The Fire Thief Read online

  Polunu was surprised at the unusual friendliness of the gesture. “Sure,” he said. “Coffee would be great.”

  The man made his way toward the hatch leading belowdecks. “Be right back,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Polunu settled onto one of the cushioned benches that lined the sides of the aft cockpit of the powerboat. He looked around curiously. The boat was opulent, with shining brass and plush textiles.

  The man returned a few minutes later, a mug in each hand. He handed one to Polunu and sat down opposite him. He was relaxed and smiling, one arm thrown casually over the back of the seat. He took a sip from his mug and sighed in satisfaction.

  “This should take care of the immediate problem,” he said.

  Polunu sipped his coffee. “Glad to have been of help.”

  The man was watching Polunu as he relaxed into his seat and gazed out over the water. The man tilted his mug back and finished the last drop, then placed the mug carefully into a holder built into the corner of the seating area. He leaned forward, then gazed closely at Polunu.

  Polunu lifted his own mug to take another drink but was suddenly unable to raise it all the way to his lips. He looked across at the other man and tried to speak. “I think . . .” He stopped, frowning. His face showed he was confused. He began to speak, but only a jumble of sounds emerged. He tried again, but this time nothing came out at all. He was peering intently at the man facing him but seemed to have difficulty focusing. He passed one hand unsteadily in front of his face, as if trying to push away cobwebs.

  The man watched carefully. After a moment, he reached down and took Polunu’s arm, then pulled him upright.

  “Time to go, pal,” he said.

  Polunu looked baffled. He struggled to gain his balance but lurched forward and nearly fell. The man caught him by the arm and led him to the edge of the boat and the access point for the dinghy.

  “Careful,” he said, helping Polunu over the side and into the smaller watercraft. The man climbed in after Polunu and looked around. He scanned the shoreline and hillside. There was no movement, no indication of anyone else being around. Instead of starting the small motor that powered the dinghy, he picked up the set of oars lying along the bottom.

  Polunu sat down in the small wooden boat, fumbling at the boat’s edge with one hand. His muscles didn’t seem to be cooperating. His eyelids drooped, and he appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep. As his eyes began to close again, the man reached out and grabbed his shoulder, then shook him vigorously. Polunu’s eyes flew open briefly, then began to close completely.

  The man maneuvered the dinghy from the side of the boat, but instead of heading toward the shore, he turned the prow and headed toward the deeper water in front of the cruiser. The dinghy stopped. The man listened carefully, his glance sweeping the shoreline as he searched for the slightest movement. After a few minutes, he laid the oars in the bottom. Reaching under the wooden seat, he pulled out a length of rope. He moved carefully to the space on the seat next to Polunu, who was listing to one side. The man grinned, then reached down, half kneeling, and began to loop the rope around Polunu’s ankles.

  Polunu looked down, his face slack with confusion. He tried to shift his feet, but they wouldn’t move. He reached down with one hand and fumbled with the weight now firmly tethered to his feet.

  “Sit still, you idiot,” said the man. His voice had lost its false friendliness and had taken on a hard, impatient tone.

  Polunu reached down again, this time with an air of urgency. His eyes had widened, as some sense of awareness had crept through to his consciousness.

  The man sighed and stepped carefully behind the bench where Polunu sat. He reached beneath Polunu’s arms, then half lifted and half dragged him to the edge of the dinghy, his breath hot against Polunu’s neck.

  “Big mistake turning yourself into a social media star, loser. Can’t have a famous face like yours pointing any attention my way.” His face was close to Polunu’s. “Just be grateful it’s me taking you on this little cruise this morning. You’ll just have to take my word for it, but this could have been a whole lot worse.”

  He adjusted his grip around Polunu’s upper body and heaved him partially upright. The dinghy rocked dangerously. Polunu’s limbs flailed uselessly. There was no resistance. The half-dozen muscle relaxers that the man had slipped into his coffee had gone directly into Polunu’s system, and though he seemed to be making an effort to say something, his face and body were growing increasingly limp.

  There was a brief moment of falling, when Polunu was neither fully in the dinghy nor completely in the water. His eyes, now wide open as his subconscious grasped the realization of what was happening, stared upward at the sky, warm brown pools filled with the cloudless blue above. He seemed to float upon the surface for just a second before the weight pulled him silently into the depths.

  The man waited as Polunu disappeared beneath the water, then rowed back to the cruiser and securely fastened the dinghy to its mooring. He gathered the two coffee mugs from the aft cockpit and rinsed Polunu’s carefully in the seawater, then let it fill and sink. He looked at his watch, an expensive diver’s model belted to his thick wrist with a gold band.

  The engine of the cruiser started up with the push of a button. He engaged the electric windlass to haul in the anchor and pointed the prow of the Sunseeker toward the open water, motoring slowly along the coast. He left the boat at the end of a private dock and followed the wide path leading to the landscaped pool and garden complex of his daughter’s home, then let himself in through the back door.

  He went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard door, then reached in and removed a mug. Time for a second, more leisurely cup of morning coffee. His face was completely void of worry. But even he didn’t know everything. He hadn’t noticed, for instance, the thin, filthy girl sitting huddled in a small clearing above the place where the cruiser was moored, watching with interest as he helped Polunu get ready for his early morning swim.

  CHAPTER 27

  The hotel air-conditioning was chilly and uncomfortable to Kali, who preferred an open window. She lay stretched across the queen-sized bed, which was covered by a quilt printed with a cheery pineapple motif and which was definitely more comfortable than her porch hammock.

  Of course, if she were to invest in a bed of these proportions for her own house, she’d have to take out a wall. Her grandmother’s space requirements had been modest, and Kali had seen little reason to expand or make any substantial renovations beyond the porch additions and a few updates. She had replaced the stove when it finally stopped responding to her efforts to resuscitate it, had hung new screening around the back porch, and had torn up the old linoleum kitchen tiles and put in bamboo flooring, but that had so far been the extent of her remodeling efforts. As far as she was concerned, she had everything she needed. Still, there was no denying that this bed was comfortable.

  Struck by a sudden awareness of her solitude, she got up to shower and dress. She felt weary from perusing the endless exhibits on the convention center’s show floor, and instead of reviving her, the nap she’d just taken had left her feeling bleary.

  The possibility of a coffee date hadn’t occurred to her when she’d packed, but she supposed a fresh pair of jeans and a clean shirt would be acceptable. She had brought her favorite white T-shirt, with its embroidered Hawaiian petroglyph symbol, and shook it out to smooth a few of the wrinkles that had formed from it being jammed into her small duffel bag. She pulled it on, then untangled the collection of talismans that hung from a leather cord around her neck. There was a small shell among them, and she fingered it, recalling the morning that Mike had handed it to her after finding it on the beach during one of their daily runs. Now, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink as she combed the sleep tangles from her hair and brushed her teeth, wondering, suddenly, what others saw when they looked at her. Perhaps she simply blended in with the scenery—just one more u
nremarkable feature on a tropical landscape.

  A few minutes before she was due in the lobby, she took the elevator down. She’d expected to be the first to arrive, but Jack was already there, sitting in one of the overly deep chairs to one side, his back very straight, his hands resting casually in his lap. He didn’t see her step off the elevator, but as she walked toward him, he sprang to his feet, his face all smiles. He was wearing jeans that looked freshly ironed, as did his short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt with an abstract pattern of blues, greens, and purples. Despite the creases, he looked slightly more comfortable without his blazer. She managed not to smile.

  “Hi,” he said, as she drew closer.

  “Aloha,” she answered.

  The lobby area was packed, with a line of people snaking toward the coffee-bar counter, where two baristas were frantically trying to fill orders. She looked toward the lobby doors, suddenly ravenously hungry.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to grab a bite to eat?” she suggested, her voice hesitant. “There’s a place nearby that has great seafood.”

  He grinned. “Good idea, or my lack of willpower to resist the tray of brownies and sweets at the coffee bar might be really embarrassing.”

  “Wonderful. The place I’m thinking of is about three blocks from here. Do you mind walking?”

  “Not at all. It’s really nice out right now. I saw the sun starting to go down from my window while I was getting ready. Maybe we’ll see the moon later.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “That’s where Hina lives.”

  Jack raised a brow. “Hina?”

  “The goddess of the moon,” she said.

  Jack stepped aside, allowing her to exit through the lobby doors in front of him. Once surrounded by the warm early-evening air, she continued her story.

  “Our ancestral stories explain that Hina spent her life taking care of her husband and her family, none of whom appreciated her. Every day she labored to make kapa cloth out of the bark of the mulberry tree, pounding it for long hours until it was soft and pliable.”

  Jack turned to her expectantly as they made their way down the sidewalk. “And?”

  “One day she got sick and tired of it, chucked the kapa making, left her ungrateful husband and kids, and climbed to the moon, where no one could bother her, and she could rest in the cool silvery light.” She laughed. “Can’t say that I blame her.”

  Jack smiled. “Is there a legend for everything?”

  “Pretty much. Sometimes more than one.”

  They walked along in companionable silence. A few blocks along, Kali stepped off the curb and led Jack toward a pathway lined with tiki torches, their flames moving gently in the soft sea breeze.

  “I don’t eat here that often, but it’s always good—even if it’s a year between visits,” she said. “It’s owned and run by a local family. Here’s hoping nothing’s changed and the same cook is still in the kitchen.”

  A young hostess dressed in a flowered sarong seated them at a table on the restaurant’s outdoor patio, then handed each of them a menu. Tall, thin palms in deep ceramic pots on one side of the table made it secluded and romantic.

  Jack grinned—a lopsided, easy smile. “Oh, dear, she probably thinks we’re lovers out for a romantic night on the town.”

  “Do you think we should tell her we’re here only to discuss volcanoes?” she asked.

  He seemed embarrassed.

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s okay. I was just joking. She was just being nice, I’m sure.” Jack picked up the menu and began to study it.

  “Seafood is what they do best here,” she offered, trying to be helpful.

  He looked closely at the list of seafood, then looked at her, surprised. “Wow. Dolphin? You eat dolphin here?”

  She could see that he was appalled. “Dolphinfish,” she said, her voice reassuring. “Not Flipper. It’s a completely separate species, a green-and-yellow fish with kind of a mean-looking face.”

  “Oh,” he said, his voice low. “Things I don’t know. I just thought for a minute . . .”

  Kali smiled. “It’s okay. A lot of people have the same reaction. Which I guess is a good thing, if you think about it. Most of the time, you’ll see dolphinfish on the menu listed as mahimahi. They do a good job with it here, pan roasted with local tomatoes and sweet Maui onions, or crusted with coconut.”

  He looked noticeably relieved.

  “And the ahi? What kind of fish is that?”

  “Tuna, but ahi sounds more interesting, doesn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Damn. This is all very confusing. The power of marketing, I suppose. Though I’ll be the first to admit that crème brûlée does sound a lot more tantalizing than baked custard with a burned top.” He pondered in silence for a moment. “I remember an article I saw in a magazine a while ago. The writer had interviewed a couple of psychologists, who said we tend to enjoy our food more and think that it tastes better if it has an interesting name and it’s served on beautiful plates.”

  Kali considered this bit of information, thinking of the paper take-out containers that usually constituted the major contents of her refrigerator. More often than not, she ate directly from them, rather than transferring the food to a plate or bowl. It was more efficient than dirtying a few dishes, and somehow less depressing than sitting down at the table by herself.

  “I suppose I can see how that might have an effect, especially if you’re in a fancy restaurant, paying a lot of money for a meal,” she said, her voice doubtful.

  “Yes, maybe it adds to the overall experience, and if you feel like you’re being pampered and given special attention, and you’re in a beautiful setting with crystal and china, it doesn’t really matter how good the kitchen team actually is. Or what the bill is.”

  “Hmmm. I like to think I’d know an overcooked steak, regardless of how beautifully it was presented.”

  The waitress arrived to ask if they’d like cocktails, and Jack nodded. He glanced at Kali, grinning. “You’ll probably think this is the height of silliness, but I’m dying to try a Lava Flow. I heard someone ordering one at the bar in the hotel the night I got in, but I was too tired to stick around to find out what it was. And it does seem like the only choice for a volcano expert with any degree of self-respect, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re required to have one,” she said. “They’re actually pretty tasty—a lot like a piña colada, with pineapple juice, coconut cream, and rum, but with a streak of strawberry puree running through it.” She nodded to the waitress. “Two Lava Flows, please.”

  When they arrived, he took the glass with obvious delight, then turned it in his hand to look closely at the strawberry mixture running in trickles and streams through the creamy drink.

  “Wow! It really does look just like a lava flow, but without the temperature,” he said, sipping through his straw. “Umm . . . it’s delicious.”

  Kali felt herself being oddly moved by the innocence of his pleasure. She looked across the table at his smile and found her own mood lifting. Jack was easy to be with.

  “I take it this is your first time in Hawaii?”

  He winced. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Yes, but not in a bad way.”

  He considered this carefully. “It’s one of those places I figured I’d see eventually, especially from a work perspective. I guess I’m a bit of a volcano chaser. My research has to do with the amount of geothermal energy generated in the vicinity of a given volcano and how far that extends geographically. I’m particularly interested in active volcanoes and how that kind of energy can be collected or utilized to generate clean energy.”

  “You travel from volcano to volcano?”

  “When possible. I work mostly out in the field, not in the lab. I’ve spent a lot of time in Italy and in the Azores, where there’s ongoing activity. It’s exciting. I like being close to the source, knowing that somewhere beneath the patch of earth I’m standing on, th
ere are ancient forces at play.”

  “Sounds a little bit dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as being a detective, I’ll bet.”

  The waitress returned to take their food order. As Jack made his choice, Kali considered his comment about danger.

  “I guess being an accountant could be risky, given the right circumstances.” Kali hesitated, then decided to share a little more. “Being a detective is only part of what I do, though. My degree is in cultural anthropology. It comes in surprisingly useful. A lot of crimes are connected to or driven by things that are culturally significant.”

  He looked at her with genuine interest. “Fascinating,” he said. “You know, I lived in Florida for a while and made a couple of short trips to the Caribbean. I guess I thought Hawaii would just be more of the same—sand and palm trees.”

  He looked toward the swaying trees on the edge of the patio with appreciation.

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s not really like that at all, is it?” he said slowly. “I mean, it’s all of those things, of course—the beaches and sunsets and a more relaxed approach to daily life. But . . . it’s also as though the colors here are deeper and richer, the air is more fragrant, and everything seems to exist on a more vibrant level.” He stopped, fingered the stem of his glass, looking at her intently. “I must sound like just another goofy tourist.”

  “No,” she said, her voice serious. “What you said is exactly true. Not many people get that. And you haven’t even been out of Waikiki yet, have you? It’s pretty touristy here. There are places in Hawaii, even on this island, that are still close to the way they used to be. I hope you get a chance to experience some of that before you go home.”

  “Actually, I may be coming here for a while. I’m on the list for a research transfer to the Big Island to study Kilauea Volcano while it’s still in its active stage. There are several other people being considered, but I have my fingers crossed.”