Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
A s Helen moved to open the sliding glass door, she noticed Mel still watched Abramson’s apartment. She was about to prod the woman again when suddenly, a shadow of movement through Abramson’s window caught her attention. At first, she thought it might be a reflection from the courtyard lights, but then she saw it again. A dark figure moving behind Abramson, who remained oblivious, focused on his screen. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Mel,” she whispered. “Do you see that? Someone’s in his apartment.”
Before Mel responded, the figure stepped fully into view. Dressed in black from head to toe, face obscured by a ski mask, the intruder moved with practiced stealth toward Abramson’s desk. Helen’s heart pounded as she realized what she was witnessing. She wanted to shout a warning, to do something, but her voice was trapped in her throat. Time seemed to slow as the masked figure raised what looked like a heavy object. Helen’s fingers clutched Mel’s shoulder, trying to find some reassurance that what she witnessed wasn’t real. “No,” Helen breathed, but it was too late. The blow came swift and brutal. Abramson slumped forward, his head hitting the keyboard of his laptop before his body slipped from his office chair and crumpled to the floor. Helen heard herself gasp as Mel surged to her feet beside her.
“I’m going over there,” Mel said, already moving toward their sliding door.
“No,” Helen held Mel’s arm, surprising herself with the strength of her grip. “We need to call the police first.”
“He could be dying, Helen,” Mel’s voice held that familiar tone of protective determination that Helen both loved and, at this moment, feared. She slipped out of Helen’s grasp. “I can’t just stand here.”
Helen’s hands shook as she fumbled for her phone. “And what if the attacker is still there?” she asked, her voice unwavering. She knew she had to be the voice of reason right now. “What if they’re armed with a gun? You’re not a police officer anymore. Please.” The last word came out almost as a plea, and something in Helen’s voice appeared to reach through Mel’s instinct to rush in. Mel stopped, though Helen could see the tension vibrating through her partner’s body. Helen held her breath, waiting to see what the woman she loved would do.
Finally, Mel nodded. “Okay,” she said, pulling out her own phone. “But let me make the call. I know what details they’ll need.”
Grateful, Helen took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said as Mel dialed her phone.
Walking to the glass door, Helen saw that neither the attacker nor Abramson were in view. Clearly, while they were deciding what to do, the attacker dragged their victim away. The violence of it felt surreal, like something from a television show rather than their peaceful Hawaiian vacation. She heard Mel using her professional voice to say into her phone, “Yes, I need to report an assault. Apartment three two seven on the third floor of the Kailua Palms Resort. Victim is James Abramson. Suspect is dressed in black with a ski mask. The attack just happened. The perpetrator may still be inside.”
Helen’s legs felt weak as the reality of what they’d witnessed sank in. She lowered herself to the edge of the sofa’s cushion. “I can’t believe this,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t believe this.”
“They’re sending units now,” Mel said, ending the call. She knelt beside Helen, taking her trembling hands. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” Helen admitted. “The way he just fell forward.” She squeezed Mel’s hands. “What if he’s dead? What if we could have prevented this somehow?”
“Hey,” Mel’s voice softened. “This isn’t our fault. We had suspicions but no proof of any real danger. And we’re doing the right thing now by calling it in.”
In the distance, Helen heard the first sirens. The sound seemed to make everything more real, more frightening. “I’m scared, Mel,” she whispered. “Not just for him, but for us. We’ve been watching and asking questions at the front desk. What if whoever did this knows that?”
Mel’s expression hardened slightly, and Helen saw the protective glint in her eye. “Nothing is going to happen to you,” Mel said firmly. “I promise. But we need to go to meet the police and help lead them to the apartment.”
The sirens grew louder, and lights from the police cars pulling up to the resort splashed eerie colors across the courtyard. Soon, they would have to talk to the police, explain what they saw, and become officially involved in whatever dark thing they’d stumbled into. “What do we tell them?” Helen asked. “About everything else we know?”
Mel stood, helping Helen to her feet. “For now, just what we witnessed. The attack itself. We’ll figure out the rest once we know if...” She didn’t finish the sentence, but Helen understood. Once they knew if Abramson was alive or dead.
* * *
The hallway felt longer than usual as Mel led Helen toward Abramson’s apartment. Red and blue lights from the police vehicles below strobed faintly across the walls through the open-air corridor, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. The familiar sound of radio chatter and boots on the stairs nearby brought back decades of memories, though Mel had never been on this side of a crime scene before. Two uniformed officers were just reaching the third floor when they arrived at the end of the hall leading to Abramson’s apartment. Mel noted automatically how young they were and guessed they were probably not long out of the academy based on how they held themselves. The taller one had his hand on his holstered weapon, a good instinct, given the situation. Mel read the nametag on his chest—Robbins. “Office Robbins, I’m Mel Nelson,” she said. “That apartment is halfway down the hall on the right.”
Robbins gave her a nod while his shorter partner moved past them toward that apartment’s door. “Thank you, Ms. Nelson,” Robbins said. “You made the call?”
“That’s right,” Mel said, unconsciously shifting into her professional demeanor. “We witnessed the attack from our balcony. Apartment 307, directly across the courtyard.”
“Good,” Robbins said as he started to follow his partner. “Stay back please.”
The shorter officer knocked firmly on Abramson’s door. “Police! Open up!” There was no response. The hallway fell silent except for a brief crackle of police radios and the distant wail of another approaching siren.
“Have you tried the handle?” Mel asked, leading Helen closer, knowing protocol would be against it, but unable to help herself. The shorter officer gave her a slightly annoyed look before testing the door. It was locked.
“We’ll need the building manager or whoever’s on duty this late to come to open a door,” the shorter officer said into his radio. “Unit 327.”
Mel’s mind raced through everything they’d witnessed over the past few days, and she was conflicted. She knew details that may or may not help the situation. Felicity Coedy’s behavior. The pale man in the suit. Brigitte Abramson’s odd comments. But without context, it would sound like wild speculation from two nosy old ladies. The shorter officer looked at her and Mel read his nametag—Hale.
“Can you walk us through exactly what you saw?” The officer pulled out his notebook.
Mel described the attack in precise detail, keeping her voice steady despite the emotion she sensed coming from Helen. “The assailant was dressed entirely in black, including a ski mask. Build suggested male, but I couldn’t be certain. The person didn’t seem especially tall. The weapon appeared to be a heavy object, but I couldn’t see it well enough to know what it was.”
“You seem very observant,” Hale said as his pen scratched the paper.
“I’m a retired LAPD detective,” Mel explained. “Thirty years on the force. Old habits die hard.” This information changed both officers’ demeanor slightly, as Mel knew it would. The elevator dinged, and the building manager hurried toward them. He was a heavyset Hawaiian man in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt with the resort’s logo.
“Stand back, please,” Robbins instructed as the manager handed over the keycard for the room. Mel drew Helen a few steps away, positioning herself slightly in front of her. The officer pressed the card to the lock and it clicked. Turning the handle slowly, he pushed the door open. “Police!” When there was no sound, the officers drew their weapons and entered the apartment.
Mel held her breath, straining to hear any sound from within. The seconds stretched like hours.
“All clear in here,” came the call from inside. “Ms. Nelson, I need you to come see this.”
With the officers’ permission, Mel and Helen walked into Abramson’s apartment. As Mel had observed the last time, the living area looked barely touched, as if Abramson only used the extra bedroom turned office and ignored the rest of the apartment. Some details had changed. There were now even more takeout containers on the counter, trash overflowing from a trashcan, and dirty dishes piled in the sink. The scent of coffee had worsened, mixing with old food and garbage, and the air had grown stale. As they walked as a group into the office, the desk lamp still burned, casting harsh shadows across the empty chair where they last saw their neighbor. His laptop sat open, screen dark. But there was no sign of Abramson or his attacker.
“No blood anywhere,” Robbins noted, examining the desk area with his flashlight. “No signs of struggle.”
Mel scanned the room, taking in every detail. The bed was still made. No desk drawers were open. Nothing seemed disturbed. “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “There should be something out of place.”
“Ma’am,” Hale said. “Are you certain what you saw?”
Mel felt Helen touch her arm. “Yes, we saw it happen,” Helen said, her voice tight but with a hint of confusion. “He was right there. The person hit him, and he fell from his chair.”
The officers exchanged a look that Mel recognized all too well. It was the one that said they were dealing with unreliable witnesses. “We’ll take a full report,” the shorter one said diplomatically. “And check the security cameras.”
“There aren’t any in the hallways,” the manager said. “Just the lobby and parking areas.”
Mel felt a familiar frustration building in her chest. She knew what they had seen. But she also knew how it looked. Two elderly women claiming to witness an attack in an empty apartment with no evidence to support their story. “Look,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I understand how this appears. But we’re not confused or mistaken. Something happened here, and James Abramson could be in serious danger.”
Robbins holstered his weapon. “We’ll document everything and file a report. If Mr. Abramson turns up or anyone reports him missing, we’ll investigate further.”
But Mel could hear what he wasn’t saying. The officer thought she and Helen were just overexcited tourists, maybe having had too much wine on their balcony. She wanted to argue, to make them understand the significance of everything they’d observed over the past few days. But her years on the force had taught her when pushing would do more harm than good. “Thank you, officers,” she said instead, seeing the surprise on Helen’s face out of the corner of her eye. “We appreciate your quick response.”
Mel ushered Helen toward the door, leaving the officers behind. As they passed by the small kitchen, Mel noticed a wallet on the counter among the trash. If it was Abramson’s, it would be unlikely that he would have left it behind if he had gone under his own power. She thought about bringing it to the police officer’s attention, but at the last second, she slipped it into her pocket and followed Helen out the door.
* * *
As Helen and Mel walked out of the apartment and started down the hallway, the sound of hurried footsteps approaching made Helen pause. Brigitte Abramson was rushing toward them. “Where’s my father?” she demanded, looking between Mel and Helen before focusing on the police officers emerging from the apartment. “He’s not answering his phone. What’s going on?”
“Ma’am,” Robbins said, his tone professionally neutral. “Your father appears to have left his apartment.”
“And gone where? It’s getting late,” Brigitte asked, her tone almost accusatory, but Helen caught the flicker of something else in her expression. “I just spoke to him a few hours ago. He was working on his story and didn’t say anything about leaving.”
Helen watched as Brigitte started to push past the officers into the apartment. “I can assure you,” Hale explained. “He is not here.”
“Then why are you here?” Brigitte asked as if finally registering the police were in her father’s apartment.
The two officers looked at each other, then Hale shrugged and pointed at Mel. “She called in an attack at this location.”
Brigitte’s face paled. “An attack?”
Holding his hand palm out as if to calm Brigitte, Robbins shook his head. “There’s no sign anything happened here.”
Helen couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “No sign? We saw someone attack him.”
Brigitte’s head snapped toward Helen. “You saw what?”
“A person in black, wearing a ski mask,” Helen said, drawing strength from Mel’s steady presence beside her. “They hit your father from behind.” Her voice faltered as she remembered the horrible moment.
Blinking as if not registering what Helen said, Brigitte hesitated. “That’s impossible,” she whispered, but her voice wavered slightly and she rushed into the apartment. For a moment, Brigitte was gone from sight but then returned. She was frowning. “If someone attacked him, where’s the blood? Where’s the evidence?”
Robbins cleared his throat. “As we said, there is none.”
Helen felt a chill despite the warm Hawaiian night. She knew what they had seen. The image of Abramson slumping forward was burned into her memory. But standing there near the seemingly undisturbed apartment, even she had to admit how improbable their story sounded.
“Officers,” Brigitte said. “I appreciate your response, but clearly there’s been some misunderstanding.” She gestured toward Helen and Mel. “Perhaps they saw shadows, or maybe my father was just resting. He’s been working very hard lately.”
The dismissive tone in Brigitte’s voice made Helen’s chest tighten with anger. “We know what we saw,” she insisted. “Your father was attacked, and now someone’s trying to cover it up.”
“Ms. Hardy,” Hale interrupted gently. “Without any evidence of a crime, there is nothing more we can do.”
Helen felt tears of frustration threatening. “Then why isn’t he answering his phone when Brigitte calls him?”
A brief silence fell over the group. Helen saw Brigitte’s hand twitch slightly at the mention that Abramson wasn’t accounted for. Helen couldn’t help but believe the young woman knew something she wasn’t sharing. “I’m sure he is fine,” Brigitte said. “Sometimes he just needs to stretch his legs on the beach and doesn’t hear his phone.”
“Well,” Robbins said, closing his notebook. “We’ll file a report, but without any signs of forced entry or struggle, we are done here.”
“Thank you, officers,” Brigitte said quickly. “I’m sure my father will turn up.” She pulled out her phone, frowning at the screen. “I should try calling him again.”
Helen felt Mel’s hand on her lower back, a gentle pressure guiding her away. The subliminal message was clear. They had pushed as far as they could for now. But as they turned to leave, Helen caught the expression on Brigitte’s face. Concern had vanished, replaced by something harder, more calculating. Helen leaned closer to Mel as they walked away, keeping her voice low. “She’s lying,” Helen whispered. “About something.”
“I know,” Mel murmured back. “Did you notice how quickly she tried to explain away what we saw?”
Helen nodded, then jumped slightly as Brigitte called to them down the hallway.
“Ms. Hardy, Ms. Nelson,” she said. “I apologize if I seemed dismissive. It’s just my father’s been under a lot of stress lately. Sometimes he doesn’t think clearly.”
“Of course,” Helen replied, forcing a small smile. “We understand. We just hope he’s safe.”
“I’m sure he is,” Brigitte said, her tone clearly dismissive. “Thank you for your concern.”