Chapter
1
The flowerbed footing
the perimeter wall of the residence was overflowing with hundreds of tropical
flowers, but it was the sticky sweet scent of Ginger that forced him to cover
his nose. The fragrance assaulted his senses. It didn't mix well with his
aftershave.
Detective Morimoto
stepped through the front gate of the Kahala mansion knowing what to expect. He
was going through the motions to satisfy the brass and higher-ups. They were
pushing hard for some kind of breakthrough. He knew there would be no
fingerprints, no footprints, no eye-witnesses, no video surveillance or any
useful trace evidence. The morning would be wasted interviewing gardeners and
servants, and trying to get a list of the stolen items from the house owners,
who, of course, were away on a ski vacation in Montana. He had decided to
delegate most of this work to the rookies in his department. The final report,
however, would have to come from him, so here he was.
As soon as he had
walked down the palm tree-lined driveway and spotted the blacked out video
cameras and motion detectors, he knew it was the damn Mongoose. The carefully
cut hole in the side window, the point of entry, confirmed his judgment. This
was the 16th burglary that fit the Mongoose' MO in the last ten years—the third
in the last six months.
The
Mongoose is ramping up.
He found this fact interesting
and noteworthy, but not particularly useful. The thief was smart and successful.
Morimoto knew that success bred confidence and more brazen behavior. The
increased activity was just that, more activity, more messes to trudge through,
more work.
Perhaps
he would make a mistake, Morimoto thought just before he
entered the foyer. Wishful thinking—it
never helped before.
He kicked the driveway
sand off his Gucci loafers, made sure his Tommy Bahama Aloha shirt was
tucked-in and that his slacks were still perfectly creased. Once inside, he
looked at the sharp figure in the full-length mirror hanging to the left of the
massive oak doors. He imagined the owners of the mansion pruning themselves
before jetting off for their vacation. He saw himself standing next to them,
taller, better looking.
The
mirror doesn't lie.
He raked his thinning
black hair into place and admired the shine of his Cordovan
leather shoes, the line of his stone grey Armani blazer, and the slight bulge
of his shoulder holster.
Damn,
this black belt looks great, he thought, then looking
lower, and there will be an extra bulge
for my sweet baby later.
"Suzuki," he
yelled. "Give me a rundown. Then start with the gardeners—neighbors— see
if anyone’s home."
Morimoto listened to
Suzuki's report and asked a few curt questions while making his way through the
house. He took everything in, but wasn't really interested.
The huge marble
columned house had been hit just a few hours before dawn. It was owned by one
of the many multimillionaire old-money families that ruled the island—the
Dillingham's. Just like the other fifteen homes, the family had recently been
in the news for making a massive real estate development deal where they stood
to profit in the hundreds of millions. This time, the once untouchable Sandy
Beach preservation zone, under the Dillingham's care since the overthrow of the
Hawaiian Monarchy, had succumbed to the pressure of progress and greed. A
Japanese conglomerate planned a mega-resort on the property.
Morimoto could care less,
but the connection was not lost on him—more than burglary motivated the
Mongoose. He didn't just steal from the islands' wealthiest families, he tried
to hurt them by destroying their innermost sanctums. The Mongoose wanted them
to feel vulnerable. Some houses had even been hit more than once. Morimoto was
no Hawaiian homelands expert, but he, and others, suspected that the level of
ransacking was some kind of bizarre type of punishment or revenge for
participating in the development of Hawaiian land.
They
paved paradise, and put up a parking lot, and all that crap, he
thought.
Morimoto's eyes
adjusted quickly to the dimly lit interior of the house. He was immediately
taken aback by the total destruction. He always was. He didn't understand it.
It did not fit within his tightly controlled world. Morimoto could wrap his
brain around the burglary, the lifting of jewelry, silver settings, priceless
paintings, Hawaiian artifacts and other valuable loot, but the typhoon-like
ransacking of every major room in the mansion was—strange, weird, unnecessary, psychotic, over-the-top. He could
think of a hundred words to describe the chaos left behind, but nothing did
justice to the actual scene.
Today was no exception.
In fact, it looked as if this time the Mongoose had been particularly agitated
or intent on creating maximum destruction. Everything in sight was broken,
smashed, slashed, ripped, torn, toppled and tossed about. Not one piece of
furniture, fixture, knickknack, painting, or heirloom had escaped the Mongoose'
wrath. He had done a thorough job. Even the Koa wood floors and freshly painted
walls were defaced. Morimoto wondered what kind of drugs drove this maniac into
such frenzy. It made him tired just thinking about it. The expenditure of
emotion and energy required to do such damage seemed out of place, alien, to
him. It just made his job that much more difficult.
Damn,
what a mess.
Morimoto took his
obligatory notes, shouted a few more orders and left the crime scene. He
stopped by his apartment in Makiki for a quick few lines and a good-morning
squeeze from his new girlfriend—he needed something to get him through another
day.
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