“I need help.” Kara said as they finished second cups of coffee.
6
He hated it when women used him. Gybe was independent, freethinking, beholden to no one, yet here in his cockpit sat Kara – the woman who like many of her ilk wielded species propagation desires more efficiently than Zorro swung his sword.
She knew exactly who Gybe was. Last evening at the bar, she had made an excuse to return to her room. Like many single men and women, she used her favorite Internet search engine to vet Gybe. When she discovered his involvement in the San Francisco case, she hatched the plan that led to breakfast aboard Ferrity.
Recalling the San Francisco situation, the police had done their job within the limits of budget and caseload. The circumstantial evidence that they developed convinced the District Attorney to proceed with the indictment.
Like the police, Gybe subscribed to Occam’s razor, which said something to the effect that when deciding amongst several possible solutions to a problem, one should select the one that requires the fewest assumptions or leaps of logic. Occam, a fourteenth century medieval philosopher took credit for Aristotle’s law of parsimony, proposed several centuries earlier. But in fairness, Occam didn’t have the Internet or even the printed book for that matter. On the other hand, there was no justification for the twentieth century plagiarizing by the K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple Stupid) crowd.
In the San Francisco case, Gybe discovered that the simplest solution from the prosecutor’s point of view was incorrect. The result had been the arraignment of an innocent person.
If he chose to help Kara, then Gybe would have to find another plausible solution to the crime. Why should he help her?
True, he had found the bodies. It was also true that he had considered dumping them back in the ocean and sailing away. He wanted to work on his novel. His article on the genetic engineering industry of Moloka‘i was due in two weeks. While he had completed most of the background research, he hadn’t begun the interviews for the piece.
“So last night was not due to my rugged physique, charming personality, or witty conversation? I was the seducee?”
Kara’s eyes rolled upward and to her starboard. Gybe suspected that her silence was an effort to shield his fragile male ego.
He explained to Kara that he was not a private investigator by either training or experience. He liked solving puzzles but in this case, Susan’s future was at stake. She could spend the rest of her life in prison if he failed.
“Why don’t you hire a real PI?”
“I’ve already checked. The sole PI on Moloka‘i chases errant spouses. Ick. I’d have to bring someone over from another island. There would be travel and lodging expenses. She would be as much of an outsider as you are.”
“So I’m cheaper. I’m flattered.”
“Gybe, I need help. I know that you believe in justice and I know that you can look at sides of the problem others will never see. I’ve read some of your Op-ed columns. You think - to be trite - outside the cubicle.”
“Susan didn’t kill anyone. I’m sure of that. We need your help. Will you help?” She leaned forward, breasts ajiggle, and laid a hand on his thigh.
Gybe’s feral reaction didn’t relate to her question. Breathe, ignore this creature, write, sail away were the thoughts he sought.
Detective Kane had told him that the victims were research scientists working in the field of genetic engineering. Could there be a tie-in with his article? Could there be a hot novel just waiting for publication? Could I get laid in the next five minutes? Oops, thinking had migrated south.
“OK, I’ll do what I can. But, remember I’m not a PI and I make no promises. I don’t know if a PI needs a license here, so you’re hiring me as a writer. I’ll write the story; let’s see, I know, I’ll call it Wayward Wench Whacks for Whales.”
“That’s not funny asshole. Susan is my friend.”
“You hire me; you get the package – no extra charge for humor or satire.”
“How much?”
Gybe didn’t answer immediately. This was yet another opportunity to get away from this mess. Could he? He decided to quote a high figure for his help.
“Two hundred.”
He watched panic flit across Kara’s eyes as she calculated the daily cost.
“Two hundred per hour?”
Could he be a real bastard? Could he walk away? He could say that his rates were two hundred per day; surely, she could afford that. Then, the thinking shifted to the big head as he told ole one-eyed winky to settle down. “Two hundred per half day.”
“Two hundred per half-day? That’s the weirdest rate I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s my rate. Any half-day or part thereof is two hundred. Plus out of pocket expenses and exclusive rights to Susan’s story or any related story that I develop.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“You haven’t seen my bar tabs. Do we have a deal?”
7
While Kara dressed, Gybe performed his daily check of the dinghy. Kara had accepted his rates, so he suggested the first step should be a visit to Susan at the jail.
The dinghy was a four-chamber inflatable built by Zodiac. He had painted Aweigh on each bow. Two sixteen-inch inflatable tubes connected at the bow to form the hull. A high-pressure inflatable bladder created a semi-solid floor. The fourth air chamber was an inflatable keel, mostly worthless, under the high-pressure floor. When sailing, Gybe deflated the dinghy, rolled it into a cylinder, and stowed it in the port sail locker. A 9.9 horsepower Nissan outboard motor sat on the transom. Just below the motor on the inside of the wooden transom, Gybe had stenciled ‘T/T Ferrity’ – Tender To Ferrity. Sailors referred to the small boats as dinghies, dinks, inflatables, or tenders.
Dinghies had a way of disappearing, but the resale value decreased as the amount of personalization increased. To deter the theft of the outboard, Gybe had stripped the manufacturer’s paint and logo then repainted it a bright John Deere yellow. Onto the yellow, he stenciled Aweigh on each side.
He topped off the fuel tank and re-stowed the jerry can aboard Ferrity just as Kara emerged from below. “Ready?”
The outboard started on the first pull. Kara climbed over Ferrity’s lifelines and stepped into the boat.
“Cast off the painter.” Gybe directed. “It’s the line holding the dinghy. Unwrap it from the cleat.”
“Got it. Painter. That makes sense. More cliquish male jargon, I suppose.”
“Every line, sail, direction, and function has a specific name on a boat. The syntax is clear so that the sailors know what to do and when. When sailing, there is no time to waste explaining unclear terminology. If they know the jargon, as you call it, they know what to do.”
“Aye, aye mon capitan.” Kara smirked and smart-assed a salute.
Before departing Ferrity, Gybe maneuvered the dink to the anchor chain where he checked the snubber lines for chafe. They were fine. Then he guided the boat over the anchor where he looked down through the clear water. On the bottom, he could see the anchor chain disappear into the sand. The anchor lay under the sand. Satisfied that the anchor was set, Gybe spun the dink around and aimed the bow for the dinghy dock next to the causeway launch ramp.
Kara sat in the bow surveying the anchorage that she had not seen last night during the raucous trip from the hotel to Ferrity.
At the floating dock, she looped the painter around a cleat, then stepped onto the dock. The dock was barren of any other craft.
A taxi was waiting for the arrival of the morning ferry. Gybe and Kara climbed in.
“To the police station and step on it.” Gybe said.
Kara rolled her eyes.
8
Gybe couldn’t read the driver’s expression in the rear view mirror but he suspected it was not a sign of respect. The police station was less than a mile away. There were no traffic lights, only two stop signs, and they couldn’t have made a rush hour if they had collected every car on the island.
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br /> The Rainbow Taxi crunched across the coral gravel in the parking lot of Moloka‘i’s sole police station. Kara handed the driver a twenty, who returned a ten and three ones along with his business card. A scan of the card showed that he was the owner and operator of Rainbow Taxi, “The best taxi on the island,” he gloated.
He failed to mention that there were only two taxi companies with combined assets of five vehicles. No one had seen all five vehicles running simultaneously.
Across the street, Kara noticed a little league softball game and recognized one of the teams from yesterday’s ferry trip from Maui. “Little league must be a challenge when the teams compete from different islands.”
Nine new Ford Expedition SUVs and five older Ford Crown Vics each bearing the logo of Maui County Police Department, sat in the parking lot. With fourteen in the lot and presumably more patrolling, “how much crime is there on this small rural island?” Gybe wondered aloud.
In profile, the island of Moloka‘i resembled a running shoe. The toe was to the east towards Maui, the heel to the west towards O‘ahu. To the north, Kalaupapa Peninsula – made famous by Father Damien and his leper colony - protruded as the tongue of the shoe. Kaunakakai harbor and town lay near the instep on the south side of the island. Like most island towns, Kaunakakai rested on the flat coastal plain only a few feet above sea level.
The island of Moloka‘i was one of the least visited islands of Hawaii. It lay fourth from either end of the seven populated Hawaiian Islands. These islands lay generally along a line from northwest to southeast. Geologically, the oldest islands were in the northwest with the newest island – Hawai‘i or “the Big Island” – at the southeast end of the chain. From northwest to southeast, Niihau, Kaua‘i, O‘ahu, Moloka‘i, Lāna‘i, Maui, and the Big Island formed the populated Hawaiian islands.
Rural it was, because on the Internet Kara had found one operating hotel, a disconnected phone number to a second hotel, and reference to a bankrupt resort. Fewer than seven thousand people lived on Moloka‘i.
Inside the station, Kara identified herself and asked to see Susan. The desk sergeant, Hawaiian in appearance, gave her da stinkeye. The quaint cultural custom, a decidedly sneering look, is a sure way to start a fight thought Gybe.
No doubt, the coconut telegraph had signaled her arrival in town. Another officer led them to a small room where he took Kara’s purse and asked Gybe to face the wall.
Attired in aloha shirt, surf shorts, and sandals, Gybe had few places to conceal a weapon. In lieu of the pat-down, he lifted his shirt. The guard was unimpressed, so he dropped his shorts too. “OK?”
The guard grunted and turned to Kara. “Face the wall.”
“You lay one paw on me and my lawyer will see that you spend the rest of your career picking pineapples in a sugar cane field.” Kara threatened.
The standoff held for a full minute. Then Kara lifted her shirt, pirouetted, and dropped the shirt. “Unlike the animal over there, the pants stay.” Kara glared at the guard whose non-digital mind was still processing the images. He glanced down at Kara’s tight shorts, which couldn’t conceal a weapon let alone the mounds and crevices of her buff female anatomy.
Gybe watched as the guard left the room, probably still trying to determine what he had seen or what he thought he had seen. Kara’s motion had been too unexpected and too quick.
By the clock on the wall five minutes passed before the door opened and a female officer led Susan into the room.
The two women greeted each other with hugs and tears while Gybe watched. This was their first meeting since Susan’s call to Kara after the arrest. Kara introduced Gybe and told Susan about his background.
After a minimum of pleasantries, Gybe began the interrogation.
“Susan, Kara has hired me to help get you out of this fix. As I’ve explained to her, I’m not a private investigator nor do I have a license to be one. Hell, for that matter, I don’t know if you even need a license in Hawai‘i. Anyway, my official capacity is writer. I’m writing a story of what happened to the victims.”
Susan, skeptical, looked at Kara who shrugged.
“There are two obvious ways to proceed. First, we can establish an alibi for you on the night of the murder. Or, the much more difficult method is to find out who committed the murders. Let’s hope you have an alibi.”
Gybe waited, hoping Susan would take the cue. In the long silence he wondered if it was too late to walk away. Remember, there might be a paying story here. “So Susan, tell me what you do and where you were that night?”
“I left the harbor around 1900 – just after sunset.”
“What harbor?”
“I keep a work boat here on Moloka‘i at Kaunakakai Small Boat Harbor. It’s the only marina on the island. I went out that night and came back a few hours later.”
“Avast ye swabbie.” Gybe interjected in an attempt to shock Susan into a detailed answer. “Details, give me the details.”
Susan glared at Gybe then turned to Kara.
“Avast ye swabbie? Kara, you’ve hired fucking Popeye to help me?”
Kara spent the next ten minutes explaining Gybe’s involvement in the San Francisco case to Susan.
Susan still skeptical, sat cross-armed. To Gybe, she seemed frightened behind the angry façade.
“I know you don’t want to hear this Susan, but we – Oceans Now that is – can’t afford anyone else. If we had the money I would hire a fleet of investigators, but we don’t. Back at the office, the staff is working with all of our chapters to raise money to hire you a good attorney. Until we do that, you’re going to have to work with the public defender.”
A tear slid down Kara’s cheek. “Susan, you’re my best friend. We’ll work something out. I promise.”
Gybe let the emotion needle swing back towards center before he spoke. “Susan. I met you ten minutes ago and Kara less than a day ago. Kara has asked me to help. If you don’t want me here, say so.”
Gybe returned Susan’s stare as she scanned his face for her answer. She looked at Kara who sat with a pleading, somewhat helpless look on her face. “Gybe, what kind of a name is Gybe?”
Susan told Gybe that she owned a small marine construction company. Her company specialized in coastal work anywhere in the Hawaiian Islands. She repaired piers, built new docks, and occasionally picked up some salvage work. The company was three years old. Between contracts, she kept her workboat at Honokohau Harbor on the Kona coast of the Big Island.
“Isn’t that an odd line of work for an environmentalist?”
“Not really,” Susan explained. “Our society always places the environment second to development. The only way for me to minimize construction damage and ensure compliance with the existing, loophole ridden laws is for my company to do the work.”
“I can spend all my energy fighting the construction of a new pier. And lose.” She sighed. “Or, I can win the contract and build the pier in the most environmentally sound manner that I know.”
“If I don’t build the pier, then some low-bidding no-neck with a gill net behind his truck seat will. This is the only sure way to protect the ocean until society wakes up and realizes the fish, coral, octopi, whales, and birds are all gone.”
Gybe thought about Susan’s comments. She might be right. It seemed that everyone was for or against the environment. Sure, many people talked about the environment. Hell, they even slapped Sierra Club bumper stickers on their SUVs, but they did little beyond pay their club dues. Business wanted to provide a product to the consumer. Often the product came at a high cost to nature. The consumer with the bumper sticker wanted to pay the lowest possible price for the product. Each side said they were for the environment, but their actions reflected the opposite.
Environmental organizations differed little from profit-driven businesses. Didn’t the management of the enviros aspire for the same large buildings, staff, and influence more often ascribed to the corporate world? Membership or profit driven, each entit
y aligned the other as its polar opposite. Each was loathe to compromise. Each hired expensive lobbyists. Each converted forests into junk mail. Each must expand to survive. The resulting stalemate satisfied no one. Susan’s approach might be a compromise.
Returning from his wool gathering, Gybe spoke. “OK Susan. The coroner believes that the murders occurred on Monday night. Where were you that night?”
“Like I said, I left the harbor around 1900 – just after sunset. I motored around for awhile and returned.”
“How long were you gone and where did you go?”
“I got back to the harbor around midnight.”
“Where did you go?
Susan told them that she had motored out into the channel between Moloka‘i and Lāna‘i and drifted.
“You just drifted? What were you doing?”
“I drifted. I didn’t do anything.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was alone. I didn’t do it. I am not a murderer.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
“Great.” Gybe turned to Kara. “My job is done. Just tell the DA that she didn’t do it.”
Gybe heard the tick of the clock on the wall behind Susan. Though the clock was electric, the manufacturer had designed it to tick. Ticking clocks were as anachronistic as dial phones. Did the ticks increase the tension like drops in water torture or decrease tension like a Hindu’s mantra? Over a hundred ticks entertained the three before Gybe changed the subject.
He glanced up from a spiral notebook. “Did you know Dr. Ray Wilson and Dr. J. Splicer, the victims?”
“No, I didn’t know them.”
She had hesitated and her body language didn’t support the answer. “You never met either one of them?” He repeated the question.
“No. I hate what the genetic engineers are doing to the environment. Why would I want to know them? They are destroying the environment. They’re killing the reef.”
Molokai Reef Page 3