Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 18

  The waitress brought our lunch.

  Whitney tasted her kung pao chicken, then gave me a stern look and asked the obvious question: "Why in the hell did you let this man you wanted nothing more to do with back into your life, even if it was only for professional reasons?"

  I had probably asked myself that a thousand times since Carter's death. Was it to prove my growth and objectivity? Was it to reassure Ridge that he had nothing to worry about? Or was—as I imagined Whitney must have thought—I still in love with Carter?

  It took me only a moment to come to the conclusion I had reached from the time I'd agreed to work for him. "It had nothing to do with my personal feelings for Carter," I said firmly. "It wasn't about hoping for a second time around love connection—which wasn't there, for my part. Or," I added, "a desire to reopen the lines of communication between us." I drank some tea, watched Whitney watch me, and told her in the most succinct terms what I truly believed. "I was providing a professional service for Carter with the clear understanding that this was a onetime deal with no emotional or any other strings attached—"

  Whitney's razor thin brows twitched. "I almost hate to say this, Skye, but you did want my professional opinion..."

  I bit into a spring roll and felt my heart skip a beat while waiting to hear what came next.

  "It seems pretty clear to me that, at least from Carter's perspective, the emotional ties had never really gone away," she said levelly. "The journal was his way of holding on to you, if only in his own mind. Keeping tabs on your every move allowed him to fantasize that he was still an integral, intimate part of your life, while maintaining control over you from a safe distance by knowing every which way you turned and anything else that he deemed important—"

  If that was true, I thought, and I had no reason to doubt it, I could only feel sorry for Carter. Aside from a cheating, drug-abusing wife, and his own gambling addiction, he seemingly had everything going for him. He certainly didn't need me to make his life whole. So maybe that life was less than perfect. It didn't give him the right to retreat back to something that was no longer his for the taking. If only I'd had a clue at some point of Carter's unbalanced behavior, I might have been able to do something before things got out of hand.

  "My guess is Carter hired you as an extension of this dangerous game of obsession he was playing," Whitney said, now clearly on a roll, "even if his reason for coming to you was perfectly legitimate." Her eyes widened at me. "The truth is I could hardly blame his second wife for looking elsewhere for attention. From what you've told me, I doubt she ever had a fighting chance with Carter. Not when he seemed to have channeled all of his feelings of love and devotion in your direction."

  Her interpretation of Carter's mindset left me even more confused and angry. I wasn't sure I bought it, but unless a better explanation came along, I had to go along with Whitney's psychological autopsy of Carter.

  The conversation shifted to small talk—a welcome change.

  It wasn't until we were finished eating that I asked Whitney what had most been on my mind regarding Carter's peculiar disposition and his demise. "Do you think Carter's death could somehow be tied to his, for lack of a better description, obsessive behavior toward me?"

  Whitney contemplated the question for a moment. "Yes and no," she responded. "His obsessive behavior could have impacted his ability to reason as both a businessman and a husband, which may have led to his death." Whitney gave me that look you give someone when you're about to say something you want the listener to embrace, and said: "If you're asking me if you're somehow to blame for Carter's unnatural feelings toward you, the answer is absolutely not, Skye! No one can control what goes on inside another person's head. In my opinion, Carter was a walking time bomb, waiting to explode. Whether that was directly related to his death or not is something for the police to figure out—"

  I felt a certain amount of relief with Whitney's professional opinion and her friendly support. But I continued to have a problem with where the bomb went off, so to speak. And why?

  As for the journal, I decided to keep it in cold storage for now. At least until I was satisfied that it was not somehow instrumental in Carter's death, rather than merely the bizarre reflections of a sick man who was once my husband.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I returned home to find that tropical fire ants had invaded my house! Or should I say that Ollie had discovered the little creatures milling aimlessly about the floor and on the walls. He seemed to be as spooked as I was by the unwelcome company.

  I didn't even want to hazard a guess as to where they had come in, knowing it could have been anywhere. My only concern was getting rid of them so I could reclaim the house and some peace of mind.

  I phoned Natsuko and asked her to come over to help me deal with the fire ants, a pest common in Hawaii but actually helpful to sugar cane farmers with their crops. Ollie did his best to avoid the menacing little insects that weren't afraid to bite him, or me for that matter, if we tried to get in their way. As if there weren't already enough of them, even more suddenly seemed to come out of hiding, as if welcoming the challenge they presented.

  Natsuko arrived shortly thereafter and made light of a bad situation. "They're really friendly once you get to know them," she said jokingly.

  I sneered, hardly in a joking mood. "I can do without their friendship, thank you."

  I think she got the message. She had brought some organic fire ant control products that she wanted to try before calling the pest control company.

  With the jury still out as to whether we had gotten to the root of the ant problem, Natsuko was gracious enough to take Ollie home for the rest of the day and night. I packed an overnight bag to stay at Ridge's, sure he would welcome the company.

  I went to the office first to pay a few bills and catch up on some work that I'd left undone or half done. It had been this way ever since putting my energy into solving Carter's murder. I had just gotten started when my cell phone rang.

  It was Ridge. "I thought you'd like to know," he said, "that we're looking into two people of interest who possibly had reason to want Delaney dead."

  "I'm listening—" I told him, leaning back in my chair.

  "As a prosecutor, Carter put away Adam Ramirez for life. He was convicted of murder and armed robbery," Ridge said. "His brother, Antonio Ramirez, thirty-six, swore he would seek revenge against Carter at the time. Allegedly, he's never gotten that out of his system. Then there's Norman Mitchell, forty-seven, a former business associate of Delaney's, who accused him of cheating him out of money and has supposedly wanted payback ever since."

  "Have you spoken to either of these guys yet?" I asked, believing they were legitimate suspects in the absence of others who had so far come up flat.

  "We're about to go talk to them right now," he answered. "You can run with us on this one and, if we're lucky, help nab Delaney's killer—"

  Ridge had made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I figured that maybe one of these men had AB negative blood and had gone after Carter. Or, at the very least, could be eliminated as a suspect.

  The bills and catch up work would have to wait.

  * * *

  I was in the back seat while Ridge drove and Kawakami sat in the passenger seat. I couldn't help but notice that Henry Kawakami's once thick black hair had begun to thin and I wondered if it had anything to do with this case. Fortunately, with Ridge regularly shaving his head, I would never know if going after Carter's killer was causing him to lose hair.

  During a pause in the conversation, Kawakami turned around and winked at me. I wasn't quite sure if it was a come-on, a stamp of approval of my dating Ridge, or his tacit support of my accompanying them on official police business. In any event, I winked back, and left it alone. There were far more pressing matters to occupy my thoughts, such as Antonio Ramirez and Norman Mitchell.

  "Ramirez is gainfully employed at a construction site," Kawakami said with a cynical lilt in his voice. "He's been there
for the past month. Lives by himself in an apartment on Ala Wai Boulevard."

  I took mental notes, occasionally looking at Ridge's profile, and asked: "What's Mitchell's story, apart from his business connection to Carter?"

  "He's continued to fall on hard times," Ridge said. "His business recently filed for bankruptcy and he foreclosed on his home. Mitchell is currently living with a divorcee named Ignacia Horikami and her daughter."

  I wondered if times were hard enough for Norman Mitchell to resort to murder.

  "So maybe his girlfriend and her daughter weren't enough to cure Mitchell's blues," Kawakami suggested. "Losing his home and business may have been the last straw and sent him over the edge straight to Delaney."

  I winced at the thought. At this point, I wasn't ruling out anything or any person, especially someone who had an axe to grind with Carter.

  We drove to a construction site in midtown Honolulu, where luxury condominiums were being built. The foreman led us to the skeletal building where Antonio Ramirez was working on the second story.

  "Ramirez!" the foreman screamed. "Some people here to see you—"

  This was normally where a guilty person either made a run for it or tried to play it cool, only to flee later. Ramirez did not run, which made sense considering he was about twenty feet off the ground. After he came down, we quickly surrounded him like flies on rotted meat. Even then, at around six-five and of muscular build, he didn't exactly seem intimidated by us.

  Ridge took the honor of identifying each of us, flashing his badge for effect. "We'd like to talk to you—" he said.

  "About what?" Ramirez asked as he ran a hand across his bald head. His unblinking dark eyes peered at me.

  "Carter Delaney—" I told him.

  "Carter who...?" he asked, playing dumb.

  "The man who put your brother Adam away for armed robbery and murder," Ridge reminded him.

  "Oh, yeah," Ramirez said with a scowl. "Delaney, the prosecutor... So what about him?"

  Ridge snorted with irritation. "I think you know damn well what this is about. Delaney was murdered not too long ago—"

  Ramirez cracked a grin. "Awe, that's too bad. But what's it got to do with me?"

  "Don't jerk us around, Ramirez," Kawakami said with narrowed eyes. "You expect us to believe you've forgotten the threats you made against Carter Delaney after he sent your brother to the state pen?"

  Ramirez grimaced. "Ain't you ever done something you wish you could take back, man? I was pretty angry back then that he railroaded Adam. But I can't change what happened to him any more than you could what happened to Delaney. I'm just trying to get on with my life—"

  I studied Ramirez's face while trying to read his mind. Was he toying with us? Had he been in my house and confronted Carter? I noticed a partially healed wound on his bulging upper arm that extended to his shoulder. The aftereffects of a dog bite, I wondered.

  "I'm sure you have an unbreakable alibi for the day and time Carter Delaney was murdered," Ridge said to the suspect.

  Ramirez paused. "What day and time was that?" he asked.

  Ridge told him.

  Ramirez suddenly seemed to be relishing the attention as he hovered over us. "Let me look into it and get back to you," he said.

  "Where the hell were you when Carter Delaney was killed?" Kawakami demanded, getting into Ramirez's face. "Or do we haul your ass in right now for suspicion of murder?"

  Ramirez did not buckle, staring down at Kawakami. "Don't waste your time, detective. You got the wrong man. Actually, I was in church that day—all day—getting closer to Jesus. And lots of other believers saw me." He looked at me and said: "Maybe you can come to a service with me someday..."

  "Not in this lifetime," I told him.

  He grinned lasciviously. "Your loss."

  I doubted that seriously. I looked at his arm and said: "Nasty looking injury you have there. How did you get it?"

  Ramirez flinched. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said simply.

  I wondered about the time and place. "What's your blood type?" I asked him, figuring it was worth a shot.

  He shrugged. "Got no idea. What's yours?"

  "Never mind," I told him, not interested in playing games for his amusement.

  Ridge asked Ramirez: "Where is this church?"

  "It's on Nehoa Street," Ramirez said, then added smugly, "Be sure to tell Pastor Owens I said Praise the Lord!"

  "We'll check it out and see if someone at the church can vouch for his whereabouts," Ridge said as we headed toward the car.

  "If you ask me, I think he's full of it," Kawakami said.

  "Or he's just another dead end in the mystery surrounding Carter's death," I grumbled.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Next, there was Norman Mitchell to contend with. We drove to his address, which turned out to be an expensive home on Kolohala Street in the Waialae section of town.

  "Are you sure we have the right address?" I half-joked, wondering how a man in bankruptcy and foreclosure wound up in one of Honolulu's most exclusive neighborhoods.

  "It's the right place all right," confirmed Kawakami. "Guess Mitchell picked the right rich lady to shack up with."

  I couldn't help but think that Darlene had pulled off the same trick when she married Carter. Only she ended up with more problems than not as a direct result. I wondered if the same could be said for Norman Mitchell. Had he found someone to support him in style, including committing murder?

  There were no cars visible as we drove onto the property, but a closed three-car garage suggested someone could be home.

  Ridge rang the bell. A peephole allowed us to be seen. After a second ring, a woman's voice yelled out: "What do you want?"

  Ridge identified himself as a police detective, holding his identification up so she could see.

  A moment later, the door opened. An attractive Hawaiian woman in her mid forties with black hair in a loose chignon stood there.

  "Are you Ignacia Horikami?" Ridge asked politely.

  "Yes," she said.

  "We'd like to talk to Norman Mitchell," he told her. "Is he here?"

  She eyed each of us suspiciously before saying in a calm voice: "No. He went to the store and will be back shortly. May I ask what this is about?"

  We looked at each other before Kawakami said: "I'm afraid it's official police business, Ma'am."

  "All the more reason I have a right to know if Norman is in some kind of trouble," Ignacia said determinedly, her small brown eyes darting between us. "He's my fiancé. We're getting married next month—"

  Ridge and Kawakami made eye contact, and then Ridge asked: "May we come in?"

  "Please do," she replied.

  It was an open, luxurious setting by any standard with a cathedral ceiling, floor to ceiling windows, and ivory wall-to-wall carpeting—all accented with fine European furnishings and expensive collectibles. But we weren't there to admire the accommodations.

  "We just need to ask Mitchell a few questions," Ridge said, "regarding a homicide."

  Her eyes shot wide. "You think Norman killed someone?" she asked.

  "We just want to eliminate him as a suspect," he told her. "Strictly routine."

  Ignacia looked at me and asked, "Who was murdered?"

  "Carter Delaney," I said. After a pause, I told her what I thought might help: "I'm Skye Delaney. We were once married."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, "but Norman had nothing to do with that. You see, the day he was killed, Norman was right here with me—"

  Ridge, Kawakami, and I exchanged looks of doubt in what seemed just a little too pat.

  "And what day was that?" asked Ridge.

  She told him as if it were ingrained in her memory.

  "Exactly what time of the day was Mitchell here?" Kawakami asked.

  "All day and all night," she said without wavering. "Is that exact enough, detective?"

  She was clearly a woman who wouldn't back down for two tough male
homicide cops and one equally tough female private eye. She seemed determined to give Norman Mitchell a solid alibi whether we wanted him to have one or not.

  Ignacia folded her arms. "We were in bed, making love—the whole time." She glanced at me unabashed, and then took a longer look at Ridge. "At about ten that night we turned on the TV and heard that Carter Delaney had been found dead. Norman recognized the name immediately as a man with whom he had bad business dealings. But he would never have wanted him dead—"

  I watched Ridge and Kawakami give each other that lascivious conspiratorial look of men who were stricken with the notion of a superwoman in the bedroom. I resigned myself to the fact that boys would be boys, even during a murder investigation.

  I brought them back to the real world when I asked: "How old is your daughter?"

  "Twelve," she responded.

  "And where was she during this marathon day in bed?" I asked. It seemed like a reasonable question, all things considered.

  "Spending the day with her father," Ignacia said coolly. "We have shared custody."

  It seemed like the lady had every base covered, I thought. But that still didn't mean Norman Mitchell was out of the woods, especially if he had a different story to tell.

  As if on cue, we all turned our heads toward the door when we heard sounds on the other side of it. Kawakami instinctively went for his .38 Smith and Wesson revolver that he kept in a shoulder holster. It wouldn't have been the first time a murder suspect came in firing.

  Opening the door and entering was a short, thin girl with long, dark hair. She was followed in by a man of average build with gray hair. He held a paper bag stuffed with groceries close to his chest.

  "Mom..." the girl uttered fearfully as she looked at the gun pointed in their direction.

  "It's all right," Ignacia said, opening her arms and beckoning her to come forward. The girl obeyed and ran to her mother. Ignacia announced: "This is my daughter, Elisea."