Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (3 page)

"Over there," Mark motioned to the man sitting on the chaise lounge, grimacing in pain. "The guy got stung by some jellyfish."

"Ouch," Steve said.

Mark squeezed in front of the line at the salad bar. "Excuse me, medical emergency."

He reached into the salad bar, lifted away the pot of Italian dressing from the crushed ice, and carted it back to the chaise lounge. The mystified guests all watched him go, except for Steve, who concentrated instead on piling bay shrimp on his salad.

As soon as Mark reached the chaise lounge, he set the pot down and began ladling dressing all over the swimmer's body, coating him in oil and vinegar.

"You call this modem medicine?" the man shrieked, reacting both to the surprise and the chill of the cold salad dressing on his skin.

"Practical medicine, actually. It won't help the pain, but the vinegar in the dressing will stop the jellyfish's undischarged nematocysts from firing and giving you more stings."

He made sure the man was covered from head to toe in Italian dressing, then dropped the ladle back in the empty pot. "Stay here."

Mark turned, oblivious to everyone in line staring at him, and hurried over to the barbeque, where the cooks were grilling steaks, hamburgers, and hot dogs. He motioned to a jar of steak tenderizer.

"Would you mind if I borrowed that?" Mark asked, holding out his hand insistently. "It's a medical emergency."

The cook handed him the jar and watched as Mark raced back to the chaise lounge and began seasoning the oily man.

The man was now wincing more in embarrassment than pain. "Are you sure you're a doctor?"

"I can vouch for him," Steve said, clearly amused, sauntering over with his salad. "He's actually chief of internal medicine at a major Los Angeles hospital."

"Really?" The man turned back to Mark. "Now that I've been marinated and seasoned, I hope you're not intending to cook me for lunch."

"The jellyfish poison is a protein," Mark explained. "I'm sprinkling you with meat tenderizer because the active ingredient is an enzyme that breaks down protein, thus neutralizing the poison and lessening the pain."

"That's a relief, because barbequing me would have been way too ironic," he said. "I own a restaurant."

The man held out his hand, which was dripping oil and vinegar. "Danny Royal."

Mark shook his hand. "I'm Mark Sloan, and this is my son, Steve. We're staying here at the hotel for two weeks."

Danny offered his hand, but Steve declined with a polite smile. "No thanks, I've already got plenty of dressing on my salad."

Moki came over, obviously upset. "Do you want to explain what's going on, Dr. Sloan?"

"This gentleman was stung by jellyfish," Mark said. "I'm treating him."

"With our buffet?" Moki asked incredulously.

"I hadn't thought to ask," Mark said, then turned to Danny. "Would you like something to eat? The food here is really quite good."

"You already know how good their salad dressing is," Steve said with a smile.

"Actually, I'm feeling much better already," Danny said, rising slowly. "I think I'll go home and wash up."

"Afterward you'll want to treat the welts with some antiseptic spray or ointment."

"I'll do that," Danny said. "Thank you so much for your help. I hope you'll come to my restaurant tonight and let me treat you to dinner."

"That's not necessary," Mark said.

"I insist," Danny replied. "It's the Royal Hawaiian. Come any time."

And with that Danny shuffled off, trailing oil and vinegar behind him. Moki looked from the oily footprints to the oily chaise lounge, and then back at Mark, who smiled sheepishly.

"Is the buffet still open?" Mark asked, patting his stomach. "I'm starving!"

CHAPTER TWO

Wyatt arrived in Kauai two days earlier, almost three weeks after his initial recon. It took him that long to formulate his plan, figure out the best way to make it happen, and then examine it from every angle. He envisioned everything that could go wrong, then devised fixes and escapes. Only when he was satisfied that every detail was worked out, every possibility considered, did he book his flight back to the island.

He could have done all his thinking on Kauai without going to the trouble and expense of returning to the mainland and coming back again. But the longer he stayed in one place, the greater the chance that someone would notice him or remember something about him if asked. When he returned, he was careful to alter his appearance. It was a matter of habit now.

Wyatt had a lanky, athletic build and unremarkable features that effectively lent themselves to simple deceptions like colored contacts, colored hair, and unshaven cheeks. Even so, the way he walked, the way he dressed, the accent he used, and even the words he chose when he spoke were different this time.

Every choice he made on his last trip he changed on this one. He used another airline, another rental car company, and didn't shop at the same store or eat at the same restaurant twice.

Wyatt booked a room in the biggest, most crowded hotel he could find, where he'd be just another tourist among hundreds.

On his first day back, Wyatt scouted locations again and briefly shadowed his target to be sure no variables had been introduced in his absence that might impact the plan. As far as he could tell, nothing significant had changed.

On his second day back, Wyatt bought supplies for his task, paying cash whenever possible. He only used his false credit card and driver's license when paying cash would attract attention or they were required to secure a rental.

Wyatt intended to stay another few days after the job was done on the off-chance that airline or boat departures were ever scrutinized, though he doubted that would happen. Still, he liked to be thorough.

He double- and triple-checked all his equipment, took a long jog and a scalding shower, and got dressed in a Tommy Bahama aloha shirt and white pants. It was louder than he liked to dress, but here he'd blend right in.

That was his forte. Blending. Moving unseen. Slipping in and out of a crowd with the smooth, deadly precision of a stiletto blade.

After some careful consideration, Wyatt decided to bend one of his rules. He'd go back somewhere he'd been before.

He'd have dinner at the Royal Hawaiian.

Mark and Steve arrived at Danny Royal's restaurant shortly after nightfall and were immediately impressed by the relaxed luxury of the place.

The restaurant was an open-air plantation house set deep amid a lush, tropical garden with meandering koi ponds teeming with golden carp and burbling waterfalls cascading over lava rocks.

The wide terrace was lit by the glow of flickering torches, the sea breeze pushed through the dining room by the gentle chum of ceiling fans. The deep reddish-brown luster of koa-wood paneling behind the bar gave the restaurant a rich, distinctly Hawaiian elegance.

Kamalei, the attractive young Hawaiian hostess, led them out to a table on the terrace. She began to hand them menus when Danny Royal appeared, exuding refinement and polished cordiality.

"My friends won't be needing menus tonight, Kamalei," Danny said to the hostess, who took the menus but remained at the table. He turned to his guests. "I'm so pleased to see you both."

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

"A little itchy, but otherwise just fine," Danny said. "I'm sure I'd be feeling a lot worse if it wasn't for your quick attention. I've taken the liberty of preparing a tasting menu of some of our specialties for you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Mark said. "We place ourselves entirely in your hands."

"Excellent," Danny said. "I'll be back to join you for dessert. If there's anything at all you need in the meantime, Kamalei will be at your service."

She bowed slightly at the mention of her name. Danny excused himself, and almost immediately a waiter appeared at the table with appetizers.

"What have we here?" Mark asked the hostess.

"Lemongrass-seared island opah with udon noodles and Thai basil-lime butter sauce," Kamalei explained. "Kalua pig, luau leaf, and butterfish in a crispy lumpia wrapper with lomi salmon relish. And a warm macadamia nut, goat cheese salad with mixed Maui greens in a passion fruit vinaigrette."

She gave Mark a mischievous grin. "I understand you're especially fond of vinaigrette."

Steve looked across the table at his father. "You've only been here a few days and already you're famous."

"Infamous is more like it," Mark said.

The appetizers were followed by course after course of cleverly prepared delicacies unlike anything they'd ever tasted before.

They feasted on quail stuffed with Lahaina corn, roasted black olives, rosemary, soft polenta, and truffle shavings; kiawe wood-fired Molokai pork tenderloin with caramelized Maui onions; and seared swordfish in a roasted macadamia nut-lobster butter sauce.

They hardly spoke to one another during the entire meal, savoring the food, the warm night air, and the sound of the surf crashing against the shore.

For dessert, they were tempted with fresh fruit, Hawaiian vintage chocolate, and a dizzying assortment of cakes, pies, and pastries. Steve tried them all, but Mark reached his limit after two bites of coconut cream pie covered with chocolate shavings and crushed macadamia nuts.

Danny Royal joined them at the table, settling into one of the plush rattan chairs as Kamalei served them all steaming hot mugs of freshly ground Kona coffee. She left the coffeepot at the table.

"The coffee is made especially for me from Kona beans harvested on the leeward slope of Mauna Loa," Danny said. "Hawaii is the only place in the United States where coffee is grown, so I insist on having the freshest cup possible, using only the finest local beans."

Mark sipped the coffee and practically purred with de light. "An exquisite end to an exquisite meal. I don't think I've ever had anything quite like it."

"What would you call the cuisine?" Steve asked. "Pacific Rim? Hawaiian?"

"I like to think of it as a fusion of Hawaiian, Asian, European, and classic American cuisine," Danny said. "Though sometimes I think it might be a bit too eclectic for the tourists. You'd be surprised how often people ask the waiter if we can make them something simple."

'Then they are cheating themselves out of a rare treat," Mark said. "Not only is the food wonderful, but the restaurant itself is beautiful. The decor, the ambiance—it's so elegant and comfortable."

"I'm flattered, Dr. Sloan. I can't take the credit for the food—I just hired the right chef," Danny said. "But I designed the restaurant myself. I imagined it for years before I finally got the opportunity to build it."

"What were you doing before?" Mark asked.

"I was in the restaurant business, though hardly in this league," Danny said. "I operated a Croque Monsieur sandwich shop franchise in New Jersey and eventually expanded it into a couple more outlets. Still, I wasn't really happy. Financially, I was secure, but I kept dreaming of white sandy beaches, swaying palms, and running a restaurant without a drive-through window. A few years ago, the chain offered to buy me out and I jumped at it. It gave me the financial freedom to create the Royal Hawaiian."

"It's a meal we won't forget," Mark said.

"You'll have to let me return the favor next time you're in Los Angeles," Steve said, "though I'm afraid our menu is limited, our decor isn't quite as opulent, and we encourage our guests to eat with a bib."

"You own a restaurant?" Danny asked.

"It's a rib joint called BBQ Bob's," Steve said. "I never intended go in the restaurant business, but Bob was retiring. I couldn't stand the idea of not being able to eat there any more. So I convinced a doctor who works with Dad to buy the place with me. It's been great, and since both of us have flexible schedules in our day jobs, we've been able to evenly share the responsibilities of running the place."

"Are you a doctor, too?"

"No," Steve said. "I'm a homicide detective with the LAPD."

"Really?" Danny said, a slight hesitation in his voice.

Danny's fleeting discomfort didn't surprise Steve; he was expecting it. Whenever he revealed in casual conversation that he was a cop, it made people nervous. Especially single women, to his constant frustration. The fact he still lived at home with his dad wasn't helping his romantic prospects, either.

He didn't know what it was about being a cop that made people uncomfortable around him. He didn't know whether it was because he dealt with death all day, or if everybody, no matter how honest and law-abiding, had a guilty conscience.

"How did you end up in that profession?" Danny asked, refreshing their cups of coffee.

"It's sort of the family business," Steve said, sipping his coffee and enjoying the rich, complex flavor of the Kona beans.

Danny looked at Mark. "Are you a detective, too?"

"Not officially," Mark said with a smile, "but I can't seem to stop myself from poking my nose into things any way. My father was a homicide detective, so it must be in the genes."

That wasn't entirely the truth. Steve was competent, hardworking, and, by any professional measure, good at his job. But he knew his skills, like his grandfather's, were learned, rather than innate. Neither of them had Mark Sloan's amazing gift for solving perplexing crimes.

Mark's mind was always working, assimilating thousands of bits of seemingly unrelated information, and then, in a moment of stunning clarity, drawing it all together into a clear picture. It made Mark an information junkie, asking questions about everything, constantly poking and prodding his way through a case, aggravating just about everyone involved, including Steve.

"What is it that fascinates you about murder?" Danny asked Mark.

"It's not murder that fascinates me," Mark said. "It's the puzzle. Once I start thinking about a mystery, my mind won't let it go, tormenting me until I solve it."

"So he figures it's okay to torment me," Steve said, "and anybody else who comes in contact with him."

Danny laughed good-naturedly. "Something tells me you're quite good at what you do, Dr. Sloan."