Page 19 of Mai Tais and Murder

“He could be dying, Helen,” Mel’s voice held that familiar tone of protective determination that Helen both loved and, at this moment, feared. She slipped out of Helen’s grasp. “I can’t just stand here.”

Helen’s hands shook as she fumbled for her phone. “And what if the attacker is still there?” she asked, her voice unwavering. She knew she had to be the voice of reason right now. “What if they’re armed with a gun? You’re not a police officer anymore. Please.” The last word came out almost as a plea, and something in Helen’s voice appeared to reach through Mel’s instinct to rush in. Mel stopped, though Helen could see the tension vibrating through her partner’s body. Helen held her breath, waiting to see what the woman she loved would do.

Finally, Mel nodded. “Okay,” she said, pulling out her own phone. “But let me make the call. I know what details they’ll need.”

Grateful, Helen took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said as Mel dialed her phone.

Walking to the glass door, Helen saw that neither the attacker nor Abramson were in view. Clearly, while they were deciding what to do, the attacker dragged their victim away. The violence of it felt surreal, like something from a television show rather than their peaceful Hawaiian vacation. She heard Mel using her professional voice to say into her phone, “Yes, I need to report an assault. Apartment three two seven on the third floor of the Kailua Palms Resort. Victim is James Abramson. Suspect is dressed in black with a ski mask. The attack just happened. The perpetrator may still be inside.”

Helen’s legs felt weak as the reality of what they’d witnessed sank in. She lowered herself to the edge of the sofa’s cushion. “I can’t believe this,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t believe this.”

“They’re sending units now,” Mel said, ending the call. She knelt beside Helen, taking her trembling hands. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Helen admitted. “The way he just fell forward.” She squeezed Mel’s hands. “What if he’s dead? What if we could have prevented this somehow?”

“Hey,” Mel’s voice softened. “This isn’t our fault. We had suspicions but no proof of any real danger. And we’re doing the right thing now by calling it in.”

In the distance, Helen heard the first sirens. The sound seemed to make everything more real, more frightening. “I’m scared, Mel,” she whispered. “Not just for him, but for us. We’ve been watching and asking questions at the front desk. What if whoever did this knows that?”

Mel’s expression hardened slightly, and Helen saw the protective glint in her eye. “Nothing is going to happen to you,” Mel said firmly. “I promise. But we need to go to meet the police and help lead them to the apartment.”

The sirens grew louder, and lights from the police cars pulling up to the resort splashed eerie colors across the courtyard. Soon, they would have to talk to the police, explain what they saw, and become officially involved in whatever dark thing they’d stumbled into. “What do we tell them?” Helen asked. “About everything else we know?”

Mel stood, helping Helen to her feet. “For now, just what we witnessed. The attack itself. We’ll figure out the rest once we know if...” She didn’t finish the sentence, but Helen understood. Once they knew if Abramson was alive or dead.

* * *

The hallway felt longerthan usual as Mel led Helen toward Abramson’s apartment. Red and blue lights from the police vehicles below strobed faintly across the walls through the open-air corridor, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. The familiar sound of radio chatter and boots on the stairs nearby brought back decades of memories, though Mel had never been on this side of a crime scene before. Two uniformed officers were just reaching the third floor when they arrived at the end of the hall leading to Abramson’s apartment. Mel noted automatically how young they were and guessed they were probably not long out of the academy based on how they held themselves. The taller one had his hand on his holstered weapon, a good instinct, given the situation. Mel read the nametag on his chest—Robbins. “Office Robbins, I’m Mel Nelson,” she said. “That apartment is halfway down the hall on the right.”

Robbins gave her a nod while his shorter partner moved past them toward that apartment’s door. “Thank you, Ms. Nelson,” Robbins said. “You made the call?”

“That’s right,” Mel said, unconsciously shifting into her professional demeanor. “We witnessed the attack from our balcony. Apartment 307, directly across the courtyard.”

“Good,” Robbins said as he started to follow his partner. “Stay back please.”

The shorter officer knocked firmly on Abramson’s door. “Police! Open up!” There was no response. The hallway fell silent except for a brief crackle of police radios and the distant wail of another approaching siren.

“Have you tried the handle?” Mel asked, leading Helen closer, knowing protocol would be against it, but unable to help herself. The shorter officer gave her a slightly annoyed look before testing the door. It was locked.

“We’ll need the building manager or whoever’s on duty this late to come to open a door,” the shorter officer said into his radio. “Unit 327.”

Mel’s mind raced through everything they’d witnessed over the past few days, and she was conflicted. She knew details that may or may not help the situation. Felicity Coedy’s behavior. The pale man in the suit. Brigitte Abramson’s odd comments. But without context, it would sound like wild speculation from two nosy old ladies. The shorter officer looked at her and Mel read his nametag—Hale.

“Can you walk us through exactly what you saw?” The officer pulled out his notebook.

Mel described the attack in precise detail, keeping her voice steady despite the emotion she sensed coming from Helen. “The assailant was dressed entirely in black, including a ski mask. Build suggested male, but I couldn’t be certain. The person didn’t seem especially tall. The weapon appeared to be a heavy object, but I couldn’t see it well enough to know what it was.”

“You seem very observant,” Hale said as his pen scratched the paper.

“I’m a retired LAPD detective,” Mel explained. “Thirty years on the force. Old habits die hard.” This information changed both officers’ demeanor slightly, as Mel knew it would. The elevator dinged, and the building manager hurried toward them. He was a heavyset Hawaiian man in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt with the resort’s logo.

“Stand back, please,” Robbins instructed as the manager handed over the keycard for the room. Mel drew Helen a few steps away, positioning herself slightly in front of her. The officer pressed the card to the lock and it clicked. Turning the handle slowly, he pushed the door open. “Police!” When there was no sound, the officers drew their weapons and entered the apartment.

Mel held her breath, straining to hear any sound from within. The seconds stretched like hours.

“All clear in here,” came the call from inside. “Ms. Nelson, I need you to come see this.”

With the officers’ permission, Mel and Helen walked into Abramson’s apartment. As Mel had observed the last time, the living area looked barely touched, as if Abramson only used the extra bedroom turned office and ignored the rest of the apartment. Some details had changed. There were now even more takeout containers on the counter, trash overflowing from a trashcan, and dirty dishes piled in the sink. The scent of coffee had worsened, mixing with old food and garbage, and the air had grown stale. As they walked as a group into the office, the desk lamp still burned, casting harsh shadows across the empty chair where they last saw their neighbor. His laptop sat open, screen dark. But there was no sign of Abramson or his attacker.

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