kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller) (5 page)

Kristen traced her unpainted, unmanicured fingernail along the dotted line as it snaked its way through the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands. She watched as it passed over the island of Midway, where the famous World War II battle was fought. If the
Tropic Sequence
had still been on course, that was where it should be right now, Kristen thought.

The trouble was that it wasn’t. The Coast Guard attention had so far revealed only the magnificent desolation of the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands—a rugged seascape of barely submerged undersea mountains and gorgeous tropical lagoons, entirely uninhabited by humans except for a small government research station on Midway Island which had reported nothing out of the ordinary.

So what had gone wrong? Kristen had racked her brain for weeks over this simple question, to no avail. Her eyes traced back along the map’s dotted line to Honolulu—the last place the
Tropic Sequence
had been heard from.

During the voyage, Archer had kept a blog that he updated via shipboard satellite transmission every day or two. This allowed the public and the company’s investors, who now reeled from the precipitous decline in Alacra shares on the news of Archer’s disappearance, to follow the expedition’s progress.

Three months ago, when the yacht should have been three days out of Honolulu somewhere around Kauai, those messages had ceased. The question was, Kristen wondered as she gently shifted her now sleeping brother’s head off her shoulder, how come? Mechanical problems with the boat?

Or had something more sinister occurred far out to sea?

When no word had come from the When Alacra was not contacted as expected, they focused on next of kin, camping out in Lance’s and Kristen’s living rooms. They tapped phones, installed special software on their computers and set up surveillance equipment.
Tropic Sequence
for two weeks, Kristen and Lance had not been surprised when a team of “K & R specialists” informed them that they had been on standby, expecting a ransom demand call any day.

But when still no ransom demand came, the consultants had expressed concern, calling it highly unusual not to have a demand after so many weeks had passed. It was an expensive proposition to hold a high profile individual against their will, the K & R guys explained, and the risk to the kidnappers increased with each passing day they still held the hostage.

So scant was any information related to Dr. William Archer’s case, that Kristen wondered what she would do when she arrived in Honolulu. Perhaps her brother was right. As much as she tried to convince him otherwise, the truth was that she still had no idea what their course of action would be in the tropical city, other than to hopefully meet with the FBI agent assigned to her father’s case to let her know they were in town, if there was anything they could do...

Her gaze wandered back to the article’s headline, her mind attempting to unravel the threads it posited. Two days until her father was declared legally dead.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GENE HUNTER?

… CGCC
8
GAAA...

Honolulu International Airport, 3:30 PM

The airbus descended over Honolulu. Kristen looked out the window while Lance groggily fastened his seatbelt at the insistence of a flight attendant. The view was stunning, Kristen thought: the vast, dark blue Pacific transitioned to turquoise waters that met with miles of curving, white sand beaches, all bordered by skyscrapers and city streets. Palm trees were everywhere, waving lazily in the breezes. Inland, a rainbow arched over verdant hills.

Minutes later the wheels kissed the tarmac, the seatbelt lights blinked out and the captain was thanking them over the intercom for flying Hawaiian Air.

As they began walking down the aisle to deplane, a flight attendant tapped Kristen on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, Kristen Archer?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Kirsten replied, surprised.

The woman handed her a large gift basket, stuffed with dried pineapple, macadamia nuts, cane sugar, sea salt, and other Hawaiian tourist staples.

“Congratulations, Miss Archer, you’re the winner of our Halfway Contest. Your time was correct to the exact second!”

A small smattering of applause went up around them. Kristen blushed, but held a hand out.

“Thank you, but why don’t we give this to the little girl here.” Kirsten steered the basket in the direction of a young girl who was craning her neck to see the prize.

“Really, are you sure?” the flight attendant asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. Here you go.” She gave the basket to the little girl, whose mother made her “thank the nice woman.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Kristen said. “Remember to take lots of math classes so you can win this for yourself one day, okay?”

The mother laughed and thanked Kristen again before the plane’s door opened and passengers began disembarking. Kristen heard her brother behind her as they shuffled down the aisle.

“I can’t believe you won that, Kristen. I mean, you didn’t use a calculator or even a piece of paper. I thought you just guessed like everybody else.”

Kristen sighed, replying without turning around as she continued to walk toward the exit. “It’s simple math, Lance. I’m sure you could do it, too, if you actually decided to concentrate on something for more than ten seconds.”

Lance ignored the jab and maneuvered his oversized carry-on around the other passengers.

“Hey you know, that prize would have made a nice souvenir,” he said as they reached the jetway entrance. “There’s this new girl I met who might like—” Kristen turned to confront her brother.

“Lance, let’s get one thing straight right now, before we touch foot on this island.”

“What’s that?” Her icy stare unnerved him.

“The only souvenir I want to bring home is our father.”

4:30 PM, Waikiki

“Did you know that
Ohana
means ‘family’ in Hawaiian?” Lance asked his sister as they unpacked in their hotel room.

“Nope,” Kristen replied, hanging the few clothes she brought in a closet. “I just thought it was the name of our hotel.”

Lance tossed his bags on one of the twin beds and then stepped out onto a balcony with a view of the opposing row of hotels across the street, their balconies dotted with surfboards and rafts.

“Didn’t want to spring for a beachfront room, eh?” Lance chided his sister.

“Hey, I don’t recall you chipping in. Sorry we’re not staying at the Royal Hawaiian, but at least you can catch the trade winds on the balcony, right?”

“
Lanai
.”

“What?”

“In Hawaii, balconies are called
lanai’s
.”

“Well excuse me, Mr. Polynesia. I didn’t know you’d become such an expert.”

“I brushed up on some Hawaiian. Thought it might come in handy with the local chicks, now that I’m single again.” Inwardly, Kristen cringed at the reference to his recent ugly divorce. She laughed out of courtesy but quickly grew serious as Lance walked back inside, picked up a television remote control and started channel surfing.

“Lance, just remember why we’re here, okay? I’m paying for all of your expenses. The least you can do is make a serious effort to find Dad.”

“I’m just kidding. And knowing a smidgeon of Hawaiian might come in handy if we’re going to be asking around looking for somebody, right?”

“I suppose you have a point,” Kristen conceded. “Hey, let me see that,” she said, snatching the remote from Lance, who had stopped on a station promoting local nightclubs. He frowned as his sister changed the channel to an island news broadcast.

“I was watching that,” Lance protested.

“Let’s find out what’s going on around here.”

Lance frowned and began unpacking his suitcase.

Kristen muted the TV and went to her backpack. From it she extracted her cell-phone, into which she had stored the number of the FBI agent assigned to their father’s missing person case.

“What’s up?” Lance asked.

“Calling the agent in charge of Dad’s case.”

“Already? Thought maybe we’d get a bite to eat first…”

“Lance! Two more days, and our father is legally dead. Need I say more?”

Lance shrugged and went back to hanging his clothes in the closet. Kristen dialed the FBI number.

… TTAT
9
TTGT...

Tara Shores looked up from her desk as her supervisor, Daniel Ozakawa, Special Agent in Charge of the Honolulu Field Office, barged into her office.

“Shores, put on channel 6 news,” Ozakawa barked. “Dead body recovered off Waikiki—some kind of diving or boating accident. I want you to cover it just long enough to make sure it’s not our jurisdiction, then hand it over to HPD.” Then his face took on an apologetic look. “You okay?” he said, referencing the jumper.

“Turning on the news now, sir,” Tara said, fishing a remote control out from under a stack of papers on her desk. The hell if she was going to admit she was not okay. By the time she clicked on a small television mounted in a corner up by the ceiling, Ozakawa had already departed.
Good
.

On screen, an Asian man in his early thirties was standing on the beach in Waikiki, interviewing a police officer. A crowd of curious onlookers in beachwear could be seen huddled around the officer.

The reporter said, “We are live on the beach at Waikiki where police have just finished interviewing the rescuers of a man who was stranded at sea. That stranding is reported to be the result of an apparent boat theft gone bad in which one man was murdered. Officer Mokua, I understand a body has been found related to this incident. Can you confirm this for our viewers?”

The officer stared grimly into the camera. “I can only confirm at this time that our divers have recovered the body of a male Caucasian, approximately fifty-five years of age, who was found dead on the sea bottom about a mile off Waikiki Beach with his throat cut.”

“And that man’s identity has been confirmed?” the reporter queried.

“Based on statements made by an employee of the deceased, it appears that the man may have been using an alias. We are asking anyone who may know this individual, possibly a charter boat captain who went by the name of ‘Mr. Johnson,’ piloting a small sport fishing boat called the
Honu
, to come forward and give us information about him. I cannot comment any further at this time.”

A photograph of Mr. Johnson was shown on screen. Tara did not recognize the man.

“We have heard that Mr. Johnson may have been looking for something in the water when he died. Can you comment on that?”

“No further comments at this time while we conduct our investigation, okay?”

“Okay, can you tell us where is the diver working for Mr. Johnson who was rescued by canoers?” the reporter pressed.

“That witness has already been interviewed by detectives at the Waikiki sub-station, and has since been released. He is in good condition following his ordeal. He did not require medical treatment.”

“Can you tell us his name?” “Dave Turner.” “And is Mr. Turner a suspect in his boss’ murder at this time?” “No, sir, not at this time.” “A person of interest?”

The cop registered an irritated look which made Tara laugh. “He is a person of interest since he is the one who reported the crime to us. But he is not a suspect at this time, no.”

The reporter thanked the officer and beckoned for his cameraman to follow him over to a group of local men who were surrounded by curious beachgoers.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, you fellows are the crew of the outrigger canoe who rescued the man at sea this morning, correct?” The men nodded and smiled in response, a few giving the “shaka” sign, waving a hand with thumb and pinky extended. “So you were rowing about a half mile offshore when you spotted a man swimming—tell us what happened next.” A big Hawaiian man, bare-chested except for a large puka shell necklace, stepped forward.

“We were paddling toward Diamond Head when we saw this crazy
haole
guy, yeah? Just swimming by himself with no board, nothing. Way out past where most of the swimmers go, yeah?”

Onscreen, the reporter nodded and the canoer continued.

“No look like he in trouble at first, he just swimming for shore. But we so far out that we say, better make sure he okay, yeah?”

Then another member of the outrigger crew chimed in. “We ask him, you all right, brah? He starts talking about his boat missing, his boss dead, and so we pick him up. Took him right in to the beach, right over there, yeah?”

The long-haired young man, arms decorated with extensive tribal tattoos, pointed to a patch of sand just off camera at the water’s edge. The white pontoon of an outrigger canoe could be seen jutting into the field of view.

The men explained that police were contacted and took the man in for questioning soon after the outrigger had landed ashore.

The reporter then ended the interview by saying that the Coast Guard is currently searching for the missing boat, the
Honu
. Then the program went back to the news studio, where an anchorwoman re-capped the story’s highlights, adding a photograph of Dave Turner. In the snapshot, he was standing on a boat wearing a scuba tank, smiling broadly, shaggy blond hair falling almost to his shoulders. They concluded with a map from Google Earth labeled with the site of where the dead body was recovered in the ocean.

Quickly, Tara pulled a digital camera from her desk and snapped a picture of the TV screen with the map still displayed. She could have the map sent to her by the TV station, but experience had taught her that this was much faster and may well suit her purposes.

Tara flipped off the TV and reflected on what she had just seen. She understood why her boss wanted her to check it out. Dead body, offshore boats: it smacked of some kind of drug smuggling operation gone awry. She holstered her pistol in plain view on her hip and slipped the lanyard attached to her badge around her neck.

She was heading for the door when her desk phone rang. Thinking it might be her boss, Tara backtracked to answer it. The phone's display told her the call was from an outside line. Her office number was not given out to the general public, so she picked it up and said, “Tara Shores speaking.”