Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (2 page)

I recently celebrated my thirty-fifth
birthday. All right, in truth, it wasn't much of a celebration. I
spent the entire day holed up in my house with my dog, Ollie,
contemplating the future and happy to put much of my past behind
me. That included my ex-husband, Carter Delaney, whose greatest
contribution to my life and times was making me realize that no man
was worth sacrificing one's own identity and integrity, even if it
meant losing him in the process.

I did lose Carter five years ago, after
deciding I had no desire to share him with his mistress (and
probably others I didn't know about). It was a decision I firmly
stand by today and am definitely the better for.

At least I convinced myself that was the
case even as I came face to face with the subject in question on a
muggy afternoon at the end of July. I had just filed away some
papers when he walked into my office literally out of the blue. It
was his first visit to my office since I joined the ranks of
private eyes. I had once worked for the man as a security
consultant. That turned into lust, sex, love, marriage, and
divorce, and now we were little more than distant
acquaintances.

The tremulous half-smile that played on
Carter's lips told me that he was not entirely comfortable being
there. I felt just as awkward for probably the same reason: the
ex-spouse syndrome
, which would forever keep a wall of
regrets and painful memories between us, thick as molasses.

Never mind the fact that Carter Delaney was
still every bit the physical specimen I had fallen in love with
another lifetime ago. Tall, fit, handsome, and perennially tanned
with dark hair and gray eyes, he almost looked as if he had just
stepped out of the pages of Good Looking Digest. Though it was
hotter than hell outside, he was decked out in an Italian navy
designer suit and wing-tipped burgundy leather shoes. He glanced at
the expensive watch on his wrist as if he needed to be somewhere
else.

At thirty-eight, Carter Delaney was a
successful businessman. A former Honolulu prosecutor in the career
criminal division, Carter had walked away from the job after
excelling at it for the lure of cold hard cash in the world of
commerce. He had turned his smarts and acumen into a successful
Internet-based international trade company.

It was during the early stages of this
success that I entered the picture. Carter had hired me, wanting to
have the best security devices for both his home and business. The
rest, as they say, is history.

At least it was.

We had managed to avoid running into each
other for nearly a year now, which suited me just fine. I wasn't
looking for history to ever repeat itself, so quite naturally my
curiosity was piqued as to why he was here now. Rather than appear
too overeager, I decided to wait and let him take the lead.

"Hi," I said tonelessly as I eased back into
my chair and scooted it up to my gray workstation desk. I shuffled
some papers to at least give the guise of being busy. In fact, I
was going through somewhat of a dry spell right now with the
sluggish economy and all. This was particularly true on the private
eye side of things, where potential clients seemed more willing to
go it alone or rely on an overworked criminal justice system to
solve their problems.

I wondered if Carter was here for a social
call or if he was looking to hire me as a security consultant
again.

"Nice office," he said, though the words
seemed to squeeze through his tight-lipped smile.

I agreed with his assessment, as I'd paid
enough for the roomy one-woman, air-conditioned unit in a high rent
downtown office building that had all the tools of the private eye
trade.

Carter hadn't taken his eyes off me since
entering the office. It made me just a little uncomfortable. I
wondered if he was trying to undress me with his penetrating gaze,
as if he hadn't seen the merchandise before.

Either way, it was not winning him any
brownie points, if there were any left to win.

I glared at him and said dryly: "Glad you
like what you see."

He immediately turned his eyes downward, as
though searching for something. When he looked at me again,
Carter's smile had faded as he said, clearly for my benefit: "I've
been meaning to stop by, see how things were going, but between
work and—"

I was only too happy to bail him out in this
instance, though I had the feeling he was stalling. For what, I had
no earthly idea.

"Don't torture yourself, Carter," I told
him. "It's a little late for a guilt trip. Or have you forgotten
that we're not married anymore?"

At least not to each other. Six months to
the day after our divorce was finalized, he and the mistress tied
the knot. Rumor had it she was pregnant at the time. Rarely did I
take rumors seriously but, sure enough, the newlyweds did produce a
baby girl shortly thereafter. I didn't want kids—at least not until
I had done the career thing first. Carter didn't want to wait for
me or my career.

To this day, we've never discussed whether
that was the beginning of the end or just the beginning of his
wandering eyes. Either way, it did little to erase my self-doubts,
what might have been, or what had transpired since.

"Like it or not, a part of us will always be
married, Skye," he declared, "at least in spirit."

"I don't think so," I said, sneering. "In
spirit or otherwise. What's done is done."

"Maybe you're right." He rubbed his chin
thoughtfully.

"Do you plan to tell me why the hell you're
here?" I decided to be blunt, since he seemed willing to take his
own sweet time. And in my business, time was money. He didn't have
to know that it was only trickling in at the moment. "Or am I
supposed to guess what reason my ex-husband might have for paying
me an office visit?" I asked.

I honestly couldn't think of any reason for
him to be there. Other than maybe to check out my office digs out
of curiosity or get a glimpse of what he'd given up back in the
day.

He chuckled. "Still as impatient as ever, I
see."

I frowned. "Guess some things never
change..."

We eyeballed each other for a moment or two
of stubborn reflection. Finally, he asked coolly: "Mind if I
sit?"

I indicated either of two brandy-colored
cluster armchairs. He sat down and for some reason I was glad that
my desk separated us.

Carter sat there staring blankly at me, as
though in a trance. I stared back and waited with uneasiness at
this unlikely get together.

I suddenly felt compelled to ask: "So how's
your wife and...?"

At about the same time he was saying: "I'd
like to hire you..."

My question could wait. If I hadn't known
better, I thought I just heard Carter Delaney actually say he
wanted to hire me! If the notion wasn't so absurd, I might have
burst into laughter at that moment. Instead, I forced myself to
say: "I'm listening—"

He shifted in the chair unsteadily. "I think
Darlene is cheating on me..."

He was referring to wife number two. I'd
always detested the idea that someone named Darlene took my place
in his life. It was as if her name was
darling
—somehow
making her more endearing than I ever was to him.

Apparently, a certain someone must have
concurred.

I resisted the urge to say what goes around
comes around.
Oh, what the hell
, I thought.
Let's hear
what else he has to say
.

"Really?" I said. "Now isn't that a terrible
thing to suspect—" I couldn't resist smiling when I said it, in
spite of myself.

Carter peered at me beneath thick, dark
brows, clearly annoyed and perhaps embarrassed. "I'm not looking
for sympathy or amusement," he said.

I got serious again. "Could've fooled me." A
well-timed sigh. "Exactly what is it you want from me?" I dared
ask, almost afraid of his answer.

He recomposed himself, and after a moment or
two said: "I'd like you to follow her around, see where she goes,
who she talks to..."

I suddenly found myself laughing, almost
hysterically, probably to keep from crying. When I finally stopped,
I said: "You can't be serious!" But something told me he was. "You
don't really expect me, of all people, to spy on the very
bitch-slash-bimbo you left me for, do you?"

His brow furrowed. "Can you lay off the name
calling? I was hoping this would be a bit more civilized—"

I was almost enjoying this.
Almost
.
"Get real, Carter. You didn't come here for civility. That ended
between us the day you decided I wasn't enough for you."

He gave me a quizzical look. "Remember who
kicked out who? It's not like I'm asking you to do something
illegal. Isn't this the sort of work a private investigator does?
Or is my money not green enough for you?"

I leaned toward him; anger building up that
I thought had been buried for good. "Don't patronize me! It's not
about money. It's about respect! You've got a hell of a lot of
nerve showing up in my office and asking me to snoop on your wife.
I'm afraid I don't come
that
cheap—" I took satisfaction in
making that abundantly clear to him.

He actually seemed shocked by my reaction,
and maybe even hurt. "Dammit, Skye, I didn't come here to insult
you. I came because I need your help." He batted those charming
eyes at me emotionally. "You think it was easy for me to come to
you with my, uh, problem? Hell no, it wasn't, but I did because I
thought you'd understand."

"Sure, I understand all right," I told him.
"You're feeling betrayed, humiliated, and agony over your
suspicions. Am I right?" I was sounding like a still bitter ex-wife
and found it to be oddly refreshing.

Carter sighed, sounding exhausted. "You're
never going to give up the spiteful ex-wife routine, are you? What
happened between us is history. Right or wrong, I can't do a damned
thing about it now." He hoisted to his feet so fast he nearly
toppled over. "I guess it was a mistake coming here. I thought you
were professional enough to take on
any
case without letting
your personal feelings get in the way. Obviously I was wrong." He
turned his back to me and headed for the door.

Carter always had an incredible way of being
able to manipulate people—especially me—into seeing things his way.
Not this time! I was not about to be conned into feeling guilty or
unprofessional because I refused to take a case that was far too
personal and could only stir up feelings that I would just as soon
forget, if that was possible.

I stood and asked what seemed like a
legitimate question under the circumstances. "Why me? Surely you
could have found some other private eye in Honolulu to follow your
wife around—one who didn't happen to be your ex-wife."

He turned around and gave me a look that
implied the answer should have been as obvious to me as it was to
him.

"Do you even have to ask why?" He clenched
his jaw. "The last thing I want or need is to make public to
already jittery investors
my
private business...or the fact
that I think my wife—the mother of my three-year-old little girl—is
cheating on me. You're the only private detective I felt I could
count on for a
discreet
investigation that wouldn't come
back to haunt me." He lowered his head. "I guess in some ways it
already has—"

I suppose I took it to heart that he trusted
me enough to feel that I would handle such an investigation with
the utmost discretion. But, all things considered, I wasn't sure
that I could trust myself as much.

"I can recommend someone—" I offered as a
goodwill gesture.

"Don't do me any favors," Carter muttered
irritably as he turned toward the door, gave me a final heated
glare, and vanished much the way he had appeared.

I slumped back down into my chair, angry
that he had put us both in an unenviable position. In truth, things
had not been all that great for us even before the other woman
entered the picture. Carter's obsession with getting ahead at all
costs and his insistence on meticulousness in every aspect of our
lives clashed heavily with my somewhat lower aspirations and lack
of perfect order in my life. And our differences over when children
should become part of the picture hadn't helped matters either.

The final straw came when I learned of
Carter's affair and the reality that he didn't really seem to give
a damn that the cat was out of the bag. It was more like a big
relief to him. And when confronted with the option of me or the
other woman, he was unable or unwilling to make what I believed to
be the intelligent choice.

I sought to hold my ground where it
concerned my ex. It had been over between us for a long time. I
owed him nothing but the painful memories of days gone by. Neither
of us had even pretended to be friends once our relationship had
officially ceased. (I even turned down a generous divorce
settlement, preferring to leave the marriage with only what I
brought to it. At the time, it seemed like only a clean break could
allow me to regain my dignity.) What was the point when we had gone
too far beyond friendship to go back?

As far as I was concerned, that overused
cliché applied perfectly when I thought of Carter Delaney. He had
made his own damned bed and now had to lay in it—but not with
me!

* * *

The privilege of sharing bed space with me
in the post Carter Delaney era currently belonged to Ridge Larsen.
A homicide detective for the Honolulu Police Department, Ridge had
transferred from the Portland Police Bureau in Oregon just after I
had gone into early retirement. He was forty, divorced, and
handsome in his own rough-hewn, square-jawed way with crafty blue
eyes, a shaven bald head, a thick dark moustache, and six foot
three inches of solid muscle.