Fic: Stealth and Sudden Violence (Chapter 1)
The train huffed over a set of points, jerking sideways and smacking Steve's shoulder into the wall of their compartment. He barely felt it, lost in his own thoughts. Unlike Chin and Kono, who sat opposite him staring out of the window, he knew this journey and he didn't have to watch the outside world roll by to know just how close they were to Cairo's main station. Passengers bustled up and down the corridor and an almost palpable sense of excitement rippled along the train as the fields and irrigation ditches gave way to simple mud brick houses that in turn became larger, if not more attractive, homes and warehouses.
Steve wasn't sure what he felt, although he was pretty sure it wasn't excitement. He'd been numb since he'd gotten the telegram over three weeks before and getting closer to his childhood home hadn't burst the bubble he seemed to be living in.
He'd been laughing at Chin's description of Major David's outrage at being knocked into a ditch by a herd of cattle that were probably driven straight at the pompous ass, when the messenger arrived. He'd been happy, pleased with the success of his recent reconnaissance mission up into the jungles, sipping iced tea on the veranda of the small house he shared with Chin and Kono. And then his life had been changed by just twenty eight words.
Getting to the funeral was never going to be an option. Not when he was stationed a world away in Manila, not when he got his orders from the US Navy. It was only the kindness of Admiral Shepherd, and Chin's calm efficiency, that had gotten the three of them to Cairo as quickly as they had.
The train huffed past the old water tower and Steve wondered why he'd bothered to travel back at all, given that he'd missed burying his father. He'd only seen the man a handful of times in the sixteen years since he'd sent Steve and his sister away, and those occasions had been stilted and painful, as though there were too many ghosts in the room with them.
He'd understood, to some extent, why his younger sister had been sent to live with their Aunt Lizzy in Los Angeles. She'd been fourteen at the time, on the cusp of adulthood, and needed a woman to chaperone her through the next few years of her life. He thought, despite the fact that she'd ostensibly sulked from the day their father told them until the day they went their separate ways in New York, that she'd been quite looking forward to her change of location. Los Angeles was a whole hell of a lot more exciting, at least according to the newspapers they read, than Egypt would ever be. Especially since their father had hardly spoken to them since their mother's death.
He hadn't needed that. He'd needed his father to acknowledge that his son was very nearly a man, or thought he was, and wanted nothing more than to follow in the footsteps of his idol. Instead he was packed off to a ranch in Wyoming to live with his Great Uncle Jed, a man who thought a game of solitaire was 'the most fun a boy could have'.
Steve had stuck it out over the harsh winter, wishing constantly for the tropical weather of Hawaii where he'd spent his early childhood or the dry heat of Egypt that he loved so much. He had submitted his application to the naval academy at Annapolis at the first sign of the snow thawing, determined to emulate someone who wasn't going to disapprove of his choice, his late grandfather. He'd been gone before the fall.
When he looked back now, he knew that at least part of the reason why he'd done what he did was to provoke some kind of reaction from his father. He didn't know what he hoped for, really. Even then he'd been almost certain that there was no way Jack McGarrett was going to leave Egypt, not after the way he withdrew into himself following the death of his wife. He'd certainly expected more than the terse letter near Thanksgiving of his first year.
Three lines wishing him well, greetings of the season and good luck for the rest of his studies. Three pathetic, stilted lines in his father's assured hand. He knew, having spent hours as a kid watching him work, that his father would fill pages and pages of paper with his neat copperplate when he had something to say. It still made something in his chest clench at the thought he was worth barely half a page.
Steve jerked back to the present as the train lurched to a halt alongside the crowded platform. Kono was almost pressed against the window the carriage, desperate to take in everything there was to see. He had to smile at Kono's unguarded excitement at visiting the place Steve had told her so much about. Even though he wished the circumstances were different, he was glad he could show the cousins something of the country he loved.
The platform was jumble of noise and color. Passengers were already disembarking, mingling with the crowds who surged towards the train. People were shouting orders and greetings in English, Arabic and French, waving away the ubiquitous porters or drawing family close. There were severe matrons in black, young women in bright summer dresses, men in linen suits, the olive drab of the British army and the white of the Cairo Police. There were simple gray or brown robes and turbans of the poor mixed with the bright, embroidered jellabiyas of the better off native Caireans.
He would have waited a few more minutes, partly to give Kono a chance to people watch before they became part of the melee, but also to let the crowd thin somewhat. Not that it was ever quiet in Cairo's main station, as far as he could remember. But Chin had other ideas. He stood and began lifting the Gladstone bags they'd stowed in the overhead racks in Alexandria to the floor.
“There's no need to rush,” Steve told him, even though he stood himself and began to help with the luggage.
Kono tore herself away from the view out of the window to jam her hat on the top of her head in what Steve supposed was a very unlady like fashion. She twirled the hat pin between her fingers, showing off the move she'd been practicing during their three weeks at sea, before pushing it through the straw of the hat and her barely tamed mane.
“If you're going to tell people I'm your valet, you'll have to let me do the heavy lifting,” Chin said with a smile, taking the bag from Steve's hand. “I know you hate it, but it's for the best.”
“I know,” Steve sighed, wishing things were different. Chin might be as close to him as family, as was Kono, but the world saw him as Steve's Navy assigned servant, his dog robber, and Kono was a convenient house keeper.
“Come on,” Kono said, squeezing Steve's arm as she passed him. “The sooner we get to the house, the sooner we can stop pretending.”
“If we really wanted to do things right, I should have made you both travel in the second class carriage,” Steve pointed out, following Kono into the corridor. “Did you see that pompous old fool's face when he looked in and saw you two?”
“I've never seen anyone go that color before,” Kono laughed, jostling Chin in her excitement to get off the train. “Come on, cuz.”
“Kono Kalakaua,” Chin said, in what Steve always thought of as his 'frustrated parent' voice.
“Don't worry, I shall be as cool as a cucumber,” Kono interrupted, her prim posture and innocent expression not hiding the amusement in her voice at all.
Chin muttered something Steve didn't catch under his breath as he swung himself down the steps of the carriage on to the platform. He turned back to help Kono down, and Steve wasn't even really surprised to see that none of the Egyptian 'porters' who usually swarmed around the westerners had approached them. Steve followed Kono down and only then the men decided they should approach. He felt a stab of anger that people who were treated as second class citizens in their own country should do the same to someone else.
The men, all vying for the chance to earn a few coins, tried to surround him, pushing their way between Steve and his two friends. Cries of 'I'll carry your luggage, Effendi' and 'I'm an honest man' became more and more strident as Steve made it clear he was planning to ignore them all. He knew they needed a porter or two for the trunks that were in guards carriage but he was damned if he was going to give the men who'd snubbed his friends the chance to earn baksheeh.
“I'm not paying any of you a damned thing,” Steve said in flawless Arabic, which seemed to give some of the men pause in their moves to try to grab the bag he carried. “And if you keep disrespecting my friends, I'll break the arm of the next man who pushes them out of the way.”
The speed with which the would-be-porters stepped away from Chin and Kono was almost comical. Robes flapped and arms flailed as they jumped back to give the two Hawaiians more space than anyone else on the platform, Steve included. Chin managed to hide his smile behind his serious Sergeant Major face, but Kono just grinned.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said in careful, accented Arabic. The porters stared in silence for a few seconds before erupting into a babble of surprised and delighted exclamations. Suddenly, the excruciating days spent on the ship from the Manila listening as Kono mangled simple Arabic phrases were worth it. Steve grinned at Chin, who he'd taught to speak Arabic like a Cairo native within a matter of weeks when they'd been stationed together in Pearl Harbor.
“Commander McGarrett,” an American voice called out behind them, and Steve turned to find a group of men pushing through the crowd.
“Yes,” he answered warily, not sure who would have taken the trouble to meet him at the station.
The slim, middle-aged blond man who'd hailed him was dressed in an impossibly crease-free linen suit, and was clearly a person of some importance. He walked with an air of confidence that spoke of a certain power and the larger men, two of them in the uniforms of the Cairo Police, were obviously intent on making sure no one got close to the man whom they flanked.
“Ambassador Jameson,” the man said, introducing himself and grasping Steve's hand. “I'm so sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do, please let me know.”
“Thank you,” Steve replied, matching the shorter man's surprisingly firm grip. “I'm not sure there is anything at the moment, but I shall let you know if I need anything.”
“Do,” the ambassador instructed, looking past Steve at Chin and Kono. “I must say I was surprised to hear you had brought your staff with you.”
Steve stiffened slightly, as he always did when people casually dismissed his friends as almost nothing more important than a possession because they happened to not be white. It was stupid, it would keep on happening, but no matter how many times he told himself that, it never got easier to bear. He also knew he had to play along, especially now when he wanted the ambassador's help to find the person who killed his father. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.
“They're a little more than staff, sir,” he corrected as gently as he could. “Sergeant Major Chin-Ho Kelly and his cousin Kono Kalakaua are old friends of my family's from Hawaii. Chin serves with me in Manila and Kono makes sure we both have clean uniforms and somewhere more appealing than the barracks to lay our heads.”
“It's good to meet you both,” the ambassador said with a nod of his head, probably as much of an acknowledgment as they were ever going to get. “I gather that the Navy has given you a leave of absence to settle your father's affairs?”
“Yes, sir. As long as I need.”
The ambassador didn't answer right away and Steve wondered if he'd somehow given the wrong answer, disappointed the man. He wasn't sure how. He hadn't abandoned his post, or his team, and they weren't even fighting a war in the Philippines any more, guerrilla or conventional. He was about to say something when the ambassador seemed to find the words he needed.
“He was a good man, your father. He helped a lot of people, Americans here in Egypt, with the work he did for me and my predecessors. He took on some really tough cases that the British authorities were struggling with and solved them. I'm sure that doesn't surprise you, though.” He paused and flashed a small, sad smile, as though he knew exactly how much Steve had looked up to his father as a boy.
“He had a lot of friends here. The cathedral was full for the funeral. I wish we could have waited for you to arrive but, really, it's not possible to delay in such warm climes as these. I know he regretted not seeing you as much as he would have liked, but he was always proud to hear news of you doing so well.”
“Thank you,” Steve managed to say, hoping he hid his surprise at the statement. His father hadn't wanted him the Navy, had made it very clear he disapproved in the few times they'd seen each other since, so he found it difficult to accept that he would have said anything of the sort. He supposed the ambassador was simply saying all the things you were supposed to say to the son of a murdered employee.
“Where are you staying? Sheppard's Hotel?”
“Err... no,” Steve answered, blinking slightly in surprise at the notion he wouldn't go home. “I'm staying at the house. At my father's house.”
“I had assumed...” Ambassador Jameson started, before catching himself, stroking the neat mustache that lined his upper lip as he continued. “As they say, assumption makes an ass of you and me. Of course you want to have the comfort and privacy of your own house. We'll have tea at Sheppard's and I'll send someone to the house to make sure it's ready for you.”
“Ambassador, as much as I appreciate your offer, we're exhausted,” Steve explained, beginning to feel a little irritated at the delay. “My father's staff know we're arriving and have assured me, or rather Chin, that everything will be ready for us.”
“Of course,” the ambassador agreed, as though admitting defeat in some game that Steve didn't know they were playing. “When you've settled in, come and see me. I'm sure you have lots of questions.”
“Thank you, I will,” Steve agreed, looking around at the porters who were still loitering in the hopes of being allowed to carry the bags despite what he'd said to them.
“I arranged for a car to take you where you need to go, and a cart for the luggage,” Jameson explained, guessing Steve's intent.
“I... errr,” Steve started, feeling a little overwhelmed.
“It's the least I could do,” the other man said, waving off Steve's objections before they could form. Steve caught Chin's eye and he moved off down the platform towards the guard's van, one of the ambassador's retinue following, obviously to point out their transport.
Steve could feel the tension building inside his gut. He wanted so badly to see the house again, to feel the sense of belonging he'd had before his mother died, but he knew it would never be the like it was. His mother was gone and now his father was dead, too, murdered in the house that he'd built for his family. Maybe coming back was a mistake, maybe there was nothing here for him at all, maybe he should have just stayed in Manila and done his job.
But louder than all the doubts, a voice inside him kept telling him he had to find out who'd killed his father, and why. He knew he wouldn't be able to settle anywhere, even back into the naval life he loved, until he'd done that.
“And did you tell Miss Coyle you don't like apricot jelly?”
“I did, Danno. But she says that I should eat what's in front of me and be thankful I'm not starving in Africa. That's silly though because we're in Africa and so I could go and find someone who does like it, who was starving.”
Danny sighed, wishing he had something good to say to Grace. He thought his daughter's logic was pretty impeccable, but he could imagine Miss Coyle's disapproving expression if Grace used it on her. His daughter's governess had a face Danny's grandfather would have described as looking like 'a bulldog chewing a wasp'. He wished the man was still alive and that Grace could have met him, even if Rachel would have been appalled by the things he taught her.
But then Rachel was appalled by a lot of what Danny, and by extension his family, did.
She hadn't been, not when they first met. She'd been a free spirited English woman looking for adventure in America and meeting a real life detective had been a thrill. He was sure part of the reason she married him was to spite her dreadful, social climbing mother. After they were married, after Grace was born, Rachel seemed to have begun to become more and more like her mother, worrying that everything she did, said, wore or ate was being judged by others. Danny liked to think his continued employment as a police detective wasn't just because he couldn't imagine doing anything else but was also upholding the tradition of raising a one fingered salute to his ex-wife's domineering mother.
Of course Rachel had managed a second marriage that beat all her mother's hopes for a 'good match' hands down. She'd caught Stanley Edwards, property tycoon, steel magnate, multimillionaire and, unfortunately for Danny, avid amateur Egyptologist. The man owned large chunks of Manhattan, swaths of New Jersey, and yet he'd moved his family, Danny's family really, to this godforsaken oven of a country. All because he was determined to find glory as the discoverer of some lost tomb or forgotten palace.
“Danno, you're not listening,” Grace complained, her stocking covered knee bumping his to get his attention.
“I'm sorry, monkey. I was just thinking how much things have changed in the past two years.”
“I'm glad you came to live here,” Grace said, leaning into him as he slipped his arm around her. “I miss Grammy and Grampa, but it's much nicer now you're here.”
“I'm glad I came, too,” Danny said, his eyes prickling. “I miss Jersey a lot, Monkey, but I'd miss you more.”
“Are we going to go to the park on Saturday?”
“Are we going to the park?” Danny repeated in mock outrage, while Grace giggled into the front of his shirt. “Of course we're going to the park. Where else will you learn to catch a ball?”
“Miss Coyle says young ladies don't play catch,” Grace whispered, a smile twitching about her mouth as though she wasn't sure if Danny would smile with her.
“Well, I think Miss Coyle has a stick up her... oh hello, Rachel.”
Danny stood as his ex-wife approached the secluded portion of the Edwards' mansion grounds that he and Grace called it the Secret Garden. As far as he could tell only they used it regularly, sitting on the bench under the lebbek tree in the hours he got to visit with his little girl.
“Daniel,” Rachel scolded, her voice carrying even more reprimand than it usually did. “You will not speak to our daughter like that.”
“Mommy, Danno's just being funny,” Grace said, leaping to his defense just as she always did. “We know Miss Coyle hasn't really got a stick up her...”
“Grace Williams, don't you dare finish that sentence,” Rachel interrupted, color rising on her cheeks. “And if you ever repeat anything like that I shall wash your mouth out with soap.”
“I'm sorry, Rachel,” Danny apologized, even though he wasn't sure he really did feel any kind of remorse. Grace didn't smile enough anymore and she was smart enough to know what she could say and when.
”Really, Daniel,” Rachel said, voice heavy with disdain as she sat in the seat he'd vacated, carefully arranging the pristine skirt of her afternoon dress.
“Yes, really,” Danny answered, wishing he could stop the sarcasm that always crept in to his voice when she took that tone with him.
Rachel glared at him before drawing in a breath and pursing her lips in the way he knew meant she was trying to not shout at him in front of Grace. For all her faults, real or viewed through the distorting lenses Danny knew he wore when he looked at her, she was still a good mother. “I think it's time for Grace to go inside and dress for dinner.”
“I think it must be,” Danny agreed, willing to play his part and pretend he and Rachel weren't fighting like cats and dogs all the time. “And I have work to do.”
“Are you going to catch the bad man?” Grace asked with a quick grin, repeating the childish question she'd asked him pretty much since she could speak. She hopped off the bench and picked up the straw hat she'd discarded almost as soon as they'd sat down for their shared afternoon tea two hours ago.
“Just like I always do, Gracie,” Danny reassured her, bending down to hug her tight. He'd never understood the people he worked with, here and back home, who didn't seem to have much of a physical relationship with their children. He supposed it was something left over from the stuffy, as he saw them, Gilded Age morals that deemed children something to be seen and not heard. He couldn't imagine a better place to be than right here with his daughter.
“Come along, Grace,” Rachel said, her voice soft, carrying none of the bite it usually did since the divorce.
Danny straightened up, looking at his ex-wife and finding her watching them with a gentle smile, a hint of sadness in her eyes. It was at moments like this, when he caught her remembering the happier times they'd shared, that part of him wanted to tell her it was all okay; that he could look back too and be grateful for their time together and the joy that was Grace. There was also a mean, unkind part of him that wanted to point out it was her fault they weren't together anymore, that she was the one who'd torn them apart.
“I'll see you at the weekend,” Danny said, squashing down the hurtful words that almost threatened to break free. He thought it was getting a little easier each time to keep them inside.
“I love you, Danno,” Grace said with her usual childish certainty that never failed to take his breath away.
“I love you too, Monkey,” he replied, wondering when she was going to get too old for her nick-name.
“Go and find Miss Coyle. I need to speak to your father.”
Danny watched his daughter run back up the path that wound around a dense stand of date palms. It was, as it usually was, like a knife to the chest to know that she was going back into another man's house and he wouldn't see her for days.
“I do wish you wouldn't call her Monkey,” Rachel complained, managing to snuff out all of the positive things he'd been thinking about her.
“You lost the right to tell me what to do, Rachel, the moment you left me.”
“I'm not telling you,” she argued calmly, not rising to his bait. “I'm asking you because it's not the sort of name a girl wants to be stuck with. Especially not one with what could be perceived as certain social disadvantages.”
“Disadvantages?” Danny said incredulously, wondering what his mother would say if she found out he'd hit a woman. “Disadvantages like being the daughter of a man who earns an honest day's pay for his toils? Disadvantages like being the daughter of a policeman?”
“Daniel,” Rachel interrupted him, her voice sharp and her cheeks pinking with what Danny hoped was shame but could have been anger. “You know that we live in a world where people are judged, rightly or wrongly, by their background and breeding. Having Stanley as a step-father will go a long way to make sure Grace has every advantage she can, but she will still have to work hard to ensure her rather humble beginnings don't limit her chances of a good marriage.”
“Marriage? She's nine years old, Rachel.”
“I know that,” Rachel snapped, rising from the garden seat and obviously about to storm back to the house. “I'm merely pointing out that some thought for our daughter's future happiness is appropriate.”
“Let's assume that she doesn't decide to make her own way in the world by being a doctor, or a teacher, or something, then how about we let her marry who she chooses?” Danny argued, angrier with this ex-wife than he had been in a long time.
“Perhaps if my mother had chosen whom I married, we wouldn't be in this mess.” And with that she was gone, stalking along the path Grace had taken back to the house.
Danny was seething. There was no point going after her, partly because when they argued like this they always needed time to cool off, but he also wasn't sure he had anything at all left to say to her. He wanted, no, needed, to punch something so much it almost frightened him. There was nothing but the stupid palm trees and he wasn't so far gone he was going to break his hands on them.
He scrubbed his hand over his face and wondered when she'd stop having the power to hurt him like she did. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes and counted to ten. He thought maybe the next time he wrote to his mother he should tell her that the counting thing really did nothing to calm him down.
Danny blew out the breath and squared his shoulders. There was no point thinking about Rachel and what might have been, he had a job to do. A policeman, a man he knew, even if it was only to nod to in passing, had been murdered three weeks before and he had no real leads. Perhaps another look at the crime scene might give him some ideas.
Steve stood in the doorway of his father's study and stared at the room. There was barely any sign that his father hadn't just left the room a few minutes ago. Except he would never be coming back. Something clenched inside Steve's chest, something painful and heavy, and his throat felt suddenly tight. God, he was never going to see his father again.
He felt himself sway and leaned on the door frame. In the three weeks since he'd learned of his father's death, he'd been questioning what kind of son he was because he'd felt none of the things he thought he should. Now he wanted nothing more than to go back to his little bubble of numbness, because this was overwhelming. It hurt. It hurt like he was the one dying and he had no idea how he was going to get through the next five minutes, let alone the next few weeks.
His eyes pricked and had to put his hand over his mouth to keep in the sob that bubbled up his throat. If he started crying now he might not be able to stop. It was stupid. Stupid and pointless. He and his father hadn't exactly gotten along, even before his mother's death if he was being brutally honest, and yet here he was fighting back tears harder than when his mother had died.
He needed to pull himself together, focus on the task of finding out what had happened to his father. Once he'd done that, he would be able to put this behind him, sell the house and go back to the life he loved, serving his country. Wallowing in this unexpected grief wasn't going to help him do that.
Steve pulled in a shaky breath, forcing his mind into the present, into the room he needed to examine. The desk was still in the same place it had been the last time Steve had been here, dominating the room even without his father sat behind it. The top was uncharacteristically tidy and he made a mental note to ask the police if they had cleared it.
He moved around it to sit in the chair, feeling like a naughty child for about three seconds until he registered how uncomfortable the chair was. He stood up again and really looked at it. The chair was old, the leather on the arms was worn and even split in places, and the seat was lumpy and under-stuffed. Steve realized the chair was the one his father had had when Steve had been a boy. Surely he'd replaced it since then? His father was over sixty years old, he needed comfort.
“We took the chair from this room,” a male voice said from the doorway.
Steve's hand twitched towards his belt, reaching for a gun that wasn't there, as he whirled round, surprised someone had managed to approach without him hearing. He found a compact, blond man, his face a little rough with stubble, watching him with wary, sad eyes. He looked, in his dark wool suit with his gray felt homburg hat in his hand, like he'd stepped off the boat directly from New York.
“It was where, ah, where your father passed away,” the man continued, fidgeting with his hat. “I'm Daniel Williams, by the way.”
“Who?” Steve asked, confused because the man said his name like Steve should know it.
“Has no one talked to you?” Williams asked, not answering his question but stepping into the room. “They told me the ambassador was going to meet you.”
“He did,” Steve replied, starting to get a little annoyed. “But he didn't mention there'd be an intruder in my house.”
“Typical,” the other man sighed tiredly, running his hand over his face. “Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I'm Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams, Cairo Police. I'm investigating your father's murder.”
“You're American?” Steve asked, instead of introducing himself. It wasn't like the man didn't know who he was, so it hardly seemed necessary.
“Is that a problem?” Williams demanded, obviously winding himself up for a fight he'd had before. “I would have thought that you of all people would be glad that someone who gave a crap was investigating the murder.”
“Hey,” Steve said, holding up his hands placatingly. “I'm sure you're a great detective and you're doing your best. I'm just surprised that there's an American on the Cairo Police. They used to be a very British institution.” The other man deflated visibly, the fight going out of him, and Steve felt a stab of regret. He pushed it aside because there wasn't time or space in his life to deal with other people's issues. He just wanted to find out who'd killed his father.
“It's still very British,” the detective admitted, giving Steve a bitter little smile that spoke of square pegs and round holes. “But I need to be in Cairo and being a cop is all I know. With the war on, well, they were happy for any warm body, I think.”
Steve hoped to God he was better than just a warm body, because otherwise his father's case was going to be shot to hell. “What can you tell me about the murder?”
Steve knew that normally there was no way the police would tell the family of a murder victim how their case was going, but he was hoping that, given his background and the fact that he couldn't possibly be a suspect, he might get the full story. Williams blinked owlishly at him, obviously trying to decide what he should say. “Commander McGarrett, I'm sure you realize I can't tell you anything about the case.”
“Steve.” He knew playing the 'treat me like a friend' card probably wouldn't work, but he didn't want to roll out the big guns by pointing out the ambassador was going to be his first port of call tomorrow morning.
“What?”
“Call me Steve,” he explained, hoping the grin he plastered on his face was charming, disarming even, rather than scary.
“Nice,” the shorter man said, his face twisting into a complicated expression Steve couldn't read and his shoulders straightening again. “Well, Steve, as much as I'm sure you're a thoroughly stand-up guy, being in the Army and all...”
“Navy.”
“Navy,” Williams accepted with a nod, before continuing. “Regardless of whichever branch of our country's armed forces you serve in, I still can't tell you anything about the case.”
“I'm going to visit the ambassador tomorrow,” Steve said.
The other man grinned at him, a smile that was genuinely amused but had too many teeth to be really friendly. “You do that. And he'll tell you the same. You're a guest in this country, the same as everyone else, and you'll have to abide by the same rules.”
“Maybe,” Steve conceded, back-peddling and hoping a different tack would work. “Look, I'm ex-Naval intelligence, I've done a lot of investigative work, and I'm currently assigned to track insurgents in the Philippines. I'm sure I can help.”
“Insurgents?” the detective asked, his eyebrows rising in amused skepticism while the hand not holding his hat chopped at the air. “Well, have at it then.”
“Really?” Steve asked, confused by the sudden change of direction.
“No, of course not,” Williams scoffed, rolling his eyes, and Steve could hear the 'you idiot' the other man left unsaid. “Seriously, does sarcasm just pass you by? Did they drum it out of you in the Naval Academy?”
Steve gaped at the other man. If this sarcastic, angry little man was the best the Cairo Police could manage to investigate his father's death, it was no wonder there had been no arrests. He could imagine a whole slew of irate people he was going to have to talk to himself to try to get the investigation going.
“Look,” the detective said, his voice almost kind. “I know you want to find out what happened to your father, I would in your position, but let me do my job. I knew your father, he was a good man, and I'm doing everything I can to catch the person who did this.”
“You knew him?” Steve couldn't keep the little catch of excitement out of his voice.
The other man held his gaze for a few seconds, obviously trying to decide how much he could say. “I only knew him to say hello to, maybe share a few words with, but I heard nothing but good things about him.”
“Oh,” Steve managed, the disappointment he felt taking him completely by surprise.
It must have shown on his face, because the shorter man's face registered concern before he stepped in and laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Have you talked to Kamekona? He's been with your father for years.”
“Who?” It was Steve's turn to look at the detective like he was crazy.
“Your dad's cook,” Williams said, looking at Steve like he was stupid again. “Well, he's more like a butler who cooks. Actually, he might have just been a friend of your father's who made sure he actually ate real food once in a while. Tough to tell. Big fellow, Hawaiian, can't miss him.”
“The only person in the house, other than my friends,” he said, before he caught himself. “Other than my staff, is my father's housekeeper. The other staff are local and don't live in.”
“You father doesn't have a housekeeper,” the detective said.
Chapter 2