Elysium Tide Page 3

  Mud spat out behind the sports cars’ slipping tires, and Lisa gained. She could pull a PIT maneuver and spin the trailing vehicle on the grass, but a roll might kill the driver—not the most appropriate punishment for auto theft. She needed patrol to pull their weight and stop one of these fools with the roadblocks. One reprobate was all she needed. She’d get him to flip on his friends.

  The park ended before she could close the gap. The Porsche punched through a hedge onto a residential road that intersected the Pi’ilani Highway. Lisa keyed her mic. “1-6-5, they bypassed your roadblock. They’re turning north on Pi’ilani now. 2-6 is still in pursuit.”

  “We see you, 2-6. We’re half a block behind. Got a plan?”

  “Let ’em run. North of Kihei, they’ve only got two choices—310 or 311. One is empty fields, and the other is surrounded by water. No one to hurt. Take ’em there. Dispatch, send more units to block both routes.”

  “Copy, 2-6. Will do.”

  Lisa listened as the dispatcher coordinated the roadblocks. Maui PD might not have had any helicopters, but they had plenty of uniforms in Chevy Impalas, more than a lot of cities with far larger populations. Four cars raced down Route 310 from Maalaea and Waikapu, and five took 311 from Kahului. Lisa gave her three jokers space, once again hoping they’d ease off on their speed. They did, but not much, and when they reached the intersection, they split.

  The Porsche took a hard left on 310, while the Benz and his buddy the Corvette blew through the T intersection to press north on 311.

  “1-6-5, stay with the northbound pair,” Lisa said. She wanted the leader. “The Porsche is mine.”

  Hawaii Route 310 ran between a thin strip of rocky, wooded coast and a three-mile-long salt marsh called Keālia Pond. With only two lanes and no off ramps or side streets, it made the perfect choke point. Cars sailed by in the southeast-bound lane. Lisa hoped they were the last. The roadblock should be stopping the rest.

  When the road straightened, she saw the Maui PD units pulling into position. They’d brought in the island’s only Bearcat—an armored Special Response Team vehicle with the look of a military MRAP. It must’ve been in the area. “Slow down, Brah.” Her eyes drilled into the Porsche’s tinted rear windscreen, willing the driver to hear her and obey. “You’re not getting through.”

  The Porsche didn’t listen. The gap between them widened, even though she had her foot on the floor. Lisa let up. If any civilians had made it onto the road behind her, she’d have to keep them back, and she had no intention of putting any more pressure on this guy.

  The thief seemed oblivious to her efforts to give him room. He rocketed toward the barricade. The uniforms positioned behind the Impalas raised their weapons.

  Shooting him wouldn’t stop his momentum. She’d seen the chopper video of a vehicle running the barricade in LA. Every cop in her old department had. Not pretty. Lisa keyed her mic. “This is 2-6. He’s not slowing. Move! Move! Get out of there!”

  The uniforms backed away, then ran. Rapid gunfire erupted from the trees on the beach side—SRT protecting their Bearcat, their baby. The thief swerved away to the right. His tires caught the gravel, and an instant later his fender caught the guardrail. The Porsche cartwheeled into the marsh.

  “No!” Lisa accelerated again, racing up to the accident scene with her dash lights flashing. She skidded to a stop twenty feet from the roadblock, hand already on her seat belt’s release.

  Last to arrive. First in the water. Lisa waded calf-deep through the salt marsh toward the wreckage. No smoke. No apparent fire. Glock drawn, she approached the driver’s side. Between the thief’s initial break-in and SRT’s barrage of gunfire, nothing remained of the windows. A figure hung upside down in the shoulder restraint. “Let me see your hands! Show me your hands!” A pointless command, she knew. But she had to use it. This was an officer-involved shooting now. She had to check every box.

  Others shouted variations of the same from behind her, just as pointless. Blood covered the deflating airbag and spread through the brown water, an oil slick without the rainbow sheen. The thief wore a bulky hoodie, probably to conceal the tools of his craft and maybe a weapon. Fat lot of good any of it did him. His head remained below the surface, and he showed no sign of struggling to find air.

  “He’s unresponsive! Watch him! I’m getting him out!” She holstered her Glock and drew a Smith & Wesson tactical knife with a hook blade on the spine—not a thing here on Maui, but a standard carry item in her previous city. It made quick work of the restraint, and she pulled the thief through the window. He felt light, even with the wet hoodie. Once she rolled his shoulders to get his nose and mouth above water, she knew why. Not a him. A her.

  That face. Local. Young. It could easily have been Lisa’s six or seven years ago. She felt for a pulse, then shook her head at the officers around her. “Stand down. She’s gone.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  THE ELYSIUM GRAND

  LISA RETURNED TO THE GRAND, hoping to get her eyes on the scene before any of her new colleagues ruined the evidence. Too late. Jenny Fan paced before the collapsed bleachers, issuing orders to the department’s CSI techs. That girl moved fast. She hadn’t even been assigned to the event, nor had Lisa heard anything about a second investigator being sent to the Grand. But she should have seen this coming.

  On several occasions over the last two weeks, Jenny had made it clear that she should have been named lead detective for the new gang task force, not Lisa. She wasn’t alone in that opinion. Jenny’s fans among the rank and file outnumbered Lisa’s three to one, and she knew it.

  “Breathe,” Lisa said to herself—for the same reason she’d said it at the start of the pursuit. She needed to keep her heart rate even. What would Clay have told her? Defuse the situation, Lisa. Show them you’re not a threat. She missed him. But he’d chosen the FBI. And she’d chosen to come home.

  “I got this,” Jenny said before Lisa got within ten yards of the site. “You can read my report tomorrow. No need to supervise.”

  Breathe. Defuse. Lisa raised her hands. “I’m not trying to over-the-shoulder you. I’m just another set of eyes, that’s all. Any fatalities?”

  “None on our end. A few broken bones. Two concussions. One old lady thought she was having a heart attack, but the paramedic said she was fine. You? I heard you drove your thief into Keālia Pond.”

  Low blow. “Not me. SRT. And the other two vanished between Kihei and the roadblock. They left Franks and Mahoe in the dust after they split from the Porsche. Must have taken Kamaaina or one of the old dirt roads through the cane fields.”

  Jenny crouched beneath the mangled bleachers to direct an evidence specialist’s camera. “Too bad for Franks and Mahoe.”

  “Wouldn’t have happened if we had air support. And the girl would still be alive. We could have let them run home to their shop or boss—caught the big fish.”

  “No air support,” Jenny said without looking up at her. “This isn’t Los Angeles.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You know what else we don’t have?” A blond man in a white polo and a blue Maui PD cap poked his head out from the other side of the bleachers—Mike Nichols, the CSI liaison for Lisa’s task force. “Boats. We’re an island PD, responsible for the smaller satellite islands of Lanai and Molokai, each separated from us by nine miles of water, but we have no boats. What’s up with that?” He tiptoed and pivoted his way out of the wreckage and walked over. “Detectives.”

  They both looked at him for a long moment. “Mike,” Lisa said.

  “That hurts. I have a title.”

  “It’s too long for short conversations.” She glanced down at a plastic baggie in his left hand. “What’d you find?”

  “Bolts.” He held the baggie up so she and Jenny could see the contents better. “These are the source of your mysterious gunshots and the reason the bleachers failed.”

  Jenny took the bag—a little fast, as if she needed to get a hand on it before Lisa—and held it close to her eyes, lifting her sunglasses. “Cut by explosive charges?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. They weren’t cut. Corroded is a better word.”

  “Corroded,” Lisa said. “Like rust?”

  “More like acid.” Mike retrieved the baggie from Jenny. “I can’t say for sure until I get these back to the lab, but from the smell and the orange residue, I’d say someone used hydriodic acid. Powerful stuff.”

  Lisa looked at the mangled end of the bleachers and tried to imagine someone standing beneath them, patiently pouring acid over the bolts, unnoticed by the spectators. “How fast does it work?”

  “Fast. But the acid didn’t have to do the whole job.” Mike turned one of the bolts through the plastic so she and Jenny could see the cross section. Only a small part of that cross section was rough—corroded, like he said. The larger portion had sheared, leaving a smooth, clean surface. “With all those people in the bleachers, these bolts were under tremendous pressure. The acid weakened them, and once the first failed, the rest gave way. It would have sounded like a ripple of pops.”

  Jenny glanced at Lisa. “Our mystery gunshots.”

  Mike touched his nose with a gloved hand. “You got it.”

  Lisa remained quiet. She trusted Mike’s analysis, but the whole combination of chemistry and car thieves felt off. “You ever hear of car thieves using this . . . this . . .”

  Mike filled in the gap for her. “Hydriodic acid.”

  “That. You ever hear of boosters using it before?”

  “Not car thieves per se, but gangs, sure. All the time. Hydriodic acid is a key chemical used in the production of meth.”

  “Meth. Great.” Traditionally, the methamphetamine market was an Oahu thing, not a Maui thing. But
it fit the profile of the gangs rumored to have come in from California. Lisa needed more information. Triggered by the thought, she looked up, scanning the beach and the resort lawn. “Where’s my brother? What happened to Koa?”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  26 KNIGHTSBRIDGE COURT

  LONDON, UK

  “SOCKS.” PETER HELD OUT an open palm, and Carol filled it with the same firmness she used when passing him a scalpel in the theater. He glanced down at a pair of light-blue low-cuts with the store’s plastic hook still attached. “Carol, these are most definitely not my socks.”

  She had invited herself over, offering to help him pack with the proviso that all swim trunks and underwear be in the suitcase and buried under a layer of T-shirts before she arrived. “They are now, Peter. I picked ’em up on my way over, along with a few other things. Leonard and I will give you the bill when you get back.” She handed him two more pairs—orange and pink. “Do you know how hard it is to find beachwear in London?”

  “I don’t. I really don’t. I never go to the beach.”

  “You never go outside, honey. Not anymore. Way different from your past life, but I guess that was more duty than choice. Here.” Carol slapped six plastic-wrapped shirts in a rainbow of colors down on the long ironwood coffee table he’d chosen to use as a luggage stand. “These are called rash guards. I got you the long-sleeve version. Wear ’em whether you’re getting in the water or not. Otherwise, your skin’ll light up like Rudolph on Christmas Eve. I also put some sandals in there. The Hawaiians call ’em slippahs, so don’t get confused.”

  Peter regarded the socks for a long moment, then placed the orange and blue pairs in his suitcase and tossed the pink ones onto the couch.

  Carol frowned at him.

  He frowned back. “I won’t need any of it. Not ankle socks, nor . . . slippahs. I have no desire to go to the beach, or deep-sea fishing, or parasailing—or for anyone on earth to see what my toes look like, for that matter. I have no inclination to get caught up in any of the activities other doctors do on these certification shams the resorts put on. Other than the presentations I’m required to attend, I don’t plan on leaving my hotel room.”

  “Actually, none of the presentations are required.” She picked up the shirts, which he hadn’t touched, and placed them in the suitcase. “Once you sign in at the resort’s reception desk, you’re good. Leonard took me to the one on Communication Strategies for Otolaryngologists last year in Waikiki. He bailed after the first class—which was Twitter Etiquette for Medical Professionals—and we spent the rest of the week on the beach.”

  Peter pointed at her. “See? That’s my point. The whole thing is a waste of my time and the hospital’s money. Nigel knows this. Frankly, I don’t fully comprehend why he’s doing this to me. Why am I being punished for Barbara’s error?”

  “This is not a punishment. It’s an intervention. How long have I known you, Peter?”

  He lowered his hand in resignation, knowing from her tone that a rebuke was on the way. “Long enough that you call me Peter instead of Dr. Chesterfield—since the third year of my residency, if I remember correctly. That’s when you transferred to London from Brooklyn, six months after I transferred in from the unit at Buckinghamshire.”

  “When you were far younger than Barbara Davies is now. So don’t think I haven’t seen you on your bad days.”

  “I was young because I finished my schooling, my undergrad, and medical school early. And don’t compare any mistakes I’ve made to Barbara’s. I never sliced a child’s internal carotid.”

  “I’ll grant you, that’s a doozie. Dr. Davies’ll pay for it with lost opportunities for a long time, probably the rest of her career. She knows it too.” Carol dug around in her cloth shopping bag and came up with six tubes of zinc-heavy sunblock. She bypassed Peter and tossed them straight into the suitcase. “For your face. Industrial strength. Don’t let those surf-hippies give you any guff. If they ask whether it’s reef friendly just . . . be you. They won’t understand a word you say.”

  He moved the sunblock into a relatively ordered formation beside the rash guards. “Perhaps you should have bought me a straw hat too.”

  “Buy your own when you get there, and don’t change the subject. We were talking about Dr. Davies.”

  “You were talking about her.”

  “Whatever. A sledgehammer slammed down on her in the middle of a surgery. Red out. The worst-case scenario for a neuroendoscopy. And what did you do?”

  “I saw what was wrong, and I fixed it.”

  “You picked up that sledgehammer and hit her again, putting all of your”—Carol looked him up and down—“two hundred pounds behind it.”

  “One eighty. Thirteen stone, thank you very much.”

  “In that case, you’ll need a belt for these.” She handed him three pairs of flat-front shorts. They hung to the knees of the models on the tags. After the first wash, Peter imagined they’d come to his mid-thigh at best, like every other ill-conceived short pants purchase he’d made.

  “The point,” Carol said, “is that you messed up. Big time. You can’t treat a colleague like that during a procedure. Besides, that’s not who you are—at least it’s not the young resident I met seven years ago.”

  “So, what? Maui is supposed to fix me?”

  “This isn’t so much a punishment as it is an intervention. Nigel cares about you. Both he and I can see what you don’t. You need a break. And if you don’t get one soon, you’ll self-destruct.”

  To Peter’s horror, Carol upended her shopping bag, dumping the remainder of her purchases into his suitcase to form a gaudy pile of pastels. She dropped the bag in as well and headed for the door of his flat. “Gotta go. I promised Leonard I’d have a combo plate from Burger and Lobster waiting for him when he finished his shift. Try to relax, Peter. Take a step back and get some perspective.” She opened the door and shrugged. “At least enjoy first class on the way there.”

  Peter sifted through the pile in search of anything he could see himself wearing. “I’m not flying first class.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Principle. Nigel booked me in coach, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of paying for my own upgrade.”

  Carol stepped out into the hall, shaking her head. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are being punished. And so are those poor flight attendants.” She let the door fall closed behind her.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  HAPPY VALLEY, MAUI

  LISA GLARED AT PIKA across a platter of Kalua pork and cooked cabbage, several hours after the incident at the Grand. “I can’t believe you let him get away.”

  “Koa’s fast, Sis.” He pushed out a hand to stop her from countering his excuse. “And don’t say, ‘Call me Detective.’ We ain’t at work. You coulda held him still for two more seconds ’til I closed in. But no, you had to go chase your car thieves. I mighta caught him if you hadn’t given him a head start.”

  Lisa looked down at her plate, mumbling as she lifted her fork. “Or maybe you should spend more time at the gym.”

  Pika came half out of his chair. “Hey. The boy got legs. Always did. This ain’t my fault.”

  Lisa’s mother, seated at the head of their small dining room table, frowned at them both. “Enough. It’s nobody’s fault. From what the other ladies at the Oceana tell me, the beach at the Grand was total chaos.” She slapped her son’s thick arm with the back of her hand and lowered her voice. “Stop saying ‘ain’t,’ Pika. If you want to make detective like your sister, you’ll need to speak proper English.”

  “I got no interest in being a detective, Ma.” Pika returned to his pork. “And I talk this way because that’s how you raised us. You didn’t start acting all haole until—” He went suddenly quiet, not under the hard look he was getting from Lisa but under the more powerful stare from their older brother Ikaia, who had just come from the kitchen with a pan of hot rolls in coconut sauce. At two inches taller and another two broader at the shoulder than Pika, Ikaia towered over them both.

  He placed the pan at the center of the table and set to work removing his apron, never taking his eyes off Pika. “No more arguing. Ma only wants the best for you. Lisa’s only doing her job. Eat, Brah. Let’s have a nice meal.”