by Chip Hughes
My briefcase still sat miraculously on the front seat. I clicked the locks open. There was the bag with Niki’s framed photo in it. The hui must have felt Manny’s warning would be sufficient to send me packing to Kona. I loaded my computer into the trunk and drove to the hospital in a heady cloud of perfume from the pīkake lei I’d bought that morning for Adrienne.
By the time I reached her bedside that evening most visitors had already departed. Her stillness intensified the quiet. Drawing close to her, I explained that I knew now who had killed her sister. And I would be back soon, I said in farewell, to tell her how the rest of the business turned out. I kissed her unresponsive cheek, the same cool, pale white as the pīkake blossoms I placed in her open hand.
Before leaving the hospital, I called the Honolulu office of the FBI, closed for the night. I left a voice-mail message for an agent I knew named Javier. Not certain who might be listening in, I was deliberately vague:
“Bill, expect a fax from a mainland lab. I’ll explain later.”
Back at Mrs. Fujiyama’s flower shop, I lugged my computer past the darkened display windows, around to the side door, and up the fire stairs to my office. Connecting the PC to its power and printer cables, I switched it on. All documents relating to the Ridgely-Parke case had been erased, while every other document remained. Neat job.
I shut down the computer, then turned to Niki’s photo. If she only knew how much she was helping on this case. I dusted the glass and frame for fingerprints. There were several good ones. I checked them against the six cards containing prints from the syringes. They matched.
twenty-six
Until the sable hour of three the next morning, I mulled over the two options Manny had laid before me: Take an all-expenses-paid trip to Kona or get myself drilled.
I no longer doubted that the hui could do whatever it wanted with me. To stay on O‘ahu was tantamount to suicide. Besides, I couldn’t save the cliffs of Kalaupapa if I were dead.
That decided it. At 10:45 a.m. I would board the plane to Kona. Holoholo, brah. Time fo’ one pleasure trip.
I packed a small duffel with just enough clothes for an overnight. Into my briefcase I put a microcassette tape recorder, then the cards containing Goto’s fingerprints and Niki’s photo covered with more of his prints. In a side pocket of the briefcase I slipped the airline tickets, hotel voucher, and Manny’s cash. I also tucked in my Smith & Wesson. Something told me I might need it in the next forty-eight hours.
At seven I phoned Bio-Tech Labs. No results yet, but Ernie hoped to have a preliminary analysis by four in the afternoon, California time.
“Even if you don’t hear from me again,” I told him, “fax a copy of the blood work to Agent Javier, Honolulu office of the FBI.”
By eight, I was heading for the Halekōkua Medical Center. Within two blocks the smoke grey van appeared behind me. Bobo and his pals must want to make sure I get to the airport on time. How thoughtful. They tailed me to the hospital, then pulled to the curb on Punahou Street when I turned into the garage.
I rode the elevator up to Adrienne’s floor, passing the nurses’ station as I walked down the hall to her room.
“Oh, Mr. Cooke!” said an animated nurse. “Good news. Ms. Ridgely opened her eyes this morning.”
“Opened her eyes?” I was stoked.
“She hasn’t spoken yet,” the nurse said. “But Dr. Majerian is hopeful.”
“Thank you.” I rushed into Adrienne’s room. Her eyes were closed again. She lay silent and motionless as she had for nearly a week, oxygen flowing to her through her tube. But where before her cheeks had been pale, now they showed hints of color. Her chestnut hair, too, seemed to have regained some of its luster. And her long, slender fingers curled around the pīkake lei I had brought last night, the fragrant white blossoms still breathing their perfume.
I sat with Adrienne for a half hour, wishing she would open her eyes–for her sake as well as mine. But that didn’t happen.
Before leaving I clutched her hand, softer and warmer than before. Then a troubling thought occurred to me: What if Adrienne awoke and started talking about Kalaupapa Cliffs before Friday’s hearing? How might the hui respond? They were watching her no doubt as closely as I was.
On my way out I explained to the on-duty nurse that for Adrienne’s safety, we would need to order twenty-four hour protection–immediately. I called Island-Wide Security, who reassured me with military crispness that the first guard would arrive at the hospital within minutes.
I waited in the parking lot until the security car drove up, then pulled away from the hospital, aiming for the Mānoa Valley campus of the University of Hawai‘i. The smoke grey van caught up with me after a block and tailgated me all the way there.
School was in session. Students on mopeds and in lowered Hondas that buzzed like angry bees swarmed the streets. I pulled into the law school parking lot. The van crawled by and found a nearby parking space.
From my briefcase I removed the microcassette recorder, set it to “voice activated,” and slipped it into my shirt pocket. Ready, I stepped into the bunker-like complex of the law school and walked the narrow hallway to McWhorter’s office, knocked, and waited. When his door finally swung open, he looked surprised. A Marlboro Light dangled from his lip.
“Well, the ‘Surfing Detective.’” He stood up straight, puffing on his smoke. “To what do I owe …”
“So you remember me?”
“How could I forget?” He exhaled a hazy plume. “That surfer gimmick actually works.”
McWhorter gestured to a chair, then slid behind his desk, silk aloha shirt framed by a leather throne. He puffed again and ran long fingers over his close-cropped hair.
“You know about Adrienne.” I stated more than asked as my microcassette recorded our words.
“Terrible accident,” McWhorter said in his high, thin monotone. “Can you imagine someone hitting her and just driving away?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I eyed him. “No more than Sara’s death was an accident. Or your student, Baron Taniguchi’s.”
“I wouldn’t know,” McWhorter coolly replied.
“No need to play games anymore. The hui has bought me off, too. They’re sending me to Kona–all expenses paid–until after Friday’s hearing on Kalaupapa Cliffs.”
“Then you’re easily bought off, Mr. Surfing Detective.”
“What choice did I have? They would have dumped me in the harbor like Baron Taniguchi.”
“I thought surfers were bold and brave.”
“Surfers are brave, but not crazy–at least not this one. Anyway, you’re the key figure in all this, not me.”
He dragged on his Marlboro Light, his face as fixed as a plaster mask.
“The hui could never have gotten Sara or Baron Taniguchi without you. You hacked into Sara’s computer and intercepted her email. That’s how you discovered her Moloka‘i itinerary and Baron’s fishing trip to Bamboo Ridge.”
McWhorter rocked back and blew more smoke. “They should have known better than to send confidential messages by email.”
“You conveyed those messages straight to the Chancellor Trust.” I tried to get him to echo or at least elaborate on my incriminations.
“I’m the trust’s legal counsel,” McWhorter said, not biting. “Had I found such vital documents–and I’m not saying I did–I couldn’t very well withhold them.”
“You did find some vital documents.” I tried to keep him talking. “But you missed one–a crucial one.”
Tiny cracks appeared in his plaster. I’d hit a nerve.
“I didn’t say I found anything,” McWhorter repeated. “If I had considered violating the law by going through Sara’s records, it would have been merely to save her reputation. She had a private life you wouldn’t imagine.”
“Wasn’t it your own reputation you were trying to save? Sara rejected you. She turned you away. That’s why you had to get even after she married Parke. That’s why you tipped off
the hui about her trip to Moloka‘i.”
“Pure fiction.”
“Then why did Dr. Goto just yesterday accuse you of orchestrating Sara’s murder?” I had to make something up to widen those cracks in his plaster mask.
McWhorter snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray, then lit another. “It’s no secret that ‘quack’ Goto owes the hui big time for his Vegas gambling debts. He would say anything to dig himself out.”
“So Goto killed Sara to pay off gambling debts?”
“You can draw you own conclusions.”
I looked at my watch. Nine thirty. “Maybe we can continue this conversation later. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
I walked from his smoky office into the fresher air of the hall. While his cleverly worded responses probably wouldn’t hold up as evidence against him, he had certainly provided a motive for Goto’s role in Sara’s murder.
twenty-seven
Keeping an eye on the van in my rearview mirror, I headed toward my bank on King Street as I replayed the taped conversation with McWhorter. His high voice came through as clearly as if he were sitting next to me. Satisfied, I popped out the cassette and deposited it in my bank box along with the other pieces of evidence.
By the time I turned back onto Nimitz Highway, both hands of the Aloha Tower clock were pointing to ten. I would just make my 10:45 flight to Kona.
I took the airport ramp, Bobo and his friends close behind. They parked a few spaces from my car in the inter-island garage, then followed me on foot to the elevator. At least they let me ride up to the terminal alone, but while checking in for my flight, I saw them lurking behind me again. Are they going with me to Kona?
As the ticket agent checked me in, I slipped an inter-island flight schedule into my briefcase.
“When is the last flight tonight from Hilo to Maui?” I asked in nearly a whisper.
The agent checked her computer monitor. “10:25 p.m., sir. Would you like me to hold you a seat?”
“No, thanks.” I didn’t want my name to appear on any reservation list. I took my ticket and briefcase, then walked toward the restrooms. The mokes split off from the passenger line without going through check-in.
Inside the men’s restroom, a quick check revealed that I was alone except for one man in a toilet stall. Near the washbasins, a stainless steel trash receptacle–recently emptied by a custodian–stood against the tiled wall. It was the typical arrangement: a plastic liner set inside the stainless container. I lifted the nearly empty liner and pulled it out. At the bottom of the container lay a dozen extra liners, folded in neat little squares and stacked one upon the other. Opening my briefcase, I removed the Smith & Wesson and wrapped it in one of the liners, then placed the heavy package at the bottom of the neat stack.
My bet was that this trash bin wouldn’t be emptied again for a while, and if it was, the gun probably wouldn’t be noticed. I’d be returning for it soon anyway.
At 10:40, with the three mokes looking on, I ambled down the jetway onto a Boeing 737 bound for Kona. As Manny Lee had promised, my seat was in first class–a wide leather easy chair. I declined the complimentary cocktail, opting instead for guava punch. With less than forty-eight hours until the Kalaupapa Cliffs hearing, I needed a clear head.
Under the morning sun, the lush, surf-washed islands of Moloka‘i, Lāna‘i, and Maui shone like emeralds against the sapphire sea. The approach to Kona, by contrast, revealed a black wasteland of charred lava, the runway a thin white line etched in surrounding darkness. Though I had landed at Kona many times before, on this trip the black landscape looked especially foreboding.
The Boeing touched down smooth as silk. Inside the terminal a man in a chauffeur’s uniform held an official-looking sign: Royal Kona Resort–Mr. Kai Cooke. The chauffeur retrieved my duffel from the luggage cart and escorted me to a black town car limo whose license plates said “Royal K.” I climbed in.
The Royal Kona Resort was draped in coral pink bougainvillea and overlooked Keauhou Bay and its tide pools, which contained petroglyphs carved by ancient Hawaiians. Strolling the hotel’s open-air lobby, I kept an eye out for signs of the hui. Would Manny leave me alone in Kona? Doubtful.
Once the bellboy ushered me into my suite, it was clear that Manny had forked out quite a sum for this little “vacation.” My oceanfront room fronted the historic tide pools and rumbling surf. The view, as the tour books say, was breathtaking. Too bad I couldn’t stick around and enjoy it.
Less than a minute after the bellboy had pocketed his tip–a five from Manny’s stash–the phone rang.
“Kai,” said the melodious voice, “you like da suite?”
“Manny, you really shouldn’t have.”
“Call Lani yet?”
“I just walked in the door.”
“Lani’s ‘ono.” Manny sounded like he knew firsthand just how delicious she was.
“I’ll give her a call.”
“Once you see Lani, brah, you nevah want to leave Kona– nevah!” There was a pause. “Remembah, Kai …” Manny suddenly turned serious. “You’re your Mamma’s keiki.”
I groped for an appropriate reply. Too late. Click. He was gone.
I sat on my lānai for more than an hour watching the surf spray the tide pools and wondering how to get aboard tonight’s last flight from Hilo to Maui. Once I landed on Maui, I could sack out at the airport and catch the first flight on Thursday morning to Honolulu. Making it to the Hilo airport tonight was the problem. The hui would be watching. And if they caught me escaping from Kona, I doubted if even Manny himself could spare my life.
Later that afternoon while walking the grounds of the resort, I kept glancing behind me. Nobody. The hui was playing cagey. I wandered past tennis courts, a curving koa bar, then the narrow ribbon of black sand between tide pools. Still seeing no one, I doubled back to a pay phone by the bar and placed a call.
“Bio-Tech Labs,” said a harried-sounding receptionist.
“Kai Cooke calling for Ernie DiBello.”
“One moment …”
I checked my watch. It was nearly two in Hawai‘i. That meant almost five in California. This would be my last chance today to get results from the blood analysis on Kaluna’s mule. Since tomorrow, Thursday, I needed to turn over this crucial piece of evidence to the FBI, time was running out.
“Hello, Kai,” Ernie answered. “The final report isn’t ready yet, but preliminary results on the mule’s liver indicate Demerol.”
“Demerol?”
“It’s a synthetic morphine commonly used as a sedative in humans, but seldom in such high concentrations.”
“What did you find in the syringe?”
“Same thing–Demerol.”
“You’re the best, Ernie. I owe you a Mai Tai on Waikīkī Beach.”
“I’m going to show up in paradise someday, Kai, to take you up on that offer,” Ernie said, laughing.
“Fax that report to the FBI by tomorrow morning and I’ll throw in a dinner, too.”
“The Feds will have it tomorrow.” Ernie hung up.
Returning to my room I noticed someone watching me. The man stood in the shadow of a planter ablaze with red ginger. He wasn’t a big local guy like Manny’s three mokes. He was haole, pale and thin. He could have been merely a mainland visitor, but the way he watched me suggested otherwise. When I glanced back from the elevator lobby, the man was gone.
Back in my suite I picked up the phone and dialed the number Manny had given me.
“Aloha …” answered a breathy voice.
“Lani?”
“Who’s calling?” she asked playfully, as if she already knew.
“Kai Cooke. Manny Lee suggested I call you.”
“Can’t wait to meet you, Kai!” She sounded almost sincere. “Manny told me all about you.”
“He’s told me a lot about you, too. How about dinner tonight?”
“No need to ask. I’ll pick you up at quarter to six. Everything’s been arranged.”
�
�Everything?”
“Well, just the dinner.” Lani giggled. “What happens afterward is up to you.”
twenty-eight
With three hours until Lani arrived, I swam and sunned at the resort’s beach. My shadow stayed hidden at first. Then, reclining in a lounge chair behind the Hawai‘i Tribune Herald, the thin man briefly exposed his pale face. He didn’t look like he was having much fun.
When I left the beach at five, the man followed me. I stopped in at the ABC Store off the hotel’s lobby, bought a woman’s sun hat, and carried it away in a shopping bag. The thin man watched me from outside the store, then followed me to the elevators.
Up in my room I showered and dressed for dinner in front of the TV. The local news carried a slanted report on the Kalaupapa Cliffs project. Two supposed Moloka‘i residents spoke in favor of the resort, both too slick to be believed.
The reporter mentioned Friday’s Land Zoning Board hearing as the last step to approval of the development, as if approval were a foregone conclusion. No one from the coalition had been interviewed, nor was the coalition survey mentioned that showed 94 percent of Moloka‘i’s residents opposed the project. And, of course, no death toll was given.
At twenty minutes to six I rode the elevator to the lobby and stood outside by the valets waiting for Lani. The setting sun backlighted the tide pools in a butterscotch glow. A few minutes later she pulled up in a silver Porsche, waving through the sunroof. She screeched to the curb.
Slipping into the leather bucket on the passenger side, its soft hides reeking of newness, I offered her my hand. Lani warmed mine with both of hers and looked me square in the eyes.
“Manny didn’t tell me you were so young.”
“I’m thirty-four,” I said, inhaling her heavy floral perfume. “I must have ten years on you.”
Lani giggled. “I’ll show you a good time.”
She gunned the Porsche and we launched from the Royal Kona Hotel like a rocket. Suddenly I noticed on the dash the ominous word turbo.