Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (19 page)

"What kind of information...?" She gave me a
serious look of distrust, as though I might be a spy from the
Health Department.

I explained in an improvisation of fact and
fiction that someone had broken into my house about a week ago and
stole some jewelry. In the process, my dog bit the person before he
or she got away. Due to the amount of blood left behind, I figured
the wounds were probably deep enough to require treatment and since
this was the closest medical facility...

"One piece of jewelry taken was a family
heirloom given to me by my grandmother," I said, pretending that I
was about to cry. "I'd like it back—that's all. But first, I need
to know if I'm on the right track—"

Lying was almost an art form in the private
investigation business. If you were good at it, you were far more
likely to net positive results, even if you felt bad about it
afterward. So far, for me, the outcome had been mixed.

The receptionist hesitated before saying:
"You need to talk to Doctor Zeller." Her eyes scanned the patients
waiting in chairs and on foot. "I hope you aren't in a hurry
because it's first come, first serve—"

I was in no position to argue. I settled for
an adequate smile and a searched for an empty seat, which I never
found.

Nearly two hours later, a tall, gray-haired
man of around forty approached me. "I'm Dr. Zeller," he said.

"Skye Delaney." I stood and met his
dapple-gray eyes.

"Come with me please," he said in a tired
voice.

I followed him to a small and cluttered back
office, where he offered me a seat in one of two vinyl chairs. I
couldn't help but notice the framed medical degree from the
University of Hawaii at Manoa's John A. Burns School of Medicine
awarded to Andrew Gavin Zeller.

Dr. Zeller regarded me after following the
path of my eyes, and sat down at his glass-topped desk. "Yes, I
received my degree locally and am proud of it, but it doesn't mean
much to most people who come to this clinic. Many haven't even
graduated from high school, much less gone to college, and they
don't always know how to take care of themselves."

I got the feeling he was defending the need
to have such a clinic available to poor, uneducated, and uninsured
people. I wasn't prepared to debate the complex issues of health
care and impoverishment, so I said simply: "It's nice to know some
of us do go on to college and are able to give something back to
those less fortunate."

I couldn't tell whether he agreed or not,
since he gave me a deadpan look. Finally, he said: "The
receptionist told me your sad story about the family heirloom.
Sorry to hear it was stolen—"

"It happens," I responded guiltily.

"And you think the thief your dog attacked
may have come here for treatment?"

"I was hoping you could tell me—"

He hesitated. "That all depends..."

I frowned. "On what?"

Narrowing his eyes, Zeller responded:
"Whether or not the wounded thief is the same person who killed
your
ex-husband." He watched my surprised reaction, then
said: "You did say you were Skye Delaney, didn't you?"

I nodded reluctantly.

"And Carter Delaney was murdered at your
home, right?" He leaned back in his chair. "It doesn't take a
detective to be able to put two and two together, Ms. Delaney."

I agreed and tried to soften the blow. "My
ex-husband really has—"

"What is this really all about?" he cut in
sharply.

There seemed no point in stringing this out
any further, so I sighed and said what he had likely already heard.
"I'm a private investigator." I got no particular reaction from
him, so I continued. "I need to find out if anyone came in here
with a dog bite on the day Carter was killed."

Zeller stared at me for a moment or two,
then said: "Yes, as I recall, there was a man we treated that
evening who had a dog bite on his shoulder. I patched him up and he
left in a hurry, after refusing a tetanus shot. There's not much
more I can tell you about him than that."

He had already told me something. Was the
wounded party Carter's killer or was it just a cruel
coincidence?

I gazed at the doctor eagerly. "Did you by
chance happen to keep a sample of his blood?"

He shook his head. "There was no reason to.
Sorry."

I sighed. "I suppose that also means you
don't know his blood type."

"Afraid not," Zeller said.

"Can you describe him?" I asked.

Zeller shrugged. "I'm not really good at
describing people. He was Caucasian, average height and build,
probably in his late thirties. Wish I could be of more help, but I
don't have the luxury or time—being only one of two doctors on
staff with more patients than we can handle—to pay much attention
to those who use our services, aside from treating them as best we
can." He paused, then asked: "You think he was the man who killed
Carter Delaney?"

I considered the question and could only
come up with one answer. "I'm not sure—" I stood up. "Thanks for
your time."

He rose. "No problem."

As an afterthought, I asked: "Do you know if
he came here by himself or maybe with a woman?"

Zeller shook his head. "Couldn't say.
Sorry."

Not as sorry as I was.

I left the clinic feeling as if I had
actually made progress on the case, though I was no closer to the
who's and why's of Carter's death. If this man was Carter's killer,
it still left more questions than answers.

I called Ridge and told him: "I suggest you
get someone down to the
Manoa Aloha
Clinic
right away and talk to Dr. Zeller. Mug shots and a
sketch artist would probably be helpful, too."

* * *

I went home and had some lunch. Then I did a
bit of neglected gardening, swam with Ollie, and showered. By
three-thirty, I was at a boxing club on Palolo Road called Kurt's
Gym. It was where many of the up and coming boxers in the city
trained in hopes of hitting the pugilistic jackpot someday. Others
were simply interested in getting a good workout.

The gym was named after its owner, Kurt
Butler. Once a promising middleweight contender in Philadelphia who
fell prey to drug addiction, he was now a middle-aged,
well-respected trainer and drug free. Having lived in Honolulu for
over a decade, Kurt also happened to be a man with big eyes and
even bigger ears. He had been my source for information that I
couldn't get anywhere else ever since my days on the force, and he
was also my personal trainer in boxing techniques that came in
handy at times. He called it settling his debt for my role in
helping him stay out of prison when he was knocking at the door. I
called it a nice and lasting friendship.

I walked through the place that reeked of
body odor and sweat, worsened by the humidity that hung in the air
like a cumulus cloud. Boxers worked out in rings for that one big
shot, while others had taken to the bags in developing arm strength
and quickness.

I found Kurt holding a bag unsteadily as yet
another young hopeful was pounding away at it with everything he
had.

I commented: "Hey, take it easy there on the
old man. He's on your side."

Kurt smiled broadly, his bald head gleaming
with perspiration. He had on a Kurt's Gym jersey and gray sweats.
"Damned right I am," he uttered, absorbing a couple more punishing
blows before saying to the puncher: "Take ten, kid..."

"Is he as good as he looks?" I asked Kurt
while his finely sculpted, glistening protégé walked off.

Kurt chuckled. "Thinks he is. Like all young
boxers—and sometimes us old ones—he's got a helluva lot to learn."
Kurt took the towel off his wide shoulder and dried his face. His
smile returned. "So how you doin', girl? Ain't seen you in a long
time." His eyes scanned me from head to toe. "I see you're still
taking good care of yourself."

"Have to if I'm going to keep up with you,"
I told him proudly. In fact, he looked as good as I'd ever seen
him.

He laughed. "Ain't always easy, but I do all
right." He sucked in a deep breath. "So what brings you down here?
You ready to go a few rounds with me in the ring?"

Under other circumstances, I would have
welcomed that with the master, but replied: "I'll have to take a
rain check on that." I sighed and summed my visit up with two
words: "Carter Delaney..."

Kurt's gray-brown eyes lit up. "Your ex," he
said. "Heard he took it on the chin, so to speak."

"You could say that," I muttered, then said
in earnest: "I need your help, Kurt."

He looked at me curiously. "What you got in
mind, girl?"

I glanced around the gym and back at Kurt's
face, before answering. "I need you to help me find out who
murdered Carter." I knew it was a long shot, especially if the
killer was beyond Kurt's network of underground contacts. On the
other hand, if there was one person outside the police force who
might be able to yield something useful, I was looking at him.

He wiped away more sweat from his face,
which seemed to have increased in the last few seconds. "Why don't
we step into my office?" he said. "It ain't too comfy, but it's
quiet..."

And away from listening ears
, I
mused.

Kurt's office was small and carpeted, with
paneled walls. The stench of cigars permeated the air, in spite of
a corner fan that was on. A large TV sat on a stand next to an old
metal desk that was cluttered with papers. Two wooden folding
chairs leaned against one wall, and another wall was covered with
framed photographs of Kurt with such boxing greats as Joe Frasier,
Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, and Sugar Ray Leonard.

Kurt closed the door, unfolded a chair and
said: "Sit." So I did. He sat on the edge of the desk, and gazed at
me warily. "You know I love you to death, Skye, but I don't see how
I can help you."

"Ask around," I suggested, "and see if there
was a hit on Carter or anyone who may have had a strong reason to
want him dead."

Kurt pursed his lips. "Ain't that what us
taxpayers pay the cops for? Or are you trying to beat them to the
punch cuz it's personal?"

"Let's just say I want to see justice done
more than usual," I told him. My eyes rested on his scarred chin
where boxers had left their mark. Looking into his eyes, I said:
"If it means solving a case for the cops, so be it—"

He tilted his head to one side. "Carter
Delaney was pretty well known in this town, and not always for the
right reasons, which I'm sure I don't have to tell you. If someone
put a hit on him, the dude must be pretty powerful. Course, there's
always some lone rangers out there to settle old scores..."

I considered both of those possibilities,
along with a few others.

Kurt leaned toward me. "I owe you, Skye,
always will. Can't make no promises, but let me ask around—see if I
can find out anything. Just know that askin' the wrong questions to
the wrong people can get me killed—"

A wave of guilt washed over me. "I wouldn't
think of asking you to put your life on the line, Kurt," I
stressed. "It's not worth that for either of us, and it's too late
for Carter. If you come up with something that won't put your nose
out of joint, fine, if not, I can live with that—"

He smiled and then stood. "We'll be talkin'
real soon."

I was counting on it. I got up and smiled at
him. "You know where to reach me."

Kurt nodded and said: "Look, if you've got
time, what say we do a little workout—keep those skills I taught
you sharp as a knife."

"What about your protégé?" I asked.

"He can take another ten or fifteen. I don't
think he'll complain."

It was an offer I found hard to pass up.
"I've got the time," I told him.

"Good," he said. "Let's go."

My heart was already pounding with
anticipation. As we headed into the gym, I told him: "By the way,
in case I forgot to tell you, whatever debt you feel you owe me,
you paid up in full a long time ago." I winked. "But feel free to
keep believing otherwise if you want."

* * *

Nearly an hour later, I stepped outside
Kurt's Gym feeling exhausted, but ready to rumble. The fresh air
was like a slice of heaven. I wondered if it was smart to allow
myself to become so wrapped up in a murder that hit so close to
home.

It took me until I was halfway home to
accept that I really had no choice but to see this thing through
come hell or high water. The fact that I was operating as my own
client, in essence, for a case that seemed anything but open and
shut, made it all the more challenging.

Following a shower, change of clothes, and
babying Ollie, I headed to my office. I was two minutes away when I
suddenly felt lazy and decided to forego work for the rest of the
day. Whatever had to be done could wait. A trip to the bookstore
before it became extinct sounded much more inviting. Maybe diving
into the latest Mary Higgins Clark or Devon Vaughn Archer novel was
just what I needed to take my mind off real life horrors.

I couldn't think of a better way to spend
the rest of the afternoon.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

He followed her to the bookstore just for
the hell of it.

She was so wrapped up in looking for the
perfect book that she never even noticed him, even though he
practically went out of his way to block her path so she would bump
into him. He imagined her saying, as though it was her fault:
"Excuse me," then he'd been prepared to say humorously: "Don't I
know you? Aren't you Skye Delaney? At least now I know you can
read..."

Then he would have given her his charming
smile and asked her out. Who knew where they might have ended up
from there...if he had his way?

But no, before the fantasy could play out,
she went the other way—straight to the cashier with three books in
hand, and was soon out the door.