Kara confirmed that Susan didn’t need anything before she and Gybe left Susan and her attorney to continue their conference.
“What do you think of her lawyer?” Kara asked Gybe as they boarded the bus for the return trip.
20
They rode the bus back towards Mala Wharf. When the bus passed through Lahaina town, Gybe signaled the stop and they got off.
He gave Kara the fifty-cent walking tour of old Lahaina before guiding her into the Lahaina Yacht Club. “Let’s grab a drink.”
The Yacht Club sat on a prime location on the makai side of the street. In an alcove near the front door, the club sold T-shirts, hats, and other club miscellany to members and tourists. Kara bought a souvenir T-shirt printed with the burgee and name of the yacht club.
After a drink at the club, they ambled along the waterfront towards Mala Wharf. Like flood waters seeking a storm drain, some tourists inundated T-shirt and trinket shops while others overwhelmed restaurants and bars. Gybe started to comment on the clueless tourists until he recalled that they too were tourists.
Kara cast off the lines and Gybe motored away from the old Mala Wharf. “That boat looks familiar.” Gybe commented as he swung Aweigh’s bow towards the vessel.
As he neared the forty-foot or so sailboat, Gybe painted a happy grin across his face.
Aboard the vessel, hearing the approaching outboard, a woman raised her head from where she had been working on the bow and turned towards the dinghy. She stood to greet Gybe.
Barefoot, Flyn stood five foot eight and wearing only a sarong around her waist, she weighed no more than 140. Her ash blond hair was short – the only maintenance being a quick shake of her head after leaving the water. A blue dolphin tattoo leaped from beneath the sarong towards her navel.
Gybe requested permission to tie up. To the boat, not the dolphin.
“Gybe! I didn’t know you were in Hawai‘i.” Flyn beamed and bent over the lifelines ready to take the dinghy painter.
Kara tossed the painter to Flyn’s hand. Gybe watched the body language as the two women interacted for the first time.
Gybe followed Kara aboard where they settled under the cockpit awning. Gybe introduced the women. Flyn offered ice tea.
Eleven years earlier, Gybe had met Flyn during a year he spent sailing the Chesapeake Bay. For a few weeks during that summer, he anchored above the drawbridge that crossed Spa Creek. The bridge connected Annapolis with its neighbor, Eastport. Spa Creek was a short creek that flowed into the Severn River near the U.S. Naval Academy.
Flyn had her boat anchored there at the same time. They had become good friends or as Flyn explained ‘best friends.’
Flyn’s boat was a Swan forty-one. She and an ex-boyfriend had purchased it at an auction of seized assets taken by the Drug Enforcement Administration. Drug smugglers had built two secret compartments on the outside of the hull below the waterline. When the U.S. Coast Guard stopped and then boarded the vessel off Cape Hatteras, divers found the homemade compartments.
Before placing the vessel up for auction, the Coast Guard hacked open the compartments and removed the contents. Because the druggies had glued the compartments to the outside of the hull, there wasn’t any structural damage.
Flyn and her boyfriend repaired the bottom and refitted the boat over one winter. By the time that Gybe met Flyn on Spa Creek, the boat was hers and the ex was history.
Gybe had made no promises when he first bedded Kara. Or, as Kara had reminded him the next morning, she bedded Gybe. Nonetheless, he sensed a bit of possessiveness in Kara’s body language as he described his friendship with Flyn.
While Gybe and Flyn discussed their voyages to Hawai‘i, Kara sat silently. Gybe glanced at her often, but she sat there with arms crossed. Surely, he thought, Flyn’s toplessness couldn’t offend her. In the short time that he had known Kara, she had seemed very comfortable with her body, clothed or not.
Finally, Gybe drew Kara into the conversation. “Kara is here to help her friend Susan – who is sitting in the Wailuku jail. We just returned from visiting her.”
Flyn listened as Gybe described the murders and Susan’s arrest.
“Everything points towards Susan’s guilt. She had the opportunity and she didn’t like the victims. The prosecutor claims that he has witnesses and physical evidence tying Susan to the murders.” Gybe summarized.
“Susan admits she has no alibi.” Kara sighed. “She went out in her workboat alone on the night of the murders. The police believe their job is done.”
“So, you’ve got to find out who really did it?” Flyn asked.
Over the next hour, Flyn, Kara, and Gybe discussed theories and methods to solve the problem of exonerating Susan. Who wanted to kill the two scientists? Who would gain from their deaths? Who wanted to see Susan jailed? Or could Susan be an innocent bystander without an alibi?
A business motive seemed unlikely because the scientists worked for different companies. Gybe admitted that he didn’t know if the two victims knew each other. Could a jealous spouse or lover be responsible?
They agreed that the concrete on the head was a bit bizarre. Was it significant? Why the mask and snorkels? Why keep the victims alive and then drown them on the reef? “The bodies weren’t dumped in the ocean or tossed in a gulch. Someone went to a great deal of trouble with the concrete, snorkels, and placement near the reef. Why?” Flyn wondered.
The reef seemed important, but why? Was someone trying to send a message to the corn companies, trying to scare them away from Moloka‘i? Were they trying to draw attention to the dying reef while implicating the biotech companies? Were they trying to frame Susan?
Susan claimed that the reef was dying because of the escape of GMOs – genetically modified organisms – from the experimental corn companies. “Susan, and I agree with her, believes that the companies are killing the reef.” Kara noted.
“Good, you have confirmed the prosecutor’s theory of her motive.” Gybe answered. “Her arrests as a protester prove that she’s responsible for stoking the belief that the biotech companies are killing the reef?”
Flyn brought the conversation back to the reef. “Is Susan right? Are the research labs responsible for the death of the reef?”
Gybe mused aloud. “I don’t know, but it is dying. Vast stretches along the south shore of Moloka‘i have little or no live coral. Without the coral, the reef can’t support the reef fish. The reef looks like a long dirty pile of rocks.”
“Gybe, I’m sailing to O‘ahu tomorrow. Why don’t I snoop around at the university? See what they think is killing the reef.” Flyn offered.
“I don’t follow.” Kara said. “So what does it matter who is killing the reefs? Susan is on record as believing it and that will be good enough for the prosecutor.”
“You’re right.” Gybe responded. “But, we don’t have very much to go with. If we find that there is common belief that the biotech guys are responsible, then lots of people including subsistence fishermen share the motive with Susan. It will weaken the prosecutor’s case. In the prosecutor’s eyes, Susan is the tie between the corn companies and the reef.”
Flyn volunteered to sail to Honolulu where she planned to talk with professors at the University of Hawai‘i. Gybe knew that before talking with the profs, Flyn would spend a few hours in the library acquainting herself with background material on the reef and its ecology.
Flyn had helped Gybe before. He hadn’t planned to involve her. Hell, he hadn’t known she was in the islands, but now that she offered to help, he was glad she was onboard. Tomorrow, he and Kara would sail back to Moloka‘i where he hoped to learn more about the victims and their companies.
“I’ll see you back on Moloka‘i in a week or so.” Flyn waved to Gybe and Kara as they motored towards Ferrity.
21
The next morning, Gybe and Kara had an easy downwind sail to Moloka‘i. Gybe steered Ferrity into Kaunakakai harbor and dropped the hook. He was careful to position Ferrity well
into the harbor clear of the turning basin for the interisland supply barge.
After securing the boat and prepping the dinghy, he motored Aweigh the short distance to the dinghy landing. The ’vair was still in the parking lot.
“Whoa, what is that smell?”
Roadkill, rotten papayas and other thoughts drifted through his odor banks as Gybe tried to name the aroma. Aha, dead fish. Rotting fish layered both the front and rear seats of the ’vair. Flies swarmed the car.
The harbormaster trotted over, approaching from upwind. “This car yours?”
“We’re borrowing it.” Kara replied.
“You’ve got to move it now. I’ve called for a tow truck.”
“Don’t suppose you saw who did this?” Gybe asked.
The harbormaster knew nothing. Gybe got in and drove the ’vair to the dock used by commercial fishermen to unload their catch. He found two plastic grocery sacks in a trash can and handed one to Kara. “Put this on as a glove and start shoveling.”
With the doors wide open, Gybe pitched the rotten fish, one at a time, from the driver’s side into the ocean. Kara began on the passenger’s side. The flies struggled against the easterly trade wind to follow the flying fish into the water. When the fish were gone, Kara grabbed a water hose coiled in front of the first sailboat and began washing out the floorboard. Forty years of oxidation provided numerous outlets for the water.
“I’m going back to the boat for some cleaners.” Gybe headed for the dinghy as Kara continued to rinse out the ’vair.
An hour later, Kara guided the ’vair up the causeway trying to outrun the odor. They had cleaned with Clorox and Simple Green but the breathtaking smell remained.
Gybe decided that they should visit Dr. Splicer’s house before meeting the dead scientist’s boss. With a map, he directed Kara through the town to the house two lots from the end of Makia Street.
Notices on the doors denied entry without police permission. Gybe walked around the house, noting the layout of windows and doors. In the back yard, he spied a long narrow greenhouse.
He had opened the door and was staring at row after row of nipple-high corn stalks when Kara whispered “police.”
Donning his most casual attitude, he led Kara back through the yard and towards the ’vair. The police officer asked what they were doing.
Gybe explained that he was a writer and that he was working on the murder story. “Is that OK?”
“Don’t go in the house. It’s a crime scene.”
“Still? I thought you guys locked up the murderer.” He pulled a spiral pad from his pocket and pretended to flip through the pages. “Susan, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, she did it.” The cop slung a thumb over his shoulder towards the ’vair. “But don’t bullshit me, that’s her car. What are you doing with it?”
Gybe continued his ruse of writing. He introduced Kara and told the officer that Susan had loaned the car to Kara. “After I interviewed Kara – Susan is affiliated with Kara’s company – she offered to drive me over here.”
The officer didn’t appear to be buying any of the explanation. Apparently remembering a lesson from Intimidation 101 at the academy, the officer puffed up his chest, plastered an ugly scowl on his face, and reached down for the deepest voice. “The house is off-limits. Do not come back unless you want to join your little greenie friend in the jail.”
Gybe limp-wristed a salute, perfected by a draft-dodging President, and escorted Kara to the ’vair.
22
Playing along with the cop who had found them at Dr. Splicer’s house, Kara and Gybe drove to the company that had employed Dr. Splicer. Kara parked the car in a visitor’s space near the front door. As they walked to the front door, Gybe glanced up at the sign - GeNesRus, Inc. Juh-ness-russ – what could that mean?
Inside the front door, they found a small reception area. Kara introduced them and asked the receptionist if they could meet with the president. Ten minutes later, Dr. Elizabeth Miller entered through a door behind the receptionist and introduced herself.
From his research, Gybe knew that Dr. Miller was a scientist besides being the CEO of GeNesRus. He expected a white lab coat with pens in the pocket, running shoes, thick-lens eyewear, and unshaped hair.
What he saw was a woman who looked him in the eye and matched his height. Each lens of her eyewear was paper-thin and set in a large frame. They may have been a fashion statement rather than a necessity. Her hair was spiked on top, layered on the sides and back.
She wore a business suit tailored to the fine contours of her athletic body. The short skirt revealed a lot of leg; legs that ended a long way down at her bare feet where several pinkies sported toe rings. A bit provocative, but this was Hawai‘i, Gybe thought.
Dr. Miller caught his glance and flushed with embarrassment.
Gybe explained why they were there and asked if they could talk with her for a few minutes. Dr. Miller escorted them to her office. The office abutted the reception area behind the door through which she had entered.
Moments after they took the two chairs in front of Dr. Miller’s desk, the receptionist carried in a tray with a large juice pitcher and three ice-cube laden glasses. She sat these on the corner of Dr. Miller’s desk and then served the fresh mango juice.
Dr. Miller’s office was spacious. Gybe quickly counted ceiling tiles – ten rows of five tiles. A standard acoustic tile was two by four feet. The office was twenty by twenty or four hundred square feet. A deep pile maroon carpet covered the floor. She sat behind a massive desk made of an exotic dark wood. Solid wood, not veneer. Behind Dr. Miller, a large window opened towards the ocean. Because the research center was a couple hundred feet above sea level, there was an unobstructed view to the water and across the channel to the island of Lāna‘i.
Floor to ceiling and corner-to-corner bookshelves covered one wall. At least one third of the book titles were technical. In addition to the tech journals, Gybe saw an assortment of classics and recent best sellers. The opposite wall supported five quality prints. Gybe recognized them as the work of the longhorn-mustachioed Salvador Dali. Gybe recalled a quote by the surrealist: “The only difference between myself and a madman, is that I am not mad!”
A sofa, end chair, coffee table, and wet bar filled the half of the room not taken by Dr. Miller’s desk and the leather covered arm chairs now occupied by Gybe and Kara.
“Nice office, very nice. I take it you are a reader.” Gybe motioned to the wall size bookshelf.
“Thanks, but I must credit the former occupant. Except for a few of the books and the prints, the office was this way when I leased the building.”
Not prone to dance around niceties, Kara asked, “Can you tell us about Dr. Splicer?”
Dr. Miller turned to the window. She appeared to focus on a distant rock formation, but Gybe suspected that she was fast-forwarding through a movie, a movie that only she saw. A movie of memories.
“Her death was terrible. She preferred to be called Jean or some of the staff called her Dr. Jean when they joked about her work. She was very intelligent. She was funny. She worked hard. She had a good ethos, an absolute must in this business. She was one of my best students. I taught her when I was at UC Davis. In fact, I’m the reason she is –was – on Moloka‘i. As soon as she completed her dissertation and passed her boards, I offered her a job here at GeNesRus.”
Dr. Miller wasn’t crying, but her voice occasionally broke and sometimes she paused for several moments to collect her thoughts. “What is GeNesRus?” Gybe asked.
The answer came naturally. Dr. Miller had founded the company two years earlier. She had left UC Davis to work for another research company here on Moloka‘i. “They were very generous with the relocation. The company insisted that I find a place to live, unpack, and settle before reporting for work. I received full pay during the relocation. Then on the Friday of the first week of work, I received a termination letter. They terminated everyone in the company. It folded without warning.
We were given until noon to clear our offices, then security locked the doors.”
Dr. Miller lamented that she hadn’t learned the names of many of her coworkers. No one knew or at least told them the reason for the shutdown. As a recent hire, they gave her a severance check equal to three month’s pay. She was stunned.
The company had paid for everything, so Elizabeth had no out of pocket losses. Her only real problem was that she was on Moloka‘i without a job. She considered applying for a position at one of the other companies. On the following Monday, she had driven by the old company and was surprised to see a For Lease sign on the door. She called the agent and made an appointment.
“The agent drove over immediately with a set of keys. She hadn’t seen the property yet. She told me that the principal broker had listed the property over the weekend.”
Inside, Elizabeth was shocked to find that all of the equipment and furnishings were still in place. Desks complete with computers and telephones occupied every office. The labs were intact with all equipment left just as it had been on the previous Black Friday. The agent was equally puzzled.
When told of the lease terms, as is, Elizabeth said she’d take it.
“It was pretty ballsy, if I do say so.”
She explained that she had no company, no business plan, and no employees. She researched Hawai‘i’s generous technology-development tax credit. Moreover, as a woman, she was certain there would be other grants or preferences available. She stepped into her new office, turned on the computer and connected to the Internet.
“The rest is history as they say. Today, I have nineteen employees – all women.” She threw in with a glance to Gybe.
“Wow.” Was all that Kara could say. “You must be very proud.”
Aware of the skyrocketing estrogen levels, Gybe re-directed the conversation. Another five minutes and these women would sync their menstrual cycles.
Molokai Reef Page 9