Murder at Makapu'u

by Chip Hughes

  “I’ve got to tell you, Kai, you shouldn’t have taken that yellow dog from Maile. That was a low thing to do.”

  I gather he’s referring to Kula. If I didn’t need Fernandez’s cooperation on this case I’d simply tell him the retriever is mine. End of story.

  “Maile wants to know when he’s coming home. She misses him and so does Blitz. Those two dogs are inseparable.”

  “They were fighting when I saw them,” I reply. “Blitz drew blood."

  "Hey, they’re dogs, Kai. What do you expect?"

  "A hostile environment isn’t good for either of them.”

  “Well, we have a difference of opinion about that, my friend.”

  “So we do,” I say

  Frank hangs up.

  seven

  I follow the hotel map, wander a bit and finally find a cottage with the door open to a housekeeping cart. I knock and walk in. It’s a simple shoebox room, airy and bright, with a sliding glass door to a lānai at the water’s edge. A bone-thin haole woman with a grey bun is mopping the bathroom floor.

  “Lena, Detective Fernandez gave me your name,” I say. “I’ve come from Honolulu to ask you just a few questions. Okay?”

  She turns to me, surprised. “Questions about what?” Her English sounds more mainland than local.

  I pull out a photo of the doctor from the internet. “Dr. Grimes used to be a regular guest here and Detective Fernandez said you knew him.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m a private detective." I show her my card. "I worked on Moloka‘i a few years ago—the case of the woman who fell from the Kalaupapa cliffs."

  “Oh, the mule ride accident?” Lena’s expression changes.

  "That's the one. It wasn’t an accident."

  She puts down her mop and glances at the photo. “Yes, I knew him. I already told the detective everything I could remember.”

  I nod. “You told Detective Fernandez Dr. Grimes was in his hotel room the morning after his wife died, is that right?”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “How did you know the doctor was here?”

  “He hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his door. He said he had taken his boat out early that morning and was catching up on sleep. That’s probably why he was still in his room when I came around ten.”

  “So ten in the morning is the first time you saw him?”

  “A little after, yes.”

  “And you believed he was in his room all night?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Did you see him here that night?”

  “I’m not here at night. Just in the mornings and early afternoons when I clean rooms.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Did anything strike you as different about the doctor’s stay on this particular night, on this particular weekend?”

  “No—” Lena hesitates. “Well, yes. He was alone.”

  “He wasn’t always?”

  “It’s none of my business,” she says. “Really.”

  “Who was usually with him?”

  Lena says nothing.

  “On that night he was alone?” I try again. “But on most nights when he stayed here he was not alone?”

  Lena slowly nods. She’s saying yes and at the same time she’s saying she feels uncomfortable saying yes.

  “Did you mention this to Detective Fernandez?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  “Mahalo,” I say. “You’ve been a big help.”

  I say goodbye to Lena, wondering why Fernandez didn’t pick up on the fact that Dr. Grimes usually had company during his weekends on Moloka‘i. But not on the weekend his wife died. Then I remember. Fernandez was going through a divorce. He said he was in misery. And maybe drinking more than usual. Frank wasn't at his best.

  Now it starts to make sense. Why else would the doctor spend frequent weekends on Moloka‘i? He didn’t fish. He didn’t hunt. He didn’t hula. And there were probably as many opportunities in waters around O‘ahu as around the Friendly Isle to run his speedboat.

  Dr. Grimes came here to be with her. The dog walker. The muscular blonde. Krystal was attending a rock concert on the evening Beatrice Ho died. And that left him alone on Moloka‘i. Or so the story went.

  It’s lunchtime now. I head not to the hotel’s restaurant but to its oceanfront bar. On the way my phone chimes. A text from Vivienne.

  "Hello, Kai. Paris TV news is reporting three persons of interest in the hit-and-run case of Pierre Garneaux. One in Lyon, France, and two in Honolulu, Hawai‘i. Thought you should know. Miss you, Vivienne."

  Two in Honolulu? So now I’m on the short list with Dr. Grimes?

  What went down in Paris seems worlds away from Moloka‘i. But these two distant worlds are suddenly converging.

  I reply to Vivienne, “Thanks. Miss you too.”

  I step up to the oceanfront bar overlooking ripples lapping the shore and order a beer. The nametag on the bartender, a local guy about my age, says Elton. Just the man I want to talk to. As he pulls the tap and slides a frothy mug across the bar, we talk story in Pidgin above the lunch-hour bustle of the nearby restaurant.

  We’re wrapping up a rundown of surf spots on the Friendly Isle when I show him the photo of Dr. Grimes and ask: “Eh, Elton, you remembah dis’ guy? He come hea on da weekends—regular kine. One haole doctor, mid-fifties. He from O’ahu. Got one fas’ boat, brah, ovah in da harbor.”

  The bartender studies the photo. “Yeah, I remembah. Wuz long time ago. Da guy’s wife wen’ fall off one cliff, yeah?”

  “Das da guy,” I say. “T’ink he hea in da hotel da night his wife fall?”

  “Dunno, brah. I see him dat night in da bar, li’ I tell da police. But how I know where he spend da night? I not hea all night.”

  “Das da t’ing,” I say. “Wuz he hea or wuz he dere?”

  The bartender shrugs.

  “What you t’ink? Maybe da doctor push her off da cliff at Makapu‘u?”

  “Not if he on Moloka‘i, brah.”

  I change course. “Da doctor get one wahine wit’ him mos’ weekends, yeah?”

  “Ho, how can forget!” Elton lights up. “I wen’ see him all da time sitting at da bar wit’ da wahine.”

  “You remembah what she look like?”

  “Beeg muscles, brah. She one body-builder or somet’ing li’ dat.”

  “Was,” I say. “Why you no tell police about da wahine?”

  “She not hea dat weekend, brah. Das why.”

  “T’anks, eh?” I say, rising from the bar. “If you t’ink of anyt’ing else, try call me, ‘kay?”

  From my wallet I hand him my card and then set a twenty on the bar under my frothy mug. He glances at the chiseled face of Andrew Jackson. Elton’s own face brightens. I guess he likes Jackson’s rugged good looks.

  eight

  Walking away, I consider what I’ve learned so far. Chambermaid Lena tells me nothing that Fernandez didn’t except she mentions that Dr. Grimes was alone on that fateful weekend, implying his being alone was unusual. Then bartender Elton confirms the company the doctor kept on his lost weekends was none other than Krystal, the dog walker fired by his wife Beatrice Ho. So already I know something that Fernandez either didn’t know or didn’t tell me.

  It’s curious that Dr. Grimes brought the blonde body builder with him most weekends to Moloka‘i but not the weekend his wife died. Krystal had an alibi—a rock concert on O‘ahu. Could she have slipped away undetected and been an accomplice to murder? In any case, so far Grimes has no iron clad alibi that he was on Moloka‘i that night.

  Two down and one to go.

  From the thatched cottages of the Moloka‘i Beach Hotel I drive two short miles back to Kaunakakai. I go barely a quarter mile beyond to the water’s edge and pull onto a long wharf—the longest in the state—jutting for what seems like a half mile into brilliant turquoise Kaunakakai Harbor. The wharf culminates in what is known as Pier Island—an oblong dock for inter-island barges, ferri
es, fishing boats and pleasure craft.

  I park in one of the open stalls by the pier’s entrance and step into a balmy breeze. Across from the harbor is a gorgeous view to the southeast of the green, cloud-capped islands of Lāna‘i and Maui. And in the foreground, moored at the pier, a dozen boats gleam in the sun. I search for the one formerly owned by Dr. Grimes, recalling the model the doctor showed me of his sleek racer. When I suggested he could cross the Moloka‘i Channel in no time, he agreed, but only on those rare days when conditions were right. Otherwise, he would have been in for a rough ride.

  The channel that separates the islands of Moloka‘i and O'ahu—whose traditional name is Ka‘iwi or “Channel of Bones”—has a reputation for bashing boats. Open ocean swells pushing through the narrow canyon between the two islands and churned up by foul weather have wrought destruction on unwary mariners since the beginning of recorded history. It was in this treacherous channel that one of Hawai‘i’s most famous and legendary watermen, Eddie Aikau, was lost.

  But on the night Dr. Grimes’s wife died seas were calm and the moon nearly full. He could have roared across the channel, docked near his Portlock home, and then orchestrated his wife’s plunge from the cliffs of Makapu‘u.

  Scanning the dock I spot it—long and sleek and shaped like an expensive cigar. The hull is emblazoned with orange flames—fitting for a water-borne rocket—and floodlights grace the bow for running at night. I walk to the stern to verify: Sea Ya Later.

  The guy I need to talk to ought to be here any minute. Ikaika is his name. From a boathouse on the makai end of the pier a man ambles toward me. He looks older than I expected and walks a bit hunched over. Fernandez’s report indicated that Ikaika makes his living caring for boats of absentee owners like the doctor.

  “Sorry," Ikaika says when he reaches me, "I stay on Hawaiian time.”

  “No worries,” I say, checking out his silver Fu Manchu mustache and skin tanned as reddish-brown as koa. He’s got to be well past sixty. “Jus’ get here myself. Ikaika, you like tell me ‘bout Dr. Grimes and his boat?”

  “Fo’ sure,” Ikaika replies. “Know da doctor fo’ long time, brah. He wen come here on da weekends. Otherwise, his boat jus’ sit here at da dock.”

  “On da night his wife die on O'ahu, you remembah, a few years ago? Da detective ask you about ‘um.”

  “Long time ago, brah.”

  “Maybe I jus’ ask you da same questions? Maybe you remembah somet’ing new?”

  “Dunno, brah. Long time.”

  “Okay, on da night da doctor’s wife wen fall from da cliffs on Makapu‘u, wuz da doctor’s boat here?”

  “When I leave dat night, da boat still here, brah. Wuz almos’ dark, yeah?”

  “What time you come back da next morning?”

  “Early, brah. Maybe seven.”

  “Da doctor’s boat still here?”

  “No, but he cruise in pretty soon aftah I get here. Da doctor like take his boat out early in da morning—dawn patrol, you know?—when da water smooth and glassy. He like go fas’. Dat morning no different, like I wen tell da detective.”

  “Maybe da doctor take da boat out da night befo’. Maybe he gone all night?”

  “Could have, brah. But didn’t.”

  I take another tack. “Ikaika, how long you t’ink it take da doctor to drive da boat to O‘ahu?”

  “Oh, long time, brah.” The old man explains that the shortest distance between the islands of Moloka‘i and O‘ahu is about twenty-six miles, but from Kaunakakai Harbor to the closest small boat harbor on O‘ahu is much farther. More like forty-five miles. “And da Ka‘iwi Channel get really rough, brah. Hit one big wave and peel yo’ eyebrows back, fo’ sure.”

  “Dat night was calm, yeah?”

  “Long time. Doan remembah.”

  Ikaika seems to be having repeated memory lapses. I ask him a few more questions with similar results and then say, “T’anks, eh?” and shake his hand local style.

  “No mention, brah,” he says and slowly ambles away.

  Ikaika has told me nothing he didn’t already tell Fernandez and his crew, but from the old salt’s convenient forgetfulness and omissions it could be he’s not telling all.

  On my late afternoon flight back to Honolulu I sort through what I’ve learned from my three interviews. Dr. Grimes had the means and the motive and the opportunity to cross the channel that night in moonlight and in calm seas to murder his wife. I cannot yet prove he did this. But I can say that he could have done it.

  After the plane lands and I’m driving home I get a call on my cellphone from the doctor himself. He leaves a message that I listen to once I’m back at the Waikīkī Edgewater.

  "I've been contacted by Paris Police, via HPD, about the hit-and-run death of Marie's boyfriend. I expect my own stepdaughter has implicated me and I'm not happy about it. I'd like your full report when you return from Paris. And don't be surprised if you hear from Paris Police too. GJG."

  nine

  The next morning, Thursday, April 11, I text Dr. Grimes that I will get my report to him as soon as possible. For all he knows I'm still in Paris. And his daughter is too.

  By mid-morning I'm driving to Kailua. When I pull into Vivienne’s place Marie is on the lānai enjoying a little taste of home—that packed-rice and sliced meat local delicacy wrapped in dried seaweed called Spam musubi. Kula sits attentively beside her waiting for a bite. She doesn’t disappoint him. No surprise the retriever misses my arrival. But Marie doesn’t and points him in my direction. He dashes to me.

  I get my warm and fuzzy fix and then fill Marie in on my investigation. She’s not surprised that Dr. Grimes’ alibis are full of holes. The more I tell her, the angrier she gets. She tosses what’s left of her Spam musubi, wrapper and all, into a waste basket. Kula heads that way, but I grab him by the collar.

  “My own mother’s horrid death wouldn’t be too good for my stepfather.”

  “The stiffest sentence under Hawai‘i law,” I remind her, “is life in prison. And in France I doubt they still employ the guillotine.”

  Marie perks up. “That would be perfect for him. Off with his head!”

  We move on to the hard part. We have reason to believe Dr. Grimes may in fact have piloted his boat to O‘ahu on the night her mother died, but we don’t yet have proof. We need evidence that shows he actually did.

  “If your stepfather made the crossing that night he would need to dock near your home in Portlock. Any idea where?”

  “Let me think,” she says.

  “Take your time,” I reply.

  She does. But before long she says, “His former partner, Dr. Kitagawa, has two boat slips. Dr. Kitagawa and my stepfather had a disagreement and they no longer practice together. I don’t think they even speak to one another anymore. But before that happened my stepfather occasionally used one of Dr. Kitagawa’s slips.”

  “Where are Dr. Kitagawa’s boat slips?” I ask. “Anywhere close to your family home?”

  “In Hawaii Kai Marina,” she says. “Only about a mile from where I grew up.”

  “Sounds like we need to talk to Dr. Kitagawa. Can we do that?”

  “We can try,” she replies. “I might still have his number in my phone contacts.” She checks. “Yes, I do.”

  “Let’s give the doctor a call.”

  She punches in his number. I overhear ringing and then a faint “Hello.” Marie identifies herself and Dr. Kitagawa is apparently happy to hear from her, based on the small talk that follows. Soon Marie is thanking him and saying she looks forward to seeing him.

  “He’s home and he’ll see us as soon as we get there,” Marie says.

  We put Kula in the house and head for my car. Before we climb in I look back and he’s peering through a den window with a sad look. I screw up my courage and mouth, “Sorry boy.”

  His melting brown eyes turn from sad to desolate.

  Predictably I cave in. “Okay, c’mon.”

  Before long we’re rollin
g with the golden retriever’s head in the breeze wearing that goofy smile.

  We pass through Waimānalo and then around Makapu‘u Point, where Marie’s mother lost her life, into the arid southern tip of the island known as Ka‘iwi, same name as the channel to Moloka‘i. The south shore is cranking today. But surfing will have to wait.

  We skirt Hanauma Bay and descend the slope of Koko Head into Hawai‘i Kai. In the distance looms the faint profile of Diamond Head.

  “Dr. Kitagawa’s home is barely a mile from here,” Marie says, “on Kalaniana‘ole Highway near the bridge over the harbor entrance.”

  Just before we reach that bridge, she tells me to pull off. I stop in front of a stucco two-story home with a Spanish tile roof. Marie steps to an intercom at the gated driveway. I can’t hear what she says, but in a matter of seconds the gate swings open and I drive in. One door of a three-car garage rises to a shiny new BMW and out steps a neatly dressed man of about fifty.

  Dr. Kitagawa gives Marie a long hug. Kula prances up to them.

  “He’s a beauty,” the doctor says. “Come in. All of you.”

  Kula heads for our host’s swimming pool and we climb stairs to a travertine deck. Below we see the retriever sniffing greenery around the pool and occasionally lifting his leg. Beyond in the harbor lie Dr. Kitagawa’s two boat slips. In one slip is a small sailboat. The other slip is empty.

  We sit in deck chairs and he offers us drinks that we politely decline. Our conversation begins with the subject of Marie. She and the doctor talk about her time in Paris and the sad history of her family.

  Suddenly we hear a splash down below. Kula. He’s jumped in.

  “He loves the water,” I say.

  “I’m glad somebody is using that pool,” Dr. Kitagawa replies. “I certainly spend enough keeping it clean and warm.”

  As Kula continues to entertain himself in the water, we move onto the subject that brought us here. Dr. Kitagawa recalls when he once shared a practice with Marie’s stepfather and alludes to their falling out after her mother’s death. Before then, Dr. Grimes had carte blanche to use his partner’s second boat slip and also his extra car, an aging BMW convertible.