Page 31 of Mai Tais and Murder

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The copy shopwas nearly empty when they entered, and the fluorescent lights were harsh after the Hawaiian twilight outside. Helen clutched her purse close to her side. Only a teenage employee stood behind the counter, more interested in his phone than their arrival.

“Over there,” Mel nodded toward a self-service printer in the corner. Helen’s hands trembled slightly as she connected the thumb drive to the printer. The magnitude of what they were about to do, making a physical copy of evidence that had likely gotten a man killed, made her stomach churn. But they needed something tangible in case anything happened to the digital version. Even with a copy safe in her online Dropbox, Helen would feel better with a paper copy. Although when she created the account to back up her in-progress manuscripts, and her granddaughter assured her no one could get into her data, Helen was old school enough to want something she could put her hands on. As the printer hummed to life, Helen watched the pages emerge one by one. Words that detailed corruption at the highest levels of professional sports, names of people who would do anything to keep this information buried. She thought of Abramson, of those big suitcases, and had to steady herself against the printer.

“Hey.” Mel’s hand found her waist. “You okay?”

Helen nodded, forcing a small smile. “Just processing everything.” She gathered the warm pages into neat stacks. “What next?”

“We call the police,” Mel said. “But carefully. We tell them our concerns without revealing what we have. See how they react.” Outside, they found a quiet coffee shop a few blocks from the copy store. Helen sipped her tea while Mel made the call. She listened as Mel explained their situation. Starting with their neighbor’s suspicious behavior, the attack they witnessed, his subsequent disappearance, and the pale man’s suitcases.

“Yes, I understand,” Mel was saying, her jaw tightening. “But if you could just have a detective call us back... Yes, I know it’s getting late and how busy everyone is... Former LAPD, thirty years’ experience... I see.” Helen could tell from Mel’s expression that it wasn’t going well. When she finally ended the call, the woman’s face was tight with anger. “They want us to come into the station. But I don’t have high hopes. The dispatcher’s tone said it all. They think we’re just nosy tourists imagining things.”

After a long Uber ride and an hour’s wait in the precinct, a young man in a suit with an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else came to greet them. “Mel Nelson?” he asked. “I’m Detective Kanahele. I hear you have something you want to tell me.”

Helen watched Mel lift her chin as she stood. “Yes, I’m retired police detective Mel Nelson,” she turned to Helen. “And this is Helen Hardy. An additional witness.”

Detective Kanahele raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said. “Come with me then, so I can hear this out.” They followed the detective to a small room with a table and four chairs. He motioned for them to sit while he sat across from them and took out a notepad. He flipped it open and read something before fixing them with his gaze. “So. You witnessed an assault through a window, but when officers responded, there was no evidence of any crime?”

“That’s correct,” Mel replied, her voice professionally neutral despite the condescension in his tone. “We saw someone in dark clothes and a ski mask attack our neighbor, James Abramson.”

“And now Mr. Abramson is... what? Missing?”

Helen leaned forward. “He was working on an important story,” she said. “Something that powerful people wouldn’t want to be published. Then he disappeared after we saw him attacked, and clearly—”

Detective Kanahele held up a hand. “Mrs. Hardy, with all due respect, it sounds like your neighbor simply checked out early. People do that all the time at resorts.”

“Without his laptop?” Mel asked sharply. “Without telling his daughter?”

The detective sighed, closing his notepad. “Look, I understand you’re concerned. But we can’t launch an investigation based on speculation and coincidence. If Mr. Abramson doesn’t show up in a few days, his family can file a missing persons report.”

Helen felt frustration bubble up in her chest. “By then it might be too late.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” Detective Kanahele said, standing to indicate the meeting was over. “Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

Outside the station, the humidity wrapped around them like a wet blanket. Helen’s tea from earlier sat sour in her stomach. “Well,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “That was useless.”

Mel took her hand as they walked toward the Uber they called. “Not entirely,” she said. “Now we know we can’t count on official help. Which means we need to be even more careful about protecting what we have.”

Helen thought about the copy of Abramson’s manuscript in her purse. Mel carried the thumb drive in her pocket. “What do you think Felicity will do?” she asked. “Now that she knows we’ve been watching?”

“Nothing public,” Mel replied grimly. “She’ll want to handle this quietly, like everything else.” She opened the car door for Helen. “For now, we go back to the resort and pack our stuff. It’s time we went into hiding.”

ChapterThirteen

The hallway’s cheerful tropical wallpaper and potted palms felt jarringly at odds with the knot forming in Mel’s stomach as they approached their apartment. After the dismissive treatment from the police detective, her instincts were already on high alert. Those instincts screamed louder when she noticed their door was slightly ajar, a gap barely wide enough to see but definitely not how they’d left it.

“Helen,” Mel said quietly, putting out an arm to stop her. “Stay behind me.”

Helen’s sharp intake of breath told Mel she’d spotted the door too. “Should we call security?”

“Not yet.” Mel’s mind shifted to the familiar patterns of her police training. “I’m guessing whoever did this is long gone. But stay close.”

“Okay,” Helen whispered. Moving forward carefully, Mel noted the subtle marks around the lock that most people would miss. Professional tools, not amateur break-in equipment. She pressed the door open slowly with her fingertips, conscious of Helen’s presence at her back. The apartment’s interior was dark, and as much as she hated to give away their presence, Mel turned on her cellphone’s flashlight. Nothing immediately appeared disturbed, but Mel’s trained eye caught the subtle signs like a throw pillow slightly askew, a chair not quite where it belonged.

“Wait here,” Mel whispered, but Helen’s hand found hers.

“Together,” Helen said firmly. “I’m not letting you face this alone.”

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