Page 5 of Hidden Falls

“Harry won’t forgive you either,” Omura said. “She’s fierce where her children are concerned.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Waxman said crisply. “But it’s early. More will be revealed. I’ll write this up and you’ll hear from Agent Scott soon.”

They said their goodbyes, and the screen went blank.

Omura narrowed her eyes at Lei. “What aren’t you telling me, Lei? Is there something else I should know about Harry, about her family?”

Lei shut her eyes, considering. Now wasn’t the time for speculation. “No, Captain. Nothing that won’t keep.”

4

Special Agent Marcella Scott opened the file on her new case on the plastic fold-down tray table of the short Hawaiian Airlines flight to Maui. The pages she skimmed were still hot from the printer; she could have read the information online, but she wanted to build the physical file as she went along, and she’d asked for a printout for the road. “I’m still a dinosaur that way,” she muttered, tracing a photo of the victim with a fingertip.

Rendered in black and white in her newly minted driver’s license photo, Malia Clark was a pretty sixteen-year-old with a curving smile that hinted at secrets—or maybe that was just Marcella’s imagination. She was 5’2”, 125 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, Hispanic ancestry, had no need of corrective lenses, and was an organ donor.

“She’s adopted from Mexico,” SAC Waxman had told Marcella when he thrust the file into her hands on the way out the door. “Omura and Texeira seldom ask for help right away.”

“On it, boss.”

Waxman had paused, a crease between his brows. “There’s something about this case that doesn’t smell right. Go find out what’s really going on. Dig as deep as you need to.”

Marcella tucked a lock of hair that had fallen out of the updo twist she favored behind her ear, reading the narrative Omura had submitted along with a timeline of events and a statement from the girl’s mother, Detective Harry Clark.

She riffled further, coming to a clipping and an interview given by Malia about her role in rescuing a friend who’d been kidnapped by human traffickers. The girl had demonstrated over-the-top bravery. “But what else could I do?” Malia had said. “I had to help Camille.”

She’d reversed the car, the same silver Prius that she now owned, into the kidnap exchange gone bad, hit one of the suspects with it, and had rescued her friend, driving Camille away from the bloodbath that followed.

The detectives then had enough information to track the other missing girls and take down a whole nasty operation that had been shipping kids overseas.

Marcella’s chest tightened as she flipped back to the beginning of the file to look at Malia’s face again.

Poor kid.After getting so close to something like that six months ago, Malia must be so scared right now, knowing what she did about how badly things could go for her. “Brave girl. This must be your worst nightmare.”

Feeling bad about the situation wasn’t going to find Malia. Careful, hard work and a little luck is what would make the difference.

Marcella flipped to the end of the file where Waxman had thoughtfully included sheets of blank lined paper for notes. She dug a pen out of her purse and jotted:

Motives:

Chang reprisal for human trafficking case?

Current CI activities?

Kidnap for ransom or other favor from parents?

Something else that she was into that we don’t know about?

Marcella chewed on the end of the pen—a terrible habit according to her husband, Detective Marcus Kamuela with the Honolulu Police Department. “One of these days you’ll come home with a chip in your front tooth like a prizefighter,” he teased. “Chew some gum or your nails, will you?”

Marcella glanced down at her French manicure: nude, glossy and very nice, as usual. Beyond her knees, she smiled down at her favorite pair of black kidskin peep-toe Ferragamo flats. Those shoes cost more than a week’s pay as an agent. Her loving papa, Egidio Scatalina, kept her shoe habit supplied from his online store.

“I can handle anything, with a pen to chew on and a good pair of shoes,” Marcella murmured, staring out the oval window at the rapidly approaching green bulk of Maui. She closed the file as the plane swirled around the steep slopes of the West Maui Mountains and settled below the cloud line. The aircraft rode bumpy surges of wind that rushed between the twin elevations of the westside mountains and Haleakala, creating an air tunnel through the waist of the island that made the place a famous destination for every kind of wind sport.

And that unique geological formation also made almost every airplane landing bumpy.

Soon they’d hit the tarmac with a bit of a bounce, to spontaneous applause from visitors who weren’t used to Maui’s entry gauntlet. Once off the plane, Marcella picked up the carry-on containing her weapon and other necessities beside the exit and headed into the airport.

Though she’d been here many times, either on cases or to visit her friend Lei socially, Maui had a special atmosphere—a sort of holiday vibe that filled every palm tree twirling a hula in the wind beside the freeway with extra magic.

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