Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (36 page)

He lifted his cell phone and pushed a
button. "Yes, I need to speak to Elizabeth Racine. She's a guest
there." A few moments passed. "What do you mean there's no one
registered there by that name?"

Leila regarded Seymour. She wondered if
Racine's reaction was mainly for their benefit.

He hung up, eyes downcast. "They said she
never checked in, even though she had made a reservation."

Leila supposed it had been smart to cover
her tracks. That was, until someone made certain they ran out for
good.

"Larry Nagasaka was also murdered at the
condo," she said.

"Larry—" Kenneth gulped. "Are you telling me
my wife and Larry were having an affair?"

"Sure looks that way."

"That bloody bastard."

Leila didn't disagree, but that was beside
the point. "You had no idea your wife was seeing another man?"

Kenneth sneered. "Isn't the spouse always
last to know?"

"Not always," said Seymour. "We need you to
account for your whereabouts tonight."

"You're kidding, right? You think I actually
had something to do with this?"

"Wouldn't be the first time a vindictive
spouse offed his wife and lover."

Kenneth took a step backward. "Look, I loved
my wife and would never have wanted her dead, no matter what. I've
been working my ass off here since three o'clock trying to keep
this unit together."

* * *

"His story seems to hold up." Seymour stood
beside Leila in the elevator.

"Even in a busy hospital, people can
sometimes see what they want to," she said.

"True. Wouldn't be too much of a stretch to
believe Racine could've taken a break from his duties to get rid of
a cheating wife and her lover."

Leila ran a hand through her hair. "Aren't
doctors supposed to be in the business of saving lives?"

Seymour gave her a deadpan look. "That may
well depend on whose life it is."

He drove on the Honoapiilani Highway to West
Maui where Leila lived.

"Do you want to get a drink?"

Leila didn't look his way. "Tempting, but I
think I'll call it a night, if that's okay. It's been a long
day."

"You're right, it has been, and that's
fine."

"Another time?" She faced him.

"Yeah." He turned to look at her and back to
the road. A few minutes later Seymour dropped Leila off at home.
"See you tomorrow."

"Count on it." She gave a little smile and
waved.

Seymour drove off, thinking she was probably
the most levelheaded cop he knew, including himself. And also the
best looking, which may have been the problem. He loved her new
hairstyle, a short bob with sloping edges. Of course he kept his
compliments in check, not wanting to make either of them
uncomfortable in what was a good working relationship. Partnering
up with Leila might not have been his first choice, but she'd
earned his respect and taught him a few things along the way.

Seymour took the Kahekili Highway to the
place he was renting in central Maui. Unlike the resort areas on
the west and south sides of Maui, there wasn't much here to excite
tourists. The fact that real people like him lived and worked in
central Maui made it more to his liking, aside from living alone
for the time being.

He would've preferred going to the house he
once shared with his wife, Mele. That was before he screwed up, got
caught, and was kicked out four months ago. She had yet to file for
divorce, but since there was virtually no real communication
between them, he feared it was only a matter of time.

When they did talk, it was mostly about
their eight-year-old daughter, Akela. They had adopted her when she
was less than a month old after learning that Mele was unable to
have children. Akela was the one thing in his life Seymour was most
proud of. He hated having to disappoint her. But he was a cop and
had been for twenty of his forty-six years. Someday Akela would
understand that people like him were needed to go after the bad
guys in the world. Or at least within Hawaii. Until then, he would
continue to try and balance the things most important to him.

Seymour thought about the crime that left
two doctors dead. There was nothing more to be done tonight other
than hope they caught a break and made an arrest.

As to what drove the killer to taking the
two lives was pure conjecture at this point. But it didn't mean he
wasn't up to some guesswork. Obviously the victims thought they had
the perfect place for their affair.

Well, they were dead wrong.

They had ticked someone off. Or maybe one
had been targeted and the other was just collateral damage.

Either way, a killer was on the loose and
that was always cause for concern for you never knew what one might
do next after experiencing their first kill and finding it agreed
with them.

* * *

MURDER IN MAUI: A Leila Kahana Mystery is
now available in eBook through Kindle, Nook, iTunes, and in audio
from Audible.com, Amazon, and iTunes.

# # #

Bonus excerpts from the bestselling
hardboiled thriller DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake Mystery by
R. Barri Flowers

DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake
Mystery

CHAPTER ONE

I'd just stepped out of the restaurant, the
greasy food still settling in my stomach, wondering if I was ever
going to get out of the Rose City, when I saw her approaching with
a tall man. I did a double take, barely believing my eyes, but
trusting the sudden racing of my heart.

It was
her
—Vanessa King. Still as
gorgeous as ever. How many years had it been? Ten? Eleven? Too many
to even want to think about. Yet that was all I could do at the
moment, especially when she was the best thing that ever happened
to me. And I'd thrown it all away for reasons I couldn't
explain.

If only I could turn back the hands of time,
things might have turned out differently. Me, Vanessa, and all the
joy we could bring to each other.

The day we met years ago was forever
ingrained in my mind for more reasons than one...

* * *

The dictionary defines fate as "unfortunate
destiny." Once upon a time, I didn't buy into forecasts of doom and
gloom, much less associate it with my life as a private eye and
even more private individual. But then I took on two seemingly
unrelated cases and one bizarre thing seemed to lead to the next
and even I began to wonder if I was somehow tempting fate.

Before I begin my fateful tale, let me
introduce myself. The name is Dean Jeremy Drake, or D.J. for those
close enough to be called friends or kin. Otherwise it's simply
Drake. Some call me a pain in the ass. Others see me as a
half-breed with an attitude. I prefer to think of myself as a
forty-one-year-old, six-five, ex-cop turned private investigator
who happens to be the product of an interracial affair.

My parents, who have both since gone to
heaven, couldn't have been more different. My father was Jamaican
black, mother Italian white. But for one steamy night they found
some common interests and ended up with me for their trouble.

I admit I can be a pain in the ass with an
attitude, or a gentle giant with a perpetual smile on my
square-jawed face, depending on which side of the bed I wake up on.
But that's another story. Let's concentrate on this one for
now.

It was raining like the second coming of
Noah's Ark on that day at the tail end of July. I was sitting in my
Portland, Oregon office, my feet on the desk as if they belonged
there. The Seattle Mariners were on the tube playing the Oakland
A's in sunny California. With three innings to go, the Mariners
were getting a major league ass whipping, 11-0. To add insult to
injury, there was a rumor that the players were planning to go on
strike next month.

Who the hell needed them anyway? I'd had
just about all I could take from greedy players, and owners who
never seemed to tire of bleeding the fans dry. For me, this was
merely a tune-up for the mother of all sports—football. The
exhibition season was due to start next month in what might finally
be a winning season for the Seahawks, my adopted team and a three
hour drive away on a good day with light traffic.

The Mariners had finally gotten on the
scoreboard with a solo shot when I heard one knock on my door and
watched it open before I could even say come in.

A tall, chunky, white man entered wearing a
wrinkled and dripping wet gray suit. He had a half open umbrella in
one hand that looked as if he had forgotten to use it, a leather
briefcase in the other. "Nasty out there," he muttered, and let out
a repulsive sneeze.

"Tell me about it," I groaned. You didn't
live in a city like Portland if you expected sunny, dry weather
year round, though a soaker like this was pretty rare in late July.
I was still partly distracted by the game, when I asked routinely:
"How can I help you?"

That's when he walked up to me, stuck an
I.D. in my face, and said: "Frank Sherman, Deputy District Attorney
for Multnomah County—"

Only then did it dawn on me that I knew the
man. Or at least I used to. Like me, Sherman was an ex-cop in his
early forties. He had made that relatively rare jump from law
enforcement to criminal law, while I had chosen private
investigation work as my answer to justice for all. The closest I'd
come to law school was the B.A. I'd earned in Criminal Justice from
Portland State University. This hardly made me in awe of the man
before me. He had gone his way and I had gone mine. Right now, it
looked as if our ways had converged.

"Narcotics, right?" I asked, taking my feet
off the desk.

He nodded proudly, and ran a hand through
wet, greasy dark blonde hair. "And you were homicide?"

"Seems like two lifetimes ago," I
exaggerated. In fact, it had been six years since I turned in my
badge and the stress and strain that went with it for a lesser,
more independent kind of misery. That Sherman could identify my
department meant he had done his homework or my reputation preceded
itself. I chose to believe the latter.

"At least we made it out on our own two
feet." Sherman looked down on me with big blue eyes and a twisted
smile. He was heavier than I remembered him, by maybe fifteen
pounds. No, make that twenty. I turned off the TV to give him my
undivided and curious attention. I did maybe a quarter of my work
for the D.A.'s office, but I almost always went to them rather than
the other way around.

"So is this a social call?" I asked, but
seriously doubted. "Or have those unpaid traffic tickets finally
caught up with me?"

He lost the twisted smile, and said
directly: "I'd like to hire you, Drake—on behalf of the State. Mind
if I sit?"

I indicated the folding chair nearest to
him—a flea market pickup that was a bargain. "I'm listening..."

Sherman laid the briefcase on the desk,
opened it, and removed a folder. "It's the dossier on Jessie
The
Worm
Wylson," he explained, handing it to me. "He's wanted in
connection with the sale and distribution of narcotics and
methamphetamines. This bastard is personally responsible for most
of the drugs poisoning our city and turning our kids into
junkies!"

I looked at the face of a bald, dark-skinned
black man on the dossier. It said he was thirty-five, six feet
tall, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Wylson was a
resident of Portland and had been in and out of jail most of his
life for an assortment of drug and theft charges.

Even if I believed he was the scum of the
earth, I had trouble buying that this one dude was behind most of
the drugs floating about the city. In my book, that distinction
belonged to the Columbia drug cartels and the rich Americans who
made getting drugs into this country as easy as addicts getting
crack on the inner city streets.

"Why do they call him The Worm?" I had to
ask.

Sherman shrugged. "Heard someone gave him
that name while he was in the joint, probably because he always
seems able to worm his way out of trouble." He scowled. "Not this
time."

There was something sinister about
Sherman's, "Not this time." I took another look at Jessie The Worm
Wylson, before shifting my gray-brown eyes to the man on the other
side of the desk. "If I find him—which I assume you'd like me to
do—what makes you think he won't manage to slip away again?"

Sherman shifted somewhat uncomfortably.
"It's a chance we're more than willing to take," he said evenly,
"provided you can locate his ass. If I have my way, once he's in
custody, Wylson will be in a cheap, wooden box the next time he
gets out." He sneezed then wiped his nose with a dirty
handkerchief. "So what do you say, Drake, will you take the
case?"

I glanced once more at the dossier and the
man called The Worm. It seemed like a simple enough investigation.
But I knew that no investigation ever turned out to be that simple,
especially when it involved the district attorney's office. In
fact, finding anyone on the streets of Portland could sometimes be
like searching for a hypodermic needle in an urban jungle.

For some reason, I found myself hesitating
in jumping all over this case. Like most P.I.'s, I liked to go with
my instincts. And, from the beginning, there was definitely
something about the case that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was
the surreptitious meeting with a member of the D.A.'s office
outside the D.A.'s office. Or perhaps it was uneasiness in taking
on an investigation that I presumed was still active with the
Portland Police Department. Experience told me that they didn't
take too kindly to meddlesome private eyes muscling in on their
territory.

Sherman seemed to be reading my mind. "If
you're wondering why you instead of one of our regular
investigators, the answer is simple. I want this asshole off the
street! I was told that you do things your own way, and not always
within the guidelines you learned as a cop. We both know that
sometimes the guidelines can be a bitch when it comes to justice
for all." He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm willing—unofficially—to
do whatever it takes to find Jessie Wylson. Of course, the D.A.'s
office will cover all of your regular fees and expenses."