front of the Institute for Human Services, Honolulu’s biggest homeless shelter. A small cardboard box sat on the cement steps leading up to the shelter.
Waxman clicked to the next photo. The picture was of the interior of the box. It was filled with a mound of jewelry and stacks of rubber-banded cash.
“ A donation was made to Institute of Human Services in the name of Dr. Nathaniel Witherspoon, part-time Hawaii resident and full-time member of the one percent ,” was the caption.
Ang’s long tawny fingers worked her keyboard like braille, her triangular face intent. She was a tall, fit-looking mixed-race black woman Marcella had introduced as a friend, but Lei didn’t know her well yet. “Trying to get an IP on that blog address.”
“Whoa. This some kind of Robin Hood gig?” Matt Rogers was from Texas and hadn’t bothered to blend—he wore a blond military cut, extra set of muscles, and boots under his chinos.
“It’s beginning to look that way,” Waxman said. “This blog link was sent to all the major news networks, and the phones have been ringing off the hook—and we’ve got a whole lot of nothing to say at the moment. We had the shelter put the box somewhere safe so we can pick it up and check it for evidence. In the meantime, I’m bringing Scott and Rogers in on the case for extra support.”
Waxman hit another button, and the overhead screen filled with a bright silver aircraft—all graceful, rounded lines. It was hard to believe Max Smiley had assembled it from a kit.
“We had a chance to run a little research. Unlike many ultralights, the Hummel’s more like a real airplane. It has a max speed of eighty miles an hour and a range of one hundred twenty-five miles,” Ang said.
“We were just looking into that, too. A hundred twenty-five miles is far enough to fly to Maui,” Lei said. “He could escape Oahu.”
“It would be very dangerous,” Gundersohn said. “There are strong winds; it’s all ocean to cross.”
“And the maximum height the plane can go is ten thousand feet.” Ang’s eyes were still on her screen as her fingers flew. “I’m not getting anything useful off this blog post.”
“This is probably a kid. He might not realize what he’s taking on. He might not know how dangerous it is.” Lei pictured the tiny craft bucking its way across that long hundred miles.
Ang was still working her keyboard but took a second to look up at Lei through the black bangs of a pixie cut. “What makes you think it’s a kid? You sound sympathetic.”
“I don’t know for sure that it’s a kid, but I think so. We haven’t had time to fill you in on all we’ve pulled together on the unsub.” Lei produced her spiral notebook, earning an amused glance from Marcella, who was always after her to switch to using her smartphone. “We have four possibles with motive and negative history with Max Smiley and Paradise. They’re aged seventeen to early twenties, and Ken and I think the attitude, the graffiti, and the theft of the dog point to someone young and at least a little impulsive.”
“Agent Scott, take notes for us please,” Waxman said. Lei spotted Marcella’s tiny eye roll; Marcella’s theory about why he always picked her to take notes was that the SAC liked her ass to provide visual entertainment for meetings.
They all looked at Marcella’s rounded behind as she turned her back to the group, picked up a marker, and uncapped it. She reached high to write TOM BLACKMAN, TYSON REZENTS, KIMO MATTHEWS, and LEHUA KINOSHITA on the boards as Lei read the names off to her, jotting down details under each as Lei and Ken elaborated.
Lei didn’t see the appeal—Marcella’s ass was round and high, but a little big, in Lei’s opinion. Why just look at that, when one of her friend’s top buttons had come undone, hinting at some truly stunning cleavage? Lei felt a pang of envy—it was hard to look at any part of Marcella without staring.
“So what else?” Marcella
Waxman clicked to the next photo. The picture was of the interior of the box. It was filled with a mound of jewelry and stacks of rubber-banded cash.
“ A donation was made to Institute of Human Services in the name of Dr. Nathaniel Witherspoon, part-time Hawaii resident and full-time member of the one percent ,” was the caption.
Ang’s long tawny fingers worked her keyboard like braille, her triangular face intent. She was a tall, fit-looking mixed-race black woman Marcella had introduced as a friend, but Lei didn’t know her well yet. “Trying to get an IP on that blog address.”
“Whoa. This some kind of Robin Hood gig?” Matt Rogers was from Texas and hadn’t bothered to blend—he wore a blond military cut, extra set of muscles, and boots under his chinos.
“It’s beginning to look that way,” Waxman said. “This blog link was sent to all the major news networks, and the phones have been ringing off the hook—and we’ve got a whole lot of nothing to say at the moment. We had the shelter put the box somewhere safe so we can pick it up and check it for evidence. In the meantime, I’m bringing Scott and Rogers in on the case for extra support.”
Waxman hit another button, and the overhead screen filled with a bright silver aircraft—all graceful, rounded lines. It was hard to believe Max Smiley had assembled it from a kit.
“We had a chance to run a little research. Unlike many ultralights, the Hummel’s more like a real airplane. It has a max speed of eighty miles an hour and a range of one hundred twenty-five miles,” Ang said.
“We were just looking into that, too. A hundred twenty-five miles is far enough to fly to Maui,” Lei said. “He could escape Oahu.”
“It would be very dangerous,” Gundersohn said. “There are strong winds; it’s all ocean to cross.”
“And the maximum height the plane can go is ten thousand feet.” Ang’s eyes were still on her screen as her fingers flew. “I’m not getting anything useful off this blog post.”
“This is probably a kid. He might not realize what he’s taking on. He might not know how dangerous it is.” Lei pictured the tiny craft bucking its way across that long hundred miles.
Ang was still working her keyboard but took a second to look up at Lei through the black bangs of a pixie cut. “What makes you think it’s a kid? You sound sympathetic.”
“I don’t know for sure that it’s a kid, but I think so. We haven’t had time to fill you in on all we’ve pulled together on the unsub.” Lei produced her spiral notebook, earning an amused glance from Marcella, who was always after her to switch to using her smartphone. “We have four possibles with motive and negative history with Max Smiley and Paradise. They’re aged seventeen to early twenties, and Ken and I think the attitude, the graffiti, and the theft of the dog point to someone young and at least a little impulsive.”
“Agent Scott, take notes for us please,” Waxman said. Lei spotted Marcella’s tiny eye roll; Marcella’s theory about why he always picked her to take notes was that the SAC liked her ass to provide visual entertainment for meetings.
They all looked at Marcella’s rounded behind as she turned her back to the group, picked up a marker, and uncapped it. She reached high to write TOM BLACKMAN, TYSON REZENTS, KIMO MATTHEWS, and LEHUA KINOSHITA on the boards as Lei read the names off to her, jotting down details under each as Lei and Ken elaborated.
Lei didn’t see the appeal—Marcella’s ass was round and high, but a little big, in Lei’s opinion. Why just look at that, when one of her friend’s top buttons had come undone, hinting at some truly stunning cleavage? Lei felt a pang of envy—it was hard to look at any part of Marcella without staring.
“So what else?” Marcella
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