“Whatever.It’s your case now,” Multon said.“We dusted it for prints.None on it but the victim’s.”
Sophie approached the desk and took the computer, slipping it into her backpack.
A young crime scene tech appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with excitement.“Detective?Found something out back.”
They followed her into the yard where drought-adapted native plants grew in decomposed granite.The tech’s Maglite carved a cone of white through the darkness, illuminating disturbed earth near a garden shed.The wind had died to occasional gusts, but Sophie could hear the ocean crashing against lava rock in the distance.
“Footprints,” the tech announced.“Two sets.”
Sophie squatted beside the prints.The tread pattern made her pulse accelerate; these looked like they were made by similar tactical boots to those worn at Whitmore’s scene.They had a distinctive heel depth, that of someone trained to move on the balls of their feet.“They surveilled from outside,” she said.“Probably learned when he’d be alone.”
“But why kill him?”Marcella’s frustration bled through.“The other thefts were surgical.No violence.”
“Maybe because Akamu knew every major collector in the Pacific,” Multon said.“And likely, the world, with his tech background.He was part Hawaiian, too.I’m guessing that’s different from your other collectors.”
“True,” Marcella said.“Maybe he let them in, but they killed him because he could have identified the link between all of the burglaries.We’re still looking for who that is.Sophie, when you have time, I need Akamu’s contact lists cross-referenced with our other victims’ contact lists.Let’s look for anyone with ties to Southeast Asia and Thailand.”
“Is this guy from Thailand?”Multon’s gaze swiveled to Feirn.“What’s the angle?”
“We have intelligence suggesting the thieves may have connections to that region,” Marcella said, her tone closing off further questions.
“I need to get to my office, or at least somewhere quiet and secure, to break into this laptop and do the work you’re asking for,” Sophie said.“Feirn will stay with me.”
Marcella nodded, then addressed Multon.“Detective, I’d like to make a visit to the morgue and see the body.Then I’d like to speak to Mrs.Akamu about her husband.Can Ms.Smithson here use your department’s computer lab to do her work?”
“It’s getting late,” Multon said.“The lab and the morgue will already be closed.”
“Give me your captain’s number.I’ll call them myself and get things opened up,” Marcella said.“Time is of the essence with this case.”
The two continued to wrangle as they headed toward the helicopter.Shortly after, Marcella, Sophie and Feirn were aloft, leaving Multon staring after them resentfully, his arms crossed on his barrel chest.
“We’ll get more done without him,” Marcella said at last.
Sophie nodded, but her eyes were growing heavy.She would have to grab a catnap on the floor of the lab.She texted Armita that she might not be home tonight.
The helicopter banked south toward Kona and the closest police station, fighting crosswinds that made the fuselage groan and the aircraft bounce.Below them, the Big Island slumbered; its ancient valleys and hidden caves potentially harbored a cult assembling a spiritual arsenal.
14
SOPHIE
The Kona Police Department’scomputer lab was a windowless box of a room in the building’s basement that smelled of burnt coffee and ozone from the machines.Sophie settled at a workstation in the corner, Akamu’s laptop open before her.Feirn positioned himself by the door, his back to the wall, eyes tracking the occasional officer who passed in the hallway beyond.
“Coffee?”Sophie asked him in Thai, gesturing to a pot that looked like it had been brewing since morning.
Feirn’s nose wrinkled as he answered in the same language.“I’d rather drink water buffalo urine.”
Sophie smiled grimly and turned her attention to the laptop.The login screen taunted her with its password field.She pulled out her portable drive containing her toolkit—a collection of scripts and programs that had served her well over the years.
First, she tried the obvious: variations of Akamu’s name, birth date, anniversary.Nothing.Then she booted into recovery mode, accessing the command line.Her fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory from hundreds of similar intrusions.
Within ten minutes, she’d reset the admin password and logged in.The desktop wallpaper showed Akamu with what must be his family—a smiling woman, two grown children and a granddaughter on a beach with Diamond Head visible in the background.
“Here we are,” she murmured, then began copying the hard drive to her external storage.While that ran, she opened Akamu’s email.
The inbox contained thousands of messages.Sophie sorted by sender, looking for patterns.Tech newsletters, collector forums, auction house notifications—the digital detritus of a wealthy collector’s life.
Then a name made her pause.
