Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (17 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

I took my case straight to the prosecuting
attorney's office, expecting resistance in my attempt to learn
what, if anything, Carter had been involved in that may have led to
his death. Even when I was on the force, such information was hard
to come by when it involved their own, or their inner circle—except
when used in the courtroom.

Bradford Rennick was the First Deputy
Prosecuting Attorney for the City and County of Honolulu. He was in
his late forties and much shorter than I expected. His hair was
definitely died jet-black and he had a cleft in his chin. Rennick
had made the difficult and obviously successful move from the
police force to the office of the Prosecuting Attorney. I had never
had the pleasure—or displeasure—of working with him in either
capacity.

"So, you were the
first
Mrs.
Delaney," Rennick remarked as we walked side by side down the long
corridor on the tenth floor at Alii Place, where his office was
located.

"I still am, as far as I know," I responded
wryly, looking up slightly into his brown eyes.

He tugged at the jacket of his gray suit.
"Carter's death hit us all hard. I keep expecting him to call me
and say this whole damned thing was just a bad dream..."

More like a
very bad
nightmare, I
thought. Only it was real and nothing on earth could change
that.

We entered Rennick's large, carpeted corner
office, bypassing the walnut desk and floor to ceiling matching
bookcases in favor of a rectangular table surrounded by
cranberry-colored leather chairs. There was a coffee pot, paper
cups, cream, sugar, and a bowl of fresh fruit on the table.

"Help yourself," Rennick said as he reached
for an apple.

Though tempted, I passed on the fruit, but
did pour myself a cup of coffee while pondering what direction the
investigation by the P.A.'s office into Carter's death had
taken.

After taking a generous bite of the apple,
Rennick commented: "Heard you were one hell of a cop way back when,
Skye..."

"Funny," I replied without laughing, "heard
the same thing about you—"

He chuckled. "I wonder if we have the same
mutual admiration society."

I seriously doubted it, but didn't tell him
that. Instead, I cut to the chase. "I understand that Carter was
working for your office before he died. Is that true?"

Rennick did not seek to deny it. "He never
really stopped contributing to law and order in this county," he
said. "Delaney's expertise and insight were invaluable to us."

I tried not to let it show that I was taken
aback with his confirmation that Carter had continued to work as a
lawyer, even while making his mark as a businessman. I assumed
Carter had his reasons for maintaining the secrecy.

As though reading my mind, and perhaps
sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Rennick said: "When Carter
left the P.A.'s office, I think he'd had enough of the politics of
the legal system. But he never turned his back on fighting for
justice. He just didn't want to do it in the public arena anymore.
He agreed to be a consultant when we needed what he brought to the
table, as long as it was strictly unofficial and did not encumber
his private or professional life. It seemed to work out well for
all parties concerned—"

Except for Carter, I thought. His secret
deal with the prosecuting attorney's office might have cost him his
life.

Meeting Rennick's eyes, I asked him
directly: "Do you think Carter's death was related to whatever he
was working on for you?"

He stared at the question before responding.
"I never like to say never, but I doubt it." He poured coffee into
a cup. "We don't really have anything concrete at this point that
links Delaney's murder to this office."

"Do you have anything non-concrete?" I
asked, sensing there may be something he wasn't telling me.

Rennick gave a long sigh. "Anyone following
the news in recent months knows that the P.A.'s office has been
trying to nail Kazuo Pelekai—also known as Chano—for some time
now."

I wasn't very good at following the news.
There never seemed to be enough time in the day, or night, for that
matter. That didn't mean I wasn't familiar with Kazuo Pelekai. He
was like the Hawaiian version of Al Capone or maybe John Gotti: a
reputed kingpin in Honolulu's underworld of drugs, prostitution,
and murder, with strong ties to the local street gangs. Only,
unlike Capone and Gotti, Pelekai always seemed to stay one step
ahead of those who wanted to see him spend the rest of his life
behind bars.

Rennick continued: "As a prosecutor, Delaney
was one of the leading forces in trying to build a case against
Pelekai. But nothing seemed to stick. He still believed it was
possible, even as a consultant. We were just beginning to zero in
on nailing Pelekai's ass when Carter was murdered..."

"Are you saying Pelekai may have ordered a
hit on Carter?" I looked at Rennick wide-eyed.

He hunched a shoulder. "Not that we can
prove. At least not yet..."

The idea that Carter may have been the
victim of a sleaze bag like Kazuo Pelekai made my skin crawl. I
tasted the coffee while wondering if an arrest was imminent or just
wishful thinking.

"Of course, there are other possibilities
we're following—" Rennick regarded me with the type of look my
father used to when he was about to accuse me of something that he
already knew I was guilty of. "Did Delaney come to your house the
day he was killed for any reason in particular?" he asked. "Or did
your ex often drop by?"

I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but
felt relieved that Ridge hadn't spilled the beans about my work for
Carter until it became absolutely necessary in relation to his
death.

Still, I felt compelled to set the record
straight right now about certain issues. "Since our divorce, Carter
and I hardly ever saw each other," I said, "and certainly not
socially." More bitter coffee went down my throat as I walked the
fine line between eliminating myself from apparent suspicion and
protecting the confidentiality of a client. "I'm a security
consultant
and
private investigator," I told him, though I
was sure Rennick knew everything there was to know about me,
including my relationship with Ridge. "Carter had recently hired
me. On the day he died, we were supposed to meet at my office. But
I think there was some sort of miscommunication, and he went to my
house instead—"

Rennick took another bite out of the apple,
and chewed for a few moments while gazing at me. "Tasty. Sure you
don't want one?"

"I'm sure," I told him. I was in no mood to
be buttered up with fruit.

He got back to the real issue on his mind
that I preferred to dodge for the moment. "Do you mind telling me
what you were working on for Delaney? And please don't tell me it's
privileged information, even if it is. Need I remind you, we're
dealing with a
homicide
here—"

Caught between a rock and a hard place, I
used quick thinking to say with a straight face: "It's not
privileged information—at least not to this office. Carter asked me
to do some investigative work on Kazuo Pelekai."

Rennick did not convince easily. "I've been
working closely with Carter on this case. Why the hell would he go
outside the P.A.'s office without consulting me?"

"Hey, I have no idea what went on inside
Carter's head." I batted my eyes innocuously, while knowing at
least that much was true. "I'm sorry if he stepped on your toes,
Bradford, but maybe Carter figured he needed a fresh perspective.
Someone who would report only to him—"

"Yeah, right..." Rennick muttered with
uncertainty, and then appeared to give me the benefit of the doubt.
He ditched the rest of his fruit, and asked as if it were a test:
"Well, what did you come up with? We can use all the help we can
get—"

"I'm afraid I don't have much to offer. I
was just getting started on my investigation into Pelekai's
financial wheelings and dealings, when Carter was killed—"

At that moment, I was suddenly struck with a
weird vision of Carter dead in my Jacuzzi tub. I quickly drank more
coffee to try to pull myself together.

"Too bad," Rennick said, giving me the evil
eye. "And too damned convenient."

"Death is never convenient," I told him. "I
wish Carter was still alive and working with you to nab Pelekai.
But it just didn't work out that way."

Rennick still seemed less than convinced
that I wasn't holding back on him. "What about
your
enemies?" he asked suspiciously. "All private eyes have people who
would love to see them dead. Maybe someone went to your house
looking for you, and found Delaney instead?"

I had asked myself that same question a
thousand times. And 999.9 times the answer came back the same. I
told Rennick: "If someone was looking for me, I'd be a much easier
target at my office or during my daily jogs than at home—" I
finished off the coffee and made a face as the bitterness stuck in
my throat. "Besides, I've gone back and forth through my case files
and came up with no one who fits the bill and timing."

"All the same," Rennick said sharply, "I'd
appreciate it if you'd provide us with a list of your clients for
the past year and the nature of each case—"

I flashed him an "excuse me?" look, not so
much for the unrealistic request, but that he apparently expected
me to buckle from the weight of his stare. I replied candidly: "I
can't do that. What you're asking for is confidential information
that I believe has no bearing on your investigation. You'll just
have to take my word on this one—"

He frowned, then seemed to back down, but
still made his position clear. "I try not to take
anyone's
word when it comes to murder." Standing, he said: "I hope you don't
have any travel plans, Ms. Delaney"—he made his voice sound
intimidating—"just in case we need to talk to you again."

I lifted to my feet. "I wouldn't dream of
taking a vacation, Mr. Rennick. There's no other place I'd rather
be than Honolulu." A tiny smile played on my lips. "Oh, and just
for the record," it seemed worth saying, "I came here voluntarily.
Thanks for the crummy coffee—"

I felt as if I'd just dodged a bullet after
leaving Rennick's office and making my way outside the building.
For how long was anyone's guess. Right now, I was glad to have come
away with more information than when I went in. The question was
whether or not Kazuo Pelekai was just another hard-to-corner thug.
Or was he the man behind Carter's murder?

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

It wasn't like I expected to extract a
confession from Pelekai. But stranger things had happened. I had to
find out for myself if this man who had people in the Prosecuting
Attorney's office sweating was the one I should be going after for
the murder of Carter Delaney. I brought Ridge along for the ride in
a nonofficial capacity.

He was less than thrilled with my
determination to take on Kazuo Pelekai. "This isn't a man you want
to screw around with, Skye—" he insisted from the passenger
seat.

"That's not what I had in mind," I quipped,
though I took the matter very seriously.

Ridge lowered his brows. "Then what the hell
do you have in mind?"

"Just a few questions, nothing more," I
replied laconically.

Ridge was still leery. "Pelekai is already
under investigation for this case and a dozen others that I know
of. If we had anything we thought could stick, he'd already be
behind bars. In the meantime, if he is somehow involved in
Delaney's death, he wouldn't think twice about doing you in too, if
it meant saving his own ass—"

"Carter was murdered in
my
house," I
said, as though he had forgotten. "If the killer had wanted to kill
me too, I'd already be dead." I knew this was a sorry rationale for
feeling I'd be able to walk in on Pelekai's turf without putting my
life in jeopardy. Even if I hadn't been the intended victim, that
hardly meant I wouldn't become the next one. I looked at the road
and back at Ridge, this time giving him a smile. I took one hand
off the steering wheel and put it on his. "Besides," I added
cutely, "isn't that why you're here? To protect me from harm's
way?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, well let's just
hope it doesn't come to that."

Though I had the utmost confidence in
Ridge's ability—and my own for that matter—to get physical, I had
brought along my 9-millimeter just in case it was needed.

Kazuo Pelekai lived in an impressive
Mediterranean villa on Poipu Drive in East Honolulu. It stood out
like a palace even in an upper middle class neighborhood that was
known for its upscale and gated properties.

A gate attendant let us in after Ridge
flashed his badge and told him we were here on official business. I
drove onto a circular driveway and parked next to a late model
Lexus and Mercedes.

Before we could ring the bell, Kazuo Pelekai
opened the door himself. This was somewhat contrary to my image of
crime bosses being layered with bodyguards and first cousins. I
recognized Pelekai, whose reputation in the city preceded itself.
In his mid forties, he was of medium build and had short black hair
parted on the side and ebony eyes. Apart from his run-ins with the
law, he had often appeared before television cameras as an
upstanding, charitable member of the community. But the police and
prosecutors seemed to believe that much of what he gave away was
nothing more than blood money and hush money.

Pelekai furrowed his brow and peered at me.
"What's this about?" he asked.

I sucked in a breath and said concisely:
"The late Carter Delaney—"