Fire Beach: Lei Crime Book 8 (Lei Crime Series) Page 4

  “Stakes are big. My second cousin, he lost his house in one of these games. Not only that, they get some boys breaking legs if people don’t pay,” Claudine said, sucking her dentures the way she did when upset. She plucked at the neck of a banana-yellow muumuu, and Lei spotted matching Crocs peeking out from underneath the hem.

  “I can tell there’s more going on than you’re telling me.” Lei fiddled with the rough, white-gold pendant she always wore.

  “Those boys, they’ve already got us paying protection money,” Claudine hissed, leaning forward to catch Lei’s eye. “If it’s not mah-jongg, it’s blackjack or the lottery in the Mainland. They got an idea for everyone who like gamble, and you don’t get hooked on something, they keep trying until you do.”

  “Protection money? And who is ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Six months ago, these two guys, they came around to all the small-kine businesses in Wailuku. Nobody knows them, but they’re big guys, armed. They tell us they charging one ‘tax’ for keep doing business here. Some of us no like pay the tax. And you remember the building wen’ burn down on Market Street? That guy, he no like pay.” Claudine’s pidgin thickened with her agitation. “I tell the husband, we going pay. So we do. Then next thing, we getting e-mails about all the things they like us to gamble on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Lei asked. “When you had that homicide at your inn? It might have been important.”

  “No, I nevah like deal with it then. Now I know this just going get worse and worse until they bleed us dry, and it’s got to stop. After my cuz lost his house, I say enough already. And I know you. That’s why I call you. You one good girl.”

  Lei smiled at that description. “I have to take this back to the station and see if my captain wants to assign it to Vice. I usually work Homicide. But thanks for the tip, Claudine. I’ll get back to you no matter what.”

  Captain Omura had ended up authorizing Lei to run with the case. Lei was working it alone because she was currently without a partner, due to resigning from the hazardous explosives detail. Abe Torufu, her partner on that assignment, was now training with another detective who’d volunteered to take her place on the bomb squad.

  And it was just as well she didn’t have a partner, Lei thought, as she leafed through her notes. Through interviews, she’d uncovered persistent rumors that both the “protection” payments and organized gambling had their roots in the Changs’ Big Island operation and that the two thugs who collected payment were unknown to Maui folks because they came over from that island. Last week, when she’d asked to go to Hawaii to check out the situation, Omura had given the okay.

  But Omura didn’t know Lei had been ordered by the FBI not to have anything further to do with any investigation involving the Changs. Lei would have been perfectly happy to honor that if she didn’t suspect Terence Chang had somehow found a way to kill Anchara and her aunt and set Stevens up for murder.

  And Chang was still holding on to one more shroud.

  She shut the folder, reclined her seat, and closed her eyes for the short flight. Her mind immediately went back to the bedroom with Stevens. The remnants of that rich memory didn’t make it easier to get off the plane, knowing she was going after their enemy behind his back instead of by his side.

  Chapter 4

  The Fireman did a preliminary assessment of the address he’d received, and the results were daunting. As he drove back toward Kahului, he mulled over the challenges. On the plus side, it was a remote location that he could probably approach relatively undetected. Potential fuel in the form of tall eucalyptus robusta trees surrounded the property. The trees, while green, had a lot of combustible sap. The house itself was also highly flammable, an old wooden structure on a post-and-pier foundation with a tin roof, which, if properly ignited, could go up fast and deadly.

  On the minus side, the house was surrounded by a ten-foot cedar fence and appeared to have a security system, not something he’d been prepared to breach. According to the TMK map he pulled up, inside the fence were two dwellings: a cottage close to the fence and a main house with thirty feet of open lawn that would provide a firebreak. He pulled the truck over and hiked back through the vacant lot bordering the property to get a look inside. Climbing a tree, he was able to look over the fence into the yard, and that’s when he spotted the Rottweiler.

  It had spotted him, too, and the deep bellow of its bark shriveled his balls. He’d almost fallen getting out the tree.

  He hated dogs of any kind. Guard dogs aroused even more antipathy. Twenty thousand wasn’t looking like good or easy money anymore. He wanted more if he was going to figure out how to navigate these multiple challenges.

  Back at his apartment, he took out his phone and texted the number he’d received the original message from: Challenges with assignment. Dog. Fence. Security system. Firebreaks. Green trees. Need more money for this job.

  He waited. No reply.

  “Asshole,” the Fireman muttered. He had only one real way to communicate.

  He got up and set the stop sign in the window. The blinds remained down behind the sign, as he’d left them since he’d figured out how he was being observed, and now his already-depressing apartment was always semi-gloomy except for the new flat screen he’d bought the day the money arrived.

  Even if he didn’t hear back, he needed to get a fire plan. Sitting down with a pencil and paper, he copied the TMK map of the property and planned his assault. When he was done with that, he made a list of materials he could use for the ignition.

  Imagining every stage of setting fire to the challenging fortress of a property energized him, and even though his phone remained stubbornly silent, his spirits lifted.

  He was the Fireman. He could do this. If he could just get into the house, he could set a fire that would be a masterpiece of destruction.

  Stevens and Owen followed Ferreira through a metal-faced door into the administration offices of the sugarcane company. Inside a linoleum foyer area with a heavy rubber mat stood a wooden shoe rack where various boots were lined up. Ferreira called to the receptionist on the other side of a half wall.

  “Cheryl! How you stay?”

  “Keeping cool,” the middle-aged woman said. Her black hair was scraped into a bun and her cheeks were acne-scarred. “What you here for, cuz?”

  “Meeting with the brass. Got us on the calendar?”

  “Yes, I see you right here. Welcome to Maui Sugar,” Cheryl said, including Stevens and Owen with a gracious nod. “Can you gentlemen please put your boots on the rack? As you can see, we have a little dirt situation around here. I’ll show you to the conference room.”

  “No problem.” Owen sat beside Stevens on a conveniently located chair and undid his laces. Stevens did likewise, darting an assessing glance around the utilitarian space, a room built into the prefabricated metal building using studs and drywall. In their socks, the men followed Cheryl’s ample rear down the hall. She opened a door and gestured them into a conference room surrounded in whiteboards. A wheezing AC unit was set flush in the windowless wall. “Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’d love some coffee,” Stevens said. “Black is fine.”

  “Water for me,” said Owen.

  “Nothing, thanks,” Ferreira said. “But is the restroom still down the hall?”

  “Sure is.” Cheryl led Ferreira out, and Owen and Stevens sat down at the Formica conference table.

  “Never took a meeting in my socks before,” Owen said.

  “Get used to it,” Stevens responded. “Cultural thing. Though in this building, I think it’s just that they want to keep the dirt on the mat in front.”

  Ferreira reappeared. “I wanted to get my cousin alone for a few minutes, to see what she might have picked up about the fires. She had a few names she thought w
ere good to investigate, guys who’d been fired or laid off and had an attitude about it. We can see if they jibe with the ones the administration offers up.”

  As if on cue, the door opened on two men in business casual. Ferreira stood first, shaking the taller one’s hand. “Hey, Jake.”

  “Josh Ferreira! Didn’t expect you here; thought we were talking to the fire investigator.” The stocky man with thinning hair glanced around, and Tim Owen popped up, extending his hand.

  “And we’ve met before. Hi again. Tim Owen, fire investigator for Maui County.”

  “Jake Schumacher. I’m the general manager. This is Fred Okasako, director of operations.” Stevens introduced himself, and they all sat back down after the obligatory small talk about where everyone was from.

  Stevens glanced at Tim Owen, and the young man caught his eye, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.

  “I asked for this meeting to discuss the series of arson cane fires you’ve been experiencing in Maui Sugar fields. For the benefit of the detectives here, I’ll just recap that we have met twice before, discussing various aspects of these fires. I’ve given the management here some ideas regarding prevention, which we should discuss again. But now that there’s been a fatality, the criminal aspect of the investigation is going to shift to the Maui Police Department. I will continue to work closely with the detectives to investigate any fire-related aspects of the case.”

  “Thanks for clarifying the roles and responsibilities,” Okasako said. He was shorter and stockier than Schumacher, but he carried himself with the solid authority of a leader. “Jake is the ‘big kahuna’ in charge of all aspects of the Maui Sugar operation; my responsibility is operations, in which I oversee personnel and human resources as one aspect. We have more than eight hundred employees working in various capacities.”

  “Didn’t realize you had so many,” Stevens said, leaning forward to make contact with the man he sensed was the real head of the company. “We want to focus on any employees who might be disgruntled and possibly have fire-setting experience from working with your controlled-harvesting burns.”

  “Tim had given us a heads-up about that. I was talking with my department heads and we prepared a list.” Okasako produced a typewritten set of names with addresses and phone numbers. “Some of these are current employees. Some were laid off a few months ago during budget cuts—as you may have heard, we aren’t making much of a profit these days—and some were fired for cause.”

  Stevens took the paper and scanned down it. “I see you have fifty names here. That’s going to be tough. Do you have some you’d prioritize?”

  Okasako met Stevens’s eye with his own direct, pebble-hard gaze. “I’d start with the ones who were fired, then the ones who were laid off.”

  Jake Schumacher leaned forward. “What we noticed is that the fields being burned were close to harvest. By burning them a couple of weeks before harvest, there’s been an attempt to ruin our harvest, which implies a financial revenge motive. At least from our perspective. What we haven’t shared publicly is that this arsonist isn’t really hurting us that badly. Yeah, we’ve lost some tonnage, but we’ve still been able to harvest and process a good deal of what he’s burned.”

  “Do you think he knows this?” Stevens asked, tapping the paper with his finger.

  “We’ve kept it out of the news for this reason. Talked to the reporter and asked her to exaggerate the damage,” Schumacher said. “We don’t want him to start burning the one-year cane. That would really put us back.”

  Stevens narrowed his eyes. “From here on out, we need to be informed and a part of any information that is circulating to the public. So you refer to the arsonist as ‘he.’ Any particular reason?”

  “Most of our burn and harvest crews are male,” Okasako said.

  “And most arsonists, statistically speaking, are male,” Owen interjected.

  “So who knows which fields you’re going to burn?” Stevens asked. “Seems like this perp has some insider knowledge.”

  “Actually, that’s a matter of public record. Right on our website,” Schumacher said. “Because our burns affect the public in terms of health and safety, we have to post our burn schedule. It’s right there on our website year-round, and we mail out letters to neighborhoods affected a couple weeks ahead of time.”

  “What about protests about your controlled burns?” Stevens asked. “I’ve seen some very vocal people complaining about air-quality concerns and so forth related to the harvesting. Have you received any hate mail or other targeted complaints?”

  Beside him, he could see Ferreira shaking his head, but Okasako nodded. “I already thought of that. I’ve had our administrative assistants set aside any threatening or otherwise negative correspondence.” He reached into the file folder he’d walked in with and took out a rubber-banded stack of letters. “These range from scientific articles linking the cane smoke to cancer and asthma to rants about bringing down property values.”

  “Thank you.” Stevens took the letters. “It was an idea of mine that, besides sour-grapes-employee concerns, these fires could be about drawing attention to the burn debate.”

  “There’s no debate,” Schumacher snapped. “Burning is the most efficient method of harvest. Period.”

  “What about those turbine-style harvesters I’ve seen used beside the major highways, where there’s a safety concern with traffic?”

  “Expensive. And if you consider the carbon footprint generated by the gas the turbines burn, it’s not that much better.”

  Stevens frowned. “I’d love to see some statistics on that and a fuller discussion on why machine harvesters aren’t an option—or at least on why some people think they should be. Might speak to motive.”

  “We won’t settle that issue here,” Okasako snapped. “Let’s stay focused on our mutual interest in solving this case.”

  “That’s what we’re here for. Solving the crime that’s affecting your operations,” Ferreira said from beside Stevens. Stevens felt his hackles rise at his subordinate’s conciliatory tone.

  “More important, solving a murder case. A man has lost his life.” Stevens bit off his words.

  “A homeless man, camping in our fields,” Schumacher said dismissively.

  “A human being,” Stevens said. “Who died in excruciating pain.” He opened his own file and pushed a couple of photos of the “human chicken wing” over to the two Maui Sugar employees. Schumacher paled, but Okasako took a long look. He raised his eyes to Stevens’s, expression unchanged.

  “We are in no way responsible for this man’s death,” Okasako said. “And we want to make sure this not only doesn’t happen again, but that the person who set the fire is prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  Stevens put the pictures back into the file. “Good. Then we’re all on the same page. Anybody have any ideas about motive other than what we’ve explored?”

  Schumacher nodded. “A lot of people have said they thought it might just be kids causing trouble. Thinking fire-setting is fun and won’t hurt anybody.”

  Tim Owen spoke up. “There are a few reasons I don’t think it’s kids. The accelerant used to start the fires, for one, is a mix of two-thirds diesel and one-third gasoline. The gasoline combusts upon ignition, catching the diesel, which clings to the fuel source, helping the burn really take hold. While it’s possible it’s a kid who’s done a little homework to know that, more likely it’s an adult with some knowledge of fire science.”

  “Well, the public seems to keep putting that teen theory forth. I wonder if you have a list of employees with teenagers?” Ferreira asked.

  Okasako inclined his head. “Might take HR a little while, but I can pull together a list for you.”

  “That reminds me—we were going to discuss the safety recommendations I suggested
,” Owen said. “Why don’t I revisit them for the group?”

  Schumacher nodded.

  “Okay.” Owen took out a paper. “I believe I gave this to you after the first two fires. First: Increase company security patrols around your harvest-ready fields.”

  “We’ve done that as best we can with our personnel challenges,” Okasako said.

  “Second: Take down the postings about the burn schedule to obscure the targets more.”

  “We can’t. Part of our agreement with the county is that the burn schedule is made public,” Schumacher said.

  “I still think you could technically fulfill that requirement while making the information less accessible,” Owen argued. “But we can discuss later. Next: Install surveillance cams on the power poles in the field. That might help catch the arsonist on video.”

  “We’re looking into that,” Okasako said. “So far the bids we’ve received are prohibitively expensive.”

  “All right. That’s your choice as a company.” Owen looked down at his list, and Stevens felt his estimation of the young man rising. Tim Owen was being authoritative, making sure the company couldn’t shift blame to him and the fire department if the fires continued. “Make firebreaks using the turbine harvesters right after you stop watering to contain the size of the fires.”

  “We plan to do that. We can afford to cut the fields up into smaller grids using the harvesters and burn them in sections,” Okasako said.

  “Good. Here’s another one: Lock the cane-haul road gates and restrict the key access. I’ve observed that your gates are usually open, and people are using your roads as informal shortcuts. You could easily stop the traffic.”