Mai Tais and Murder Read online

  I struggled, raising my hands to deflect him, but he just bored forward, until his leather-gloved hand finally wrapped around my throat. As he began to apply pressure, I gripped his wrist, tugging desperately. My gaze was still locked on his, and as he slowly squeezed the life from me, his eyes showed nothing—no emotion, no pleasure, just a dullness that suggested this was not his first time doing this.

  What number will I be? I wondered as I futilely tried to dislodge his hand. I had no idea what to do in this situation, how to fight him off. I thought about all the times Grace tried to get me to take self-defense classes with her in college, regretting telling her no. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

  I thought of Grace sitting in lockup, alone and helpless. What will happen to Grace?

  A knock on the front door startled my attacker enough that I could get my fingers down between his own and my throat. The knock came again, more insistent as I pried the fingers away from my throat, allowing precious air to flow into my lungs.

  The front door opened then, followed by a voice. “Gabe? Are you in here?”

  Maka! At the sound of the voice, my assailant leapt to his feet, and I coughed, trying to summon my voice.

  “Back here,” I croaked, doubtful that Maka could hear me.

  If he didn’t hear my words, he heard my coughing. “Gabe?”

  My assailant looked around my room, spotting the small veranda door. He rushed to it, shoving the curtains aside and sliding the door open. He leapt over the railing outside and disappeared into the night just as Maka hurried into my bedroom. His eyes fell on me there, almost glowing with what I thought might be concern—and anger? Still unsure of my voice, I pointed to the veranda.

  Maka hurried outside, looking around. He didn’t see anything, though, because he came back inside, whipping his phone from his pocket as he did. “This is Detective Kekoa. I need police at my address. There’s been a breaking and entry and assault.”

  Maka hung the phone up and stood over me, reaching a hand out to help me out of the box. I took it gratefully, not sure I had the strength to stand on my own. His touch was warm and comforting.

  On my feet now, my legs were wobbly, and my knees quickly buckled. Maka caught me, pulling me against his chest for a moment. The man’s body was like a heat rock, the warmth radiating off him and seeping into me. His scent swirled around me, cedar and cinnamon and male. I pulled away from him before my body started to react to his presence, taking a few shaky steps to sit down on the edge of my bed.

  I still felt Maka’s warmth, like a lingering touch, and flushed red despite the situation. I just prayed Maka didn’t notice, or equated it with the struggle I’d just engaged in if he did.

  “Want to tell me what just happened?”

  “If I can speak,” I replied, clinging to my sense of humor so I didn’t break down in a nervous fit. My throat still hurt, like the man’s hand still held tightly to it. My hand came up and massaged it, as if that could soothe away the pain. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard weird sounds and got worried. Who was that?”

  “If I knew that, I’d tell you, but I don’t.”

  “Well, what was he after?” Maka’s words were short, like his patience was waning. “Or do you not know that, either?”

  Well, I had to tell him eventually. This might not be the circumstances I would have preferred, but it was as good a time as any. I explained to him what I’d done—though I skirted around outright confessing to breaking and entering and stealing—and about the files I’d discovered.

  “That’s what the intruder was after,” I finished. “This is proof that you’ve got the wrong person! Grace couldn’t have done this; she’s in prison!”

  “Jail,” Maka corrected, his face unreadable. “And this just proves she couldn’t have done it alone. It doesn’t eliminate her from being involved. She’s got means, motive, and we haven’t cleared her alibi yet.”

  “What motive could Grace possibly have?” I cried. I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could think her capable of murder.

  Maka studied me for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was probably wondering exactly how much he should tell me—if he told me anything at all. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “A few days ago, Carrie accused her of stealing money from the company. We’re looking into that, so it’s not been proven yet, but it’s still potential motive.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you think Grace killed her because she discovered Grace was stealing and then specifically took me to the crime scene?”

  “It would make her look more innocent, being the one to discover the body—and not alone, either.”

  I knew Maka was just doing his job and thinking like a police officer should, but it infuriated me to no end. “So why don’t you think I’m in on it?”

  “We checked with your movers, and they were here, with you, at the time we estimate the murder took place,” Maka said, showing the slightest hint of bemusement. “Besides, you couldn’t have done it.”

  “Oh?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why not?”

  “I don’t think you’re that kind of person,” Maka said simply, the words stated with the utmost certainty in their accuracy. He truly didn’t think I was the kind of person who could commit murder. I didn’t know how to feel about that.

  “You just met me yesterday, how do you know?”

  The corner of Maka’s lip quirked up. “Are you saying you want me to think you capable of murder?”

  “No, but…just—oh, never mind.”

  “Tell me exactly what you found in the envelope,” Maka said, reverting to business mode.

  “A file marked Delgado, and a roll… Holy shit! A roll of film!”

  I jumped off the bed, startling Maka as I rushed out into my living room. Where did it go? Had the intruder noticed it, too?

  “What are you doing?” Maka asked, but I ignored him, eyes glued to the floor. Where had it gone? There! I reached down, snatching up the film roll. I brandished it victoriously at Maka.

  “This!”

  Maka squinted at it. “Film? Wait, this came from the file?”

  “Yes! Whoever stole the papers didn’t know pictures existed, I guess, or they were just in a hurry to get out of here. Either way, they left the film behind.”

  Maka reached to take it from me, but I put it behind my back and out of arm’s reach. “That’s evidence, Gabe.”

  “You can’t do anything with it, right? It’s fruit of the forbidden tree and all?”

  A look came over Maka’s face. “Why would it be fruit of the forbidden tree?”

  Damn it. It looked like I’d said too much, and he knew it. The look on his face must have been his smug one. How could he even be beautiful when he was being smug?

  “I…might not have had permission to borrow the file,” I confessed, looking anywhere but at him.

  “You stole it,” he clarified. I nodded. I expected an explosion of anger, or even handcuffs, but instead Maka let out a chuckle, a deep sound that vibrated right to the core of my being. His expression was one of exasperated amusement. “That’s a ballsy move, man. You’re one crazy haole.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Not that I want you to—I mean, I’d rather you didn’t, but I’m shocked.”

  “I should, especially if it turns out to be useful evidence, but there are ways we can get it back. Let me think about it a bit. Until then, you can hold on to it. Pretend I don’t know it exists.”

  I nodded, sliding the container into my pocket. There weren’t words for just how relieved I felt.

  The police arrived a few minutes later, questioning both Maka and me. Benet’s arrival behind the police didn’t surprise me at all, nor did the blatantly hostile attitude he took toward me.

  “Tell me why you’re suddenly the center of a lot of illegal activity the past few days?”

  “Lay off, Benet. He wa
s attacked,” Maka scolded, earning himself a scowl.

  “Okay, why was he attacked?”

  “It’s all in the report, brah. I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow.”

  Benet didn’t say anything more, apparently accepting Maka’s words, but the look he sent me spoke volumes. He did not like me. Well you know what? The feeling was mutual.

  Just like that, I’d had enough. Not only was I attacked in my own home, but now I was getting the evil eye from some asshole detective? No thank you.

  I stalked into my bedroom and started for my dresser. Maka followed behind me. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” I snapped. “Getting some clothes and going to a hotel. Who knows how long this is going to take?”

  “What if the intruder decides there’s more they need to collect?” A furtive glance from Maka at my pocket told me what he was referring to. I was grateful for his discretion. I didn’t expect him to conceal things from his partner for me. If I wasn’t so worn out from the whole night, I’d have spent a little more time wondering just why it was he was willing to do so. “They found your apartment easily enough. What makes you think they won’t find you in a hotel?”

  “Well, I can’t stay here,” I said, exasperated. Why was this day just not cooperating?

  “True. Your security needs a major update. Come next door. Stay with me till we get this figured out.”

  “What?” It was a good thing I couldn’t see my own face, because I’m sure the look on it was bug-eyed and unappealing.

  “It makes the most sense,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most casual thing in the world for him to invite people involved in his cases to sleep in his apartment. For all I knew, it was. I couldn’t help but think that would be a conflict of interest, though. “I can keep an eye on you, and you’re close to home.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Consider it part of my duty,” Maka’s tone brooked no argument. “I’d like to keep an eye on my eyewitness and anything else that might be valuable.” Another look toward my pocket, this one more pointed.

  I realized I couldn’t really argue with him on this, especially since he could easily arrest me. He had me by the balls, just not in a fun way.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Looks like we’re having a sleepover.”

  Chapter Seven

  Maka’s condo had the same layout as mine, though he had much better taste in decor. I tried to tell myself that I had only just moved in and it would get better, but I knew it for a lie. You can lie to strangers, but you can’t lie to yourself. I never had a real flare for decorating; my apartment in Seattle was Spartan.

  Lamps in the living room cast a warm glow, and the kitchen area looked homey and used. There were pot holders and dish towels in a winery theme, and I noticed that the wallpaper was just bunches of grapes. The living room had a nice, comfy-looking sectional sofa in a chocolate color with red throw pillows added for color. Photographs hung on the walls, and I wanted to study them. A single low bookshelf lined the far wall, stuffed with books. Maka had framed and mounted his police academy certificate over it. The biggest feature of the living room was the massive television, at least sixty inches.

  “Your place looks way better than mine,” I commented.

  “It’s nothing special, but thanks.”

  When Maka walked past me, my eyes couldn’t help but follow him, like they’d been caught in his gravity. He dropped his keys on a narrow table just before the door to the kitchen, and removed his gun belt. He hung it on a hook above the table—the holster strap unsecured, I noticed, for ease of access no doubt. He continued on into the kitchen before opening the refrigerator and bending over to peer into it.

  Don’t look at his ass, I instructed myself, even as my eyes went straight to the full curve of Maka’s backside. Okay, fine. Stop looking now, though.

  “You want a beer? After everything that happened, I’m sure you could use a drink.” Maka looked at me from over his shoulder, and I snapped my eyes up to his, praying he didn’t notice me oogling his ass. The last thing I needed was to make an enemy out of Maka, the one person other than Grace who seems to be on my side at the moment.

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I would love a beer.”

  Not wanting to get caught staring again, I forced my attention to the living room, giving in to my earlier desire to examine the pictures he had around. The first few I came to, clustered together near the television, were of him and his family when he was young. In one of them, he couldn’t have been older than four, and he was damn adorable, smiling this huge, carefree grin and covered head to toe in dirt. The woman with him, beautiful but ethereal-looking compared to the solid realness of Maka, held him in her arms, her own smile on her face, while a baby of one or two sat in the dirt, having the time of her life.

  The second picture in the cluster featured an eleven- or twelve-year-old Maka, a boy already growing into the beefy body he had today. He wore a wet suit and had a surfboard held up over his head. Beside him, slightly in the shadow of the board, stood a girl who looked to be his younger sister, dressed in normal beachwear, no surfboard in sight. She had a smile on her face, but there was something fragile about her.

  The third picture had a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old Maka—quite a stud, even at that age, I saw—once again in a wet suit, no surfboard this time, and a gold medal around his neck. His sister had her arms around his neck, proudly embracing him while he held up his medal with one hand and hugged her with the other arm. Studying the picture closely, I saw that she was definitely weak. Her skin was pale and something in her eyes spoke of suppressed pain.

  The last picture in that cluster caught my eye the most. Maka stood in it, wearing what I could only call a loincloth, bracelets on his wrist and neck, and flower leis on his neck and head. His body glowed with sweat, even in the picture, and he looked happy. It was the first picture I’d seen without his sister.

  “That’s me after a hula performance.”

  To my credit, I did not jump in surprise when Maka spoke next to me. I hadn’t noticed his approach, having been so wrapped up in the pictures. For a moment I felt embarrassed, like I’d been caught peeking behind a curtain I shouldn’t have, but Maka didn’t look or sound upset so I figured it was fine. I took the beer he offered me gratefully. I chuckled at the bottle, which sported a blonde woman in a grass skirt and a lei and was aptly named Bikini Blonde.

  “Huli pau,” Maka said, clinking his can against mine.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what it meant, given the context, so I said it back, certain I tripped over the sounds somehow. “You look good,” I said, gesturing toward the picture with the beer can. “The traditional uniform, I mean,” I blurted when I realized what I said. “What is it called?”

  Smooth. Really smooth, you idiot. Keep it up, maybe you can manage to make an even bigger ass of yourself.

  “The loincloth is called a malo. The grass skirt is a pa’u—both men and women wear them, though the one worn by men isn’t as ornate as the one worn by women. You know what a lei is, I’m sure. The bracelets, anklets, and headpiece are called kupe’e. Each dancer makes their own kupe’e, stringing flowers, beads, sometimes feathers, or even bones. It creates an experience unique to each dancer. The sounds or scents of the kupe’e draw the audience deeper into the hula performance. It is one of the longest-held traditions of Hawai’i.”

  I noted that there was something different about the way he said Hawaii and the way I did, a change in pronunciation that I couldn’t quite put my thumb on. I decided not to try to mimic it; I would probably fail and embarrass myself and just show how much of an outsider I actually was.

  “What brought you here?” Maka inquired suddenly, his too-intense eyes drawing me in. He sat down on the sectional sofa, patting the cushion next to him, like he wanted me to sit there. Before I could even register the thought, I sat down right next to him, even though there was a lot more couch I
could have chosen.

  “To Hawaii, you mean?”

  “Well, I know what brings you to my place, so yes, Hawai’i.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, drumming my fingers against my beer can. “That’s a bit of a long story.”

  Maka leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face turned in my direction. It looked like he sincerely wanted to hear the story, for some strange reason. “I’m sure there’s a CliffsNotes version, right?”

  I sighed deeply, not believing that I was about to delve once more into a pretty painful scenario, simply because Maka wanted to know. Taking a deep swig of beer for courage, I gathered my thoughts and strength to begin.

  “I was born in Oregon, but went to university at the University of Washington. That’s where I met Grace, on my first day on campus, actually. We became friends right away, not that either of us was surprised. It was almost like…fate, I guess. We were meant to randomly meet in front of the dorm. We asked each other for directions at the exact same time, and that was it. I know it seems silly and simplistic, but that’s how our friendship started.” I smiled wanly at the memory of the two of us, younger, both feeling lost and out of our element, standing there that late summer day.

  “You know,” said Maka thoughtfully, “most friendships we make in college don’t last forever. That you and Grace are still friends, even though she’s here and you weren’t, that says something.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think it’s possible for us not to be friends, at this point. I can’t even imagine it, honestly. Anyway, back to my story. Junior year of college I met this guy—Trevor Berkley.”

  Maka snorted. “Sounds like a rich haole name.”

  “I don’t really know what Howlie—”

  “Haole,” he corrected gently.

  “—means, but you got the rich part right.”

  “Haole just means foreigner, someone who isn’t a native Hawaiian—though usually it specifically means white people.”

  “So I’m a haole.” It didn’t sound negative to me, not exactly—at least not when Maka said it—but no one really liked being labeled as “other.” “What if I was born Hawaii?”