Page 40 of Shark Cove

Butsomeonehad been using that warehouse to hold the girls, and someone had also been collecting trophies.

Lei shivered, thinking of the nine swatches of hair that they’d counted in that cigar box. “Please let them be alive,” Lei whispered, shutting her eyes in a brief prayer, then took out her phone.

Lei phoned Marcella from the cab of her truck as she adjusted the windows to let in some of the cool evening air. Marcella answered promptly. “What have you got for me?” Her friend’s voice sounded upbeat, considering the late hour.

“We have a break on the case.” Lei told her friend what had happened in the last day or two, culminating in the arrest of Keith Evenson. “But I am having doubts about whether this guy is actually behind it. He couldn’t hear us when we came to search the place; he maintains that he wears his soundproof headphones when he is working at the warehouse. He couldn’t even hear us blowing through the door with the cannon. It’s possible that the victims might not have gained his attention.” Lei fiddled with her keychain, a clear plastic fob with a picture of each of her children’s faces on a small photo inside it. By flipping it back and forth, she could alternate between Kiet’s handsome smile and Rosie’s gap-toothed grin as a baby.

“Well at least you’ve got a location to follow up on, and some DNA to match against the missing girls,” Marcella said. “We’ve been focusing on shipping as the transportation method here in Honolulu; in general it’s so much less regulated and scrutinized than the aircraft industry. We hadn’t been able to find any private craft or other clues around the airport through our contacts there.”

“We were just working on that, too,” Lei said. “We recently gained a confidential informant inside the Maui airport. We’re just keeping an ear to the ground there through private enterprises, which are pretty small on Maui.”

“So all you know for sure is that the girls were stored in that warehouse at some point,” Marcella said. “But you have that box of hair samples. That’s actually a big breakthrough, considering we virtually had nothing to go on until now, at least on your island.”

“Yeah, that cigar box really turned my stomach,” Lei said. “It reminded me of one of my first cases as a patrol officer—a serial. He would cut the girl’s hair off and tie hanks of it on a keychain.”

“Any connection?” Marcella’s voice had gone sharp.

Lei rubbed the plastic fob, finding a degree of comfort in the way the surface warmed under her fingers and in looking at her children’s faces. “No . . . but the guy who tipped us off to the warehouse was on parole. A very charismatic psychopath who uses his influence to capture runaways.” Lei told Marcella about Keo Avila and her history with him on the previous case involving pirates. “We’ve got Avila locked down with an ankle bracelet. Considering who’s behind ownership of the warehouse, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some deeper connection to the Changs, beyond what we’ve uncovered.”

“Even if Evenson isn’t the guy, there are plenty of other leads to explore,” Marcella said.

“Yep.” Lei shut her eyes for a moment, remembering the face of Michael Stevens’s former partner, a young man who had seemed like a great investigator . . . but who turned out to have a penchant for deviance that had led to multiple homicides.

Just then Lei heard Marcella’s son’s piping voice in the background, asking about dinner. “That’s my cue. Stevens went on ahead to get the evening routine started, but I’d better go.”

“Always a pleasure to hear from you, especially when the news is some kind of break,” Marcella said. “But I agree. Get on home, Lei. Your babies need you.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Italian mama.”

Marcella laughed as she ended the call.

Lei inserted the keys into the truck’s ignition but paused; she wanted to check in with Becca Nunez about the trace evidence collected at the warehouse. She took her keys back out, sent Stevens a quick text that she was delayed, and headed back into the station building, rubbing the scar of an old bite mark where it marred the skin of her neck.

Chapter Sixteen

Malia waiteduntil almost bedtime to approach her mom. Harry had been shut in her bedroom on a work call, and now she wore a sleep tee and was tucked under the covers reading something official-looking in a binder. Beside her, Kylie was asleep, turned away from the light, a mound under the comforter.

“Mom,” Malia whispered. “Have you heard anything new about Camille?”

“No, or I would have told you.” Harry put a finger to her lips. “Quiet. Your sister’s out already. She’s had a hard day.”

Malia forged on. “I need to check my phone and see if there have been any texts from Camille.”

“Tell you what. I’ll get that phone out and I’ll check it for messages, myself.” A little smile played around Harry’s mouth, hinting that she didn’t think Malia would go for that.

“If it means someone checks and sees a text from Camille, I don’t care who reads it.”

The sincerity in Malia’s voice seemed to have convinced her mom, because Harry got up and opened the safe, making sure her body blocked Malia’s view of the combination. Malia winced—but she deserved not to be trusted.

She glanced over at Kylie.

Her little sister was curled, shrimplike, with one hand outflung. Her mouth was ajar, and little snorting breaths showed that Kylie was deeply asleep. Harry smiled at Malia. “She really was tired.”

Their shared glance reminded Malia of what Kylie had been like as a toddler; she and Mom had both liked to watch her sleeping. Malia remembered holding her own tan arm against Kylie’s baby pink skin, realizing that something was different between them. Harry had noticed and hugged her. “I love both my girls so much,” she’d said. When Harry said that, the love in her eyes and the strength of her arms convinced Malia she meant it.

Harry handed Malia her cell phone.

“Thanks, Mom.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, in full view of her mother, Malia logged into her text messages and scrolled through, but there was nothing new. She sighed, her head falling forward as she tried to think of what that meant as it related to the cry for help Camille had sent to the Wallflower phone. She handed the phone back to Harry. “Nothing. Can I check it again tomorrow?”

---