Broken Ferns (Lei Crime ) (12 page)

Lei walked into the Kahului Station with its busy front desk and beehive of modular units. She paused on the way to the conference room to greet Abe Torufu. The Tongan giant hauled his bulk out of his chair to envelop her in a hug.

“Lei. So you decided to come down from the big leagues, show us some flash.” He tapped the FBI badge clipped to her waist. Lei had never been so happy to see Bunuelos’s partner—the big Tongan had always made her smile, and she badly needed both a hug and a smile.

“Good to be back.” She shrugged out of the hot Kevlar at last. “Got an upstairs meeting, but I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”

“You guys get the Bandit yet?”

“No, or he’d be following us in in cuffs,” Bunuelos said, joining them. “Little bastard flew out just as Lei and Stevens pulled up to the gate.”

“Well, check out the news.” Torufu indicated a window streaming on his computer. Wendy Watanabe’s sleek bob was doing a hula in an updraft of breeze with the control tower of Kahului Airport behind her.

“Shit, she’s over here!” Lei exclaimed.

“Yeah. Not only that, but I guess the Bandit sent her video of his latest hit.”

“We’ve got to talk to her. I better get to the conference room.” Lei gave Torufu a wave and broke into a trot, not bothering with the elevator and hitting the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, the flatscreen in the conference room was tuned to the newscast, with Stevens, Omura, and Ken watching intently.

“This reporter has followed the Smiley Bandit to Maui, where he made a death-defying crossing from Oahu to Maui in a light aircraft not intended for this kind of distance. I received this recording in my e-mail.” Watanabe’s voice was rich with self-importance.

Lei watched a cockpit view as the tiny Hummel hit the turbulence that was such a part of life on the Valley Isle, bucking as the little craft bent in a northerly direction, following the curving line of bluffs that marked the edge of the island. Below the bouncing video, Lei could see the colorful arc of kiteboard sails. They watched as the little craft turned inland and headed for the cobalt-roofed mansion. It descended and made a perfect landing on the sloping sweep of lawn that skirted the house.

“We need that reporter!” Waxman’s voice boomed, overloud, out of the triangular conference phone in the middle of the table. Captain Omura hit the volume button with a polished red nail. “KHIN-2 is refusing to muzzle Watanabe; I’ve been on the phone all afternoon. Find her in the field and get her working with us!”

“Yes, sir,” Ken answered. Lei glanced around the table at the intent faces watching the camera view as the Bandit climbed jerkily out of the plane, set the Chihuahua on the ground, and followed as the little dog trotted toward the house. All they could see was a pair of Nike running shoes, the edge of denim jeans, and the sassy behind and curly tail of the tiny Chihuahua as it trotted toward the mansion.

“Max Smiley’s going to burst a blood vessel when he sees his dog in this video,” Lei commented. “Where’s the kid getting intel on these houses? And which of our suspects has experience flying?” No one answered, but she felt better having voiced a few of the many questions.

The video cut to the office and the empty safe. Suddenly the same hooded, backlit figure appeared, the distorted voice speaking. It was clearly a switch to a totally different setting.

“The one percent makes another contribution. This time, five thousand dollars will be finding its way to dialysis patients at the Hana Medical Clinic.”

Wendy Watanabe appeared again. “Until next time the Smiley Bandit, always one step ahead of the authorities, contacts me, I’ll be reporting live from Maui. This is Wendy Watanabe saying aloha.”

Captain Omura paused the feed. “Did your people have time to analyze that video?”

SAC Waxman answered from the conference call unit in the center of the table. “Our tech expert, Special Agent Ang, has been working on that. Agent Ang?”

Sophie’s voice came through the conference phone clearly. “Yes, sir. It appears that the masked unsub making the recordings is the same one from earlier and in the same room. I’m checking the videos, and that’s apparent. What this confirms is that we have two unsubs at work: one flying the plane and doing the robberies and one making the recordings. They must be in touch with each other.”

“Any progress picking up the trail of any of our suspects on Oahu—Tom Blackman, Tyson Rezents, Lehua Kinoshita, and Kimo Matthews?” Lei listed the names for the benefit of the MPD staff.

“Scott and Rogers have been working with HPD and following up. So far, no leads.” Waxman’s voice was flat. “They found Kinoshita and she alibied out. We need you to run that plane down. Did it refuel at that last stop?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Lei said. “I found a gardening shed that had been broken into, and the gas can for the mowers was empty.”

“We circled all the way through Hana and came around the backside of the island,” Stevens put in. “Nothing new.”

“Well, track down that reporter. I’m working on a gag order from over here. Hopefully, I’ll have it by the time you connect with her,” Waxman said. “Thanks, Maui Police Department, for all your help.”

“No problem,” Omura said. “We have hundreds of eyes on the sky and possible landing areas. We’ll get him.”

The meeting broke up. Lei waved to Bunuelos and Torufu as she left the conference room, avoiding Stevens, who was studiously looking at a large island map pinned to one of the walls—she just didn’t have the strength to speak to him. She’d been able to ride with Bunuelos all the way back around the island and hadn’t had to spend any more time alone with him.

“Watanabe is holed up at the Maui Beach Hotel.” Ken slipped his phone back into his belt holster. “That’s handy, since that’s where the Bureau put us up for the night.”

“Good,” Lei said. “Let’s go get her.” They climbed into a borrowed SUV and roared out of the busy station parking lot.

The Maui Beach Hotel, located in the middle of Kahului across from the mall, was a three-star establishment built in the 1980s whose main attraction was convenience. Lei and Ken checked into their rooms (double beds in lackluster pastel tropical print, rattan furniture) and reconvened at the bar, where the front desk clerk had directed them.

Wendy Watanabe perched on a bar stool in front of the mirrored bar, a five-foot powerhouse in a purple suit. Her cameraman had set his equipment on the floor near them, and both of them were blowing foam off pulled pints of beer. Lei settled herself on the stool beside Watanabe and flipped open her cred wallet for the reporter to see. Ken took the stool on the other side of the cameraman, a gangly young man sporting patchy whiskers.

Watanabe took a sip of her beer, expressionless. “Took you guys long enough to come talk to us.”

“We’ve been busy chasing the kid. What do you call him? The Smiley Bandit,” Lei said.

“He calls himself that.” Watanabe took another sip, reached for a pretzel. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like your cooperation in how you share info on this story,” Ken said. “Barring that, we’re working on a gag order.”

“Gag order.” Watanabe circled the rim of her stein with a finger, licked off the foam. “That’s never gonna fly. And I’m simply reporting what the public wants to know—deserves to know. This is a great story, and the Bandit approached me with it.”

“Sounds like you’re a sympathizer.” Lei realized she was hungry and barely stopped herself from reaching for the pretzels—but instinctively knew that eating in front of Watanabe would be a sign of weakness.

“Well, it’s not like the kid’s keeping the money. He’s finding causes that deserve some attention and bringing that attention to them—even if they have to return his contributions. Did you know the homeless shelter brought in close to twenty-five thousand in donations in the days after the Bandit left that box on their steps?”

“Doesn’t matter. The Bandit’s a thief, and it’s our job to catch him and lock him up.” Lei felt defensiveness flare—a reaction to her own ambivalence. She hated shades of gray, and there were so many in this case.

“Hey, did it ever occur to you that this kid isn’t hurting anyone? Taking a little loose change from the superwealthy, redistributing it to organizations that need it—how is that so wrong?” The cameraman, whose dangling plastic ID tag read CRAIG SALTZMAN, worked up some heat.

“That’s for a court to decide,” Lei said. “We can’t have vigilantes and burglars trying to equalize society.”

“Besides, there’s the dog,” Ken said. “It’s almost like a hostage.”

“You mean the little Chihuahua we saw in the video?” Watanabe asked. “That’s what makes this kid a reprehensible criminal? There’s been no hint of any threat against the dog.”

“Wow, reprehensible is a big word.” Lei gave back some attitude. “Trying to obfuscate the case with moral overtones doesn’t change the fact that the unsub is breaking into houses and helping himself to whatever he can carry. We want access to all of your communication with the Smiley Bandit. You can spin this story any way you want when it’s over and he’s in custody.”

A long pause while Watanabe and the pimply faced cameraman thought this over. “We’ll keep airing whatever he sends us until we get that gag order,” Watanabe said finally.

“There’s another thing—the unsub is armed. He took a loaded gun from the safe of the Witherspoons’ Kaneohe house. Just having that gun means he could use deadly force and changes the measures law enforcement will use to bring him in. So we need to take him peacefully, for his own safety.” Lei wondered if she’d made the right choice telling the reporter even as the words left her mouth, especially as she felt Ken’s sharp glance.

“Can I quote you on that?” Watanabe asked.

“No way. Probably shouldn’t have told you. But we’re worried someone’s going to get hurt now—most likely, the Bandit.” Lei realized as she said it how true it was, how much she really was worried the kid would get shot in the course of the chase—or, God forbid, create some sort of “suicide by cop” situation when capture was inevitable.

“All right, then.” Watanabe drained the last of her beer and plunked it down. “I’ll share what I have.”

“Would you help us bring the kid in? Offer an interview or something?”

“You think I haven’t already tried that?” The reporter snorted delicately. “Not that I planned to trap him—but I would have loved to interview him, backlit or something. But he flat-out refused. I’ll forward the e-mails.” She slid off the stool, bent over her shiny patent crocodile briefcase, and pulled out a laptop. “Give me an e-mail address to forward everything to.”

“Why don’t we do a clone of your hard drive?” Ken asked. “Then we can see what comes in as it comes in.”

“No way. My computer’s privileged.”

Ken sighed as he told her the agency e-mail address, and Watanabe’s fingers flew over the flat silvery keys.

“So he got my e-mail at the station, and he’s been sending in the videos. There’s been a little back-and-forth between us, but the IPs of each computer sending in the material are all over Honolulu—I already had our IT guy trying to trace them.”

“Has he gone back to the same Internet café twice?” Lei asked.

“No. But there have to be two of them operating—the one flying the plane and the one making the videos—unless he’s figured out how to have someone else just upload the videos for him after he sends them.”

“An interesting conclusion.” Lei was not about to add anything more than she already had to Watanabe’s conjecture.

“So do you have a profile worked up on the Bandit?” Watanabe asked, slanting a look at Ken.

“This information flow is going to be one-way,” Ken said. “Until we know we can trust you.”

“I’m wondering what I’m getting out of all this.” Watanabe wrinkled her pert little nose.

“I think you can be confident in having the exclusive inside track on the story.” Ken glanced at Lei. “We have to check with our special agent in charge on Oahu, but it seems reasonable.”

“Gee, thanks.” Watanabe stood and tugged down her tiny purple jacket. “What a concession. So who are you looking at in terms of suspects?”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Lei smiled. Persistence was a trait she’d always admired. “Why do you think the unsub chose you?”

“I cover a lot of youth events. I got my start reporting on high school football games and such. I think he must have become familiar with me that way. Perhaps I even interviewed him at one time.”

Ken narrowed his eyes at Lei. “Get Ang on that,” he said. Lei slid off her stool and walked out through the glass sliders overlooking the hotel’s claim to fame, a wind-ruffled pool skirted in palm trees and cement. She speed-dialed the Honolulu lab.

“What’s up?” Ang answered.

“Aren’t you supposed to answer, ‘Special Agent Sophie Ang’?” Lei said.

“Yeah. But I saw it was you. What do you need?”

“Can you pull up footage of Wendy Watanabe’s youth reporting coverage on events? She thinks the kid might be someone she interviewed, or someone whose event she covered a few years ago before she switched to Features.”

“Gotcha. I’ll run a cross-reference with all employees of Paradise Air and their offspring.”

“Great. That could help. Keep us posted.” Lei punched off and went back into the bar. Watanabe and her cameraman were settling up the bill.

“Ms. Watanabe thought of something. A videotaped appeal to the kid to turn himself in. She says she won’t need a gag order if we do that for her,” Ken said.

“Whoa.” Lei glanced at Watanabe. “What does Waxman think of that?”

“I’ve got a call in to him.” Just then Ken’s phone rang, and after a brief exchange, Ken hung up. “Okay, Waxman’s all right with it. He wants you to do the recording.”

“Oh shit, really? Me?”

“The new face of the FBI in Hawaii—young, female, and multicultural,” Ken said. “Let’s work out what you say.”

Wendy Watanabe eyed Lei critically. “Got any makeup?”

Lei didn’t dignify that with an answer as Ken pulled her aside. They jotted the main points Waxman had authorized her to cover and rejoined Watanabe and Staltzman, who were setting up a chair and portable light in one of the corners of the nearly deserted bar.