Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (28 page)

Darlene raised a brow. "Are you offering
your services?"

"No," I responded without hesitation. "I'm a
security consultant and private investigator, not a bodyguard.
Sorry."

"And I'm a woman trying to put her life back
together," she stated with determination. "I'm not going to give in
to fear and things I can't control—at least where it concerns my
health and well-being." Her look of defiance weakened. "But
protecting my daughter is a different story—"

"Then think of your daughter," I urged, "and
protect yourself. She'll thank you someday."

Darlene gave me a look of resignation. "If
there's someone out there who wants me dead, there probably isn't
much I can do to prevent it," she said. "I'm not going to spend the
rest of my life looking over my shoulder." She smiled faintly
before saying: "Maybe we'll both get lucky and you'll catch whoever
is committing these murders before either of us is targeted—"

"I wouldn't count on that," I told her.
"Luck doesn't apprehend murderers. Private investigators don't
either, for the most part, though not necessarily for lack of
trying." My pessimism gave way to motivation in catching a killer,
and I told her, for both our sakes: "I won't stop trying to do
right by Carter, even if he didn't always do right by us—"

I left Darlene to carry on with her plans
and went to the office for a short time, then home. My tropical
fire ant problem had apparently gone the way of the dinosaur and I
hoped to keep them at bay, certain that Ollie was in complete
agreement.

I eased my stress and strain by running with
him and, later, soothing my body in the bathtub. It was the first
time I had been able to bring myself to use it since Carter's
corpse was left there for me to find. I decided it was time to
conquer the distaste it left in my mouth and try to enjoy the
things I'd worked hard to achieve.

In bed, I watched a DVD. It was a suspense
thriller that often showed the killer's viewpoint. He enjoyed
playing mind games with his victims before he killed them.

I couldn't help but wonder if I was dealing
with a similar scary villain in real life...

CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX

The following day, I left home just before
noon and drove the short distance to the Waikiki Shopping Plaza on
Kalakaua Avenue to pick up some office supplies.

After that, I stopped by the post office. No
sooner had I headed to my car, which was parked on the street, when
I heard the rev of an engine. I turned just in time to see a
vehicle barreling toward me at a high rate of speed. It took only a
second to realize that this was
not
a driver out of control,
but one who knew
exactly
what he or she was doing.

Someone was trying to run me down!

I barely had time to dive out of the way,
much less see who the driver was, or go for my .40 caliber revolver
that was safely tucked away in my purse.

At the last possible moment before impact, I
lifted myself off the ground and hurdled atop my hood as the car
raced past me with tires screeching. Unable to brace myself or grab
onto anything, I bounced against the windshield then fell back onto
the street, hitting my head on the pavement. The last thing I
remember was seeing a grayish black cloud of pollution trailing the
car and the license plate number RKL 497, before blacking
out...

I awoke with a splitting headache to Ridge's
smiling face. "Welcome back, Skye—" His smile was replaced with a
scowl. "You gave me one hell of a scare there!"

"What happened?" I asked groggily before I
realized I was in a hospital bed.

"You tell me," he said.

Another voice to my left said: "You suffered
a nasty bump on the head, Ms. Delaney—"

With a great deal of discomfort from the
neck up, along with other aches and pains, I swiveled my face to
see the person behind the voice was a middle-aged African American
man wearing standard hospital garb. A stethoscope hung from his
neck and he was holding a chart.

"I'm Doctor Ellison," he said, crinkling his
black eyes. "A passerby saw you on the street and called 911. An
ambulance brought you here to the Waikiki Medical Center ER. We
called Mr. Larsen as the person you asked to notify if something
happened to you—"

I was glad to know that Ridge was there to
offer comfort and support. I put a hand to my throbbing temple.
"Just tell me, Doctor," I moaned, "will this headache get better
before it gets worse?"

"Yes," he assured me. "You were very
fortunate. A mild concussion is the official diagnosis. Hopefully,
you'll be back on your feet in no time." His expression changed.
"As a precautionary measure, we're going to keep you here overnight
for observation. I'll give you something to ease the pain..."

He did, and it seemed to be working.

Ridge grabbed my hand, getting my attention.
"Was it a hit and run, Skye?"

I swallowed, nodding. "I think someone tried
to kill me—"

His brows furrowed. "Who?"

"I don't know," I managed. "The car was...a
dark color, older model—"

"Did you see who was in it?" Ridge
persisted. "Male? Female...?"

"Never saw the driver—" I hated to say,
feeling as if I had somehow let him and myself down.

"She should get some rest now," the doctor
intervened politely.

"This is
official
police business,"
Ridge told him, and flashed his I.D. for apparently the first time.
"Whoever did this will probably try again—unless we get to the
bastard first."

"Put a police guard on her if you want,"
Ellison said, "but I must insist that you come back later if you
want to ask her more questions—"

While they argued, something inside my head
clicked. One of the first things I learned at the Academy was
memorizing license plate numbers.

"Ridge—" I squeezed his hand and muttered:
"RKL 497."

* * *

"Looks like that son of a bitch Antonio
Ramirez was the one who tried to run you down," Ridge said angrily
after picking me up the next day. "We traced the plate number to a
car he owns. That's the good news. The bad news is that Ramirez is
still on the loose. We put out an APB. We'll get him—"

"But why would Antonio Ramirez try to kill
me?" I asked, surprised at this revelation. His alibi for Carter's
death had checked out. I looked out the car window at the passing
palm trees and businesses and then turned to Ridge's profile.

"I don't know. Maybe you rubbed him the
wrong way during our visit to the construction site," he suggested.
"Or it could be that Ramirez was using you to get even with Delaney
for putting his brother away. Who knows what set him off to go
after you."

I tried to picture Antonio Ramirez, but my
head was still throbbing despite the effects of extra strength
Tylenol. Given his size and muscular build, it didn't seem like he
would choose a car as his method for attacking me. Besides, killing
me would seem to go against the grain of the Jesus and church theme
he had spouted. While I hardly considered myself to be a pushover,
if Ramirez had wanted me dead, he probably could have gotten the
job done with his bare hands much more efficiently than the hit and
run method.
So why didn't he try?
I asked myself before
asking Ridge the same question.

"We'll ask him when we pick up," he said
simply. "My guess is that when it got right down to it, Ramirez
didn't have the balls to take you on without the protection of a
car while he did his dirty work."

"Perhaps," I said thoughtfully. "Or maybe
he's not the person who tried to run me down."

Ridge made it clear that he didn't want to
hear a point of view that could let Antonio Ramirez off the hook.
"Are you saying you think we're after the wrong man?"

I pondered the question. No one would have
faulted me if I'd accepted that my assailant had been quickly
uncovered, if not yet apprehended. But the more I thought about it,
the less I believed Antonio Ramirez was the person who nearly put
me out of commission for good even though it contradicted my memory
of his license plate number.

I was now starting to question my memory.
"You know it's possible," I told Ridge, "that I may have gotten the
plate number wrong. Maybe the L was really an I or the 9 a 6—"

He scratched his head, looked at me
sideways, and said: "I don't think so. The car description you gave
matched Ramirez's car. If that isn't proof enough, the man is on
the run." He looked into my eyes. "If you were guilty of nothing
more than mistaken identity, would you go underground?"

"Probably not," I admitted. But since
Ramirez was already a suspect in Carter's murder, I could envision
him panicking at the thought of being sent to prison for a hit and
run that he may have had no part in. Of course, that still didn't
explain why another killer would use his car, unless Ramirez was
being set up. I kept these thoughts to myself for now, not wanting
to get Ridge riled up again.

The worst thing about being in the hospital,
even for a day, was that I missed my dog. Ridge had kept him fed
during my absence, with help from Natsuko. I could hear Ollie
barking as we pulled into the driveway beside my car, which Ridge
had driven back from the scene of the crime.

"I'm keeping my eye on you," he declared,
"until Ramirez is apprehended."

"Anything you say,
Detective
Larsen."
I smiled at him, happy to have his company at a time when I was not
fully recovered from banging my head on the street and, as such,
more vulnerable than I was willing to admit.

We entered through the side door and were
met by Ollie. He was in a barking mood. Obviously, he had missed me
as much as I did him.

"He must be hungry," I told Ridge when it
became apparent that Ollie's barks went beyond being glad to see
me.

"I fed him this morning," Ridge said
defensively.

I tried to calm Ollie down and he nearly bit
my hand. "What's wrong, boy?" I asked. He barked back as if I were
suddenly his enemy. "Something's wrong, Ridge—" I said
intuitively.

Ollie ran down the hallway, barking
relentlessly.

"Wait here!" Ridge ordered. "Somebody might
be in the house—" He removed his .38 from a shoulder holster and
began walking down the hall toward the dining room and living
room.

The tension in the air was suddenly thick
enough to slice in more than once place. I removed the Smith and
Wesson from my purse and followed Ridge. Was Antonio Ramirez
actually laying in wait to take another crack at me? I wondered. Or
were we up against something or someone else?

I heard Ridge say "Oh, damn!" after he had
gone into the living room.

"Ridge?" I called out, and approached
cautiously, my head still pounding painfully. He stepped out just
before I got there, holding the .38 at his side. His face was
sullen.

"What is it?" I asked. Ollie ran out of the
room, barking and huffing.

Ridge hedged, as if the words would not come
out, prompting me to see for myself.

"Don't!" Ridge said to deaf ears as I
squirmed past him and looked in the living room. My knees nearly
buckled as my eyes looked up—

A stark naked Antonio Ramirez was twirling
by a rope around his neck from the ceiling fan...

CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN

On the coffee table beside some neatly
folded clothes that presumably belonged to Antonio Ramirez was a
typed suicide note, in which he confessed to the murders of Carter
Delaney, Edwin Axelrod, and Kalolo Nawahi. According to the note,
Ramirez blamed Carter for his brother's incarceration and had
planned his revenge for a long time, including what he described as
the perfect alibi. The note indicated that Axelrod and Nawahi's
murders were just meant to confuse the police.

Ramirez made no mention of the attempt on my
life, but did say that it only seemed fair that he end his life
where this whole thing began.

"I had a gut feeling about him all along,"
Ridge claimed as the victim was carted off to the morgue.

Me, too
, I thought, glancing at the
overturned chair that Ramirez had obviously been standing on before
hanging himself. But apparently my gut feeling was wrong. What type
of person used the church and Jesus as pawns in a multiple murder
scheme? I wondered. Was Antonio Ramirez truly that calculating and
clever? Or was there much more to this story than met the eye?

Once again, my house had been turned into a
police den of crime scene technicians and potential homicide
investigators. This time the general feeling was that it was a mere
formality to a case that, for all intents and purposes, was now
closed. Given Ramirez's size and stature, murder had all but been
ruled out, as it would have practically taken Hercules to wrap the
rope around his neck, lift him up, and hang him from the ceiling
fan.

For me, and Ollie, it would take a lot
longer to get over the trauma of having our residence invaded by
the sights, smells, and sounds of murder times two. Right now, I'd
just settle for a little relief from the headache that had
returned, no doubt brought on by the distressing events of the last
hour.

Ridge told me: "Ramirez must have figured we
were onto him and decided to save us the trouble of putting him
away." He scratched his chin. "He obviously found a way past your
security system again."

This, in and of itself, was disturbing to
me. What good was a security system if it could not keep out the
bad guys or at least alert the authorities in a timely manner.

"I'm just glad it's over," I said. Deep down
inside, I knew it would never be over for the families of the ones
Ramirez murdered. I thought of Darlene and Ivy, as well as Isabella
Axelrod, and found myself grieving along with them all over
again.