Wired Sentinel (Paradise Crime Thrillers #15)

Chapter 1

SOPHIE

The plumeria blossom’s pinwheel of cream and gold was a drop of moonlight against the polished, dark wood floor of the Bishop Museum. Investigator Sophie Smithson crouched beside it, careful not to interrupt the crime scene tech who was still processing the area.

She bent closer and breathed in the flower’s sweet fragrance. The scent hit her like a physical blow, bringing a memory of her fiancé, Jake, grinning as he tucked a plumeria behind her ear, his gray eyes bright. “Every woman in Hawaii should wear one of these, babe.”

Sophie’s throat tightened. She forced herself to photograph the flower from multiple angles with her phone, maintaining composure even as her chest ached with the familiar weight of grief.

Jake had been gone two and a half years, and the smallest things could still ambush her. It didn’t help that her current relationship with the enigmatic cyber vigilante known as Connor was “on the rocks,” as the saying went.

“Same as the others.” Detective Marcus Kamuela’s voice rumbled behind her, pulling her back to the present. The big Hawaiian man stood with his arms crossed, his expression grim beneath fluorescent lights that turned the early hour into artificial day.

Married to Sophie’s good friend, FBI agent Marcella Scott, Marcus was someone she knew well; but even so, he was an intimidating sight when riled as he was now.

“Third theft of Hawaiian antiquities in Honolulu, and the third flower left behind. Someone’s trying to send a message, and Honolulu PD doesn’t have time to dig into this investigation the way the case deserves.

Glad the Museum’s board decided to hire you and your company. ”

“Thanks to you. I appreciate the referral.” As CEO of Security Solutions, a private security and investigation company, her career had saved Sophie emotionally these past few years, giving her purpose beyond the demands of single motherhood.

Sophie straightened, slipping her phone back into the pocket of her black cargo pants; she always dressed for functionality.

The dark tank top and lightweight jacket she wore could handle both Hawaii’s humidity and its air-conditioned buildings.

Her thick, curly dark hair was kept short to keep it manageable, and the familiar weight of a Glock 19 rested against her side in its shoulder holster—though she seldom had to fire it these days.

“Same variety of plumeria as the other burglaries?” she asked.

“According to the botanist we consulted, yeah. Common white plumeria, nothing special about it except—” Marcus gestured to the empty display case behind them, its glass front cut with surgical precision.

“Whoever’s doing this has million-dollar taste in Hawaiian artifacts and leaves the flower as a calling card. ”

Sophie studied the empty case. According to the placard, it had held a leiomano—a war club made of koa wood, trimmed in shark’s teeth. This one had belonged to the ‘Merrie Monarch,’ King Kalākaua. It was priceless, irreplaceable, and now gone—despite the museum’s state-of-the-art security system.

“Show me the security footage,” she said.

Marcus led her through galleries still dim with shadows to the security office, where a nervous guard cued up the recordings. Sophie leaned forward, watching the timestamp tick forward.

“There,” the guard said. “Watch the screen.”

The monitor showed the gallery in perfect clarity—and then didn’t, for just a nanosecond. The image stuttered, pixelated, and reformed.

The display case now stood empty. No motion, no figures, no indication that anyone had been there at all.

“Run it again,” Sophie requested. This time, she watched the timestamp, not the video. “Your system didn’t glitch. It was fed a ghost recording. See how the shadows are identical before and after? Someone created a loop of empty gallery footage and overwrote your live feed.”

“That’s impossible,” the guard protested. “Our system is closed-circuit, not connected to any outside networks.”

“Then they did it from inside here.” Sophie was already moving, following the cable runs along the walls, checking for any aberration. “Your system might be closed, but it still has access points for maintenance. Show me your server room.”

Twenty minutes later, she found what she was looking for—a device no bigger than a flash drive tucked behind a server rack, so small it was nearly invisible among the usual tangle of cables and connectors.

“Signal interceptor with local storage,” she explained to Marcus as she photographed it in place before carefully removing it with gloved hands. “Military-grade, from the look of it. This isn’t some amateur art thief we’re dealing with; this was done by professionals.”

“I already thought so.” Marcus’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and frowned. “Speaking of professional—there’s someone here to join us saying he’s backup from Security Solutions?”

Sophie shook her head. “I came alone. Who—”

“Sophie, it’s Raveaux.”

She turned at the familiar French-accented voice, smiling at the sight of Pierre Raveaux standing in the doorway.

The ex-S?reté investigator was immaculate as always, clean-shaven with his silver-touched hair neat.

He wore pressed khakis and a crisp white shirt; only she knew its long sleeves covered scars on his arms that were a testament to the day he’d lost his wife and daughter in a car bombing.

“Pierre. I didn’t know you were back from France.”

“Just a few days ago.” Her colleague, a contractor with Security Solutions, stepped into the room, offering Marcus a courteous nod.

“Detective Kamuela. I heard through channels that Sophie had been called in on something interesting. Thought I might be of assistance if you don’t mind a second consultant? ”

“Consult away,” Marcus said with a wave of his beefy hand.

“Channels?” Sophie raised an eyebrow.

Pierre’s mouth quirked in what passed for a smile with him. “Paula at the office might have mentioned where you were heading this morning. And given my background with art theft cases in Paris . . .”

“The more eyes the better on this one,” Marcus said. “Especially since this is the third theft of Hawaiian artifacts and we’re no closer to catching these guys than we were after the first.”

“Check what I’ve found so far.” Sophie handed Pierre the signal interceptor. He examined it; his years as an investigator showed in quick assessment as he turned the device in his hands.

“Sophisticated,” he murmured. “And expensive. Your thief has resources.”

“Thieves, plural,” Sophie said. “The physical entry would require at least two people, maybe three. One to handle the security system, one to cut the glass of the case, and one to watch for interference or drive a getaway vehicle.”

“I heard there were two other thefts besides this one. What were the targets?” Pierre asked.

Marcus pulled out his phone, scrolling through case notes.

“Third was this one, a leiomano war club belonging to King Kalākaua himself. That was stolen here, as you see, from the Bishop’s collection.

Second was a royal kāhili standard, stolen from Iolani Palace.

The first was a feather cape worn only by ali‘i, owned by a private collector. All were uniquely rare, one-of-a-kind items, significant to Hawaiian culture.”

“And the thieves left a plumeria behind at each burglary,” Sophie added.

“A plumeria?” Pierre glanced at her, concern in his dark brown eyes.

He’d been at her side and helped her through some of the darkest days after Jake’s death; he knew plumerias were one of Jake’s affectionate gestures toward her.

But he said no more, maintaining her privacy with the discretion she’d come to value in their friendship.

“This pattern suggests the thieves might be building a collection,” Pierre said.

“I doubt these items are random grabs for resale. Too difficult a market. Someone’s targeting specific items connected to Hawaiian royalty for a reason. ”

“That tracks,” Marcus said.

Sophie’s phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen—a text from Bill, the chief of her home security team. All clear. Kids awake. Armita has breakfast handled.

The familiar morning chaos was starting without her today: Momi would be demanding to help cook breakfast, while Sean, now an adventurous two-year-old, would be manhandling whatever food her dear nanny Armita tried to put in front of him.

A pang of missing the children was sharp but brief. Sophie would be home soon enough, and the kids were safe with Armita, their dogs, and their beefed-up security team.

That increase had become necessary six months ago when Connor had returned to Thailand, leaving a void that made her uneasy. Not to mention the strain their long-distance relationship was under.

Connor had made his choice—duty to the mysterious Yām Kh?mk?n over their life together in Hawaii.

She couldn’t really blame him. How could domestic life with her and two small children compare to the challenges and intrigue of running a clandestine ninja stronghold and a powerful organization with fingers in all the world’s political and economic pies?

Still, she didn’t have to like it. “Son of a goiter-riddled swine,” she muttered aloud in Thai.

“Sophie?” Marcus glanced at her, frowning. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Sophie refocused on the situation at hand. “We need to figure out the thieves’ next target. If they’re collecting items connected to ali‘i, there’s a finite number of possibilities.”

“I can help with that,” a new voice said from the doorway.

A young woman in a neat navy blazer stepped forward, her long hair pinned back in a bun.

“I’m Dr. Catherine Yoshimura, the museum’s senior curator for Pacific cultures.

I’ve been compiling a list of potential targets based on the pattern so far. ”

Sophie studied the curator: mid-thirties, nervous but trying to hide it, ink stains on her fingers suggesting handwritten notes—someone who cared deeply about the artifacts in her care.

“Show me what you have,” Sophie said, after briefly introducing herself and the others.

Dr. Yoshimura led them to a conference room where she’d spread out photographs, catalog entries, and a handwritten analysis.

“If they’re specifically targeting items that belonged to or were used by the ali‘i, there are seventeen possibilities in our collection. But if we narrow it to items of the highest cultural significance . . .”

She pointed to three photographs. “The feather standard of Kaumuali‘i, last king of Kaua‘i. The ivory fishhooks of Chief Ka?eo. And this—” She tapped the final photo almost reverently. “The kiha pū, the sacred conch shell trumpet rumored to have announced the arrival of Kamehameha the Great.”

“Where are these items kept?” Sophie asked.

“Different areas of the museum. We’ve increased security on all of them, but . . .” Dr. Yoshimura’s voice trailed off.

“But your security didn’t stop the first theft,” Pierre finished gently.

Sophie studied the photos of the different burglary sites, mentally working through the logistics. The thieves knew exactly what they wanted, where it was located, and how to get it. Each theft had been perfectly executed, suggesting inside knowledge.

“I need full access to your security protocols,” she told Dr. Yoshimura. “And a list of everyone who has access to those protocols. Staff, contractors, anyone who might know the system well enough to defeat it.”

“That’s . . . a lot of people,” the curator said.

“Then we’d better get started.” Sophie pulled out her phone to text her team. This was going to be a long day, and she’d need backup. “Pierre, can you work with Dr. Yoshimura on the personnel angle? Look for anyone with connections to all three stolen items.”

“Of course.” Pierre was already pulling out his own notebook, a small leather one with an attached pencil. His investigative interest was clearly engaged.

Sophie turned to Marcus. “I want to walk through each theft site, compare them to the locations of potential targets. There might be a pattern we’re missing.”

As they prepared to leave the conference room, Sophie’s phone rang. The caller ID made her stomach tighten: Connor Standish.

Not that that moniker was his real identity—no one knew that. She’d changed his contact from just “Connor” six months ago, adding the Master’s last known surname, hoping it would create distance.

It hadn’t dulled the pain of seeing his name. He’d said he loved her, that he’d never leave her or the children . . .

She let the call go to voicemail. Whatever the leader of the Yām Kh?mk?n wanted could wait. She had a job to do, children to get home to, and a life that no longer included a man who’d chosen his work over love.

But as she followed Marcus through the museum’s halls and past displays of ancient Hawaiian treasures, the remembered scent of plumeria lingered in her nostrils.

What she’d felt for Connor had never been as strong as her bond with Jake. There was a mercy in that.