Bones of Hilo

by Eric Redman

  That allowed Kawika to turn the conversation to business. “Mauna Kea, Mauna Lani: you know the South Kohala resorts. I don’t; Hilo isn’t South Kohala. Dad says you wrote about the Hapuna Prince getting built, the fight over it. That’s the sort of thing I need to understand. How these resorts get built, how they make money.”

  “Or lose it,” she said. “Some have lost a bundle.”

  “Losing money—yes. That could be important too.”

  “Well,” she began, “you need to go back a bit.” After World War II, she explained, the government made tourism on the Neighbor Islands a priority. They invested in Hilo, building an international airport, a hotel strip. Planners thought visitors to Hawaii wanted nice wet tropical jungles. Lush vegetation. Banyan trees, parrots, rain showers. They figured tourists would never go to Kohala—too hot, too dry, no plants, no water.

  “And lava fields,” she added. “It’s a moonscape here—barren, empty, wide-open spaces. Who’d want to visit?” She laughed again; Kawika had begun to like that laugh a lot. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Nowadays South Kohala’s getting crowded. You know what they say? Everyone here has something in common: we all used to go to Maui or Kauai.”

  Things began to change, she continued, one day when the government invited Laurance Rockefeller to the Big Island and placed a helicopter at his disposal. “Take your time,” they told him. “Pick a spot”. He picked his spot, a perfect South Kohala beach. “I’ll build here,” he said. “The Mauna Kea.” But on one condition: that he be allowed to build another hotel next door on Hapuna Beach. That way, Patience explained, he’d have the two best beaches in all Hawai‘i, and no one on the Big Island could ever compete with him.

  “Nasty problem,” she said, “because Hapuna’s a state park. It was totally pristine back then—not a sign of human development. And it was sacred to the old Hawaiians.”

  Rockefeller got his way at first, she said. He built the Mauna Kea and made it Hawai‘i’s premier resort. But he couldn’t get anything built at Hapuna. For thirty years, neither could his successors.

  “An opposition group formed, called Save Hapuna,” Patience said. “Lots of locals joined. Lots of visitors, hippies, Native groups. Even Mauna Kea homeowners. They held concerts, raised money, took the fight to Hilo and Honolulu. In the end they basically lost, because the hotel finally got built eight years ago.”

  “Sounds like they lost, period,” Kawika said.

  “Not entirely,” she replied. “The hotel’s nicer now than when it was first designed—lower, less intrusive. More sensitive, better landscaped. Blends in a bit, don’t you think?”

  Kawika agreed; he considered the Hapuna Prince quite beautiful. “But how did it get built at all?” he asked. “After thirty years, you’d think developers would give up.”

  “No one can stop development here,” Patience said. “No one. Eventually the forces grow too strong. You’ve got the developers and their money, the investors. Next you’ve got the construction unions. Then you’ve got the locals who aren’t rich, aren’t retired. They want the jobs. They fight back against groups like Save Hapuna. ‘You’ve got yours,’ they say. ‘Now you want to stop us getting ours.’”

  Kawika sighed.

  “And this is Hawaii, after all,” she added. “Government here is, well, weak in some ways. Subject to pressure, easily persuaded, let’s say. So it’s majority rule, or money talks. Either way, development can’t be stopped.”

  “Depressing,” he said.

  She shrugged. “It’s just a fact,” she said. “If you promise jobs for the locals and spread money around, well, eventually you’ll get your permits.”

  “So what are the economics of these resorts?” he asked. “How does a developer plan to make money?”

  “Well, the hotel is just a centerpiece, a loss leader,” she explained. “The money’s in real estate. Attract people with a great hotel and beach, let them play a few rounds on a seaside course, get them hooked on the climate and beauty and aloha spirit. Then sell them a house or condo on the golf course or along the beach.”

  Kawika thought for a moment. “You said Rockefeller got the two best beaches—no one could compete with him. But now South Kohala’s got the Mauna Lani, the Orchid, the Hilton at Waikoloa.”

  “Even Rockefeller couldn’t foresee everything,” she responded. “Turns out this lava rock is basically just glass. It’s sharp—it’ll cut your foot. But bulldozers can crush it, grade it, create a new resort anywhere. You can dig a trench in it too, so you can lay a water line—even from the wet side of the island, since it’s so dry over here. And you can build a beach or lagoon. Bring sand in by barge. The Mauna Kea and the Prince still have the best beaches. But they can’t monopolize them—partly because of public access but mostly because Hapuna’s a state park. We have a snorkel beach here at the Mauna Lani. But for surf we get in our cars and drive to Hapuna.”

  “That doesn’t explain KKL, up on a mountain,” Kawika said. “Fortunato could build a hotel and golf course, I suppose, but how would he attract people without a beach? What would he put in his ads? A picture of Hapuna? Tell ’em, ‘You can drive there in half an hour?’”

  Patience nodded. “Here’s what he’d say: ‘In Hawaii, there’s public access to every beach.’ He’d also say—you guessed it—‘You can drive to Hapuna in minutes.’ He’d probably say, ‘Locals prefer living up on the mountain; not as hot, you’ve got a great view’—all that. But what he’d emphasize most of all: ‘You can afford it up here.’ He’d make a virtue of necessity and sell real estate at prices way below the Mauna Kea or Mauna Lani. Lower prestige, but lower price points. South Kohala on a budget.”

  He paused to consider what she’d told him.

  “Kawika,” she said gently, “KKL’s business plan doesn’t really matter, does it? You just don’t want the killers to be the temple people, the Native Hawaiians. You want someone else to have killed him for some other reason.”

  He almost denied it, but she was partly right. “Look Patience—or Impy or Flea or whatever I should call you—I do hope someone else did it. But there’s stuff we don’t know yet, and stuff I can’t tell you. We have to check all the possibilities. And something connected with KKL—something besides Hawaiians—well, we can’t rule it out. But if the Hawaiians did it, we’ll get them.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she reassured him. “I just hate to see you make it difficult for yourself. A man those Hawaiians hated destroyed a sacred site. He made them really angry, and he turns up dead as a human sacrifice, stabbed to death with a Hawaiian spear.”

  “The killer could still be someone else,” he noted. “Maybe someone trying to make it look like Hawaiians did it.”

  “Maybe. But have you heard of Occam’s Razor?” He shook his head. “It’s a principle of logic, a way of resolving uncertainty. It says if there’s more than one possible explanation for something, the correct explanation is usually the simplest one. Or at least it makes sense to investigate the simplest one first.”

  Kawika rose, brushing sand from his pants. “Well, we are investigating the simplest one,” he said. “But others too.”

  She also rose but stopped him, putting a hand on his bare arm, touching him for the first time, other than to shake his hand.

  “Kawika,” she said, “I want to ask you something. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No.” That was true, but incomplete. He knew he should say more.

  “Well then,” she said, taking a deep breath, “this probably sounds a bit impulsive, and I guess it is. But will you come back and see me? For dinner?”

  He hesitated, searching her eyes. “Okay,” he said cautiously, not sure what she had in mind.

  She let the breath go and gave a laugh of relief. “Tonight?” she asked.

  Now Kawika felt uneasy. “Sure,” he nonetheless replied. They were just family friends, he told himself, just two people getting acquainted—or reacqua
inted. It might be all she had in mind; it seemed plausible. She must enjoy company sometimes, living alone. He couldn’t quite imagine that a rich, beautiful haole from California would have any other interest in a hapa haole cop from Hilo. And yet, though he knew he shouldn’t, he still felt what he’d first felt the day before: a twinge of desire.

  Walking with her toward the hotel, a little disconcerted, Kawika noticed a sign the resort had placed near some path-side vegetation—a sign explaining shore naupaka, mountain naupaka, and an ancient Hawaiian legend linking the two plants and their half flowers. He paused to read the little sign, and Patience did too.

  All of a sudden I’m learning about naupaka, Kawika thought.

  The shore naupaka with its white half flower spread out along the path. But Kawika was thinking of mountain naupaka, with its corresponding half flower, a sprig that lay wilting in Waimea’s makeshift morgue, protected by the plastic bag in which Dr. Terrence Smith had placed it after withdrawing it with forceps from Fortunato’s pocket.

  11

  Pu‘ukoholā Heiau

  From the Mauna Lani, Highway 19—the Queen Ka‘ahumanu, or Queen K—follows the coast north toward Kawaihae, past Kamehameha’s grassy training grounds, then turns east to leave the sea and wend its way up the smooth flank of Kohala Mountain. At that turn stands Pu‘ukoholā Heiau, like a huge brown pyramid with its top cut off, one of largest heiau in Hawai‘i and certainly the most significant. Kawika knew the tale: Kamehameha sacrificed his cousin Keoua here, having built the heiau for that very purpose, so he could fulfill a priest’s prophecy and conquer the island chain. Within four years Kamehameha did indeed conquer all the islands except Kaua‘i, a failure the priest blamed on Keoua’s act of self-mutilation, his spoiling the perfection of his own sacrifice—in his desperate attempt to avert it—by cutting off the head of his penis.

  Jarvis had told Kawika that it was here, at a leaning stone of the ancient priests below the main heiau, that HHH held its meetings. Kawika wanted to see the spot. So while driving with Tommy to Waimea for his interview of Joan Malo, KKL’s receptionist, Kawika suggested stopping at the heiau.

  Tommy parked at the interpretive center. A sign explained the site’s history but didn’t mention human sacrifice, the reason for the heiau’s existence. At a spot well below the massive structure, down a narrow asphalt path, part of the leaning stone still stood, a natural obelisk broken into three pieces—from an accident, a sign said enigmatically. Countless feet had worn the earth around the stone into a circle; recent visitors had left offerings wrapped in long green leaves from ti plants. A warm breeze blew off the sea a few yards below. Little waves covered an adjunct to the main temple, a small underwater heiau where sharks once devoured the remains of sacrificed humans while the priests leaned against the stone and watched—another detail the signs omitted. Queen Emma had been born a hundred yards away. The signs did point that out.

  Kawika wondered why the National Park Service chose to downplay human sacrifice here. To avoid unsettling tourists and their kids? Or to avoid unsettling Hawaiians?

  “Nice spot for a meeting,” he said, gazing briefly out at the sea.

  “A small meeting,” Tommy replied, looking down at the little circle of bare ground. He kicked the ground lightly with his toe. Kawika got the point: Tommy resented Kawika ditching him at the Mauna Lani, treating him like a chauffeur and making him wait with the car. Silently, Kawika resolved to treat him better.

  They turned to study the huge heiau up the slope above them. The Park Service had painstakingly restored the walls, striking not just for their size but for their stones. The walls weren’t made of local rock. As Kawika knew, the priest had told Kamehameha the temple must be built of stones rounded by the sea. The closest source had been Pololū, on the windward shore of Kohala Mountain. Kamehameha issued commands, and a human chain had soon reached all the way from Pololū, with thousands of men, including the king, in a single line for miles and passing heavy stones from hand to hand. It must have made an astounding sight, Kawika thought.

  Looking at the temple’s stones, those thousands of tons of sea-rounded rocks from Pololū, each having passed through the hands of Kamehameha himself, Kawika had a sudden inspiration—one that would have earned him an Iiko, iiko had Tanaka been there instead of Tommy.

  “He’s at Pololū, I bet,” Kawika said aloud. “Peter Pukui. That’s where he’d go to hide. It’s the nearest good place. Way back in the Pololū Valley. That’s where we can catch him.”

  12

  Waimea

  “This is gonna be bad,” Tommy repeated as he and Kawika, sitting on an old bench in the shade, waited for Joan Malo outside the Waimea Police Station.

  “She’s just late. It happens in Hawaii,” Kawika said.

  “You don’t know her husband, Kai. But I do. We paddle together, down in Kawaihae.”

  “He doesn’t have to find out. We’ll keep our mouths shut, okay?”

  “Kai will find out.”

  Finally Kawika allowed Tommy the last word: “This is gonna be bad.”

  Apart from the caps he wore—today his cap read “Kawaihae Service”—Tommy dressed well for a plainclothesman. And Kawaihae Service, an old local gas station, had been out of business for years. To Tommy I’m an outsider in Kohala, Kawika thought. He’s letting me know it.

  Joan Malo finally walked up to the police station: a young woman, small, with a strikingly lovely figure. She wore sunglasses and a head scarf with a brown tapa cloth pattern. Her face—what Kawika could see of it—appeared quite beautiful but unnaturally slack, as if she’d just come from the dentist.

  She clutched a purse tightly and did not extend her hand to Kawika as he rose from the bench, nor did she acknowledge Tommy. They ushered her inside to a witness room. Kawika sat on the same side of the table and turned his chair to face her.

  “Should I call you Joan or Ms. Malo?” Kawika began.

  “Ms. Malo. And I’m not talking with him here.” She jerked her head toward Tommy. “Everybody knows everybody here. I’ll go to Hilo if you want. I’m not talking to the local police.”

  Kawika looked at Tommy, then nodded. Tommy snorted and gave her an ugly look. He pushed back his chair, scraping it on the floor, stood up, and left. Kawika and Ms. Malo were alone.

  “Okay,” Kawika said. “Why don’t you and I just talk? No recording, no notes. Just talk.” He pushed the recorder to the side, out of reach. “Maybe I’ll ask you for a statement later, okay? Something short, something we agree on. How would that be?”

  She nodded downward, then didn’t raise her face.

  “Ms. Malo, would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”

  She reached up, jerked them off, set them on the table. Kawika waited. She finally lifted her eyes. She looked exhausted, burnt out.

  “You want to know if I killed Ralph,” she said. “I didn’t. I was waiting to meet him that night. He never showed up. I didn’t know he’d been killed until the next day.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “And you want to know if my husband killed Ralph,” she went on. “He didn’t. He was on Moloka‘i with his family, got back the next morning. He didn’t know about me and Ralph. I just told him an hour ago. Right before I came here.”

  “You told your husb—”

  “I had to,” she said with a flash of anger. “You left me no choice. Tommy told me when he called: you talked about me and Ralph, right in our office. With Michael Cushing. And with Tommy sitting there the whole time.” She motioned toward the door. “Kohala’s a small place—not big like Hilo. Tommy and Kai, they paddle together, the same canoe club. I couldn’t let my husband hear about my affair from someone else. And if Tommy knows—” A sob caught in her throat.

  Kawika, abashed, understood her reasoning at once. “I’m sorry,” he said. Still, he didn’t think Tommy would have told anyone. But it didn’t matter now.

  “Look,” she replied. “You’re from Hilo, you’re just doing your job. I’
m the one who had an affair. I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. But it’s got nothing to do with the murder.”

  Kawika swallowed, his lips dry. He hadn’t been careful enough here in Kohala. He should’ve called Joan Malo himself, not asked Tommy to do it. Shouldn’t have asked Michael Cushing to name Fortunato’s lover with Tommy present.

  She began to weep softly. He handed her a tissue box, tried some comforting words. She composed herself, sniffled, wiped her nose.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Her coloring matched that of Ku‘ulei and Carolyn: glossy black hair, eyes so dark that iris and pupil merged, skin a smooth and uniform tone of coffee with cream. Yet she also resembled Patience. It was her body, he realized: small, lithe, very fit. It occurred to him she must work out at a gym—and so must Patience. Women with lovers, women without husbands: What portion of the gym-going population? he wondered.

  “Maybe I should start,” she suggested. “Then you can ask me questions.”

  “Okay. That would be fine.”

  Ms. Malo explained she’d joined KKL three years earlier, in 1999. For a long time she’d worked for Fortunato “without anything happening,” as she put it. Still, she’d begun to admire him and started to fall for him a bit. It was the situation. He was her boss—not especially nice, not especially handsome, although he could be very funny. But she saw him only at work, always in action, always powerful and making things happen. “And I didn’t have to wash his underwear,” she said. “Isn’t that what women say? I didn’t have to ask him to take out the garbage.”

  Kawika nodded sympathetically, hoping to encourage her.