rainbows and touched with gold leaf.
“Must be the niece’s work. She’s a painter.” Marcella leaned close and could make out the initials “NP” in the corner. The detectives went back into the second bedroom.
“Weird painting. Don’t think I could look at that every day,” Rogers said.
“It’s a metaphor, Texas Boy. This is a great painting.” Marcella shook her head. “That girl’s got talent.”
“We’re mostly done,” Gundersohn said. “Since you’re here, let me orient you.” He led them to the first bedroom. “She slept here. Doesn’t appear she spent much time here.” He opened the closet. Matched sets of plain elastic-waisted slacks hung with polyester shirts, a row of plain orthopedic-soled shoes on the floor below.
“A fashion plate she was not,” Marcella said. “Pettigrew was all about her work.”
“No signs of company, male or female,” Gundersohn said.
“Not even a vibrator?” Rogers pulled open the side drawer. “Aha. The Kangaroo 3000. Guaranteed to replace ninety-five percent of husbands.” He slammed the drawer shut. “The picture we’re getting is pretty consistent.”
“It worries me that you recognized the brand of her vibrator,” Marcella said.
“I’ve got eyes. It’s writ big and bold on the—oh, never mind.” Rogers’s ears turned red.
“The other bedroom is where she did spend some time.” Gundersohn ignored the byplay and led them into the other room. Once again, one of Natalie’s dynamic paintings lit the wall. The room had been made into an office, with computer desk, floor-to-ceiling books, and facing a TV in the corner, an exercise bike.
Kamuela had unplugged the computer and lifted it off the desk, heading for the door. “Understand you want to take this in for the techies to have a look at.”
“Yes,” Gundersohn said.
Marcella felt the hairs rise along her arms as Kamuela brushed by her, a ripple of awareness, and she had to wrench her eyes away from the corded muscles wrapped around the bulky stack of equipment he carried.
“Well, you’re sure there’s no sign of her purse or phone?” she asked Gundersohn for form’s sake. “Or a personal calendar. Anything like that.”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Well, I’m thinking maybe the killer just tossed them in the Ala Wai. Maybe we’ll get lucky and even find the gun when we go in and search.”
“Sounds like SAC Waxman’s idea,” Gundersohn said, reaching up to rub the back of his ear. “I don’t scuba. I will take everything in to inventory.”
“Good. We should try to get into the water today, not let any more time go by. I could use a dive buddy—any of you scuba?”
“I do,” Kamuela said. None of the rest of the team were certified. They arranged to meet in an hour at the primary crime scene with scuba gear. Marcella tried not to think about the unsanitary waters of the Ala Wai by imagining Kamuela in a wet suit.
Marcella’s phone toned as she struggled to drag the wet suit over her curvy hips, clad in a sensible black tank suit. “Get that, will you?” she barked at Rogers, who was kneeling on the cement beside the canal, screwing the regulator onto the scuba tank.
Her partner picked up the phone, glanced at it. “It’s an unknown number.”
“Answer it! Please.” She hauled the claustrophobic rubber suit up over her arms. As usual, the zipper went up the back, and the long tape to pull it up was gone. Damn rental equipment.
“It’s Cindy Moku,” Rogers said. “She wants to talk to us.”
“Gimme that.” Marcella strode over on bare feet, took the phone. “This is Agent Scott.”
“Hi, Agent Scott. I was wondering…if I could come in and talk to you. I’m worried about a situation.”
“Of course. We’re in the middle of something, but we could meet you in a couple of hours.”
“No, tonight’s not good. How about tomorrow morning?”
“That’s fine. Are you sure you can’t just tell me now?” Marcella felt sweat spring up on
“Must be the niece’s work. She’s a painter.” Marcella leaned close and could make out the initials “NP” in the corner. The detectives went back into the second bedroom.
“Weird painting. Don’t think I could look at that every day,” Rogers said.
“It’s a metaphor, Texas Boy. This is a great painting.” Marcella shook her head. “That girl’s got talent.”
“We’re mostly done,” Gundersohn said. “Since you’re here, let me orient you.” He led them to the first bedroom. “She slept here. Doesn’t appear she spent much time here.” He opened the closet. Matched sets of plain elastic-waisted slacks hung with polyester shirts, a row of plain orthopedic-soled shoes on the floor below.
“A fashion plate she was not,” Marcella said. “Pettigrew was all about her work.”
“No signs of company, male or female,” Gundersohn said.
“Not even a vibrator?” Rogers pulled open the side drawer. “Aha. The Kangaroo 3000. Guaranteed to replace ninety-five percent of husbands.” He slammed the drawer shut. “The picture we’re getting is pretty consistent.”
“It worries me that you recognized the brand of her vibrator,” Marcella said.
“I’ve got eyes. It’s writ big and bold on the—oh, never mind.” Rogers’s ears turned red.
“The other bedroom is where she did spend some time.” Gundersohn ignored the byplay and led them into the other room. Once again, one of Natalie’s dynamic paintings lit the wall. The room had been made into an office, with computer desk, floor-to-ceiling books, and facing a TV in the corner, an exercise bike.
Kamuela had unplugged the computer and lifted it off the desk, heading for the door. “Understand you want to take this in for the techies to have a look at.”
“Yes,” Gundersohn said.
Marcella felt the hairs rise along her arms as Kamuela brushed by her, a ripple of awareness, and she had to wrench her eyes away from the corded muscles wrapped around the bulky stack of equipment he carried.
“Well, you’re sure there’s no sign of her purse or phone?” she asked Gundersohn for form’s sake. “Or a personal calendar. Anything like that.”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Well, I’m thinking maybe the killer just tossed them in the Ala Wai. Maybe we’ll get lucky and even find the gun when we go in and search.”
“Sounds like SAC Waxman’s idea,” Gundersohn said, reaching up to rub the back of his ear. “I don’t scuba. I will take everything in to inventory.”
“Good. We should try to get into the water today, not let any more time go by. I could use a dive buddy—any of you scuba?”
“I do,” Kamuela said. None of the rest of the team were certified. They arranged to meet in an hour at the primary crime scene with scuba gear. Marcella tried not to think about the unsanitary waters of the Ala Wai by imagining Kamuela in a wet suit.
Marcella’s phone toned as she struggled to drag the wet suit over her curvy hips, clad in a sensible black tank suit. “Get that, will you?” she barked at Rogers, who was kneeling on the cement beside the canal, screwing the regulator onto the scuba tank.
Her partner picked up the phone, glanced at it. “It’s an unknown number.”
“Answer it! Please.” She hauled the claustrophobic rubber suit up over her arms. As usual, the zipper went up the back, and the long tape to pull it up was gone. Damn rental equipment.
“It’s Cindy Moku,” Rogers said. “She wants to talk to us.”
“Gimme that.” Marcella strode over on bare feet, took the phone. “This is Agent Scott.”
“Hi, Agent Scott. I was wondering…if I could come in and talk to you. I’m worried about a situation.”
“Of course. We’re in the middle of something, but we could meet you in a couple of hours.”
“No, tonight’s not good. How about tomorrow morning?”
“That’s fine. Are you sure you can’t just tell me now?” Marcella felt sweat spring up on
Similar Books
