by Chip Hughes
“I was attending a medical conference in St. Louis on the weekend Beatrice died,” Dr. Kitagawa remembers. “When I returned I noticed that my old BMW was parked on a different slant in the garage. You know how it is, you park your car again and again and you always park it the same way. Well, when I saw the convertible after my trip I was sure I hadn’t parked myself.”
“Your wife, maybe?”
“She came with me to St. Louis.”
“And so you assumed Dr. Grimes parked it?”
“Nobody else had a key. And there was no evidence that the house had been broken into. Besides, Gordon had told me how he could navigate between Moloka‘i and O‘ahu at night. He had the latest navigation equipment in his boat and he could also aim for the Makapau‘u lighthouse, which can be seen from West End Moloka‘i on a clear night.”
As Dr. Kitagawa speaks I’m thinking that he’s got a potentially crucial piece of evidence possibly linking Grimes to his wife’s death, or at minimum undercutting his alibi that he was on Moloka‘i when it happened. But it’s like the other evidence I’ve gathered, so far—circumstantial. Not concrete enough to indict anyone for any crime.
“If only Dr. Grimes had left something behind,” I say. “And if only you had found it.”
Then Dr. Kitagawa says, “He did leave something behind.”
“He did?”
“Yes, I found it only a few weeks ago when I was giving my old BMW a thorough cleaning before trading it in.”
Marie and I look at one another. And I ask, “What did you find?”
“I’ll get it.” He rises and steps into the house, then disappears into what appears to be an upstairs bedroom.
While Dr. Kitagawa is away my phone rings. Caller ID says HPD. Again. No doubt Frank wants to know when I’m returning Kula. I send the call to voicemail.
“Here,” the doctor says when he returns. He hands me what looks like a cash register receipt.
I look over the receipt. It’s faded, but I can clearly see on the top: Molokai Beach Hotel.
“It’s from the bar at the hotel where Gordon usually stayed,” Dr. Kitagawa says. “The date is the same night that Beatrice died.”
I check. He’s right.
“And if that weren’t enough,” he says, “the receipt contains the last four digits of a credit card number, which I assume is Gordon’s.”
“Did Dr. Grimes ever use your BMW convertible again after this weekend?” I ask.
“Never again,” he says. “We had our falling out soon after—I won’t go into that in front of Marie.”
“So he could have left this receipt only on that weekend—on that night that Marie’s mother died?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you go to HPD?”
“Like I said, I found the receipt under the driver’s seat only a few weeks ago. And I figured if the police had done a thorough investigation back then, they would have known that Gordon was on O‘ahu that night.”
Marie looks pale, as if she’s just seen a ghost. She clenches her fists. She’s always believed her stepfather pushed her mother from the cliff. Now Marie must feel she has proof.
"May I have the receipt,” I ask, “or a copy?”
“Sure.” He departs again and returns with the photocopy of the receipt. I snap the original with my phone’s camera. On the photocopy I have the doctor write today’s date and sign his name and state that it was left in his BMW convertible by Dr. Grimes on the night Mrs. Ho died. I ask the doctor to keep the original in a safe place because we may need to provide it as evidence.
Dr. Kitagawa offers his full cooperation. And again admits he doesn’t care much for his former partner.
ten
Before we return to Kailua I check my voicemail from Fernandez. He says to call him back immediately. More about Kula? I’d rather not bother now, with Marie waiting in the car, but I may need Frank’s continued cooperation on this case.
Speaking of Kula, he’s soaking wet from his swim. We pat his coat with a couple of towels supplied by Dr. Kitagawa and say our goodbyes.
Then I return Frank’s call. We get the preliminaries out of the way and he says, “Kai, I got a call early this morning from a Lieutenant Monet of the Paris Police.”
“Monet, like the painter?” I ask.
“Yes. In fact, Lieutenant Monet tells me her husband is a distant relation of the painter. She speaks good English too, does Lieutenant Monet.”
“That’s swell, Frank. Really swell.”
“Kai, now tell me the truth. You’re surprised I know about Monet, aren’t you?”
“Whad’ya mean, Frank?”
“C’mon, Kai. I’m a local boy from Kalihi. And you’re wondering, what would Frank Fernandez know about French art?”
“The thought never crossed my mind, Frank.” Actually, the thought did cross my mind.
“Guess what Lieutenant Monet wanted to talk about?”
I have a sinking feeling. “No idea, Frank. Tell me?”
“You, Kai. She wanted to talk about you.”
“No kidding?”
“How about you stop by my office later this afternoon? I’ll fill you in.”
“Sure, Frank, I can do that.”
“I’ll see you then. And bring the dog. It’s time you returned him to Maile.” He hangs up.
“What was that about?” Marie asks.
“What happened in Paris is catching up with us in Hawai‘i. Your stepfather and I are on the list.”
Marie is silent. But no sooner do we get rolling on Kalaniana‘ole Highway than she asks me to pull over. I do on the first street that comes up, Portlock Road—the road that leads to her family’s home.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Let’s confront my stepfather now,” she says. “It’s clear he did it and it’s time to make him pay.”
“A little early for that,” I say. “We can prove he came to O‘ahu that night, although he claimed he didn’t. But we can’t prove he killed your mother. Yet.”
“It’s so obvious!” she interrupts me. “Why else would he come here secretly on the night she died? And we know what Detective Fernandez didn’t know—my mother was planning to divorce him.”
“It looks obvious to me too and that’s what troubles me. Frank may not have been at his best, but he’s no dummy.”
Then she says, “I’m your client. You work for me now, not for my stepfather.”
“That’s true,” I admit, although she didn’t have to put it quite that way. Then I recall that Marie, as pleasant and congenial as she can be, is an heiress. Should I be surprised when she behaves like an heiress?
“I’m going to confront him,” Marie insists. “And if you don’t come with me, I’ll confront him alone.”
“We don't know how he might react. He could get violent."
“I took a self-defense course in Paris,” she says. “Nicole and I. We learned how to take a man down.”
Bad idea. But if I abandon Marie to her stepfather and he harms her I couldn’t live with myself.
"Okay,” I say. “Your stepfather wants to see me anyway. But you’ve got to promise you won’t attempt your self-defense moves. I’ll defend you, if it comes to that.”
Marie says nothing.
“Agree?” I ask.
She slowly nods.
I send Dr. Grimes a text that I’m in the neighborhood and could drop by if he’s available. I apologize that I have my dog with me.
I get a text back almost instantly: “The sooner the better. Dog OK.”
Before I drive the few blocks to Marie’s home, she says she’s not going to come in with me, but hide in the car so her stepfather doesn’t spook and let neither of us in. Once I’m inside she’ll quietly use a side door that leads to her bedroom and will wait there until an opportune moment. She still has a key, she says.
I think to myself, That bedroom can’t be full of good memories for her.
Marie ducks behind me in the back where
my board usually rides. So it’s just Kula and me in the front seat when I stop by the palm grove and gate that hides the oceanfront estate. I step out, speak into the intercom, and hear Dr. Grimes’ silky smooth voice once again. He expresses surprise that I’ve arrived so quickly and then the gate slowly opens and I drive in.
After Kula waters Dr. Grimes’ ferns, the man himself shows up at the door, in his Freudian full beard. Kula’s tail stops wagging. He doesn’t growl, but he doesn’t approach the doctor either. Strange. Kula loves everyone. Everyone loves Kula. Well, except Blitz.
“Come in,” the psychiatrist says, “both of you.”
I gesture to the sunny retriever. “Thanks for letting me bring him. He’s acclimating to a new home, I’m afraid.” The minute these words leave my mouth I wish I hadn’t said them. But it’s too late.
Dr. Grimes seems uninterested in Kula. He says, “Took you a while to get back to me. But, then, maybe you were still in Paris?”
I nod. No point in trying to explain.
He leads Kula and me into the foyer. I glance back at my car. No sign of Marie. We pass into the spacious living room that looks out on distant Diamond Head. I notice again the doctor’s limp. And then I see his mountain bike and scale model of his former speedboat, Sea Ya Later. These two objects of his affection remind me that he prides himself on being what he calls an active man. In light of Marie’s revelations, the phrase takes on new meaning. The doctor is no doubt a molester. Is he also a murderer?
I sit on one of two couches on either side of his mango coffee table. The doctor sits across from me. Kula plants himself on a rug by my feet, remaining tense and alert. There’s something about the man that unsettles him. I stroke the golden and try to calm him.
Dr. Grimes doesn’t waste time. “The reason I called you is because I’ve been contacted by Honolulu Police about the death of my stepdaughter’s boyfriend in Paris.”
I hear the faint sound of my car’s door being snapped shut. Marie must be making her move to her bedroom. The doctor doesn’t notice, but Kula’s body tightens even more as if he’s tracking a bird.
“Apparently,” Dr. Grimes keeps rolling, “Paris Police contacted Homicide Detective Fernandez and I got the call from him.”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t mention I just got the same phone call from Fernandez myself. Or that I’m hearing more footsteps from somewhere behind him. And so is Kula.
“What was that?” He turns around.
I shrug when he turns back.
“Anyway,” Dr. Grimes continues, “Detective Fernandez remembers me from his investigation of my wife’s death. He and I had several conversations back then, but he quickly realized I had nothing to do with it since I was on Moloka‘i at the time.”
I nod to keep him going. I have no idea what I am going to tell him. And I have no idea when Marie will pop out. Or once she does what she will do.
“Fernandez wants to talk with me in person,” Dr. Grimes continues. “But I want to talk with you first. Paris Police somehow found out I hired you to deliver that envelope to my stepdaughter and it apparently appears to them that I was actually trying to target her boyfriend. I wasn’t. But I want to know how they got from you back to me.”
I hear more footsteps. Kula’s tail starts wagging. The doctor turns around again and sees what the retriever and I see: Marie approaching through a doorframe directly behind him.
Instantly she starts in on him.
eleven
“You killed my mother.” Marie speaks in a surprisingly calm voice. “You killed Pierre. And you abused me.”
The doctor looks up at his stepdaughter and doesn’t skip a beat. “Are you here to accept my offer?”
I don’t know what offer he’s referring to, but Marie isn’t biting.
“No,” she replies, “I’m here to make you pay.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” the doctor replies, also eerily calm. “Not your mother. And not your lowlife French boyfriend.” Dr. Grimes doesn’t deny abusing Marie. He just lets that accusation hang in the air.
“My mother didn’t slip from that cliff,” Marie continues. “We know you piloted your boat from Moloka‘i to Hawai’i Kai the night she died. And then you took Dr. Kitagawa’s car. You drugged her, put her in her car, drove her to Makapu‘u, and pushed her. You were already back on Moloka‘i before she was found the next morning. You lied to the police about all of that. We have proof.”
I’m sitting here listening to Marie’s recital that goes well beyond what we can actually prove, Kula lying tensely at my feet, and I’m watching the doctor take it in and wondering how this will all end.
“You’ve got it wrong,” the doctor responds.
“That’s a lie,” she replies. “Do you want to try to tell us you didn’t come to O‘ahu that night?”
“I’m telling you I didn’t kill your mother,” he says. “As hard as it may be for you to accept, Marie, your mother probably took her own life. She was depressed, she had suffered a number of losses, and she succumbed to her despair.”
“She was about to divorce you,” Marie responds. “I told her what you did to me. She didn’t believe me at first. But then she finally confronted you. That’s why she died.”
“Ridiculous,” he responds.
“You left something in Dr. Kitagawa’s car the night my mother died.” She looks directly into Grimes’ eyes. “It proves you were on O‘ahu. It proves you lied to HPD. And it proves you killed her.”
“You have nothing,” he says. “You’re bluffing.”
“She’s not bluffing.” I pull from my pocket the photocopy Dr. Kitagawa gave me and I hand it to Dr. Grimes. “It’s a receipt from the Moloka‘i Beach Hotel bar on the night your wife died. You left it in your partner’s convertible when you used his boat slip.”
He peers at the receipt and slowly shakes his head.
“Do you still deny it?” Marie asks.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” he says. “Your mother went to the cliffs that night to hold vigil above where your brother died. It was a ritual of hers. She built a shrine to him on the cliff. She usually held her vigils at sunset. But she went that night because it was nearly a full moon.”
“A convenient story.” Marie bristles.
“Come with me to Makapu‘u and I’ll show you,” the doctor says. “Then you might be more receptive to my offer.”
“To the cliffs?” I ask.
He nods.
I glance at Marie. Her eyes roll, but then she gets a faraway look as if she’s having a revelation. She says, “Okay.”
“We’ll follow you in my car,” I reply to Dr. Grimes. “You can drive your own.”
“Meet me in the driveway.” The doctor limps into another room, I assume to get his wallet and keys.
We climb back into my car and wait. Kula hops in the front seat next to Marie and puts his head on her lap.
Before long one of the doctor’s garage doors opens and out comes a black Jaguar. He drives past us to the gate, which slowly opens. We follow the Jag as the doctor turns left on Portlock Road, cruises past his neighbors’ oceanfront mansions, and turns onto Kalaniana‘ole Highway.
The highway climbs the slope of Koko Head, then crests the ridge above Hanauama Bay and skirts the craggy, arid coastline on the southern tip of the island. We pass the famed saltwater spout at Halona Blow Hole and the body-surfing mecca of Sandy Beach before climbing toward the lighthouse at Makapu‘u Point.
The Jaguar makes a sharp right into the lot at the head of the Makapu‘u Lighthouse Trail. I follow the doctor into the jammed lot and search for a place to park. Eventually I succeed and so does he. I put Kula on a leash, grab a water bottle I fortunately have in my car, and we regroup behind the doctor’s Jag near the trailhead.
It’s hot and dry. The sun is blazing down.
“Follow me up the trail,” he says. “Before we reach the lighthouse we climb off the trail toward the ocean.”
“I don’t believe this,” Marie
says again. “This is not my mother. What are you up to?”
“Maybe you’ll learn something about your mother,” he replies.
We give the doctor a lead of ten yards and stay behind him. Kula tugs on the leash. He’s excited about the hike.
The first section of trail ascends the western bank of the ridge and is totally exposed. But the incline is gentle. The trail is wide and paved and very public, so it’s hard to imagine Beatrice Ho finding a quiet place to hold a vigil anywhere around it. More reason to distrust Dr. Grimes.
Just off the trail ahead a mongoose darts under a low kiawe bush. Kula sees the flash and tugs on the leash. He wants that mongoose.
“Easy, boy.” I encourage him to keep walking straight ahead. All I need is to lose the retriever on these cliffs. I grip the leash with both hands.
I also keep a watchful eye on Dr. Grimes. His limp is even more pronounced on the trail. He’s leaning heavily on his cane. I start to have doubts about him pushing his despondent wife, or any able-bodied person, from the cliffs. And if he drugged her at home, how would he get her up the trail?
Of course, this lighthouse trail may not be where he brought her. He could have parked anywhere along the cliff edge by the road and pushed her.
The hike he’s leading us on may simply be an elaborate ruse. So I continue to keep my eyes on him. And on his stepdaughter.
twelve
About halfway up, the trail switches back and climbs the ocean side of the ridge toward the summit. It’s clear enough today to see Moloka‘i’s West End across the channel the doctor crossed that night—though he’s still not admitting it.
Soon we get our first glimpse of the historic lighthouse, whitewashed and red-roofed, on the cliff’s edge. The doctor stops and turns toward us. His face is flushed and glazed with sweat.
“We leave the main trail here.” He points to a steep path that angles down toward the lighthouse.
Kula’s tongue is already dragging in this heat, so I say, “Just a minute.” I pull out my bottle and pour water into my cupped hand. Kula laps up the water that doesn’t slip between my fingers onto the ground.