Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 11

  Handsome men were also just as capable of committing murder as their less than handsome counterparts. Adultery went without saying and, in some minds, was just as bad.

  "My name's Skye Delaney," I began, figuring the common last name of his lover would likely cause a stir within him. Simultaneously, I presented my I.D., adding: "I'm a private investigator looking into Carter Delaney's death—"

  Axelrod took a long look at my credentials, then my face. "How can I help you?" he asked as if he had no idea.

  "I'm not sure, really," I admitted, and took a sweeping glance at the spacious and expensively furnished art deco office, before returning my focus to the attorney. "Maybe you could start by telling me about your affair with Darlene Delaney."

  His brows knitted. "I don't know what you're talking about. If she put you up to this, you've wasted both our time—"

  "I think it's time well spent," I responded curtly. "I'm afraid it's you who's wasting it—" I pulled a few snapshots out of a folder, calmly walked over to his large teak desk, and placed the photos side by side across the top of it. "You might want to take a look at these," I said with a catch to my voice.

  Axelrod hesitated, as though he knew it was something he'd rather not see, before moving across the plush carpeting and looking down.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong," I said smugly, "but that is you with Mrs. Carter Delaney, isn't it?" I watched as a startled look of resignation crossed his face. "I believe the place is called the Palm Tree Lodge."

  He gathered the pictures together and tried unsuccessfully to squeeze them into a ball. "Where the hell did you get these?" he demanded, glaring at me.

  I met his eyes head-on. "Believe it or not, I took them with my very own camera. Carter Delaney hired me to find out if his wife was having an affair. Those pictures—and there are more—prove it. Problem is, my client ended up dead before he got the chance to see them."

  I picked up a framed photograph from the desk. It was a picture of Axelrod and the model-like beauty he obviously couldn't wait to get back to. It looked like it had been taken recently. Gazing at the real life Edwin Axelrod, I said nonchalantly: "As an attorney, doesn't that strike you as just a wee bit suspicious and coincidental?"

  He yanked the frame from my hand like it was more precious than gold and set it back on the desk. "Not particularly." He curled his lip. "So I had an affair with Darlene Delaney. Sue me. It wasn't even fulfilling, to tell you the truth. There certainly was no reason for me to want to kill her husband—"

  Stranger things have happened, I thought, while taking note of the past tense nature of the affair. I assumed Darlene was of the same mind, considering her rather precarious situation.

  "Anyway, the police already know I was out of town when Delaney was killed," Axelrod pointed out. "I'm sure even you're smart enough to know you can't be in two places at the same time, detective—"

  Beneath that cool façade was definitely a cold, arrogant son of a bitch, I thought. Not to mention patronizing. He was confident in his denials. Perhaps a little too confident. But did that make him guilty of anything other than poor judgment and a desire for someone outside his marriage?

  "Yes, you're right about that—no one can be in two places at once," I had to agree. Yet something still didn't seem right about this one. I decided to apply the pressure a bit more to see how he reacted. "Just out of curiosity," I said, "how do you think Carter Delaney would have reacted had he found out you were involved with his wife?"

  Axelrod seemed to weigh his response carefully, then said: "I don't suppose he would've been too happy about it."

  "Is it a fair assumption that he might have been angry enough to do you bodily harm?" I asked dramatically. In reality, the Carter I knew was non-violent. It was the Carter I didn't know that worried me.

  Edwin Axelrod's patience seemed to be running thin. "I can't answer the question if I don't know the answer. Can I, Ms. Delaney?"

  He stepped closer, bearing down on me with eyes that could best be described as menacing. Was he trying to intimidate me, or cover his ass by playing tough guy?

  I took a step or two backwards. "I guess not," I replied curtly. "Unless, of course, Carter knew about you and his wife, threatened you with maybe more than bodily harm, and you decided to do him in before he followed through on his plan. But first, you had to conveniently arrange to be out of town and leave the dirty work to some hired assassin. Does that sound about right?" I knew I was overstepping my bounds and in the process exaggerating the chain of events. Still, the scenario struck me as entirely plausible.

  Once again Axelrod approached me, and once again I backed up, feeling somewhat threatened. "You have a very overactive imagination, Ms. Delaney," he said tautly. "If you can prove your tale, I suggest you take it to the police. Now get the hell out of my office!"

  I gave him a nasty look, realizing I had overstayed my welcome. "All right, I'm going..." I took a few steps toward the door, stopped, and asked, as if a harmless afterthought: "Just for the record, mind telling me what your blood type is?"

  Axelrod stiffened where he stood. "What for?"

  I tried to put it in a way he could relate to. "You might say I have a fetish for certain blood types..."

  Being a clever attorney, he wasn't buying that for one second. But Axelrod could hardly refuse to answer the question without giving the guise that he had something to hide.

  "A positive," he said casually. "Not all that unusual, really. Dogs don't go for blood that's too tart. Sorry." He flashed me a crooked grin. "I know all about you, Delaney, and your self-appointed mission to single-handedly bring your late ex-husband's killer to justice. Well, you won't find him here—"

  I batted my eyes at this man who was evidently even smarter than I gave him credit for. But he wasn't as smart as he may have thought he was.

  "Who said anything about Carter's murderer definitely being a male?" I doubted that the police had made it public knowledge that the AB negative blood Ollie took from the assailant belonged to a male. That gave me another opportunity to put the squeeze on Axelrod for his reaction. Directing my attention to the framed photo on his desk, I asked what seemed obvious: "Is that your wife?"

  Axelrod acknowledged it indirectly. "Leave her the hell out of this!"

  Did he know something I didn't? I wondered. At the very least, perhaps the wife was involved indirectly, I thought. "I assume she doesn't know about you and Darlene."

  His temples swelled. "That's none of your damned business. This meeting is over!" He grabbed the damaging photos. "And take these with you..."

  "Keep them for your archives," I told him. "I have them on a flash drive in case I need reprints—"

  I left him brooding over our conversation. In the elevator, I wondered if Edwin Axelrod's wife did know about the affair and, if not, what lengths he might be willing to go to in order to keep his sordid little secret from his young wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I woke up the following morning feeling really stressed for some reason. Perhaps it was the company I'd been keeping recently. Or not so recent. I decided to go jogging to burn off the stress and try to keep things in a proper perspective. Including the fact that Carter was gone and there was nothing I could do about it other than try to find his killer, if the police didn't do it first.

  As usual, jogging worked like a charm. Ollie and I pounded the sand and got in some good exercise at the same time.

  An hour later, I did my cool down, stretched, and took a long, hot shower. Feeling somewhat refreshed and reinvigorated, I chased Ollie around the house—actually I think it was the other way around—for a time, before we both decided to call it quits and find something more productive to do with our time.

  For me, it was doing my weekly grocery shopping that was already two days overdue. The cart was stuffed with mostly healthy food as I made my way down the cereal aisle en route to the checkout lane. I stopped in the middle when someone called my name from behind.

  "I thoug
ht that was you..." said Lily Yokouchi, a butcher at the store and former neighbor when I was Mrs. Carter Delaney. She wore an apron that was splattered with more blood than I cared to ponder.

  "It was the last time I looked in the mirror," I said lightheartedly. I always seemed to miss seeing Lily whenever I came to the store, but not deliberately. Neither of us could help it if, as an attractive divorcee, she seemed to get along better with Carter than me back in the day. I tried not to take it personally.

  She gave me a strained smile. "Pehea 'oe? she asked.

  "Maika'i no au," I responded in Hawaiian, meaning I was fine. "And you?"

  "O ia mau no," she said, or the same as usual. She wiped her hands on her bloody apron and I hoped she didn't plan to shake mine. "Keeping busy. You know how that is."

  I did and told her so.

  Furrows formed on her brow. "Heard about Carter. I wanted to call, but...I really wasn't sure what to say—"

  "Don't worry about it," I told her, feeling the same way and trying to remember that Carter was my ex-spouse, not current lover. I glanced at my frozen foods that were beginning to thaw.

  "You never really believe something like that can happen to someone you know, until it does—" Lily said.

  "There are no guarantees for any of us," I muttered. "Life can go as quickly as it comes."

  Lily saw right through me. "But there should be guarantees against being the victim of violent crime." She gulped. "If such a terrible tragedy can happen to one of the most well respected, successful men in this city, how can the rest of us feel safe from harm?"

  Her point was well taken. Carter didn't deserve such a fate, even as my ex-husband with problems beyond the cool, calm façade he presented.

  "I know," I muttered. Especially when one or more people were still on the loose after murdering Carter Delaney, I thought. To Lily, I said: "Fortunately these things don't happen all the time—at least not in Honolulu."

  I was hoping to leave it at that and get my groceries home before they melted or withered away before my very eyes, when Lily asked: "Will they be making an arrest soon for Carter's murder? Or is this going to turn out to be one of those unsolved mysteries that will end up on a television crime show someday?"

  "We can only hope for the best," I suggested lamely, the thought of Carter's murder never being solved unnerving me. My eyes lowered to my cart, and back to her. "I've really got to get going. Nice to see you again, Lily."

  "I'll call you—" she said as a parting shot, which we both knew would never happen.

  I made it through the checkout line in no time flat. The sliding doors parted for me and the young male clerk who insisted on carting my groceries to the car for me. I allowed it, still preoccupied with finding Carter's killer.

  At home, Ollie was only too happy to see me and, even more, his dog food. I had just finished putting the last of the groceries away when Ridge phoned. His voice always provided welcome relief from whatever was ailing me, even if his presence was not always the answer.

  That didn't stop him from trying a back door approach to getting together. "What you need is a head to toe massage, which just happens to be something I specialize in," he hummed suggestively.

  "Sounds wonderful," I said, speaking from past experience. "But today I really need to be alone... Tomorrow," I added hopefully, "I may be in need of some serious massage therapy—"

  Ridge seemed to accept this without sounding hurt, even if he was. "Any time, any place," he said. "Just say the word—"

  I kept that in mind and switched subjects. "Any new news on Carter's murder investigation?"

  Ridge hesitated before answering. "We don't have anyone in custody," he said, then added with assurance: "But no one around here is going to get any rest till we do—"

  That was a comforting thought, if not the same thing as having the case solved. I was still left with several questions about Carter's death and determined to get some answers. If not for his widow, then for the daughter Carter had left behind.

  I downplayed it to Ridge when he probed me about my unofficial investigation into Carter's murder. At this point, I wasn't prepared to share any information, especially since he seemed in no hurry to do the same. Not that I had much to share. But he didn't have to know that.

  We were both fully aware that this case was different from others Ridge and I had helped each other with. Carter's death had almost become larger than his life ever was. Until the public and I were satisfied that justice was served, there would be no business as usual. And that included the private business between Ridge and me, even if a part of me wanted to run into his arms.

  I cuddled up with Ollie on the sofa and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The investigation into Carter Delaney's death was round the clock. Ridge felt the pressure from both the top and bottom. Every lead had to be checked and double-checked. Even the usual crackpots and assholes flooding the department lines with so-called tips and sightings of potential suspects couldn't be ignored.

  Not this time.

  The last thing this city in so-called paradise needed was an unsolved case involving a man who some almost worshipped for his successful prosecutorial days and even greater success in the business world. Between the press hounding them and concerned citizens demanding that an arrest be made, Ridge was starting to believe that if they didn't have a bona fide suspect in custody soon, they may well have a damned near riot on their hands.

  Fortunately, Ridge got along well with Henry Kawakami, who was currently shuffling some papers at his desk. He doubted they would ever be best buddies, but they respected each other and, more importantly, knew their temporary partnership could make or break them insofar as career advancement.

  Kawakami told Ridge about his one date with Skye before Carter Delaney ever came into the picture. He said it fell apart after that and Ridge never asked why. What happened in Skye's romantic past was none of his business, unless she wanted it to be.

  Except where it concerned Carter Delaney, now that he had met his maker. He had resurfaced in Skye's life, and Ridge had perhaps rather foolishly encouraged it. Consequently, they both had to see this through, even if it put a definite and unavoidable strain on their relationship.

  Ridge blamed himself for that. He was under orders to avoid talking to Skye about the case as far as anything useful, in spite of the fact that she had a right to know where things stood in the investigation if for no other reason than Carter Delaney was still unofficially her client. Until satisfied that her case had no bearing on his death, Skye would keep digging till she could draw her own conclusions.

  Ridge feared that this could only end up putting her in danger. He didn't believe for one second that she couldn't take care of herself just as well as any male private eye with a background in police work. But that didn't stop him from being worried about her. He couldn't rest while a killer who knew where she lived was out there.

  Maybe when this was over, he and Skye could escape to one of the other islands or Las Vegas for some romantic time together.

  Right now, any such vacation seemed a long way off, Ridge thought. Especially when there were more pressing matters to keep him awake at night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I went to a luau on Waikiki Beach. Scantily clad, shapely island girls moved their hips gracefully to sensual Hawaiian music while hunky male hula dancers performed choreographed, athletic moves in the background. Bordering them were Samoan fire knife dancers, daringly and skillfully twirling knives of fire.

  I honed in on a Polynesian dancer named Leilani Mahaulu who, according to Darlene, was having an affair with Carter right up to the end of his life. Maybe she knew something that could shed some light on his death.

  It didn't take much to understand what Carter saw in Leilani. She was gorgeous and exotic with long, silky black hair and a curvaceous body that I could only dream of.

  I recalled seeing Leilani at the funeral, looking miserable. Now she looked li
ke a hula dancer who hadn't a care in the world other than pleasing her audience, which included me. I was less interested in the show than sizing up the woman Carter was alleged to have been involved with and who may have intimate knowledge of why he was murdered. Admittedly, there also was a morbid curiosity on my part about her as the other woman who came after the woman who had succeeded me as Carter's romantic interest.

  I was baffled as to why Carter had hired me to prove Darlene was being unfaithful if he was also up to his same old dirty tricks in bed.

  After the hula performance was over, I wasted little time catching up to Leilani. She was still in costume, but seemed eager to change into street clothes.

  "Nice dancing," I told her and meant it, while wondering if I had what it took to master the technique.

  She grinned. "Mahalo."

  "My name's Skye Delaney," I said calmly. "I'm a private investigator."

  Leilani looked at me curiously. "What do you want with me?"

  "I'm investigating Carter Delaney's death."

  She gave me the once-over. "Who are you? His sister?"

  I made a face. "No, I'm his ex-wife—"

  This revelation clearly took her by surprise. Leilani wet her lips. "I'm sorry, about Carter," she said. "But what does his death have to do with me?"

  This was where it sometimes got sticky, I thought. "Maybe nothing at all," I said carefully. "Or maybe everything..."

  She raised a brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  I narrowed my eyes at her calculatingly. "You were having an affair with Carter, weren't you?"

  Her expression grew tense. "Who told you that?"

  "His widow, Darlene Delaney."