Twisted Vine
a Lei Crime Novel
by
Toby Neal
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© Toby Neal 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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ISBN: 978-0-9891489-2-4
Print: ISBN:
978-0-9891489-3-1
Photo credit: Mike Neal
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Format Design: Mike Neal
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1
He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.
Daniel 2:22
Corpses shouldn’t look like angels.
Special Agent Lei Texeira couldn’t get that thought out of her mind as she photographed the body with the Canon. A mane of sun-streaked curls haloed the nineteen-year-old’s colorless face. His mouth was turned up in a bit of a smile, long-lashed eyes almost closed. Muscular, tanned arms, losing their definition in death, contrasted with the crisp white bed linens. His hands were crossed on his chest.
Her partner, Ken Yamada, usually did the photography work, but he was busy doing that other thing he did so well—calming hysteria. This time, Corby Alexander Hale III’s high-powered parents, Senator and Mrs. Hale.
Detective Marcus Kamuela, relegated to the sidelines, leaned his big frame against the wall of the vast bedroom cluttered with surfboards, skateboards, and a mountain bike. He finally spoke, and his voice was tight with irritation. “Don’t know why you guys got called in on this one.”
“We’re investigating a series of suspicious deaths, and with this boy’s parents . . . It’s political. You know the drill.” Lei spoke apologetically.
Taking over the case had been recommended by Sophie Ang, their information-technology specialist. The tech agent had spotted a trend of inconsistencies in a series of suicides and accidental deaths, and she’d flagged the boy’s death to FBI Special Agent in Charge Waxman when it came out on the scanner. Given the senator’s position, everything to do with his son’s death was going to be under scrutiny.
On the bedside table, near the boy’s right hand, was an empty syringe, a strip of rubber tubing, and a “cooking kit” with a smudge of black residue left in the bowl of the spoon. Lei frowned as she assessed the scene—it looked too neat, the body artificially laid out.
“What do you think? This looks staged to me.” Lei shook curly hair out of her eyes.
“Agree,” Kamuela said. His voice was brusque.
“So, who found the body?”
“The maid. Well, whatevahs.” The Hawaiian detective pushed off the wall. He left, giving her one last “stink eye,” which she pretended not to see, lifting her hand in a goodbye wave. Lei remembered the days of catching a case only to have it snaked by the Feds. Now she was one of them and was relieved to see Kamuela go. She was never entirely relaxed in his company—he was the investigator on a cold case that still had the power to derail her life.
Ken came to the door. “Detective Kamuela’s not happy to be bumped off the case. I put him in with the senator, who’s had a bit too much to drink. The boy’s mother locked herself in the restroom.”
“Poor thing. This kid was so young.” Lei lifted the boy’s right hand off his chest, turned it over, photographed the inside of the arm. No needle marks on the smooth skin, though the mottling of lividity had begun. “Turn his other arm, will you?”
Ken did so. Rigor had begun to set in, so the arm moved stiffly. No marks on the left arm, either, but a tiny blood dot on the recent injection site. They both straightened up, and Lei lowered the camera. “Where’s the medical examiner?”
“
Fukushima’s a few minutes away. The parents swear he wasn’t a drug user. According to Senator Hale, he was what this room shows—a top-notch surfer and athlete.”
“He was also left-handed, which isn’t well known.” Kamuela had given Lei the basic profile he’d procured from the first interviews. They both looked at the empty plastic packet, spoon, tubing, lighter, and the needle set on the right side table. There was a second, empty table on the left side of the bed. An injection site into the left arm meant he’d have had to inject himself with his nondominant hand, an awkward position at best.
“Wonder if we’ll find prints on the cooking kit,” Ken said, his sternly handsome Japanese face set in what Lei liked to call “samurai mode”—straight brows drawn together, jaw tight, mouth a line. “Kamuela might be pissed now, but with the high profile this case is going to generate, he’ll be thanking us later.”
Dr. Fukushima knocked on the door and entered. Her assistant, pushing the gurney, closed it behind her. A petite woman with a graceful, upright bearing, she padded across the room in proper crime-scene wear—blue paper booties, a coverall, gloves, a hairnet, carrying her black old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
“What have we here?” she asked. “Are you ready for me?”
“Looks like a suspicious overdose. Corby Alexander Hale the third, senator’s son, aged nineteen. And yes, we’re ready to start searching the room,” Ken said.
“I’m done shooting.” Lei put the camera in its case. Ken slid the items beside the boy’s still form into evidence bags as Lei recapped what they knew.
Fukushima
gazed at the body. “Looks posed.”
“We thought so too.”
“Hmm. I’m going to want to rule out homicide,” Fukushima said.
Lei didn’t have time to reply before the door flew open with a bang. Corby Hale’s mother hurtled across the room, throwing herself onto their crime scene. “
Corby! Corby!” she wailed.
Ken and Lei pried her off her son’s body. Alexis Hale, whom Lei had only ever seen perfectly coiffed beside her husband in media releases, appeared unhinged with grief. Ruined makeup smeared her face, and one ear bled onto the collar of her white blouse where it looked as if she’d ripped an earring out.
She cried the boy’s name again and again, “Corby! Corby!” as if she could haul his spirit back from wherever it had gone. The sound brought the hairs up all over Lei’s body. She wrestled Mrs. Hale into a nearby chair, keeping her there by crossing the woman’s arms and holding them from behind while Ken ran to find Senator Hale. Fukushima fussed around the disturbed body, hastily bagging the boy’s hands lest any trace be lost and then pulling the sheet up to hide him.
Lei was able to release Mrs. Hale’s arms when she took hold of herself, hands still crossed over her body, and began rocking. She was crying hard now, and Lei patted the woman’s back, making inarticulate soothing noises. Every phrase she thought of speaking sounded ridiculous.
Nothing. Nothing could comfort in a moment of loss like this, and Lei had finally learned it was better to say nothing than something insensitive. It had also taken her some years to be able to tolerate the rawness of others’ grief without it activating her own—even now, she slowed her own breathing consciously as Mrs. Hale’s harsh weeping abraded her emotions.
Senator Hale, pasty under his golfer’s tan and reeking of alcohol, wobbled into the doorway with Kamuela holding him up. Mrs. Hale launched herself from the chair, beating at him with her fists. “This is all your fault! All your fault!”
Lei and Ken pushed all three into the hall and managed to get the door shut so Dr. Fukushima could get to work in peace, and the next several moments were a blur of managing the fighting, screaming couple, getting them down the hall and into the huge living room, sitting them on separate leather couches like boxers between rounds.
Lei parked herself beside Mrs. Hale, who had subsided into hiccupping silence, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on her husband. Senator Hale reached for his highball glass from the coffee table, but Kamuela plucked it away first. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.”
“So, tell us more about yesterday and this morning,” Ken said.
Mrs. Hale didn’t speak, just kept her venomous gaze on her husband. Senator Hale finally answered, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.
“It’s like I told you. Corby is a student at University of Hawaii, Manoa. He had classes yesterday; he went surfing in the evening. We don’t monitor everything he does anymore, but I knew that because his car was gone.” Lei glanced out the window at the black Xterra parked in the turnaround, stacked high with surfboards. Lucky nineteen-year-old. The waste of his death made her heart squeeze.
“Anyway, we didn’t know anything was wrong until Jessie went upstairs to wake him for class. She screamed.” Hale got up and went to the sideboard, a handsome koa-wood unit, and splashed more Maker’s Mark into a fresh glass. The agents looked at each other and at Kamuela. Lei knew none of them wanted to incur the senator’s wrath by taking the drink away again.
“I went up and saw him there. I tried to wake him.” The senator’s hand trembled so violently he couldn’t get the glass to his lips. The liquid splashed over his hand and he set it down. “I called nine-one-one on my cell and went out of the room. I wouldn’t let Alexis see him. I didn’t want her to see him. Dead.”
Suddenly the senator clapped his hand to his mouth and ran out of the room. Ken followed him, and Lei heard the man retching in the nearby guest bathroom. Kamuela got up. “I’ll go check the perimeter, make sure it’s secure.”
Lei looked over at Mrs. Hale, pulled a handful of tissues from the mother-of-pearl box on the coffee table, handed them to her. “Your ear is bleeding. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Hale put the tissues against her ear without responding, still staring at the spot where her husband had been.
“I wonder, was Corby acting any differently lately? Did you have any indications that he was using drugs?”
“Why is the FBI here?” Alexis Hale suddenly asked.
Lei took a careful moment to answer—she couldn’t give anything away right now. “Your husband’s high profile immediately bumps the case to a higher level.”
“Well.” Mrs. Hale seemed to be pulling herself together, having reached some inner conclusion. She smoothed her blond hair, woven with shades from buttercream to platinum, patting it back into some semblance of order, though there was no fix for the spatter of blood on the white blouse from her torn earlobe. She reached over to the expanse of coffee table and tugged another tissue out of the mother-of-pearl dispenser, dabbing mascara out from under her eyes. “He’d been acting different. Quieter. Withdrawn. I thought he was having a tough semester at school, maybe girl trouble. I didn’t pry.”
Lei had taken her little spiral notebook out of her pocket and she jotted this down. “How long had this been going on?”
“I noticed a change in him around the beginning of the semester. He started locking his door, didn’t want to join us for dinner. He was listening to all this angry music. Alternative, you know. I thought it was just a phase.” She suddenly hunched forward, as if from a body blow, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh God.”
“Please. Mrs. Hale.” Lei laid a hand on her trembling shoulder. “Please help me with this. Maybe we can find some answers.” Even as she said the words, she knew answers were not always comforting—sometimes they just led to more questions, or more heartbreak.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” Alexis Hale pulled another handful of tissues out of the dispenser, dabbed her whole face. “Okay. I’ll keep it together for a little longer, just to get you people out of my house.”
Lei felt the sting of the words but kept her voice soft. “Thank you. I can’t imagine how difficult this is. What kind of girl trouble did you think he was having?”
She didn’t have time to answer as Ken came back in. “Senator Hale became ill. I helped him to bed. We’ll talk another time.”
Lei stood up to block Mrs. Hale’s view out the window, where Dr. Fukushima and her assistant were pushing the gurney down the walkway, loaded with the strapped-down black body bag. The wheels of the gurney clattered and Alexis Hale looked up, then shot to her feet and ran to the door.
Lei followed her, but Mrs. Hale just stood in the doorway and watched them load the body into the ME’s van. The estate was fenced with a monstera-covered coral-stone wall, the giant tropical ivy curling up the ten-foot expanse, and guarded by an electric gate. Kamuela provided some cover from the jostling reporters beyond the gate trying to get the “money shot” with his bulk and intimidating stare. Mrs. Hale turned away as
Fukushima slammed the back door of the van and the assistant got behind the wheel.
“Okay. I’ll see him later,” she muttered to herself, rubbing her arms briskly as she walked back to the living room. Lei trailed her and was grateful when Ken sat beside the grieving woman and picked up the line of questioning.
“So you said ‘this is all your fault’ to your husband. What did you mean by that?”
Alexis Hale straightened her linen slacks, picking at the creases in the fabric. “This. This life in the fishbowl, where everything we do has to be a certain way and everything we say has to be scripted. This life. It was hard for
Corby, and it got harder for him the older he got, but neither of us had a choice. We had an image to maintain. My husband’s vision is set high, and we both always knew it.”
“You mean the White House?” Lei asked. She’d heard rumors to that effect. Senator Hale was even rumored to have a chance at the presidential nomination in a mere four years.
“Yes. So we lived under a magnifying glass. I had the feeling Corby was getting restless.”
“He might have turned to drugs to escape, you mean.”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t have believed it, but . . .” She seemed unable to go on.
“Why don’t we call someone for you? We still have to search his room,” Ken said.
They called Alexis Hale’s sister, and it wasn’t long before they left Mrs. Hale tearfully explaining on the phone and were able to exit. Lei put on a hairnet to restrain her springing curls, unruly in the Kailua humidity.