by Chip Hughes
I knocked and listened with growing anticipation as I heard oddly heavy, lumbering footsteps inside. My smile tightened on my face as the door swung open.
My smile fell.
Standing before me was not Niki, but a middle-aged airline pilot who looked as if he had just crash-landed. His pilot’s uniform was wrinkled, his ruddy face shadowed by mostly grey whiskers, and his eyes bloodshot.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Captain Jacoby,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Who the hell are you?”
I glanced inside the dark and disordered apartment, feeling suddenly short of breath. “Where’s Niki?”
“Flying to Denver.” He looked me up and down. “Why do you want to know?”
“Niki is …” I hesitated. “She’s an old friend.”
The pilot folded his arms across his chest. He seemed annoyed at having to deal with me at all during his catnap. I imagined it was his voice that greeted me when I had called Niki’s number from Hawai‘i. I wondered what stories she’d been making up to tell him.
“I was in the area and thought I’d see if Niki … still lived here.” Then I added in a more conciliatory tone, “Have you two been together long?”
“A year or so.” His face was registering suspicion. “So who should I say stopped by?”
A year? I could tell I’d lost this battle before it had even started. “Oh, it’s been so long, she probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
I turned to leave and could feel the pilot’s eyes on my back as I walked dejectedly down the hall.
thirteen
On my long flight back across the Pacific, I knew I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I had no one to blame for Niki’s fooling me but my own blind eye. I’d told her I didn’t want to know what she did when I wasn’t around. I guess she’d taken my request seriously.
Later in my studio, I mechanically went through my evening ritual of reading Honolulu’s two daily papers. A back-page story in the Star-Bulletin caught my eye: “Missing Fisherman’s Tackle Found.”
In the trunk of an abandoned unregistered car near Makapu‘u Point–miles from where law student Baron Taniguchi disappeared–his tackle had been recovered. Investigators originally attributed the accident to heavy surf. But now that his tackle had turned up, foul play was a possibility.
The article said Taniguchi was an experienced fisherman who had fished the rugged coastline since boyhood. Number two in his class, he had been serving as an intern for the Good Government Hotline, a sounding board for public service complaints and a hotline for confidential tips on suspected government corruption. The Hotline had been established by a small group of reformed-minded state legislators after a New York Times article exposed a too cozy relationship between some island politicians and land developers.
I called Adrienne immediately. She wasn’t in. I left a message on the Halekūlani’s voice mail: “I’ll be in my office by one tomorrow. Come by if you can and bring anything you’ve found on Baron Taniguchi.”
The next morning I drove around the windward side of the island to Waimānalo, a proud Hawaiian town of humble plantation cottages and oceanfront estates. It was the closest civilization to Makapu‘u Point, where Taniguchi’s tackle had been found.
“Nalo-town,” as locals call it, has a bizarre attraction–among its rustic dwellings is an evergreen-ringed polo field, complete with grandstands and a white picket fence suitable for an English lord. The incongruity between these two worlds has always struck me as odd. But contrasts of old and new, kama ‘āina and foreign immigrants are commonplace in the islands.
The politics of the polo field, however, was not what brought me today to Waimānalo. Where there is polo, there are ponies. And where there are ponies, there are large-animal veterinarians.
I tracked down Dr. Otto Frenz, who, according to the State Animal Quarantine Station, was the island’s foremost authority on horses and mules. I met with Dr. Frenz in the paddock of a horse stable just outside of town. The native of Austria was robust and ruddy cheeked, with a barrel chest and frosty blue Santa Claus eyes.
I described the accident on Moloka‘i, which the doctor recalled, and asked him how it might have happened.
“Das mule ist much like das horse.” He spoke with a thick German accent. “Ven he ist spooked or, how do you say … ill, he vill stumble.”
“This mule was neither, according to the guide and four witnesses.”
“Ach! No symptoms?”
“None.” I thought for a moment. “Though one witness said it passed gas.”
“Hmmm …” The doctor scratched his chin. “Ven did das mule last eat?”
“In Kalaupapa village before the ascent, I think.”
“Maybe digestion?” Dr. Frenz asked, as if talking to himself.
“Could that be all?”
“Vat about drugs? Das mule vas medicated?”
“Not according to the guide.”
“Hmmm.” The doctor again stroked his chin. “Very interesting. I vill check das veterinary journal and vill call you.”
I thanked Dr. Frenz and handed him my card.
“Der ‘Surfing Detective’!” He squinted at the card, then launched into a lengthy story about once meeting Tom Selleck when he was shooting a horseback-riding scene for an episode of Magnum P.I. The animated story went on and on.
“Der Magnum ist goot guy,” the doctor concluded. I replied that many people had told me the same and then slipped away.
Driving back toward town, I turned off at the Hālona Blowhole and parked among tourists watching the natural sea spout shoot like Old Faithful into the air. About a hundred yards to the west of the Blowhole lay Bamboo Ridge, a narrow slab of hardened lava perched over heaving seas where fisherman traditionally cast their bamboo poles. Baron Taniguchi had hiked to this treacherous ledge the day of his disappearance. A novice angler could easily be swept away here, but Taniguchi was no novice. He knew this coastline. And from what I knew about cliff fishing, you don’t leave your tackle at the top–the climb back up for more hooks or sinkers or leaders is too steep.
Taniguchi’s gear had been found at Makapu‘u Point, two miles away, which didn’t make sense. Driving back to town along these surf-battered cliffs, I considered what possible connection might have existed between Taniguchi and Sara Ridgely-Parke.
Waiting to meet Adrienne in my office that afternoon, I wondered how our one night together would affect our working relationship. Adrienne arrived and from the way she swept her eyes nonchalantly over my ramshackle office, I saw she wanted to pretend nothing had happened. She was avoiding looking at me directly, and the few times she did, all I saw on her face was a cool, New England reserve. Apparently she had drawn a crisp line between business and pleasure.
“Did you see this morning’s paper?” she asked, pulling out a copy of today’s Advertiser.
I hadn’t.
“Pakalōlō King Held Without Bail.” Under this headline was a photo of ponytailed Milton Yu in handcuffs, still wearing his musty Grateful Dead sweatshirt. Yu had been charged with masterminding a multimillion dollar underground trade in cannabis.
While Yu’s arrest for drug trafficking didn’t necessarily make him a more likely murder suspect, his connection to organized crime got me thinking. Could Sara’s activism in Hawai‘i have threatened this Big Island pakalōlō grower or his comrades? Seemed like another long shot. This case was spawning them like cane spiders.
Then a dark cloud crossed my mind. If Milton Yu believed I had turned him in, there would soon be–if not already–a price on my head. Some “mokes,” big, local thugs, might be gunning for me right now. Not a pretty thought. It gave me chicken skin.
“Yu admitted to knowing Greg,” Adrienne said. “There’s got to be some link to Sara’s death. Maybe Greg’s mixed up in drug dealing. Maybe that’s where some of his money comes from.”
“Doubtful. Why would a developer like J. Gregory Parke, who’s made millions in construction, dabble
in a risky venture like trafficking dope?”
“Still, he could be involved with Yu.”
“I’ll see what I can find out from Parke himself when I interview him tomorrow.”
Adrienne tensed.
“By the way,” I said, wondering at her sudden edginess, “what did you learn at the U.H. Law School about Baron Taniguchi? Did he take any classes from Sara?”
“The school refused to tell me anything.” She relaxed back in her seat. “We can order his transcript, but only with his permission.”
“Catch-22.”
“And what if Taniguchi did take classes from my sister? What’s the point?”
“It’s just a hunch. Sometimes a hunch leads nowhere. Sometimes it cracks a case wide open.”
Our eyes met and I noticed a hint of baby blue in the slate hue of Adrienne’s gaze. I made a bold move.
“How about dinner tonight? We can even eat this time.”
A faint smile showed through her composure.
“Tonight I’m meeting one of Sara’s law school colleagues, Rush McWhorter.”
“McWhorter? Wasn’t he your sister’s adversary, and counsel for the Chancellor Trust?”
“Actually, Rush respected Sara. He knew her quite well. That’s why I’m having dinner with him–to see if he can give us any more clues.”
“Well, let me know how it goes.”
“I’m sure it will go fine.” Adrienne rose. “By the way, when you see Greg Parke tomorrow, don’t take seriously anything he says about me.”
She turned and strode coolly from my office, leaving me wondering about her parting words. What could Parke possibly have on Adrienne?
fourteen
On the brief jaunt from my apartment to Parke’s Kāhala estate the next day, I passed some of the most expensive real estate in America. Kāhala Avenue stretches for over a mile between Diamond Head and the Wai‘alae Country Club, and is graced by waterfront estates, each with its guest houses, servants’ quarters, pool and spa, tennis courts, and secluded beach. Few properties in Kāhala, even on the back streets, sell below one million.
In Sara’s campaign for affordable housing, she had argued that the continued climb in property values would soon reduce the islands’ population to two classes–the rich and those who clean their toilets. Yet, ironically, during her marriage to Parke, Sara herself had called this ritzy neighborhood home.
Parke had made his millions erecting high-rise condominiums and office towers. He had poured his profits into Hawai‘i real estate before Japanese investment more than doubled values in the mid-eighties, then he sat back and watched his fortune multiply. I still found it odd that Sara, noted environmentalist and champion of affordable housing, should marry a man so opposed to her causes. Another case of Sleeping with the Enemy? What could attract two people so apparently unlike?
Parke’s oceanfront estate couldn’t be seen from the street. His mansion lay behind copper gates etched with dolphins frolicking in cobalt blue surf, deep within a forest of Manila palms. I announced myself on the intercom, and one of the handsome gates opened automatically. In front of the white-columned pseudo-colonial home was a cream Rolls Royce convertible whose plate said, “JGP 3.” If a Rolls is his third car, what does Parke drive as cars one and two?
Beyond the mansion’s fluted columns, koa double doors graced with more cavorting dolphins slowly opened. A short, bald, pink-skinned man waved me in. Soon I discovered this was not a servant, but Parke himself. He was round as a meatball in wrinkled Bermudas and a golf shirt that was stretched over his humpty-dumpty gut and stained with something bright orange like taco sauce. He stood only about five feet in his bare feet, and from the leather-like creases in his pink face and the grey sideburns beneath his shiny dome, he appeared to be easily twenty years older than his deceased ex-wife.
Parke led me through an enormous living room, carpeted in plush Berber wool, and bigger than my flat and office combined. Then we stepped down into a sunken bar that opened onto a steaming spa and, beyond that, the blue Pacific.
“What can I get you to drink?” Parke stepped behind the rose-hued granite bar, his pink scalp reflecting the afternoon sun through a skylight.
“Make it club soda,” I said. “My clients unfortunately don’t pay me to drink on the job.”
“I’ll have the same. With a splash of Scotch.” Parke eyed the Scotch bottle furtively, as if it were his secret lover.
He loaded two crystal cocktail glasses with ice cubes, then poured fizzing club soda to the brim in mine, and half full in his. He filled remainder of his glass with Chivas Regal. I watched as the aromatic gold Scotch turned a shade paler in the bubbling water. I took my plain club soda from him and we toasted.
Despite Parke’s sloppy appearance, he had shrewd, intelligent eyes and a magnetism I found strangely attractive. Rich, self-made men often strike me this way. But beneath his aura, I detected one of those hidden things I’m prone to discover in people and waves. I just couldn’t fathom what.
After we exchanged a few pleasantries, Parke clinked his Scotch glass on the granite bar. “Now what can I tell you about my former wife?”
I decided to jump right in. “It puzzles me, Mr. Parke, that two people so different should marry.” I watched his expression for change. “I mean, Sara being anti-development and you a developer.”
“We weren’t as different as you might think,” he replied without a pause or blink. “Although we first met as adversaries at a hearing on Coconut Beach. I spoke on behalf of a friend of mine who proposed to develop a parcel across from the beach. Sara represented the Save Coconut Beach coalition, who opposed my friend.”
“And Sara won?”
“Of course she won. And it’s a damn good thing, because Sara wasn’t a good loser.” He made a grunting sound that was either a tight laugh or a groan. “Don’t let those glowing sentiments you read about her fool you. Sara was tough. She could get down and dirty.”
“Did you admire her for that?” I sipped my club soda.
“As I said, we were more alike than you might imagine. We both played to win.” Parke eyed his Scotch, its color lightening as the ice cubes melted. “I found that out the hard way in divorce court. Sara tried to take my home. This home.” He gestured to the sunken bar and mammoth living room, then outside to the sun-splashed spa. “She didn’t invest a dime in it–not one damn dime–and she tried to take it all. Square that with her liberal causes!” He gulped half his Chivas in a swallow.
“How did the court settle it?”
“The judge was a woman and she was crooked.” Parke wiped his Scotch-glazed lips with his hand. “Sara had no legitimate claim to any of my assets, yet that damn judge awarded her half of my home.”
“That must have added up to a sizable piece of change.”
“Then what does Sara do with the money? She buys a half acre of oceanfront at Lanikai, all the while claiming to be a champion of affordable housing!”
“Sounds like a contradiction.” I tried to keep him going.
“Sara was full of contradictions.” Parke poured more Scotch into his half-empty glass, again giving it a golden glow. “Publicly she criticized developers like me. Privately she adored our perks and privileges.”
“That’s not just sour grapes, is it?”
“Sour grapes!” Parke’s face turned a brighter pink. “I listened in court to all those lies about me while keeping my mouth shut to save Sara’s reputation.”
“From what?”
“Sara cheated.”
“She was unfaithful?”
“There were many men.” Parke raised both fleshy hands in a gesture of philosophical resignation. “But I’ll tell you only one: McWhorter.”
“Rush McWhorter? Her colleague at the law school?”
Parke nodded and sipped his Scotch, his anger seeming to have passed. I made a mental note to talk with Rush McWhorter sooner rather than later, then shifted gears.
“Mr. Parke, why did you travel to M
oloka‘i the day before your ex-wife’s death?”
Parke slammed down his glass on the bar, nearly shattering it. “How did you know?”
“You were identified by several people.”
Parke looked into his Chivas, then peered at me with watery, searching eyes. “Sara was bad to me in court, but I just couldn’t get over her.”
Suddenly I realized the “hidden thing” I had detected in Parke: The wealthy developer was a painfully lonely man. He pined for his ex-wife.
“I wanted to see Sara.” Parke cleared his throat. “I had called her a few days before to invite her to dinner. She declined, saying she was going on the Moloka‘i mule ride the next day. So I flew over there. But she didn’t show–she had given me the wrong date. Maybe on purpose. Maybe by mistake.” Parked looked dejected as if it had all just happened to him.
“Does the name Milton Yu sound familiar?” I shifted gears quickly again, not wanting him to lose momentum.
“Too bad about Yu. He should have stuck with computers. Pakalōlō did him in.”
“And Heather Linborg? She’s a Maui masseuse who seems to know you.”
“Yes, I’ve met Heather, but she could have nothing to do with Sara’s death. And by the way, is Sara’s sister paying you to dredge up this garbage?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.”
“You don’t need to. If anyone was capable of harming Sara it was Adrienne. She stole Sara’s fiancé back in Boston and Sara never forgave her.”
“Then why did Sara leave her everything?”
“Adrienne was Sara’s only family. But after we divorced, Sara had said she planned to change her will, giving it all to her environmental causes instead. She procrastinated. And now she’s dead. How Adrienne found out about the will, I don’t know. But there’s her motive.”
“Why would Adrienne hire me to uncover a murder she herself committed?” I tried to let on that I bought Parke’s theory, hoping he’d give me more.