New fathers investigate the death of a young family.
When a sailboat carrying four bodies washes up on the Leeward Coast of O’ahu, openly gay Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka, on loan to the FBI, must discover what sent this young family and their deadly cargo on a dangerous trans-Pacific voyage. Leaving behind his partner and their infant twins, Kimo must work with his police cohort Ray Donne to unravel the forces that led this family to their deaths. From Hawaii’s sunny beaches to a chillly island in Japan to the Pacific Northwest, Kimo and Ray step far out of their comfort zones to confront an evil much greater than any they’ve investigated before.
This is the start of chapter 1
A blue and white sailboat with three sails rested on its side against a rocky shoreline, a gaping hole in the port bow. The sparse grass along the shore had been blocked off by yards of yellow hazard tape, and a rough surf smashed against the hull. In the distance I could see a surfer cresting the top of an early morning wave.
“Turn up the TV volume,” I said to my partner, Mike. We were watching Wake Up, Honolulu!, the morning news program on KVOL, the scrappy independent TV station in Honolulu where my brother Lui worked. It had become our habit now that we were empty-nesters, with our foster son Dakota a sophomore at the University of Hawai’i and living on campus. The twins we had fathered four years before lived with their moms, a lesbian couple who were our close friends, and came to visit us on alternate weekends, or whenever their moms needed a break.
Mike raised the volume in time for us to hear the perky female anchor say, “A jogger on the Leeward Coast made a gruesome discovery just after dawn this morning. Police are already on the scene but have declined comment.”
She turned to face the camera. “And now, let’s take a look at the newest baby otter at the Honolulu Zoo!”
“You can lower the volume now,” I said.
“I’m at your service, master,” Mike said with a grin. Mike was half-Italian and half Korean, while my parents had passed down Caucasian, Japanese and Hawaiian strains. We both had skin that tanned easily, dark hair and facial features that identified us as mixed race, though he was a few inches taller than I was.
Cathy and Sandra, the mothers of our twins, had worked out a scheme which we went along with. Mike’s and my sperm were mixed with Cathy’s eggs, and the resulting embryos had been implanted into Sandra’s womb. That way all four of us were participants in their birth. The twins looked like a mix of all of us—just as we’d hoped.
While Mike finished getting dressed I made sure that our golden retriever, Roby, had water and toys to play with while we were at work. Before we walked out, we stopped at the front door for a goodbye kiss—another of our newer rituals.
Mike was a fire investigator with the Honolulu Fire Department, evaluating any suspicious blazes and teaching his colleagues about new techniques in arson evaluation. My job was no less dangerous than his—after years as a street patrolman and then homicide detective with the Honolulu Police Department, I’d gone on assignment to the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force.
We’d both made a pact years before never to leave each other angry, not knowing what the day could bring. And with Dakota out of the house, we’d indulged in the kind of hot, deep kisses that sealed our desire for each other. Mike grabbed my ass and leaned down, pressing his lips against mine in a clash that grew hotter as we pressed together.
My dick popped up and strained against my pants, and I panted with desire. “I don’t have to be at work on time this morning,” I said, arching my head back so Mike could nip at my neck. “How about you?”
He began unbuttoning the white dress shirt I had begun to wear when I joined the FBI. Mike was wearing a polo shirt with the HFD logo on the breast, so it was easy to pull the tails out of his slacks and stick my hands underneath, sliding through his silky chest hairs.
He unbuckled my belt and unhooked my pants, and they fell to the floor. My dick popped out of the slit in my tropical-print boxers and he wrapped his hand around it as we exchanged hot, sinful kisses.
My cell phone began to ring as I undid his pants and shoved them to the tile floor. “Let it go,” Mike growled into my neck, and I wasn’t sure if he meant to ignore the call or release his dick from his briefs, but I did both.
We kept kissing as we jerked each other in hard, fast strokes. My heart raced and my orgasm rose, suffusing my body with an energy so strong I thought I must be glowing. Then I came, spurting into his hand, and he followed a moment later.
Our bodies sagged together, and I reached out for the front door to steady myself. “Still got it, babe,” Mike said.
My phone beeped to announce a new voice mail, but I ignored it. Mike and I were a tangle of pants around our ankles and sticky come on our hands, and it took a few minutes to extricate ourselves and clean up. Then we kissed goodbye again—this time just a quick peck on the cheek—and I walked out to my Jeep.
It was a gorgeous day in the islands, just a few clouds striating the blue sky, a light breeze dancing in the palm fronds. As I got onto the highway, a broad-winged bird soared high above the highway, and I wished I could be that free—if I didn’t have to go to work, I’d have been out on the surf beyond that wrecked sailboat.
Kimo and his detective partner Ray Donne head out to the scene.
By then the downpour had turned into a sheeting rain, and we were almost on top of the emergency vehicles before we saw their flashing lights. Ray pulled to a stop along the verge behind the ME’s van.
We sat in the car waiting for the monsoon to pass. A pickup towing a sailboat crept past us, wipers flapping, and then suddenly the rain slowed to a drizzle and a rainbow appeared ahead of us. They’re such a common phenomenon in the islands that the University of Hawai’i named their sports teams the Rainbows. Once the rainbow became a gay symbol, the administration tacked “Warriors” on to the end of the male teams. Then they figured out that made them sound like a bunch of radical gay activists, and they allowed each team to choose its own nickname. The result was a mishmash of Rainbows, Warriors, and Rainbow Warriors.
As Ray and I approached the yellow hazard tape around the sailboat in the light rain, someone in a bulky Hazmat suit climbed awkwardly off the bow, looking like a giant lime-green marshmallow man with a gas mask and bright yellow shoes. Even in that getup, I recognized the man I’d been sharing my life with for almost ten years.
Mike stepped onto a polyethylene walkway, stretched out his arms, and let the rain wash over him. The shower dissipated and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. A guy in a firefighter’s uniform stepped up to him, staying outside the yellow tape, and ran a long-handled scanner up and down the hazmat suit.
Mike was stepping out of the suit when I reached him. We tried to stay professional when we were working—no sweetheart, or honey, and that was difficult because I was worried about what he might have been exposed to on that boat.
I struggled to stay cool. “Hey. You find anything interesting in there?” I asked.
“Four dead bodies.” Mike looked grim. “Two of them little babies. They look like Addie and Owen did at that age.”
I could see why he looked shaken. The birth of our twins had rocked our worlds, bringing home the joy and the terror of parenting, and everything that happened to kids reminded us of how fragile those two little lives were.