Chapter 12 Sophie
SOPHIE
“Twenty minutes to Wailea.” The pilot’s voice crackled through their headsets as the FBI helicopter banked over the Kaiwi Channel.
Sophie pressed her face close to the window as the late afternoon sun painted Molokai’s sea cliffs in shades of green, black, and rust. The turquoise waters below churned white where the currents collided.
She could almost taste the sea in the recycled cabin air.
Her stomach did a flip—not from the turbulence, but from familiar pre-mission tension coiling in her gut.
She and Feirn, her new bodyguard, had been summoned by the FBI to accompany Special Agent Marcella Scott to the scene of the latest antiquity theft.
This time the mysterious burglars had hit a private collector on Maui.
“So much for Dr. Yoshimura’s likely list of targets,” Sophie muttered.
Belted in across from her was Feirn, and beside him, Marcella.
Feirn sat ramrod straight in his black Security Solutions tactical outfit.
Connor’s choice to send Feirn still surprised Sophie.
The Thai man was young, only in his twenties.
Though strong and well-trained, there were more experienced and deadly ninjas Connor could have sent.
Her former lover had few he let into his inner circle, and Feirn was one of them. It must be as Pierre had said: Connor had sent the young man to Sophie because he trusted Feirn to protect her.
Meanwhile, Pierre.
She’d thought about kissing him last night. Almost had, in fact.
The way he fit in with her family was so comfortable; his interest in her children was genuine.
Something about the intimacy of working together and the way his scent meshed with hers had been magnetic.
Last night’s slightly rumpled expensive linen and unfamiliar beard shadow had made him almost . . . irresistible.
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed the gate alarm had stolen the moment.
Marcella adjusted her FBI windbreaker and leaned forward, her brown eyes catching Sophie’s.
“The collector’s name is Harrison Whitmore.
He’s old money from San Francisco and has been acquiring Hawaiian artifacts for forty years.
” Her voice was a little tinny in the comms; Sophie wondered how much Feirn was picking up.
The young Thai had been diligently studying English since becoming Connor’s right-hand man, but he wasn’t fluent.
“Whitmore’s alarm system is state-of-the-art—or supposed to be. ”
“What kind of system?” Sophie asked, running through possibilities in her mind.
“Dynatech 9000 series. Motion sensor video, pressure plates, infrared grid. The works.” Marcella said. “Didn’t matter. They bypassed everything. In and out like ghosts.”
“Was there a—plumeria left at the scene?”
“Not sure. Wasn’t in the report.”
Sophie gave a brief nod. “Interesting.”
Feirn caught Sophie’s eye and gave a slight inclination of his head, his expression unreadable behind sunglasses. She took it to mean that he was following what Marcella had said.
“The mahiole, the feather headdress—belonged to a lesser ali‘i from Maui, circa 1780s,” Marcella went on.
“Red and yellow feathers, extremely rare. Museum-quality. Whitmore bought it at auction fifteen years ago. Weirdest thing is, he never displayed it. Kept his Hawaiiana collection very private. How did the thieves know about it?”
“Good question,” Sophie said. “If we knew that, we might be close to catching them.”
As the helicopter descended, Maui’s massive silhouette filled the windows with Haleakala’s volcanic slopes, golden in the fading light, the resort corridors of Kihei and Wailea spread along the shoreline like a blanket of bright pearls.
Manicured golf courses and pristine beaches with luxurious homes tucked behind gates and tropical landscaping came into view as they neared their destination.
“There,” Marcella looked up from a display on her tablet and pointed. “The white house with the blue tile roof is the Whitmore estate.”
The mansion sprawled across what had to be two acres of beachfront property.
As they approached, Sophie counted three structures—main house, guest house, and what looked like a private museum building, all connected by covered walkways.
Coconut palms swayed in the trade winds, and an infinity pool seemed to pour directly onto the beach and into the Pacific.
Their aircraft lowered toward a landing pad near the main house.
Maui PD cruisers were already on scene, their strobing lights painting red and blue streaks across the white coral parking area and walkways.
The helicopter touched down, and the rotors’ downdraft sent plumeria blossoms pinwheeling across the manicured lawn.
Their scent hit Sophie as soon as she stepped out: flowers mixed with cut grass and a whiff of helicopter fuel.
As the three of them approached the house, a man who must be Harrison Whitmore met them on the lanai. He was an overly tanned, thin septuagenarian wearing a bright and cheerful Tommy Bahama shirt that clashed with an enraged scowl. His hands shook slightly as he gestured.
“Forty years of collecting,” he bellowed. “Forty years, and they took the one piece I treasured most. That mahiole has real mana. It protected the ali‘i in battle, and now these . . . these criminals have it.”
“Mr. Whitmore, I’m Special Agent Marcella Scott.
These are my investigative colleagues.” Marcella spoke in a crisp, professional tone.
“I need to see your security footage, the breach points, everything. The more we understand what happened and see any trace left behind, the faster we can track them.”
“Let’s get to it, then.” Whitmore nodded curtly and led them through sliding glass doors into a living room the size of a football field that could have graced the pages of Architectural Digest. Koa wood furniture, museum-quality Hawaiian quilts on the walls.
A view that stretched from offshore atoll Molokini to larger offshore island Kaho‘olawe made Sophie’s feet drag as she slowed to take it in.
“This way,” Whitmore said, leading them down a hallway lined with Hawaiian artifacts—poi pounders, a feather cape in a climate-controlled case, ancient fishhooks made from human bone.
“Seems like you have everything here for a complete set of feather clothing,” Marcella observed.
“I did,” Whitmore said. “But without the mahiole, it’s incomplete.
That headdress belonged to my wife’s ancestor.
She was part Hawaiian, traced her lineage back to the ali‘i of Lahaina. She died last year, and I promised . . .” his voice cracked .
. . “I will donate all of this to the Bishop Museum in my estate.”
“I’m sure that will honor her memory,” Marcella said.
They reached a heavy door marked “Security Center.” Inside, multiple screens showed feeds from around the property. One screen was frozen on a timestamp of 3:47 AM.
“There,” Whitmore pointed. “That’s when they entered.”
Sophie leaned closer, studying the grainy footage as Marcella activated it. Two figures in black, moving with the fluid precision she recognized, approached the house from the beach and climbed the high wall surrounding the property.
Feirn gave a sharp intake of breath beside her. When she glanced at him, his face had gone pale beneath his tan. He spoke in Thai: “Not our people. But trained by us. I can tell by the way they move.”
Confirmation of the splinter group. “I’ll translate for you later,” Sophie told Marcella, with a glance at Whitmore.
Marcella nodded, understanding the confidentiality issue. “Can you enhance this section?” she asked, pointing to a moment where one of the figures turned slightly. “Maybe we can get more detail there.”
As he zoomed in, Marcella’s phone buzzed. She stepped away to answer, her brows drawing together.
“That was SAC Waxman,” she said when she returned.
“There’s been another theft, this one on the Big Island.
Another feather piece—a lei hulu from the Kamehameha dynasty.
” She paused, swallowed. “And this time, there’s a casualty.
The relic’s owner tried to stop the thieves.
” She met Mr. Whitmore’s widened gaze. “I’m glad you slept through the burglary last night. ”
The older man shook his head. “I recognize their cultural, monetary and historical value, but none of these things are worth dying for.”
“Now we know the thieves will kill for them,” Marcella said.
The room fell silent except for the hum of electronics and the distant sound of waves on the beach. Sophie felt the weight of what they were dealing with settling on her shoulders.
“We need to get ahead of them somehow,” Marcella said to Sophie. “At this point finding where they’re taking and storing the items might be our best bet, rather than trying to guess what they’ll hit next. Show me the rest of the video.”
As the action resumed, Feirn touched her arm lightly. His eyes were dark with concern as he whispered: “The Master needs to know. The group are escalating the stakes.”
Sophie nodded. Connor would have to be told, but she didn’t want to be the one to do that. As if reading her mind, Feirn said, “I will call and update him.”
“Yes,” Sophie said, relieved.
He stepped outside, removing the satellite phone he’d arrived with from a belt holster.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the skylight overhead automatically adjusted, bathing the room in artificial light that couldn’t capture the magic of the Hawaiian sunset they had missed.
Done reviewing the recordings, Marcella saved the video to a drive and ejected it. “Let’s go check the display case they breached,” she told Whitmore. “I want to know how these guys got through a Dynatech 9000 security system.”
Whitmore led them through the house to a set of French doors opening onto a lanai that faced the private museum building. The trade winds had picked up, rustling through the coconut palms with a sibilant whisper.
“They came through here,” he said, pointing to the doors. “But look—no damage. Nothing forced.”
Sophie knelt beside the lock mechanism, pulling out a penlight. The smooth brass keyless lock showed no scratches, no tool marks. She ran her fingers along the doorframe, feeling for any irregularities.
“Feirn,” she called softly. He materialized beside her, crouching with fluid grace. She pointed to the lock, then spoke in Thai: “What do you see? What would your comrades do to breach this?”
Feirn’s tilted dark eyes narrowed as he examined the mechanism. Then he stood abruptly, scanning the lanai floor. He moved to a potted bird of paradise plant near the door and carefully tilted it. Beneath was a small electronic device, no bigger than a matchbox.
“Signal interceptor,” he said. “Very expensive. Military-grade.”
“They cloned your door’s key fob signal,” Sophie told Whitmore as Marcella photographed the device in situ, then bagged it.
After they examined and photographed the locked case which had been penetrated with a glass cutter, Marcella gestured. “We should get going. Waxman wants us on the Big Island case.”
As they exited the mansion, Sophie moved to the edge of the lanai, studying tropical landscaping that bordered the walkway.
Something caught her eye—a plumeria tree heavy with pink and white blossoms. At shoulder height, several flowers had been deliberately broken off, their stems twisted: they’d been tossed on the walkway.
Maybe this was the plumeria marker that had so far been missing from this theft.
“Feirn,” she called.
The bodyguard’s face went still when he saw the torn off plumeria. “An old custom. Asking forgiveness from the spirits before taking something sacred. This is someone who was trained in the deepest traditions.”
“What are you talking about?” Marcella asked, joining them.
Sophie translated once she saw that Whitmore was out of earshot.
“The Yām Kh?mk?n believe certain objects carry spiritual weight. According to Feirn, before taking them, they perform ceremonies to avoid spiritual retribution. Breaking off and offering a plumeria—frangipani—is one way. These flowers represent offerings to the gods.”
Feirn spoke rapidly, filling Sophie in more about the Yām Kh?mk?n’s traditions. Sophie summarized for Marcella. “They believe they know how to handle objects with mana without bringing a curse on themselves. This is deep cultural knowledge.”
“So we’re dealing with true believers,” Marcella said. “Fanatics.”
“It seems so,” Sophie said.
She bent down and carefully collected one of the broken plumeria blossoms, sealing it in an evidence bag Marcella handed her. The flower’s perfume was sweet and slightly citrusy up close.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Marcella called. “I need a list of everyone who knew about your collection. Staff, guests, anyone who’s been to the house in the last six months.”
“Most of my serious pieces aren’t public knowledge,” Whitmore said, as they joined him. “I only show them to other collectors, scholars . . .”
“That’s why it’s important,” Marcella said. “We’re tracking similar lists from the other thefts. When we find someone who overlaps, we will find our inside source.”
“Of course. I’ll get it to your office as soon as possible.”
The sunset was fading into indigo as they headed for the chopper. Sophie wished she had longer to spend on Maui—maybe even time to see her friend Lei—but they were on to their next crime scene.
This one, the site of a murder as well as the theft of a priceless lei hulu.