The Right Combination

Chapter 1

Safes are as mysterious and alluring as a woman.

Strong yet gentle to the touch. Equally as tempting.

Yellow crime barrier tape billowed in the humid breeze as it surrounded Samuals Safe and Lock Company like an animal pen. Only demented animals, Rafe thought, would commit such a sordid murder. He had experienced many, far too many, in his ten-year career.

Special Agent Costillo, FBI, Rafe announced, flashing the leather bi-fold containing his credentials.

Yeah, we’ve been expecting you, answered the uniformed Miami policeman standing guard at the crime scene, swiping his sweaty brow.

When a federal crime involved safes, Rafe was often part of the investigation. He was the FBI’s top expert on safes and vaults. Connections at the FBI’s Miami field office knew he was in town visiting his family and informed him of the crime scene.

He had been involved in mob-hit cases where the victim had been locked in a safe and tossed in a lake, a new take on cement shoes. Incidents where people were murdered for the contents of a safe or vault were not uncommon. Having three legendary safe technicians murdered and stuffed in safes in the span of three months was unusual. Having one occur in the city of his birth while he was visiting made him uneasy.

Homicide detectives met him as he crossed over the tape and entered their territory.

The front office of the safe and lock company was typical for the business. A service counter was equipped with key duplicating equipment and key blanks.

Fingerprinted glass display cases featured the newest in security gadgetry and brass door locks. Modern metal safes and safe cabinets of various heights lined the walls, cardboard placards displaying features and price tags. Everything was a bit dusty, the air a bit stale, and the plank floors scuffed and worn. The shop was not unlike his father’s. The thought alone made the hair tingle on Rafe’s neck. Knowing that the victim could have been his own father made his blood chill. These murders were in familiar territory, in a world where he grew up, in a business he knew all too well, with victims with whom he could personally identify. He swallowed hard to get the bitter taste of anger out of his mouth.

Back here, a detective in a rumpled tan suit motioned. He led Rafe through a doorway toward the back warehouse.

Heavy metal safes in shrink-wrap sat on wood pallets awaiting shipment. A rusted yellow forklift was at the ready. Used safes, some ornately painted, and some cast iron stood forlorn in a dark corner. Others were stacked in boxes. Johnson bars were propped against the cinder block walls.

Rafe followed the detective toward the back wall of the warehouse where a six-foot tall, double-door Mosler stood. The safe’s chipped Army green paint revealed its 1940’s vintage; the drop handles its make. Its thick doors were open. Nickel alloy compression bars glimmered as the detective flashed his Mag-light in the safe.

Though empty, and devoid of shelves, the compartment above an open money chest revealed puddles of blood. Streaks of burnished red smeared against the sides, back, and inner doors of the large safe.

The body’s at the coroner’s, the detective said without emotion. Forensics have been out and have taken samples.

What were the signs of trauma? Rafe asked, noting the blood and powdered residue from fingerprinting.

The detective shook his balding head. No visible signs of gunshot or punctures. Only one weird thing.

What’s that?

The detective looked at him, steely gray eyes turning to glass. Three of the fingers on his right hand are missing.

What three fingers? Rafe asked, though he knew the answer from his reports on the New York and LA murders.

Thumb, forefinger, and middle finger, the detective answered. Severed clean and nowhere to be found.

The fingers a safeman uses to manipulate safes open, Rafe muttered. I gather Mr. Samuals was right-handed?

We questioned his employees. Yes.

Rafe sighed.

Since you guys have been called in, this isn’t an isolated incident, is it? the detective asked, staring at him.

Rafe met his gaze. I’ll have to review the coroner’s report and forensics before making a judgement. From experience, he knew the answer.

***

After returning to his assigned FBI field office in Los Angeles and reviewing reports on the three safeman murders, there was no doubt in Rafe’s mind that a serial killer was on the loose. A definite pattern, a signature, had emerged. The crime scenes were organized with little evidence to work with, revealing a killer who went at great lengths to avoid detection. The murders appeared preplanned, deliberate, and calculated. Rafe also knew that he was dealing with a trophy taker. The killer removed body parts creating a crime signature, a pattern connecting the crimes. The motive, though, was as mysterious as the individual committing the murders. The question of who, when, where the killer was going to strike next infiltrated his head like a bad headache. Rafe reviewed the facts in his mind.

There were more similarities than differences between the three murders. All of the victims had been safemen of great renown within the business.

Irving Samuals was a safe tech with a big ego. Some said it was as big as his Budweiser belly. Boastful of his skills, he was featured frequently on television, in newspapers, and in magazines. Touted as the best in Dade County, Irv’s colleagues, including Rafe’s father, had questioned his true ability. If not for the New York and LA murders, his death would have easily been considered a direct result of his flamboyant personality and lifestyle. The way he flaunted his skills, gold jewelry, and money would have left little speculation as to his murder.

No money or goods, though, had been taken from his shop or home. He was rendered unconscious and strangled to death and stuffed into one of his safes. Three fingers, those he used to manipulate safes were severed and missing. The calling card of a deranged killer. A mouse luring cats.

Johnny Pennetto, the Brooklyn victim, was as quiet and unassuming as wallpaper. Unlike Irv Samuals, he had guarded his privacy. With an unlisted telephone number, caller ID, a post office box, and frequent moves, he was a vagabond always looking over his shoulder. If not for his being a bonded independent contractor and as a safe tech for reputable locksmiths, one could have easily assumed him to be a crook. Unfortunately, with all of his suspicions and precautions he had been hunted and murdered, stashed in a safe in one of his locksmith client’s warehouses.

Georgie Sticky Fingers Martin was another story. A reformed criminal, he had found God and redemption and had given up his skill at opening safes as well as adding to his rap sheet. A legend in criminal and law enforcement circles, Georgie had retreated from life as an underworld safecracker to preach the Gospel. He made it to heaven earlier than expected, his casket a safe he had stored in his home office.

Rafe sat perched on the corner of his metal desk sipping strong black coffee. He stared at the reports stacked on his desktop and shook his head. Though he specialized in crimes relating to safes and vaults, including murder, this was his first experience with a

serial killer. His undergraduate degree in psychology, the courses he took with the FBI’s behavioral science unit, and field experience in criminal profiling would come in handy.

Serial killers have a disease, he had been told by one of the experts in the field.

This one has an addiction to safes, Rafe thought aloud.

An addiction to safes was something he could relate to. After all, he had grown up amidst safes and safemen. His father was one of the best in the business and was determined that his son possess the same skills. From the time he could walk and talk, Raphael Costillo spent hours in his father’s shop and out on service calls. The first word he ever uttered was safe and he had memorized the manufacturers and characteristics of safes before he knew the states and their capitals. He could see a safe, rattle off its make, model, and age and know how to logically proceed in opening it. When other parents were fearful of their children getting locked in a safe and suffocating, the Costillo’s beamed with pride because their son could open them. He had kept a yellowed newspaper article and photograph of himself at age five beside a small Alpine he had manipulated open.

Safes had been good to him. By being a safe and vault technician, he had worked his way through college and law school. The profession even helped to finance a comfortable apartment and a shiny red Corvette, luxuries for most college students. Yet, his schoolmates thought the luxuries came from some secret life of crime. After all, how could a Hispanic boy from Little Havana finance such an upscale lifestyle? There wasn’t enough challenge in working in his father’s small shop and he needed to escape from the old neighborhood. He needed more. More stimulation. More demands. More knowledge that he was doing something to benefit society as well as his family and himself. He needed to prove that he was an equal and not a minority. To his father’s shock, he joined the FBI.

Thinking about his father at Costillo Safe and Lock in Little Havana made him shudder. The safeman murders were hitting too close to home. The victims were people he understood. Some he had even met at safe and lock conferences and conventions. His father was the victims’ contemporary. Luis Costillo was as legendary in the safe business as the victims. Rafe couldn’t imagine his father murdered and stuffed into a safe. The thought made him flush with anger. He had to do everything within his ability to uncover the killer because his father could have been and could become a victim.

"Yo, amigo. Don’t you have anything better to do than sit around and drink coffee?"

One didn’t have to see Anthony DeGrasso to know he was around. The tangy pungent Aqua Velva after-shave and cologne he favored preceded him. Rafe rubbed his nose to suppress a sneeze. Though in the LA office the past two years, Tony retained that brash Brooklyn accent and attitude. A fellow FBI Special Agent, Tony grated on him but Rafe and he had formed an amicable, almost friendly working relationship.

At least I drink real coffee, not that rot gut expresso you thrive on, Rafe answered with a chuckle.

Heard you got assigned the ‘safeman murders’ case, Tony said.

Yep. Rafe took another sip of his coffee.

Hot Fingers Costillo to the rescue.

You got it. Rafe winked though he hated the nickname given to him as a teen and perpetuated through the years.

Seriously, how’s it going?

It’s going. My fear is that we have a serial killer on our hands. The faster we nab the guy the better.

Who would wanna kill safe techs? Tony asked, shoving his hands in his pants’ pockets. Not for Rice Crispies, eh? You know, cereal, serial?

Who would want to kill anyone? Rafe didn’t find humor in murder.

Got a motive?

Rafe stroked his chin. I was just assigned this case. First things first. Enough about me, what are you working on?

A bank fraud.

Could be interesting.

Tony shrugged his sloped shoulders. You get the high profile cases. I get the crumbs.

But I get the stress and the danger, not to mention the nightmares. I’m sure you sleep well at night.

With Bertha? Tony’s bushy black brows shot up.

Hey buddy, you married her.

Tony winked. That’s not what I meant.

Viagra works, doesn’t it? Rafe teased. With Tony it was difficult staying serious for long.

You know, that’s what you need, a good woman. You wouldn’t be needing all that strong coffee.

Here we go again. Have you been talking to my sister and my mother?

A knock rattled Rafe’s office door.

Come in, Rafe called.

In strolled a bespectacled young woman, his more efficient than pretty administrative assistant.

What’s up, Jamie? Rafe asked, eyeing the padded envelope she gingerly held.

This came for you. Priority Mail, she answered, handing him the envelope.

Who’s it from? Rafe asked, cocking an eyebrow as he perused the front of the envelope.

I don’t know.

Hmm, Rafe mumbled. He hated envelopes and packages that arrived without return addresses. In his field, though, they were common. Informants and witnesses often wanted to shield their true identities.

It’s been checked with a wand, Jamie said.

That’s reassuring, Rafe said, casting a glance at the girl who was too smart and too plain for her own good.

Tony cleared his throat. Surprise package?

Without comment, Rafe ripped open an end. Inside was another smaller padded envelope with a sticker. Printed in red were the words, Caution: Dry Ice.

After tearing open the end of the small envelope, Rafe spilled the contents on his desk.

A finger, cleanly severed, lay atop a mountain of papers.

Holy shit! Tony yelled.

Jamie, covering her mouth with her hands, raced out of the office.

Rafe stared at the finger, speechless.

Chapter 2

Nalani Hana was far removed from the US Mainland and preferred it that way. She thrived on the quiet solitude of her secluded cottage off the winding Hana Highway in Maui. Sharing the Hana name with a famous island road and tourist town was no coincidence. Her mother was a descendant of Queen Ka’ahunau, favorite wife of Kamehameha the Great, the eighteenth century Hawaiian king. Though a descendant of royalty, Nalani preferred simplicity.

Of timber frame construction with a tin roof, her ranch-style cottage was understated. The siding was weathered gray, the tin rusty, and the front porch slightly sagging. What it lacked in glamour it made up for in character.

Nalani leaned on a carved roof post on her front porch drinking in the beauty of nature surrounding her. Nestled in the tropical forest, the mist of dawn glistened on the shades of green on feathery ferns, leafy palm fronds, and the lacy leaves of hala trees. Dewdrops kissed the tender petals of white ginger, bracts of rainbow heliconia, cups of scarlet hibiscus, and royal bird-of-paradise. Raucous birdsong welcomed the new day.

Spotting a pueo in a nearby breadfruit tree, she smiled and swore that the owl smiled back. She drew a deep breath of the moist perfumed air and reached up to touch the bougainvillea climbing the roof’s overhang. She knew that she had made the right decision in returning home.

The ringing telephone invaded her peace and startled her. If not for her business, she swore she would never own a telephone. Modern convenience infringed on native tranquility.

When the phone rang again, she pivoted on bare feet and walked through the open front door. Sunlight streamed through the bamboo-slatted shades, striping the ceramic tiled foyer and gleaming wood floors of the living and dining room. She entered the living room and grabbed the receiver of the phone perched on a carved koa wood table. The furniture in the room was all of carved koa wood.

Aloha, Nalani Hana, she answered, trying to show enthusiasm at the intrusion.

Hey, Nalani. Have you heard the news this morning? a familiar male voice asked.

Bert, do you have any idea of the time?

I ... uh?

It’s not yet six A.M. and I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet alone turned on the computer. She knew that she was being rough on him but everyone knew that she wasn’t to be disturbed until at least eight A.M.

There’s some important news from the mainland that I thought you should be made aware of.

What news can’t wait? she asked and audibly sighed.

Three safemen were murdered. One in New York, one in LA, and the most recent in Miami.

His naming of the three cities made goose bumps crawl up her arms and a sense of foreboding ripped at her heart.

Anyone we know? She braced herself for the answers. She gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

Johnny Pennetto, Georgie Martin, and Irv Samuals.

She gasped. Bile crept up her throat and she couldn’t speak.

Nalani are you there? Nalani?

She cleared her throat. "Oh my God. Bert, I met them. I met all of them during my visit to the mainland. They’re the best in the business. All masters of manipulation.

Truly legends." The shock was settling in and tears formed in her eyes.

You’re including them in your book?

Of course, as well as others. As you know, I want to chronicle the lives, careers, and favorite techniques of the best safemen in the business. That’s why I travel to the mainland when I can spare the time.

I know. You once said that you wanted their stories told because they’re a dying breed. I guess they really are dying now. He chuckled.

She didn’t find any humor in the news. You said they were murdered. Why? By whom?

It’s a mystery. Seems that the FBI has been called in.

The FBI? I guess this means they aren’t isolated incidents?

Guess not. My theory is that someone is targeting safemen, expert safemen.

This doesn’t make sense.

Murder never does. If I were you, Nalani, I’d be watching my back, you know, just in case.

Do you really think I’m a future target? Chills began to creep up her spine, though the overhead fans were off and the air was hot and steamy.

You are the best in the South Pacific and maybe in the world.

You’re just saying that because you manage my shop.

I knew your father. He was good, but your abilities surpass his. He’d be proud, but he’d want you to be careful.

She had been literally born into the safe and lock business. Her father owned the only safe and lock shop on Maui. Being a locksmith and safeman was something she had been trained in from day one. She spent more of her formative years in the sandy, mildewed shop than at home. Her mother had managed the retail counter and the books. Her father ran the service calls.

When most little girls talked about Barbie, she was babbling on about drive wheels and pins. While other teenage girls occupied themselves with boys, she discussed gates, drop-in points, and locking dogs. Opening safes had financed her college education and provided spending money other girls would envy.

After college, though, she had moved to the mainland in search of what she had thought she had missed out on in life. After her father’s unexpected death, she returned only to rediscover her past. What she had been searching for had been in the islands all along. Maui was her one true home. Safe and lock work was her true vocation.

Nalani, Nalani? a panicked voice called through the phone.

I’m here.

Jeez, I though they got you already.

Oh, Bert, I was just thinking about safes and how the business has always been and will always be my life. She forced a chuckle. However long it may be.

You know, if you’re frightened, I’m here for you.

A lump formed in her throat. Thanks Bert. I really appreciate it.

Bert was a wonderful man, a good man. A mix of Hawaiian, Japanese, and Haole, Caucasian, he had pride in the islands and pride in N. Hana Safe and Lock Company. A better and more honest manager one could never find.

Though he could only change combinations on safes, his expertise was in locksmithing, security, and management. The other employees admired and respected him. In Lahaina he was an institution. The gallery and shop owners relied on him to provide and install the best security systems.

Older than her by ten years, she knew that Bert had a secret crush on her. If she were smart, she knew, she wouldn’t have just encouraged him but married him already.

He understood her better than anyone and he knew the business. She felt guilty for not finding him desirable as a lover and husband. Bert was more like a big brother, watchful and protective. She surmised that he had just grown accustomed to their arrangement in hope that eventually she’d change her mind. She swiped at a tear drizzling down her cheek.

Don’t cry, Nalani, Bert said in a feather whisper voice.

He