His mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Deal?”
Another crash echoes from the kitchen, followed by the sound of something electrical giving up on life. A gecko falls from the ceiling and lands on my shoulder—as overwhelmed by the morning’s events as the rest of us—its tiny claws gripping my shirt like I’m a life raft in a sea of chaos. But I don’t even flinch.
I look at Detective Hale—sex god, construction connection, and my best hope for both solving a murder and saving a resort that’s currently held together by duct tape, denial, and possibly the collective willpower of three women who don’t know when to quit.
“Deal.”
CHAPTER 19
Detective Hale’s weathered Toyota 4Runner looks like it’s been personally introduced to every grain of sand, drop of salt water, and beaten by every wayward palm frond on the island, but it starts with the reliability of something that’s made this journey a thousand times before and plans to make it a thousand more.
The morning air streams through the open windows, carrying the scent of plumeria and possibility as we pull away from the resort. His radio crackles with Hawaiian music that seems to be the only station that comes in clearly, and the interior smells like ocean air, coffee, and something indefinably masculine that makes my brain forget how to process basic information.
“So,” he says, navigating around a tourist who’s stopped in the middle of the road to photograph a chicken, “start talking.”
“About what specifically? My life story, my questionablecareer choices, or the murder investigation I’ve been conducting without a license?”
He frowns. “Let’s start with the murder investigation and work our way up to the interesting life choices.”
We approach the first of the North Shore’s famous one-lane bridges, and Hale slows to let an oncoming car pass with the kind of island courtesy that would never exist on the mainland. The driver gives him a shaka wave—thumb and pinkie extended, three middle fingers folded down, the universal Hawaiian gesture that means everything from “aloha” to “thanks” to “hang loose”—which he returns with the casual precision of an islander who’s been doing this since he could see over a steering wheel.
“Hanalei Bridge,” he says, as we cross the narrow span over a river that looks like liquid jade. “Most photographed bridge in Hawaii. Also, the most likely place to get stuck behind tourists who think stop signs are suggestions and photography is a competitive sport.”
“Do you always provide narration, or is this a special tour guide service?”
“Depends on whether you’re planning to share information or just enjoy the scenery while pretending you haven’t been conducting unauthorized interrogations.”
The road winds through taro fields that stretch toward mountains so green they look like someone spilled emerald paint across the landscape and decided to just leave it that way. Ancient stone walls divide the fields with the precision of people who knew what they were doing centuries ago, and egrets pick their way through the shallow water with thepatience of creatures who’ve never heard of deadlines or stress or murder investigations.
“Fine,” I say, settling back in the seat that’s probably more comfortable than anything in my storage closet room. “Dane Huntington is running tourist scams, skimming money from resort activities, and was being blackmailed by Nolan about it. He’s terrified of prison because, and I quote, ‘Pretty boys like me don’t last a week.’”
Hale nods, taking another bridge without slowing down. A group of tourists waves from the side of the road where they’re photographing what appears to be a very photogenic cow.
“What else?”
“Savannah Cross knows everyone’s business—and I mean everyone’s, like she’s been keeping files since the Nixon administration. She’s been on the island forever, and she turns into a protective mama bear when anyone threatens her garden. She also implied that May Leilani is running from something big in California, and the way she said it made it sound like something big might involve actual crimes rather than just bad life choices.”
“And the crimes would be?”
“Hit and run incident, stolen identity, built her entire wellness empire on someone else’s Social Security Number. Dane mentioned that Nolan may have had evidence.”
Hale absorbs this information with the calm of a detective who’s heard worse and also expected exactly this.
Twenty minutes later, we reach the end of the road at Ke’e Beach, where the pavement gives way to the hiking trail that leads along the Na Pali Coast. The beach stretches before us like a postcard that’s trying too hard to be perfect with its whitesand and turquoise water framed by cliffs that rise like green spires.
“Come on,” Hale says, getting out of the truck. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He leads us to Waikapalae Cave, a magnificent, large, wet cave that burrows into the cliff face like nature’s own secret meeting room. The temperature drops about ten degrees as we step inside, and the sound of dripping water echoes off the stone walls with the rhythm of a heartbeat. It’s dark the deeper you get, but by the looks of it you can’t go too far, or perhaps shouldn’t.
“This is where locals come when they want to think,” he says, his voice carrying differently in the enclosed space, softer somehow and more intimate. “No tourists, no distractions, just you and the mountain.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say and mean it. The cave feels ancient, peaceful, removed from everything complicated about the outside world—murder investigations, failing resorts, ex-husbands, the fact that I’m standing in a cave with a man who makes my knees forget their primary function.
“So, what do you think happened?” he asks, leaning against the cave wall completely comfortable in his own skin, and I bet he’s also probably comfortable interrogating people in romantic cave settings.
“I think Nolan Nakamura made the mistake of threatening too many people at once, and one of them decided to solve the problem permanently.”
“Which one?”
