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"And no. Hell, no." I twisted to look at Jack. "What do you say?"
"Yeah. It's problematic."
"That's one way of putting it." I glanced at Cypher. "There will be no kidnapping the woman we're here to protect. You want to know how we'll keep her safe? By watching out for her. And by catching this bastard. She's been smart enough to survive so far. She'll be fine for a few more days. I'll make sure of it."
"How the hell do you plan to do that?"
I told him.
Jack and I spent the next morning enjoying the truly spectacular lodgings Cypher had booked for us. We were outside Honolulu proper, at a five-star hotel with all the sand, surf and sun I'd imagined.
We slept soundly and woke before dawn, our internal schedules completely screwed up by the six-hour time difference. I jogged while Jack hunted down Kona coffee and macadamia nut buns, which we enjoyed on a dock, our bare feet dangling in the clear, warm water. Afterward we walked the empty beach, talking. Back to our room, with the salt-scented wind blowing in from the ocean, the sheers billowing as we took full advantage of our king-sized bed. Then, appetite renewed, it was off to breakfast, dining on a balcony as surfers headed out below.
After breakfast, we shopped. Not exactly our thing, but there was a row of high-end boutiques just outside the resort, and any good walk needs a destination. Jack insisted on buying me a pair of designer sunglasses, and I bought him a watch that I caught him admiring. Well, I tried to buy it. He distracted me at the till and traded credit cards, and while I'd have loved to insist on paying, the truth was that the watch would have gobbled up my entire line of credit.
They were real credit cards. "Real" in the sense that we would pay them off. They were also "not real" in the sense that they had fake names and were attached to fake addresses. It might seem tempting to just get fake cards altogether, but neither of us wanted to be the hitman brought down by defrauding the credit card company for a few grand.
A morning well spent. And, despite what it might seem, not a morning wasted in leisure. I worked my ass off. Or, more correctly, I worked my mouth off.
Being a sociable person meant that I found it easy to start conversations with strangers, and strangers found it easy to start them with me. It didn't hurt that I gave off that kind of vibe. I looked approachable. Thirty-five years old, dark auburn hair to my shoulders, hair with a tendency to curl, and skin with a tendency to freckle. People told me I had an open face, very genuine, very girl-next-door. Which meant that I intimidated absolutely no one. Extremely useful in my line of work. I was the person most likely to be asked for directions or just asked for the time. Also the person most likely to be asked to give up my window seat to a fellow traveler, or the person most likely to be cut off in a lineup. Those last two did not go so well. I am friendly. I am approachable. I am not a pushover.
So I found it extremely easy to get information from total strangers. And that was how I spent my morning, whether it was jogging on the beach or eating breakfast on the balcony or browsing in the shops. I worked through every part except, well, the sex, for obvious reasons, but I figured I'd done enough by that point to take a little time off.
Wherever we went, Jack and I talked about Angela and the murders. Sometimes I'd use that as an opening to ask questions, like to our breakfast server. My husband just told me about those horrible murders. Is it true? Other times, locals would overhear us and interject a comment or an opinion. When it came to high-profile crimes, everyone had an opinion.
While Honolulu was a city of three hundred thousand, being on an island two thousand miles from the mainland made it feel as insular as a small town. It seemed as if half the people I talked to knew someone involved in the case. And they were all happy to chat. Tourism is Hawaii's number one industry, and I was right in the heart of it, which meant that the staff probably got a little tired of dispensing alohas and island charm. They seemed happy to discuss a side of their city that didn't arise in their usual tourist chatter.
Most of what I got was wild conjecture, mixed with rumor and innuendo and a liberal smattering of conspiracy theory. But there would be some truth in there, too, and I filed it all away for the next stage of my investigation, which I launched right after lunch.
Chapter Eight
Jack
"Are you fucking nuts?"
That was what Cypher had said about Jack's afternoon plans. He'd said more than that, too, ranting about how Nadia called him a crazy motherfucker, and if Jack screwed this up--or endangered Angela in any way--he'd nail Jack's balls to the nearest coconut tree.
Jack had let him rant. Then he'd looked at Nadia, who'd considered the suggestion. She'd opened her mouth and started, "Can you--?" and then stopped herself and said, "Sure. That's a good idea."
Can you pull it off?
That was what she'd been about to say. She hadn't finished because she knew Jack didn't take chances. He'd never been what one might call a natural risk-taker like Nadia, with her love of extreme sports. She'd taken chances on the job, too, leading to their first real fight. He'd been furious, a shock to her, who'd never even heard him raise his voice. She'd taken an unnecessary risk, putting herself in extreme danger to catch a killer. Part of that fury--a large part--had been the mirror it reflected back on him. On his past. He saw Nadia take that risk, and he knew why she was taking it because he'd been there himself.
He had taken chances, early in his career. Huge ones that had paid off, but at the time, he hadn't really given a shit if they did or not. Hadn't given a shit if his choices landed him in a body bag. He'd gotten his family killed, and so he didn't particularly feel he deserved to keep walking around.
Nadia hadn't been suicidal--not since he'd met her, at least--but there were always threads of that in her professional risk-taking. The feeling that she owed a debt. And she could say it was because she'd shot a serial killer, but that was bullshit. Sure, there was shame and grief for the loss of a career she'd loved. But her true guilt went back to her murdered cousin, the fact that she'd failed to stop it, failed to get help in time. It didn't matter if no one else would ever hold her accountable; that kind of guilt never goes away, as Jack knew very well.
Jack's plan for today was a calculated risk that wasn't much of a risk at all. He didn't take chances these days because he wasn't just taking them for himself. He had Nadia to think about, and sure, there was the fear of her getting picked up if he was arrested, but there was also a far more selfish reason to play it safe: he was happy in his new life, and he damned well intended to keep it.
His task that day? Breaking into Angela Kamaka's house. All attacks against her--the dog, the car bomb, the shots fired--had happened at home. While he did want to get a look inside her house, he held some hope that he wouldn't be able to break in, which would mean she was safe. That was, unfortunately, not the case.
Angela lived in a neighborhood of s
mall, older homes on large lots, and she had no neighbor to the rear. A gate at the back of her fence suggested she appreciated that openness and used the walking trails. The fence also made it easy to approach her house without being spotted.
A security camera watched the gate, but there was no reason to enter that way when the fence itself was more boundary marker than security perimeter. He hopped it easily. All right, he climbed it easily, being about a decade past hopping, which he'd finally admitted a few years ago when he fucked up his damn ankle on just such a jump.
Two more security cameras monitored the rear yard. They were well placed, difficult to spot, but Jack had a device that picked up their signatures. It was easy enough to slip up alongside the house and get the back door open without being spotted. Inside, he found an impressive security system, one that rivaled the Sabatos'. He disabled it and then set about tracking the camera feed to a computer in the main room. An old computer without even password protection. Jack reviewed the security video and confirmed he wasn't on it.
