Chapter 13 Sophie
SOPHIE
The helicopter descended through darkness toward the Kohala Coast off the Big Island of Hawaii, fighting crosswinds that made Sophie’s stomach lurch.
Below, the island’s northwestern shore curved like a broken backbone, its scattered lights fragile definition against a vast black Pacific.
The aircraft bucked suddenly—here, trade winds funneled between the towering volcanoes of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa with vicious force, creating air pockets that dropped them ten feet without warning.
“Five minutes,” the pilot announced, his voice tight with concentration.
Meanwhile, Marcella was in a heated exchange with local law enforcement; Sophie read her lips as she spoke through her headphones on a private channel.
“Yes, I understand Detective Multon wants jurisdiction . . . No, this case is part of an ongoing federal investigation . . .” Her knuckles were white where she gripped her phone. “I’ll explain it to him when we land.”
Sophie caught Feirn’s eye. He’d been silent since calling Connor, but his stillness had the quality of a cobra coiled before striking.
In the cabin’s dim lighting, his eyes gleamed with intelligence.
The young ninja’s hand rested casually on his thigh, inches from where a knife was concealed—and that was only one of the many weapons he carried.
A landing pad materialized below them; it was a parking lot, ringed by police vehicles whose flashing lights turned the world into a disorienting disco.
They touched down hard with the pilot fighting the wind until the last second. Sophie glimpsed the estate beyond: a sprawling single-story plantation house hugging a bluff above the sea, its silvery metal roof reflecting the red and blue lights.
They exited the aircraft into air so different from Maui’s humidity it made Sophie’s sinuses tighten.
The Kohala Coast sat in Mauna Kea’s rain shadow, creating a microclimate that smelled of dust and drought-tolerant kiawe trees.
Warm wind carried traces of the incongruous sweetness of a nearby bank of plumeria trees.
A thick-necked plainclothes officer stalked toward them, his tight polo shirt sporting sweat rings under the arms despite the evening hour.
“Special Agent Scott? I’m Detective Fred Multon, Kona PD.
” His pidgin-accented English carried anger.
“I need fo’ know why the FBI thinks this murder on my island is federal jurisdiction. ”
Marcella squared her shoulders, her FBI windbreaker snapping in the breeze.
She pitched her voice to carry over the gusts.
“Detective, this murder is connected to a series of thefts across multiple islands that may have international connections with a terrorist organization. That makes it federal. I’m not here to steal your case, but to support you.
Work with me, or I call your chief and take it over. Your choice.”
A muscle jumped in Multon’s jaw. Behind him, three other Kona uniformed officers formed a loose semicircle, their crossed arms and spread legs telegraphing ‘backup.’
Finally, Multon ducked his head in a gesture that indicated he had made up his mind.
“The victim is Samuel Akamu,” Multon finally said.
“Aged sixty-three. Retired from Silicon Valley. Dude moved here ten years ago to ‘reconnect with his roots.’”.
Sarcasm dripped from his tone. “Started buying up Hawaiian artifacts like he was shopping for groceries.”
“Sign in and I’ll take you up to the house.” Marcella signed the crime scene log and fell in beside him; the backup boys remained at the crime-scene-taped perimeter as Sophie and Feirn signed as well, and then trotted to catch up.
“The Medical Examiner has been and gone. The body’s already at the morgue,” Multon said as they approached the front of the house.
“Now you tell me,” Marcella said, scowling. “I wanted to see the victim in situ.”
“The crime happened last night. Akamu’s wife found him. We’d been working the scene all day before we heard the Feds were interfering,” Multon snapped.
“You mean helping,” Marcella said. “How was he killed?”
“Throat slashed. Looks like he surprised the thieves as they were looting the collection in his study.” Multon glanced back to Sophie and Feirn. “These your people?”
“Consultants,” Marcella said. “Specialists in the field.” She didn’t introduce them. Sophie was relieved. Explaining their roles to a cop like this wasn’t going to go well.
Crime scene tape that had come loose and whipped in the wind seemed to usher them through massive koa doors.
Inside, the house was all soaring ceilings and polished concrete.
Every surface gleamed with the kind of perfection that required a big staff.
Contemporary Hawaiian art hung on whitewashed walls; each piece lit by hidden LED probably cost more than most people’s cars.
Sophie noticed a child’s tricycle parked in an alcove. Showplace this might be, it was also a family’s home.
“This way.” Multon led them down a hallway that smelled faintly of lemon polish. The coppery tang of blood soon overshadowed that as they approached an interior door that gaped open like a mouth.
Sophie paused in the doorway as Marcella and the detective went inside, approaching a dark red pool that took up the center of the room. The smeared shape of a body marred it, showing Akamu’s death position. A plumeria flower was smeared and stuck in the coagulated fluid.
“The victim must have completely bled out,” Marcella said. “That’s a lot of volume.”
“Yup,” Multon said. “M.E. said the cut went to the bone. Knife must have been hella sharp; there are a lot of ligaments and tendons to get through in a slash like that.”
Sophie pointed to the plumeria, its creamy color stark against the purple-black of congealed blood. “Where was this flower originally?”
“On the body.”
Feirn’s sharp intake of breath was almost inaudible. He touched Sophie’s arm and hissed in Thai. “The flower placement is wrong. Should be offering to spirits, not decoration for the dead.”
“What’s your boy saying?” Multon had noticed the exchange, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Sophie chose her words carefully. “There were plumeria left behind at the other theft scenes.” She gestured to the empty display cases around the room where interior lights illuminated black velvet backgrounds impressed with the items they’d held. “It’s significant that it was touching the body.”
“An apology?” Marcella said, crouching beside the blood pool and photographing it with her phone.
“Sending some kind of message,” Sophie said. She skirted the area, studying the violated display cases. The precision of the glass cutting was surgical, perfect, as it had been elsewhere.
Feirn moved to the windows, examining locks with gloved fingers that barely seemed to touch the glass. He caught Sophie’s eye and shook his head—no breach there.
“Detective, tell us about the security system,” Sophie said.
“No video. Just a burglar alarm on the outside of the house. The wife said it was turned on once they went to bed. It was disabled from inside near the front door,” Multon said. “Security company says someone used Akamu’s personal code.”
“Akamu let them in?” Marcella’s head snapped up.
“Or they made him give up the code,” Multon said.
“But there were no signs of torture or other injury on the body, just the cause of death, which was obvious. The medical examiner is still working on the victim, but we guessed the time of death to be pretty close to when the alarm was deactivated.” Multon indicated a small box with pushbuttons near the entry; a time flashed above the display.
“This is a junction box connected to the main one. We think they came in through the front, turned off the alarm there, then came here.”
Marcella approached the alarm box and frowned as she noted the time. “This is too near when the other place was hit to have been the same doers,” Marcella told Sophie. “They must have two teams working.”
“That explains how they were able to hit so many places on Oahu in the same time frame,” Sophie agreed. She took her tablet out of her backpack to make a note in her case file and take some photos, then studied the room’s geography.
Akamu’s teak desk faced the door, positioned so he could survey his treasures while working. The leather chair behind it was askew, as if he’d risen quickly. She could picture it—the collector working late, maybe admiring his acquisitions, when death walked through his door.
“He might have seen his killer’s face,” she said. “Maybe that’s why they killed him.”
“The thieves in the other burglaries kept their faces covered,” Marcella said. “Probably because they knew they’d be videoed.”
“As I said, Akamu’s security wasn’t that fancy,” Multon said. “No video.”
“And they seem to know a lot about the security at every place they’ve been. So they might have known that,” Sophie said.
“Tell me about the lei hulu,” Marcella said. “That’s the item that triggered a connection to our other thefts.”
“As you can see from the cases, they cleaned out his collection. But that was his prize piece.” Multon pulled out his phone, swiping to a photo that made Sophie’s breath catch when she viewed it.
The feather lei glowed like captured sunlight; thousands of golden ?ō?ō feathers woven into a collar that would have graced a king’s shoulders.
“Kamehameha dynasty piece,” Multon said. “Akamu bought it from a dealer in Kyoto three years back. Caused big pilikia—Native Hawaiian groups wanted it returned for proper museum display.”
“Instead it ended up locked in this room,” Sophie murmured. She thought of the artifact’s journey—from ali’i warriors to Japanese dealers to a tech millionaire’s private hoard—then stolen by fanatics.
“Detective,” Marcella said, “I need every record connected to Akamu’s collection. Receipts, authentication documents, correspondence—”
“Already bagged,” Multon cut her off, pride evident. “We know how to work a scene.”
“We’re also looking for a common thread between this and the other burglaries. Someone in common who could be leaking information to the thieves. So we need to know, as much as possible, everyone who was familiar with the contents of the collection.”
“For that, you’ll have to talk to the wife,” Multon said. “She was too hysterical to interview earlier.”
“Does ‘the wife’ have a name?” Marcella’s voice was clipped; she was offended at Multon’s attitude. “And I spotted a trike on the way in. Do they have children?”
“Two grown kids off-island, one young grandkid who visits. Wife’s name is Sandra Akamu.
I’ll punt you her contact info.” Multon took a minute with his phone to forward something to Marcella.
“She told us he had a computerized catalog of his items on his laptop. Their provenance and whatnot.” He gestured to the desk where the computer lay closed.
“It’s password-protected and the wife didn’t have access to it. ”
“I’d like to have a look at that,” Sophie said. “The password won’t be a problem.”
“Whatever. It’s your case now,” Multon said. “We dusted it for prints. None on it but the victim’s.”
Sophie approached the desk and took the computer, slipping it into her backpack.
A young crime scene tech appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with excitement. “Detective? Found something out back.”
They followed her into the yard where drought-adapted native plants grew in decomposed granite.
The tech’s Maglite carved a cone of white through the darkness, illuminating disturbed earth near a garden shed.
The wind had died to occasional gusts, but Sophie could hear the ocean crashing against lava rock in the distance.
“Footprints,” the tech announced. “Two sets.”
Sophie squatted beside the prints. The tread pattern made her pulse accelerate; these looked like they were made by similar tactical boots to those worn at Whitmore’s scene.
They had a distinctive heel depth, that of someone trained to move on the balls of their feet.
“They surveilled from outside,” she said. “Probably learned when he’d be alone.”
“But why kill him?” Marcella’s frustration bled through. “The other thefts were surgical. No violence.”
“Maybe because Akamu knew every major collector in the Pacific,” Multon said. “And likely, the world, with his tech background. He was part Hawaiian, too. I’m guessing that’s different from your other collectors.”
“True,” Marcella said. “Maybe he let them in, but they killed him because he could have identified the link between all of the burglaries. We’re still looking for who that is.
Sophie, when you have time, I need Akamu’s contact lists cross-referenced with our other victims’ contact lists.
Let’s look for anyone with ties to Southeast Asia and Thailand. ”
“Is this guy from Thailand?” Multon’s gaze swiveled to Feirn. “What’s the angle?”
“We have intelligence suggesting the thieves may have connections to that region,” Marcella said, her tone closing off further questions.
“I need to get to my office, or at least somewhere quiet and secure, to break into this laptop and do the work you’re asking for,” Sophie said. “Feirn will stay with me.”
Marcella nodded, then addressed Multon. “Detective, I’d like to make a visit to the morgue and see the body. Then I’d like to speak to Mrs. Akamu about her husband. Can Ms. Smithson here use your department’s computer lab to do her work?”
“It’s getting late,” Multon said. “The lab and the morgue will already be closed.”
“Give me your captain’s number. I’ll call them myself and get things opened up,” Marcella said. “Time is of the essence with this case.”
The two continued to wrangle as they headed toward the helicopter. Shortly after, Marcella, Sophie and Feirn were aloft, leaving Multon staring after them resentfully, his arms crossed on his barrel chest.
“We’ll get more done without him,” Marcella said at last.
Sophie nodded, but her eyes were growing heavy. She would have to grab a catnap on the floor of the lab. She texted Armita that she might not be home tonight.
The helicopter banked south toward Kona and the closest police station, fighting crosswinds that made the fuselage groan and the aircraft bounce. Below them, the Big Island slumbered; its ancient valleys and hidden caves potentially harbored a cult assembling a spiritual arsenal.