"I'm afraid that's for you to determine. But if I had to hazard a guess, when looking at all the factors, I'd have to say the killer was probably between five-nine and six feet, so draw your own conclusions."

  Seymour already had. Most homicides were committed by adult males, which seemed to be the case this time. Didn't mean women were incapable of such, though, especially when armed with a lethal weapon and the right height. Or there could have been a female accomplice involved the murders.

  He rubbed his chin. "One other thing, Doctor. What can you tell us about the type of gun used in the crime?"

  She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. "Based on the bullets recovered from the victims, I'd say they likely came from a .25 caliber handgun."

  Seymour had guessed as much. Ballistics would confirm, giving them one important piece of the puzzle toward solving this case.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Detective Trent Ferguson drove into Honokawai in West Maui. He felt a slight chill thinking about the eighteen-year-old high school senior who was raped and strangled to death two months ago by someone who had been stalking her. Cassandra Woo had a whole life ahead of her, till it was taken away. Ferguson had worked hard to crack the case, motivated at least in part by having lost a cousin the same way twenty years earlier.

  Lenny Washburn was finally apprehended this morning after fleeing Maui for the Big Island. If Ferguson had his way, the bastard would get the death penalty. Hawaii was too soft on violent criminals, not having the guts to enact such measures for non federal murder cases.

  Ferguson turned onto Lower Honoapiilani Road, where Cassandra's parents lived. He made them a promise that Washburn would not escape justice and wanted to tell them the news in person.

  He stopped in front of the bungalow. Yao Woo was mowing the lawn while his wife, Olivia, was sitting on the lanai.

  They greeted Ferguson warmly when he approached.

  He didn't beat around the bush. "Your daughter's killer was arrested in Hilo an hour ago. Cassandra can rest in peace now."

  "Thank you." Olivia wrapped her arms around his waist and wept.

  Yao's eyes crinkled. "We only wanted some justice."

  Ferguson choked up. "I hope you can move on with your lives now." He doubted they could ever overcome the tragedy. At least there was some sense of closure.

  He left them, feeling a little satisfaction, even as Ferguson now had to put his efforts into helping to solve the murder of two doctors. Kahana and Seymour had been handed a case that had all the earmarks of a vendetta.

  But against whom?

  If he were a betting man, Ferguson would put his money on Larry Nagasaka. He'd read once that the doctor had run into some financial difficulties. Had he been forced to pay the piper?

  Ferguson drove to a part of Lahaina that had a known problem with prostitution in recent years, catering to the burgeoning tourism industry. The police department had chosen to focus their efforts primarily on johns, while more or less giving the streetwalkers a free ride.

  He brought his official vehicle to a stop not far from a young woman. Ferguson could tell by her body language that she was a hooker.

  She walked up to the car and lowered her face to the passenger window. "Hi."

  "Hey," he said, noting she wore way too much makeup and had blonde extensions.

  "Are you lookin' for some action?"

  "Maybe. You offering some?"

  She favored him warily. "You a cop?"

  He grinned. "Just a guy needing to get off. Can you help me out?"

  "You got twenty bucks?"

  "Yeah, with your name on it. Why don't you get in the car?"

  She looked around as though it were a police sting. Seemingly satisfied, she got in the car.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Gina."

  He was sure it was her street name. Not that he cared one way or the other.

  Ferguson stuck a twenty dollar bill inside her top. He unzipped his pants and immediately got an erection.

  She bent her head down and gave him a blow job.

  It took less than two minutes.

  Ferguson said nothing as the prostitute exited the car and took her place again on the street.

  He headed home to his wife.

  * * *

  On Saturday afternoon, Leila met her friend Jan Monroe at a deli in Lahaina. They sat at a corner table by the window.

  Jan was just the opposite of Leila in appearance: tall and leggy, blonde and green-eyed. She seemingly had a new man in her life every week and Leila practically needed a scorecard to keep up. But Jan's true passion was her art. She painted beautiful landscapes that Leila could only dream of doing.

  "So tell me I can count on you being at my showing Saturday night." Jan batted fake eyelashes.

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world." Leila sipped a café latte.

  "Good, because even though I invited everyone I know, I wouldn't be surprised if only half of them showed."

  "Their loss, which would give the rest of us more room to admire your paintings."

  "Good point."

  "Just don't forget about us ordinary folks when you hit the big time."

  Jan chuckled. "Not sure I want to go there. I'm happy where I am at this point in my life. Besides, you are anything but ordinary. Apart from being beautiful, you're one kick ass detective and can out-sketch anyone when push comes to shove."

  Leila blushed. "You're good for my ego. Still, my life is far from ideal. I live alone in my late grandfather's house, work too much, date too little, and have the hots for my married, but separated partner, who's only fourteen years my senior. Is that screwed up or what?"

  "You're no more screwed up than the rest of us, Leila, if there is such a thing. Who wouldn't want to live mortgage free in a quaint little house within arm's reach of the beach? And we all work too much. It's the world we live in. As for being attracted to your partner, I say let it happen if he feels the same. It's not like you have to marry him or anything, considering his circumstances."

  "I'm not opposed to marriage."

  "Neither am I. But being a product of divorce, I believe in taking my sweet time before heading down the aisle. Doesn't mean I can't have a lot of fun in the meantime."

  Leila wished she could be as carefree. Was Seymour interested in being with anyone other than his wife? Or had he been there, done that one time too many?

  Would that lead to a conflict of interest on the job?

  * * *

  Seymour's rented house was on Kaohu Street in Wailuku. He'd called in a favor to the owner and friend who lived in Hana and offered him a reduced rate to stay there as long as he liked. Seymour only intended for that to be a short while. He had every intention of moving back home once Mele realized they were better together than apart.

  But what if that day never came? Could be she was dead serious about this separation becoming permanent and, if so, he would have no one to blame but himself.

  Maybe it was time to cut his losses and try someone new. Isn't that what got him into trouble in the first place?

  Seymour scanned the channels on TV with the remote. As usual, there was nothing to watch on a Saturday evening in the middle of summer. He sank back into the recliner and grabbed his beer bottle.

  He'd met Nikole at a grocery store where a man had been killed during a botched holdup. Nikole was the clerk and witness to the crime. She reminded Seymour of Mele, only she was younger, and without the history that brought routine to a relationship. It hadn't been his intention to get involved with her, but it happened.

  Mele walked in on them after he'd been foolish enough to bring Nikole to the house. His wife was supposed to be at the high school where she taught English. It was one of the most embarrassing and frustrating moments of Seymour's life.

  If he could do it over again, things would be different. As it was, he had to live with the past.

  And the future, too.

  Seymour gulped down more beer. He could use some company about now. Mele wasn't in the mood. Might never be again. Didn't mean he would stop trying to win her back.

  He wasn't good at fighting what seemed to be a losing battle.

  Leila came to mind. She seemed to understand him better than most. There was a sexual attraction between them, though they had refrained from acting on it. Maybe they could get something going.

  Was that a smart idea?

  He hadn't always made the smartest moves. Why change that now?

  * * *

  That night Ferguson had dinner with his wife, Brenda. She'd made spaghetti and turkey balls. He felt her staring at him and resisted the temptation to look back. They were ten years into the marriage, but it somehow seemed more like twenty or thirty. Their relationship had grown stale. Especially in bed. The passion that had once kept them hot and heavy at all hours of the night barely registered anymore.

  He blamed himself. She deserved better. Yet he couldn't walk away. And go where? Maybe he didn't even want a divorce. They could be messy and expensive.

  Instead he preferred to just keep things as they were and see what happened.

  Ferguson lifted his head and gazed across the table. "This is good," he said, and rolled more spaghetti onto his fork.

  "What's going on with you?" she asked pointblank.

  He cocked a brow. "Nothing. Just preoccupied with work."

  She frowned. "You never talk to me anymore."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "Anything! Just don't shut me out, Trent."

  He took a sip of wine. "I don't mean to."

  Brenda wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Are you having an affair?"

  "No, of course not." Ferguson swallowed, hiding his guilt. "Where is this coming from?" As if he didn't know.

  "It's coming from the reality that we don't seem to be on the same page anymore."

  "Sure we are." He tried to convince her if not himself. "Sorry if I made you think otherwise."

  Brenda leaned forward. "Are you still attracted to me?"

  "Yes, of course. After all, you're my wife."

  "Then start treating me like it!" She gave him an annoyed look and stood up. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to join me if you like."

  "I'll be there in a minute."

  Ferguson finished his wine. He wasn't looking forward to being with his wife tonight. She couldn't give him what he wanted.

  So maybe he'd give her time to fall asleep before hitting the bed.

  * * *

  The doer ate a chicken sandwich while reading the newspaper article about the murders of Doctors Larry Nagasaka and Elizabeth Racine. The police were said to be baffled by the execution style murders and had no suspects, but were following leads.

  What leads? Was there reason to be concerned?

  Of course not. The police always put a positive spin on every case, if only for morale. Didn't mean they had anything to back it up. The justice had been carefully planned and perfectly executed. Nothing to fear.

  The doer's confidence returned.

  Let them follow all the leads they wanted. Wouldn't change things any. Those two deserved to die a thousand deaths.

  And there was no returning from the dead. They could rot in hell.

  The doer sipped wine. It was sweet with just the right amount of tartness.

  An image of the shock on Larry's face just before it was blown off was priceless.

  And Elizabeth, beautiful in spite of herself, breathed her last breath with Larry wedged inside, before she took a bullet to the head.

  More wine was tasted before the doer's rage erupted and the glass was thrown against the wall, shattering.

  A deep sigh was let out slowly. Revenge was the great equalizer. The spider caught the two wicked flies when they were most vulnerable and showed them no mercy, biting with the venom of bullets.

  As doctors, they couldn't save their own lives when all was said and done. So much for being members of the Medical Association of Maui. Little good it did them. Others should heed the warning or risk being dealt a similar fate.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On Monday, Leila and Seymour went to the crime lab. The ballistics report had come in on the murder weapon used to kill Elizabeth Racine and Larry Nagasaka.

  "The victims were shot with a .25 caliber handgun," said forensic examiner Gil Delfino.

  Leila was not surprised, but wanted to have it confirmed. "Were you able to get anything on the bullets used?"

  "A couple of them were so mutilated, it was all but impossible to identify markings. But there was one bullet virtually unscathed that spoke in volumes. It was ejected from a gun barrel with six lands and grooves, along with a right hand twist. You find the weapon, you'll find your shooter."

  "Is it possible there was more than one shooter?" Seymour asked routinely.

  Delfino blinked. "Anything's possible, but probable, no. We also recovered shell casings at the crime scene. The ejection and firing pin marks on them were identical, strongly suggesting a single assailant. Unless the gun was passed from one shooter to another."

  "Not likely."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  Leila envisioned the killer pumping bullets in the victims. It wasn't necessarily the worst way to die, with death by fire coming to mind. It was the way bullets could tear through the body and its vital organs. Nasty.

  She didn't want to be the one to set this killer off unsuspectingly. Or had the craving to kill been satisfied with the murders of the doctors?

  "Were you able to get any prints?"

  Delfino scratched his cheek. "Yeah, lots of them from the victims. There's also plenty of others from people who I assume had nothing to hide in spending time at the condo, except maybe from their spouses or significant others."

  "Never assume anything where it concerns murder and murderers," Seymour said. "Killers usually underestimate what we can do with what they leave behind to track them down. We'll see if we can match any of the prints with what we've got on file. Something may show up."

  Delfino nodded. "Speaking of fingerprints, it's possible the bullets or fragments could still yield something useful to help identify the assailant. Though prints are typically difficult to obtain from bullets, there are what we call fat molecules or lipids people leave behind on whatever they touch—including the metal surfaces of bullets. We may be able to isolate these by examining the electrochemical reactions caused by the contact, revealing print patterns."

  "Sounds complicated." Leila tilted her head.

  "It is and may take some time."

  "Then we'd better let you get back to it. Anything else?"

  "Just the usual DNA evidence found at the scene to sort through: blood—and not all of it from the victims—hair, semen, skin cells. Maybe some of it will come in handy to identify a suspect."

  "We can use all the help we get to find our killer," she told him.

  Seymour made a grim face. "Yeah, before they nail someone else."

  * * *

  Officer Kelly Long was doing his standard patrol around the park, which had seen an uptick in juvenile vandalism lately and some drug use. Obviously they had nothing better to do in the dead of summer. Not on his watch.

  He drove slowly, not wanting to miss anything that would come back at him later. Yeah, this was grunt work. Whatever it took to make detective.

  Long's thoughts drifted to the woman he was living with, Carol Fleisher. She was pregnant. But was it his? They'd been involved for just over a year and had shared the same house for the last four months. That didn't include the two weeks she disappeared after they had a big fight, before coming back.

  Had she gotten pregnant then?

  He wasn't the least bit interested in supporting another man's baby. Long wasn't even sure he was ready for his own kid at this stage of his life. He could barely stay above water on a cop's salary with two mouths to feed. Three might really put him in a crunch.

  He would demand a paternity test.

  Long spotted a man hanging around a trash can. He looked familiar. Long picked up the sketch of a mugger.

  It was him.

  Slowing down, he called it in. Fearing the man would get away if he didn't act immediately, Long decided it would look good on his record if he brought the son of a bitch into custody himself.

  He pulled the car to the curb, checked his firearm, and got out. Surprisingly, the suspect was so fixated on the trash, he didn't notice Long approaching with his gun drawn.

  By the time he did, Long was practically on him. "Put your hands up."

  The man tossed garbage his way that never came close to hitting him and made a run for it.

  "Stop!" Long's voice raised a couple of octaves. The man ignored his command. Damn. His first thought was to shoot him, which was well within his right in the line of duty. But Long had no desire to possibly kill a man who gave no indication of possessing a weapon and was not directly threatening his own life.

  The next best thing was to remember he ran track in high school and should have no problem outrunning the suspect.

  Putting on the burners, Long caught up to the man and tackled him to the ground. Acting quickly and decisively, he handcuffed him.

  "Don't move!" Long had a knee firmly planted in the middle of his back, so he didn't imagine the suspect was going anywhere. "You're under arrest."

  * * *

  "I'll have my contact on the street ask around to see if anyone has purchased a hot .25 caliber gun," Seymour told Leila as they headed down the hall. "It's a long shot, no pun intended, but our killer may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier."

  "The unsub was bright enough to penetrate a multimillion dollar condo complex and execute two people before making a clean escape." Leila scratched her nose. "But anything's worth a try. At least we know the type of gun used and have the ballistic fingerprints to try and match."

  "Now all we need is to find that murder weapon. Why don't you call the local gun shops and see if any .25 caliber guns or ammo has been sold recently and, if so, to whom."

  "Will do. Might also be a good idea to look back and see if a .25 caliber gun was used in any other recent homicides. Could be this wasn't the first time our killer struck."