Bones of Hilo

by Eric Redman

  “Patience Quinn?”

  “Yeah,” Tanaka said. “Woman who found the body. You interviewed her.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I’m just surprised she called.”

  “Said she has new information, thought it would interest you. About a couple who lives at the Mauna Lani. At the Cape. Really rich, right?”

  “Yeah. A couple, she said? I wonder what she’s got?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll call her later, okay?”

  “I’ll do it,” Kawika said.

  “We can do it together,” Tanaka said. “Right after we call Tommy.”

  Tanaka walked to the whiteboard. “Let’s get to work,” he said. Uncapping a marker, he began to write a timeline. He started with a dot he marked Death.

  “We know Fortunato died around midnight, because …?”

  “Dr. Smith’s best guess.” Kawika replied. “There’s also Jason Hare, the eyewitness. He’s not telling the whole truth, but what he says about the killing itself checks out. Like, he says the killer uncuffed Fortunato and recuffed him behind his back. That fits. Dr. Smith says Fortunato’s left wrist was cuffed twice.”

  “Ms. Quinn spotted the body at …?” Tanaka continued.

  “Around six AM,” Kawika said. “Maybe six fifteen.”

  “And Fortunato left home …?”

  “About seven PM the night before. Left work around five fifteen, apparently. Went home and ate, then went out, according to his wife.”

  By dinner time, working together, they’d filled the whiteboard with the timeline. Then they called out for pizza, sat down, and looked at what they’d written. The first entry went back three years: F arrives Hawaii 1999. The last entry was Today. The dozens of entries in between included:

  Heiau discovered

  Heiau bulldozed

  Angry mtg w/HHH

  Peter Pukui & Melanie Munu last seen

  Shimazu departs

  Kai Malo returns from Molokai (?)

  Joan Milo assault? (Tanaka added “Stray?”)

  Kai kills Joan & self

  Kawika felt profoundly tired, and it showed. “Let’s take a break,” Tanaka said. “Make our calls. Pizza comes, we’ll pick up again. Long night ahead of us.”

  Long night ahead of us. Not a bad title for a murder mystery, Kawika thought. He stretched, working to fight off the long night behind him. The night of Jason Hare and Patience, a night he hadn’t slept much.

  They went to Tanaka’s office and called Tommy. Tanaka put him on the speaker.

  “Need you to pick a guy’s brain,” Kawika said. “Retired FBI. Lives on Kohala Mountain Road. He investigated Fortunato on the mainland. He might be able to help us. What’s his name again, Terry?”

  “Frank Kimaio,” Tanaka said.

  “Kimaio?” Tommy asked. “Hawaiian? Could it be Kīmai‘o? You know, with a little stop? Don’t want to make a mistake when I go see him.”

  “No,” Tanaka replied. “It’s just a mainland name, I think.”

  “Find out what he knows,” Kawika added. “What they found in their investigation. I’ll follow up with him if you get anything interesting.”

  “Right,” Tommy said.

  “And there’s a guy over there named Jason Hare. He’s an eyewitness.” Kawika told Tommy what Hare had reported, and promised to fax his statement. “We’ll want to interview him again at Waimea as soon as I’m back there.” Kawika knew it had to be done, but he was worried. What if Hare talked about how they’d met?

  Tanaka said they should call Patience next.

  “Here? On the speaker?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Okay.” Kawika dialed her number.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Hello, Ms. Quinn?” Kawika said, as formally as possible. “It’s Detective Wong. I’m here with Captain Tanaka. We’ve got you on speaker.”

  “Oh. Hello, Detective. Hello, Captain.” Whew, Kawika thought.

  “Aloha,” Tanaka said.

  “Captain Tanaka says you called. About a couple at the Cape?”

  “Yes,” Patience said. “I thought you should hear this. The Murphys, from California. Both doctors, retired here maybe five years ago. Well, this morning everyone was talking about them. Seems Fortunato visited them at home the night he died. The Murphys told people about it the next day, down at the Beach Club. Apparently they really hated him. Turns out they’re suing KKL, trying to block construction. Something about defective legal title—title to the land.”

  “Defective title?” Kawika asked.

  “That’s what the Murphys told people. They were explaining why Fortunato came to see them. They figured he wanted to settle the lawsuit. But when he got there, he apparently threatened them. So they kicked him out. And then he got murdered not too far away.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Quinn,” Kawika said, making notes. “We’ll definitely talk with them.”

  “There’s more,” she said. “The Murphys have been buying up property at the Mauna Lani. They’re speculating in real estate. That’s what people say, anyway. And KKL would harm their property values.”

  “Where are the Murphys now?” Tanaka asked.

  “They’re gone. They left this morning.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I talked to them as they were leaving. After I heard about them at the Beach Club, I walked past their place on the way to my condo. And there they were, scurrying around, closing up the house. I said, ‘Pretty shocking about Ralph Fortunato, isn’t it? Everyone’s talking about it.’ Dr. Murphy, the husband, just scowled at me—and the other Dr. Murphy, his wife, she scowled at me too. Then he said, ‘Someone was going to kill the son of a bitch sooner or later,’ and went back around the house. Right after that an airport shuttle pulled up, and away they went.”

  “Well,” Kawika said. “Thank you again, Ms. Quinn. This is very helpful.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “Let me finish.”

  “Go ahead, Ms. Quinn.” Tanaka waggled an admonitory finger at Kawika.

  “I think Fortunato walked to their house from the Beach Club,” she said. “There’s a path—remember, Detective Wong? That’s how we walked to the hotel. In the other direction, of course. The Murphys’ is right near the Club, the third house. I think Fortunato parked at the Club and walked to their house that way.”

  “Sounds logical,” Kawika said.

  “The same walk I took today,” she continued. “And after they left, I even went up to the Murphys’ house.”

  “The gate was open?”

  “No, I just stepped over it. It’s not high. And I found a slipper at the door. You know, a sandal. A man’s Teva.”

  “Just one Teva?”

  “Yes. Just one.”

  “Did you leave it undisturbed?” Kawika asked.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t have my phone, I couldn’t call the police. So I took it, just to be sure you’d have it as evidence. Fortunato was barefoot, right? I worried the Murphys might remember his Tevas and get someone to get rid of them. Or it. There’s only one.”

  “Yes, but …” Kawika began.

  “I thought you might want it, Detective Wong,” she said. “Couldn’t Fortunato’s wife identify it? If it’s his, then don’t you see? It means he never got back to his car. It means he parked first and then something happened at the Murphys’. Something that prevented him putting his sandals on. And if it’s his, maybe the Murphys just overlooked it in their rush to leave.”

  “Normally we ask folks not to disturb potential evidence,” Kawika responded. He looked at Tanaka and thought, She really is impatient.

  “I know, but I figured you’d want me to preserve it. The Murphys might destroy it. Now it’s safe. I can always testify about how I got it, can’t I? Explain why I took it?”

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  “Did I make a mistake?” she asked. “If I made a mistake, I’m very sorry.”

  “No, no,” Tanaka reassur
ed her. “You didn’t make a mistake, Ms. Quinn. You did fine. Thank you. We’ll show it to Mrs. Fortunato, just as you suggest. It might even have Fortunato’s DNA. We’ll have the Waimea police pick it up.”

  “Whew,” Patience said. “I’m glad I did the right thing. You had me worried, Detective Wong.”

  “Keep it safe,” Tanaka added.

  “Keep yourself safe,” Kawika insisted. “Don’t tell anyone you have it. No one. Don’t go near the Murphys’ again. Promise you’ll be careful, P. No more sleuthing around, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Tanaka regarded Kawika closely as he hung up.

  “P?” Tanaka inquired.

  “Pizza,” his assistant announced from the doorway.

  21

  Café Pesto

  “You and Terry reach any conclusions last night?”

  Kawika had joined Carolyn for dinner at Café Pesto, her favorite, on Kamehameha Avenue facing Hilo Bay. Evidently she wanted to keep discussing his case—a relief for Kawika, compared with any more romantic topic.

  “We made some progress,” Kawika said.

  “So, tell me.”

  “Well, you know Terry: start with what’s true. Someone wanted to send a message. That’s true. We don’t know the intended audience. But someone took a lot of trouble to kill this guy in a conspicuous manner.”

  “So if HHH killed him, that’s why they didn’t throw him off a cliff?” Carolyn asked. “Because they wanted it to be conspicuous?”

  “Well, right now, throwing people off a cliff is pretty conspicuous too.”

  “Shark Cliff, you mean. What do you think is going on there, anyway?”

  “There, I’d guess someone’s sending a message to drug dealers, and the message is pretty simple: you’re next. So that killer is probably some rival dealer or maybe a vigilante.”

  “Or a cop,” Carolyn added. “Maybe a vigilante cop.”

  “A cop?”

  “Yeah, you know—some guy who doesn’t have time for niceties. Decides to make himself judge and jury. Executioner too.”

  Kawika smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “If you catch a drug dealer, you can convict him. You cuff the guy, you can send him away.”

  “But that’s all you can do,” she insisted. “You can’t kill him. No death penalty. So if you cuff the guy, you can send him to jail. Or you can throw him off a cliff.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Kawika said. “Terry says one victim actually had been cuffed.”

  “Ha!” She beamed with triumph. “Can you trace the handcuffs?”

  “Don’t have ’em. Killer took ’em, before he gave the guy the push.”

  “Well, start questioning cops—that’s my advice,” said Carolyn, disappointed. “So what do you guys think is true back at the Mauna Lani?”

  “We know it took a lot of planning,” Kawika resumed. “Special site, the old spear, and—once again—handcuffs. Probably a vigilante cop, right?” He smiled at her.

  “Right. Probably the same cop, Kawika.” She returned the smile. “Keep going.”

  “Okay, there’s also the olonā cord, another deliberate clue of some sort. You tell me—you’re the expert.”

  “Makes me think someone’s trying to frame HHH.”

  “Possibly,” he allowed. “Plus there’s the mountain naupaka in Fortunato’s pocket. We don’t think he spent time in the mountains before he died.”

  “You can grow it,” Carolyn suggested. “Not hard, I bet. Maybe he just happened to have some in his pocket.”

  “We also know he visited a couple named Murphy the night he died,” Kawika continued, “and we believe he was snatched at their house. One of his sandals turned up outside their door. His widow identified it to the Waimea cops today.”

  “One of his sandals? A slippa?”

  “Well, a Teva.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Slipper Dog strikes again?” Kawika suggested, invoking Hawai‘i’s most common explanation for a shoe or sandal or flip-flop missing at the door. “I don’t know. But I think that’s what Terry would call a ‘stray.’”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the slippa you found is planted evidence.”

  Kawika cocked his head at her. “Ever heard of Occam’s Razor?” he asked.

  “The principle of logic, you mean? If you can explain something in more than one way, go for the simplest way first?”

  “Jesus,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “Hey, I am getting a doctorate, after all,” she replied. “So is the simplest explanation that someone wanted to frame somebody?”

  “Possibly,” Kawika replied. “Not necessarily.”

  “You think the simplest explanation is that someone snatched this guy off a lanai? Knew he’d be at a house near the fake heiau, had the spear and the cord and the cuffs ready, then walked him barefoot—how far?”

  “Quarter mile, more or less,” Kawika answered.

  “Walked him barefoot a quarter mile across the lava and then killed him?”

  “Not across the lava. There’s a path. It’s mostly paved.”

  “No lava at all?”

  “Some pretty sharp cinders,” Kawika admitted. “The last bit is grass. Autopsy found cinders and grass stains on his feet.”

  “Cinders and grass stains—that sounds like something true. The rest sounds like speculation, Kawika.”

  “There’s more,” he said. “This Murphy couple hated the man. They’re suing to stop his resort. They knew he’d come see them that night; they had time to prepare. And then they blew town. Never talked to the police. The Waimea cops think the simplest explanation is that they killed him and tried to make it look like Hawaiians did it.”

  “Which could explain …” she began.

  “… the cultural illiteracy of it all,” he added, and she laughed.

  “You’re one hell of a detective,” she said teasingly. Smiling, she let down her hair and shook it out. “Does this couple grow naupaka at their place?”

  Kawika smiled again. “We’ll ask. Terry called ’em in California today, told ’em to get back here—not now, but right now. Wikiwiki.”

  “Wikiwiki’s for tourists, Kawika. Say ‘āwīwī—if you want to be culturally literate.” She laughed and gave him a small poke.

  Not ready to stop talking, they ordered dessert and coffee.

  “Fortunato had enemies,” Kawika continued. “The Murphys hated him, Peter Pukui and HHH hated him. Maybe his Japanese investors hated him—we think they were pretty concerned, at least. He may have been a fraudster.”

  Kawika told her about Fortunato on the mainland. “The Feds charged him for desecrating the Indian site. A retired FBI agent who investigated him, a guy named Frank Kimaio, lives in Waimea now.”

  “Kimaio?” she asked. “Hawaiian?”

  “No, mainland haole, it seems. My Waimea cop partner talked to him today. This Agent Kimaio says the Feds were actually trying to nail Fortunato for real estate fraud. They just used the desecration stuff to put pressure on him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Prosecution fell apart. Have to talk to Kimaio myself, get more details. But Fortunato’s development went bankrupt. Had a close shave on the mainland, came here, started over. Somehow he convinced the Japanese to back him. There’s definitely something fishy about it.”

  “Fishy how?”

  “I don’t know yet. But the Japanese are unhappy. I’m guessing he was ripping them off somehow. You know what Dad said about Fortunato? ‘He pretends to be nice, but he’s not.’ New enemies popping up all the time. But still.”

  “What?”

  “Like you said before, why wouldn’t they just throw him off a cliff?”

  Carolyn paused for a moment. “Maybe framing HHH was what they wanted,” she replied.

  “That actually looks like a reasonable guess right now,” he said gently.


  Pleased with that possibility, Carolyn nodded. “This has been fascinating,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Thank you for letting me in on it. Seriously.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Thank you for helping. Terry said you could, and he was right.”

  “It’s your biggest case yet, right?” Carolyn turned to face him directly. “Well, let’s go take your mind off it. My place—it’s closer.”

  “Also cleaner,” he added. And there’s no danger of Patience calling me there.

  She held his arm as they walked, her body warm and coconut fragrant beside him. His feet carried him toward a familiar destination. Perhaps nothing had really changed—nothing important anyway. Maybe the thing with Patience had just been an accident, an aberration. The thought made him swell with hope: Maybe the god of love allows us a grace period for mistakes and indecision.

  Carolyn, however, apparently couldn’t stop thinking about the case.

  “It looks bad for Peter Pukui because he ran away, right?”

  “No one’s seen him or his girlfriend since before the murder. She belongs to HHH too. Although she’s Maori, apparently. Melanie Munu.”

  “Oh, shit,” Carolyn said.

  “What? Is she bad?”

  “Not bad as in ‘criminal’ or ‘violent.’ Bad as in ‘political.’ She’s with S&R, Kawika—Sovereignty & Reparations, the Native group. She’s one of the founders. It’s not like other cultural groups. Not at all.”

  “They’re radicals?”

  “Very radical,” Carolyn said. “Not so much their goals. It’s their methods, Kawika. They’re always outraged, always going for publicity. Damn. If Melanie is part of this, you’re gonna be in Chinatown all over again.”

  “This is one mean tong we’re talking about? Is that it?”

  “Truly, Kawika. One very mean tong. Shit.”

  22

  Hilo

  In the room at the station with the big whiteboard, Carolyn, Kawika, and Tanaka held copies of a press release Sovereignty & Reparations had issued that morning.

  “We original Hawaiians may or may not still exist,” Carolyn said. “Either way, we’re incredibly angry. But nothing justifies this. Nothing.” She picked up the press release and began reading it again.