Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (14 page)

He returned my call almost immediately, as
if waiting by the phone, and we agreed to meet for lunch at the
Whaler's Club on South King Street. I've never gotten along very
well with reporters, dating back to my days on the force. Probably
because too often they are rude, arrogant, insensitive, aggressive,
prying assholes—a lot like some private investigators I know.

The reporter was already seated when I
entered the restaurant and lounge, a half-filled mug of beer in
front of him as though a prop on display for my benefit.

"Ms. Delaney—" he said, and stood.

He seemed taller and somewhat heavier than
our previous close encounter.

"Glad you could make it," he said.

"Let's just say you aroused my curiosity," I
told him, which was only partly true.

"Ditto," he said.

"Look, Mr. Pratt—" I began, intending to set
some ground rules.

"Call me Liam," he insisted. "Mind if I call
you Skye?"

"Suit yourself," I responded, and glanced at
my watch. This wouldn't last any longer than necessary, I decided,
and the clock was ticking.

We sat across from each other in a booth.
"What would you like to drink?" Liam asked, and put the mug of beer
to his mouth.

"Coffee," I told him laconically, and
watched the surprised look on his face, as though he expected me to
share his beer with him.

I called the waitress over. She filled my
cup and left menus for us.

Peeking over his menu, Liam asked
point-blank: "So, is it true Carter Delaney hired his ex-wife to
follow his second wife around town?"

I noted a small recorder on the table, which
was on. I took the liberty of shutting it off. "I'll decide what's
on the record," I told him.

He cracked a smile and nodded. "Okay, fair
enough."

I gazed at the oddly attractive face across
from me and said: "Maybe you should tell me where you got your
information before I confirm or deny it."

He seemed prepared for this and responded
smoothly: "Straight from the horse's mouth, as they say. It was
Carter Delaney himself."

My eyes hit him with skepticism. "I don't
mean to sound flippant, but why in hell would Carter tell
a
reporter
anything about his personal life? Especially if he
knew it could potentially be used against him and his family." I
sipped my coffee while maintaining a steady gaze at him.

Liam kept a placid look on his face. "People
talk a lot when they've had too much to drink." He gulped down more
beer as if for effect. "It was one of those days when Delaney
apparently had a hell of a bad day. I happened to be a listening
ear at the bar as he droned on about the pressures of being a big
shot in Honolulu...and his growing frustrations with his wife. I
got the distinct impression that she wasn't putting out in the
bedroom—at least not for him..."

The waitress returned and we ordered.

I was disturbed by what I'd heard so far.
Had Carter been careless enough to have actually aired his dirty
laundry in public to, of all people, an overzealous reporter who
seemed to be looking for his own fifteen and a half minutes of
fame?

"I guess we all have a weakness for
something," Liam continued. "Darlene Delaney's weakness seemed to
be anything but her husband."

I wondered if Liam knew about her drug use
apart from her infidelity.

"So what's your weakness, Skye?" he asked
intently.

"Whips and chains," I responded cynically,
"if it makes you feel better."

He grinned. "The real question is does it
make
you
feel better?"

Time to change the subject
, I
thought. "Let's just stick to Carter and what he told you,
okay?"

"All right," Liam said. "Delaney mentioned
that you were his ex and a security consultant/private eye. It was
almost as if he was bragging about both. He said he was thinking
about hiring you to check out his wife to see if she was being
faithful to him." Liam paused. "Did he hire you?"

I was pretty good at lying, and certainly
wasn't going to give him a juicy story he could use to draw
inferences and possibly ruin people's lives. Least of all Carter's,
though he was no longer around to feel the rippling effects.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but you've wasted
your time—and mine," I said with a straight face. "Carter hired me
as a consultant to do some background checks on people he was
thinking about hiring. Nothing more—"

Liam regarded me thoughtfully. "Too bad. Not
exactly the stuff movies of the week are made of."

"Maybe you should try writing fiction for a
living," I suggested unapologetically. "That way you can create any
trashy tale you want."

He reacted as though I'd punched him. "I'll
keep that in mind."

The food arrived at the same time my
appetite left. I tried eating anyway for the sake of my health,
nibbling on grilled mahi-mahi and stir-fried vegetables.

Liam took a bite of his sautéed shrimp and
said: "When I heard Carter Delaney was found dead in your Jacuzzi,
I figured he must have followed through on his threat to see what
his wife was up to and paid the ultimate price for it."

My fork lifted as if it had a mind of its
own and pointed threateningly at him. "Get a grip on reality," I
scoffed. "You're a reporter. Even though Carter may have spouted
off to you in a drunken state, there's no proof it had anything to
do with his death." On the other hand, I thought, it was still too
early to rule out a connection. And too early to rule out Darlene
being involved in Carter's death.

Liam seemed to agree with my stated
observation. "Okay, so maybe I'm just grasping at straws here..."
He bit off another piece of shrimp, then said: "But aren't you the
least bit curious to know if the second Mrs. Delaney was
really
getting it from another man?"

I looked at him and said convincingly: "Why
should I be? That was between Carter and her." I hoped my
downplaying it might be enough to convince him to leave well enough
alone, though I wasn't sure why I cared. Perhaps it was because I
was overly sensitive where it concerned Carter and adultery, even
if he happened to be on the other end of it this time around. It
occurred to me that Darlene had accused him of fooling around on
her as well. I didn't doubt it, all things considered.

"I guess it's a dead story then—figuratively
speaking." Liam chuckled at his own sick sense of humor and watched
for my reaction. There was none.

I forked a piece of broccoli and told him:
"As far as I'm concerned, the story was never really alive—"

Liam wiped his mouth. "Too bad the same
can't be said for the late Carter Delaney." He stared at me
lasciviously. "So I was thinking that maybe we could get together
sometime for a drink, the theater, or whatever. You name it."

Now the conversation had gone beyond the
boundaries I always set when dealing with people who were supposed
to be professionals.

I tasted some water and said: "I don't think
so." Then I added for the record: "To tell you the truth, you're
not my type." Not that I had a problem dating snoopy reporters, per
se, only those who rubbed me the wrong way.

He shrugged. "That's cool. No harm in
trying."

I took out my wallet and removed some bills,
setting them on the table. "That should cover us both."

"You don't have to—" he started.

"I know I don't," I finished. "It's no big
deal. I'm taking it as a business deduction. Good-bye, Liam—"

I walked away without looking back, hoping
he got the message that there was no reason for us to see each
other again. That said, something told me we would.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

He watched Skye Delaney sashay out of the
restaurant like she owned the place. Whatever else he may have
thought of her, there was no denying she was one hot-blooded, easy
on the eyes woman.

He could only imagine what she was like in
bed. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could take his
imagination to the next level.

Right now, there were more important things
on his mind, like what the hell was she up to? How far was she
willing to go with her nose for snooping? Did she think she was
dealing with a moron?

Think again, bitch!
he thought.

He would be watching her like a damned hawk.
If she got too close to the truth, she'd pay dearly for it.

He finished his drink at the bar and
left.

Outside, he was careful to make sure he
wasn't being followed. He walked two blocks to his car. Confident
that no one was onto him, he drove home.

The place wasn't much, but when you didn't
have much to begin with, you didn't know what you were missing.
Well, he had some idea. Trouble was every time he had something in
the works, it always backfired. Tough damned luck.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and went
to his dark room. On a table were some eight by ten black and white
close-up photographs of Skye Delaney. He took a swig of beer and
picked up a picture of her in a teddy with a low-cut ruffled trim
bodice that revealed lots of leg.

He found himself getting aroused at the
image, wishing he had her all to himself.

Maybe someday soon.

He took a moment to relish the thought.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

It seemed like it was time for me to pay the
"other man" a visit. Although the police had more or less
eliminated Edwin Axelrod from their list of suspects, I still felt
he was worth checking out. He was, after all, intimately involved
with the wife of a former prosecutor, potentially compromising his
law practice. If that wasn't enough, there was the simple fact that
he was sleeping with a married woman whose wealthy husband was now
dead.

Murder was one way to eliminate a problem
before it became unmanageable.

I looked him up on the internet. His office
was located on the ninth floor of the Harbor Towers Building on
Bishop Street. I didn't bother to make an appointment after phoning
his secretary and being told he was booked solid until four, after
which time he would be out of the office for the rest of the
day.

Instead, I made myself comfortable in the
small lobby area of the ninth floor near the elevators while I
waited for Axelrod to emerge from his office. He did so at five
minutes to four, holding hands with an attractive redhead who
looked young enough to be his daughter. She was tall and had the
ultra thin body of a fashion model in a bright yellow tank dress.
High heels made her nearly as tall as him. They kissed openly while
they waited for the elevator.

I wondered if the woman Edwin Axelrod could
hardly take his hands off was actually the wife that Darlene had
alluded to. Or was he actually bold enough to fool around with
another mistress right there in his office building? I chose to go
with the former. Obviously, Axelrod had a thing for young women,
including Darlene. It didn't seem to matter if he was married to
them or not. My instincts told me that the Darlene-Edwin Axelrod
affair was not really about grass being greener on the other side,
but at whose house the grass happened to be growing. In this case,
it was the residence of the late Carter Delaney, with his wife
still very much alive.

I hated to break up the lovebirds'
preoccupation with each other's mouths, but duty called.

"Mr. Axelrod—?" I said, getting their
attention. I approached them, and said tersely to him: "We need to
talk—"

He cocked his brow. "Do you have an
appointment?"

"Not really," I said. "But I've been waiting
for close to an hour now, if that counts for anything. It concerns
the Carter Delaney murder investigation. I understand you knew the
victim..."

This caught his attention and it appeared
that I had gained his respect that had previously been lacking.
"Uh, yes, of course—" he said clearly for the benefit of his
companion. He told her: "This shouldn't take long. Why don't you
wait for me in the car?"

She seemed less than thrilled at the
prospect. "Just remember, Edwin, we have reservations at the
restaurant at four-thirty." She hit me with a dirty look and
pressed the elevator button.

"Come in," Axelrod said as he opened his
office door. He closed it when we were both inside, then said
rudely: "What the hell is this about?"

It took me only an instant to study the man
more closely. He seemed anxious yet careful as his deep, dark eyes
gazed back at me beneath thick brows. He wore a navy designer suit
and what looked like expensive leather shoes. All in all, I
supposed he could be classified as handsome—at least in Darlene's
eyes.

Handsome men were also just as capable of
committing murder as their less than handsome counterparts.
Adultery went without saying and, in some minds, was just as
bad.

"My name's Skye Delaney," I began, figuring
the common last name of his lover would likely cause a stir within
him. Simultaneously, I presented my I.D., adding: "I'm a private
investigator looking into Carter Delaney's death—"

Axelrod took a long look at my credentials,
then my face. "How can I help you?" he asked as if he had no
idea.

"I'm not sure, really," I admitted, and took
a sweeping glance at the spacious and expensively furnished art
deco office, before returning my focus to the attorney. "Maybe you
could start by telling me about your affair with Darlene
Delaney."

His brows knitted. "I don't know what you're
talking about. If she put you up to this, you've wasted both our
time—"

"I think it's time well spent," I responded
curtly. "I'm afraid it's
you
who's wasting it—" I pulled a
few snapshots out of a folder, calmly walked over to his large teak
desk, and placed the photos side by side across the top of it. "You
might want to take a look at these," I said with a catch to my
voice.