaccessible rain forest, the islanders grew premium marijuana to be sent to the mainland. Twice a year the Feds came in with helicopters and
pulled up the plants. Somehow, new plants had reappeared by the next time the Feebies did a flyover.

Very little happened on the outer islands that Tony didn’t know about. Not for the first time, Cody wondered if he was part of the
hui.
The Hawaiian mafia was notorious for its ruthlessness and its code of silence. Even if Traylor wasn’t a member of the gang, Cody would bet his next paycheck—if it hadn’t already been spoken for—that Traylor knew exactly what went on in the remote reaches of the island where Lucky had been found.

T
hree hours later Greg had cleared most of his desk and set aside the less urgent mail and messages. He told himself that he was just going to take a walk around the compound to see what had happened in his absence. He’d only thought about Lucky once or twice since sitting down. All right, more than that. He’d analyzed his response to her from every angle, then reexamined the details, but he couldn’t make sense of his reaction to this mysterious woman.