Broken Ferns (Lei Crime ) (23 page)

The focus and intelligence that had marked the campaign as it began had dissipated—and so had the deadly turn it had taken.

Rezents was still at large, but Homeland suspected the disorganized gestures they’d been dealing with were done by copycats, followers, a few misguided kids looking for an excuse to act out against the obvious target of “the one percent.”

Lei’s phone vibrated a message reminder at her. She slid the phone out of her pocket and spotted three voice mails on it—Stevens, Alika Wolcott, and her grandfather, Soga Matsumoto. Her heart picked up speed.

She listened to her grandfather’s voice mail first. He wanted to confirm their lunch—which she’d forgotten in all the drama with the case—and he concluded with “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.” No further explanation. She wondered what he meant and noted the date of the lunch in her phone so she’d remember it.

The next message was Alika. “It brought up a lot seeing you at Women’s Fight Club. I wonder if you want to get some coffee sometime.” Oh God—did she want to open that door again? She was shocked he’d even give her another chance, and she honestly didn’t know what she felt about it.

She saved Stevens’s message for last.

“What’s going on with the case? We hear a lot of rumors over here, and we’re having some trouble with vandalism and graffiti with the Smiley Mafia symbol all over it. Wondering when you want me to come over and bring you your dog.”

She closed her eyes and listened to Stevens’s baritone voice talk to her again.

And again.

And again.

She couldn’t go out with Alika while she was still doing shit like that. It just wasn’t fair to the guy.

She texted Alika, just to get it over with:
Thanks for the invite to coffee, but I’m still in transition and I’m not dating for a while.

At least she wasn’t leaving him hanging.

Lei stood up, dusted off her pants, and headed for the truck. The phone in her hand rang, as if on cue. It was Ken.

“Special Agent Lei Texeira,” Lei said automatically.

“Lei, get to a TV. Watanabe’s on with Rezents. He’s turning himself in.”

Lei jumped into the truck. “I’m coming back to the office. Are you still at the Bureau, Ken?”

“No, I’m at home. Damn reporter—she called Waxman just as they were beginning the interview. Some of HPD’s finest are on their way to arrest him, but he’s going to have his fifteen minutes of fame.”

Lei punched up KHIN-2 News on her phone. “I’ll head back. I’m sure Waxman wants us to come in.” She clicked off the phone and turned on her Bluetooth, listening to the broadcast and glancing down at the video as she headed back toward the FBI office.

Watanabe, brilliant in a cardinal-red suit, sat across from Tyson Rezents. The young man’s brown hair was bisected by comb tracks and his cheeks were pink with nervousness and a recent shave. Wide blue eyes tracked nervously around the studio as he pleated his chinos with his fingertips. He looked handsome, sincere, and too impossibly young to be a terrorist bomber.

“Tell us about the Smiley Mafia,” Watanabe said.

Rezents combed his fingers through his forelock, mussing the comb tracks. “The thing people need to know is that when Consuelo and I began the movement, we never meant for anyone to get hurt. We just wanted to draw attention to the imbalances here in Hawaii, to some people who take from our islands and don’t give back, and some causes that need more resources.” His earnest blue eyes stared into the camera with the hypnotized gaze of a rabbit at a snake.

Watanabe verbally nudged him. “So what was your plan?”

“Consuelo wanted to do a stunt. She felt like all these people in the service industry are like Oompa Loompas in that old
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
movie—seen but not heard, keeping everything pretty and running smoothly for all the off-islanders to enjoy. She was angry and grieving her dad’s death, and she had this idea to embarrass Max Smiley and some of the one percent that just keep homes here.

“Anyway, it was all Consuelo’s idea—at first. I was the one who brought Tom Blackman in. I knew him from work. He got fired from Paradise Air and he was mad at Max too. I asked him to help us out, to help with the videos, keep things going while Consuelo flew around and hit the targets. I didn’t know he had his own agenda.”

Rezents seemed to run down. He began plucking at his pants, and one of his knees bobbed. Sweat pearled on his forehead and upper lip. “He had a lot of ideas. Consuelo started her plan to launch Smiley Mafia—she flew off and left—and Blackman wouldn’t listen to me. Once Consuelo was caught, he said Smiley Mafia needed to go viral and make change, and the only way to do that was with bombs. I think he was off in the head—crazy.”

“Well.” Watanabe gave Rezents a patronizing smile. “One might say the same of you and Consuelo. Couple of pretty crazy kids.”

“Consuelo was sad and angry. I love her. I was doing this for her and because I believe in righting some inequalities. But neither of us would kill anybody!” Rezents’s voice rang with conviction. “I tried to stop Tom with the bomb making and he threatened to kill me. I left the bunker after Consuelo was captured on Molokai—I took off. I was scared and hiding. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe it when I saw he’d blown up the Smileys!”

“So you didn’t know he planned to do that?” A loud pounding, cries of “Open up!” penetrated the background, and Watanabe glanced off-camera before Rezents answered. “We don’t have any more time, Tyson. Anything else you want to say?”

“I’m sorry we ever started this. People, if you’re vandalizing and robbing houses for the Smiley Mafia, stop it. It’s over. Consuelo’s the only one who’s a real hero, and she’s…” Lei glanced down to see his expression on the tiny screen of the phone, and she could swear there were tears in his eyes, and the sight brought an answering prickle to her own. “She’s really brave. She really cares about changing things.”

The doors burst open, and two police officers rushed forward and horsed him out of the chair, hustling him out of the camera frame.

“And there you have it. Tyson Rezents, the young man behind Homeland Security and the FBI’s massive manhunt, wanted in the murder of Paradise Air’s owner Max Smiley and his wife, Emmeline, has turned himself in here on KHIN-2 and said his piece. It will be interesting from here on out to see how our domestic agencies make their case and who they blame for the ongoing vandalism going on across the islands by the movement calling itself Smiley Mafia.”

Lei punched off the phone and concentrated on getting into the office. This was going to complicate the prosecution no end. Rezents had very effectively biased the jury pool in Hawaii—but at least he was now in custody. As things currently stood, they were having a hell of a time tying anyone but Blackman to the Smiley murder. She hoped Homeland had at least been able to tie the explosives at the last two sites to the materials found on the bench in the basement.

Once in the office, she joined Waxman and Ang in the conference room. “Good evening, sir,” she said.

“Is that sand I see?” Waxman’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he pointed to her shins—she’d forgotten to roll her pant legs back down, and her backup pair of rubber slippers were on her feet.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Lei pushed the pants down. “I listened to the broadcast on my phone after Ken called me.”

“Well, we’re backseat to Homeland now, so let’s not bother rushing down to interview Rezents. We probably won’t get access anyway. They’re really focusing on the bombs and bomb making, and hopefully he has more to say about that than just blaming it all on Blackman. Agent Ang, can we watch the video again?”

“Yes, sir.” They were doing that, with pauses to discuss how to support the prosecution’s case, when Ken arrived.

Trailing in his wake was Barry Kleinman, attorney general for the city of Honolulu, a transplant to Hawaii back in the 1970s who still wore the beard and thick-lensed glasses he’d probably sported back then.

“We’re going to need to block a change of venue for this case, for starters,” Kleinman said. “I’ve been in touch with Homeland, and they’ve verified that the bomb-making materials found in the basement were used in the Smiley explosion—but not the vandalized estate in Kahala. So that was probably a copycat.”

Lei listened as they discussed the building of the case and the changing role of the Bureau since the entry of Homeland. Tom Blackman’s hands and clothes, tested at the morgue, were positive for explosives, and the missing quad had been found parked a block from the basement stronghold, making him a strong candidate as the bomber.

In contrast, Rezents appeared clean, the hourly motel where he’d been staying empty of anything but his sleeping bag and computer. Rezents insisted he’d left the basement and parted ways with Blackman the day Consuelo was captured and had just been trying to figure out how to turn himself during the intervening days, terrified as Blackman took the situation from bad to horrific.

“What about Consuelo Aguilar?” Lei asked. “What’s happening to her?”

Kleinman’s watery blue eyes blinked behind his thick lenses. “I thought you guys heard.”

“Heard what?” Waxman asked, leaning forward.

“Dr. Wilson prepared a report recommending psychiatric care and making a plea for “mitigated circumstances” for Consuelo as a minor. Bennie Fernandez and I met yesterday, and we’re drafting a plea agreement.”

“What is it?” Lei asked, her palms itchy with nerves. She still hated the thought of Consuelo behind bars.

“She’s going to be in the hospital until Dr. Wilson says she’s off suicide watch, and then she’ll be transferred to Ko’olau Correctional Youth Facility to serve two years until age eighteen. She has mandatory counseling as part of her program, and she’ll be able to complete her high school diploma there.”

“That’s very generous,” Waxman said.

“Indeed it is. Girl’s got such a fan base, it’s been a balancing act to make sure she’s getting consequences, but not more than the public will tolerate. Bennie Fernandez says he’s been contacted by several Hollywood producers wanting permission to interview her and access to her story.”

“It’s a good story, as Wendy Watanabe well knows,” Ken said.

“Maybe you could draft an agreement that profits from her story will pay back the damages to the houses robbed,” Lei said.

Kleinman sat back in his padded chair, took off his glasses, cleaned them on the front of his tropical-print aloha shirt. “Not a bad idea, but the interesting thing about the owners Consuelo burgled is that they’ve all refused to press charges, and they’ve honored the donations she made in their names. So if the state department didn’t press charges, there basically wouldn’t be any. This has given us a lot of latitude, and her mental health situation, age, and gender are also factors. I feel satisfied with this plea agreement.”

Lei held her breath, waiting for argument from the other agents, but even Waxman nodded and said, “I’m sure Rezents is a different story.”

“Indeed he is. For one thing, the boy’s seventeen, almost legal age. Right now I’m waiting for Homeland to show me a provable connection between him and the explosives. It seems incredible he didn’t have a bigger role to play than Blackman, but as I said, there’s still no physical evidence tying him to any of the other vandalized sites or to the Smiley murder.” He slid his glasses on, blinked his eyes owlishly, and stood. “Just wanted to check in.”

“Thank you for keeping us up-to-date.” Waxman walked him to the door. After he escorted the attorney general out, he turned back to the agents. “I would say we’re on track to wrapping this thing up. Everyone get home and get some sleep. Tomorrow we meet with Homeland and go over the case in detail.”

Lei drove home in the dark to pick up Angel, hurrying to get to Tripler Hospital before visiting hours ended at eight. When she got to the adolescent unit, the nurse who admitted her told her Consuelo had had to be taken out of the dining room with the other kids. She’d cut her wrists—and had almost done some serious damage to herself, even with a plastic knife.

Lei found herself rubbing old scars of her own self-injury as she looked into the girl’s room through the wire-bisected window. She reached into her pocket for her metal talisman. Consuelo was on the bed, turned against the wall, her long black hair snarled over the back of the plain gray sweats she wore. The nurse unlocked the door, and Lei carried in a chair from the hall.

Angel squirmed inside Lei’s tucked-in shirt, and as soon as the nurse shut the door, she pulled the shirt out of her pants and let the little dog out, setting her on the cot with Consuelo. Angel clambered over the still form, snuffling and whimpering, licking the girl’s cheek until Consuelo’s eyes opened. She rolled over onto her back, her hands coming up to clasp the Chihuahua.

“Angel. Oh, thank God. I thought you’d died.” Consuelo’s tongue seemed thick, her eyes puffy and glazed with some kind of sedative, and Lei’s heart squeezed at the sight of the fragile wrists covered in taped gauze.

Nothing seemed to matter but the reunion between Consuelo and Angel, and the girl eventually sat up, clasping the tiny dog to her chest. Angel continued to lick anything she could get her tongue on, and right now it was Consuelo’s neck as the girl looked at Lei. “How did you get her in here?”

“My shirt.” Lei grinned. “She seemed to know something was up. She was really quiet until we got in here, and she smelled you.”

“Where are they keeping her?”

“I have her, actually. And I wanted to tell you, things are looking very good for you. I heard only two years in Ko’olau, therapy, and you get to finish high school.”

Consuelo lowered the fan of her long lashes, rubbing Angel’s belly. “Two years feels like forever.”

“I’ll keep Angel for you. You can have her back when you get out. I’ve checked, and the Smileys didn’t have any children or family who wanted her. If I hadn’t taken her, she’d have gone to the Humane Society.”

Consuelo looked up. Something new glimmered in those dulled dark eyes—Lei thought it might be hope. “Really? I can have her back?”