Free Pleasing the Dead by Deborah Turrell Atkinson Page B

hour.”
    In her sleeveless linen blouse, Storm was covered with goose bumps, so she headed back outside. On the other side of the shattered restaurant was a small mall, which was sure to have a sandwich or coffee shop. She skirted the yellow crime tape, but along with all the other pedestrians, ignored the signs to use the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
    It was hard not to stare at the destruction. The missing wall reminded her of the open side of a doll house where the petulant owner had reached in and tossed furniture, draperies, and wiring into a violent tangle. The dangling table linens were blackened and torn and dining chairs leaned, askew. Storm looked away from the dark stains on the carpeting.
    Three police officers, alert but not vigilant to the point of obsession, patrolled the area and watched pedestrians and traffic. They weren’t fiddling with the holsters on their hips, or speaking into radios.
    Storm squinted in their direction. One of the cops looked like the guy she’d seen last night. And how had Damon introduced him? Moana. She remembered because it meant ocean in Hawaiian. A soft word for a man with a hard job.
    She waved at him. All three officers’ heads swung her direction, but only Moana walked over.
    â€œNo stopping, please.” He pointed at the signs directing people across the street, through the busy traffic. The closest crosswalk was a block away.
    â€œI met you last night. I was with Damon.”
    â€œOh, yeah.” Sadness softened the authority in his eyes. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”
    â€œStorm Kayama. You’re Sergeant Moana, right?” He nodded, and Storm asked what had been on her mind all day. “How’s the little girl?”
    â€œI called the hospital this morning. She should be okay, barring infection or other complications. She got shot through the shoulder. Lucky, considering.”
    â€œDoes she know about her dad and sister?”
    â€œYeah. We talked to her.” He looked down at his shoes, somewhat dusty from the bomb detritus. “I thought I’d take my daughters to see her this afternoon.”
    â€œI can’t help thinking about her. You think I could drop off a little gift?”
    â€œSure, any support would be good. Though she’s getting a lot of attention from the hospital personnel.”
    â€œDoes she know what happened?”
    â€œShe’s been told, but I’m not sure she understands. Hell, I’m not sure I do.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, but Storm thought he might be trying to hide anguish that had crossed his face. He braced himself and continued. “She told us her dad was crying, and that he had a gun. She started to run away, and heard the shots. She keeps asking,” Moana cleared his throat, “about her sister.”
    Storm looked at the ground. If she looked in his eyes, she’d tear up. “That’s terrible.”
    â€œIt is. Seems Yoshinaka had gambling debts and had missed a couple rent payments. It looks like he just got real depressed. He had high blood alcohol levels.”
    â€œAny chance he was into a loan shark?”
    â€œCould be.” Moana’s gaze slid away from hers.
    For sure, Storm thought. He just can’t talk about it. “Poor kid’s going to need all the help she can get.”
    â€œWe’re trying to find family in Japan,” Moana said, then looked over his shoulder. A big sedan had pulled into the building’s parking lot, right up to a strip of crime tape. Four doors popped open and four suits emerged from the car.
    â€œI’ve gotta go.”
    Storm watched Moana hurry off. If the coconut wireless was operating at full efficiency and the pregnant clerk’s information was accurate, those were the JTTF agents.
    Storm found a sandwich shop, picked up a copy of the newspaper, and sat on a bench to eat. The front page was covered with a photograph of Hiroki Yoshinaka’s house,