Bones of Hilo

by Eric Redman

  “Not a crime if he had permits.”

  “Yeah, but what if he got the permits by fraud, like S&R says? Then there could be a federal investigation, right?”

  “Where you going with this?” Tanaka asked. “We’ve got our own investigation.”

  “The Feds have better tools.”

  “Which tools?”

  “Plus the Feds investigated this before, when Fortunato blew up that Indian site,” Kawika went on. “So I’m thinking when I see Frank Kimaio, our retired FBI guy up on Kohala Mountain, I’ll pick his brain about how the FBI ran their investigation, what exactly they did. Maybe they can learn things we can’t.”

  “Which tools?” Tanaka repeated.

  “Well, wiretaps for a start.”

  “Just a start, Kawika?”

  “Yeah, Terry. And the Feds can use a grand jury too.”

  He hung up, thinking about the pile of rocks, the bulldozer, and what Patience had said about South Kohala lava being as brittle as glass. He remembered, too, what Carolyn had said: “All this development, it doesn’t have any boundaries”. And apparently one less boundary marker as well.

  After work, still juggling two women uneasily in his mind, Kawika called Patience to tell her he’d return to South Kohala in a day or two. Then he joined Carolyn for dinner again at Café Pesto on Hilo’s waterfront. As they arrived the sagging black sky finally ruptured. The clouds disgorged themselves and rain fell hard, hard enough to break the bones of Hilo. Kawika and Carolyn watched from the café window, transfixed. However familiar, the sight always filled him with awe. But this time what struck him was the contrast with South Kohala, where what falls hard is sun, and it falls on flesh.

  27

  Hilo

  Kawika spent the night at his own house, alone, and slept deeply. Rested and energized the next morning—and trying to tell himself the prospect of seeing Patience had nothing to do with it—Kawika went to work early and made calls to South Kohala, preparing for his visit. He called Tommy first.

  “So, Tommy,” he said, “you know some guys there in Waimea, want to hunt on KKL land?”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “They call themselves tenants—hoa‘āina tenants. Hawaiian word. ‘Traditional land rights,’ I guess you’d say.”

  “Any of ’em Waimea police?”

  “A few.”

  “You?”

  “No way.”

  “You hunt, don’t you?” Kawika asked.

  “Yeah, but I hunt for meat. I’ve got a family and a freezer to fill. I don’t hunt for money.”

  “So you do know these guys.”

  “I see what you’re saying. Should have thought of it myself. Okay, I’ll check ’em out. Anything else? Need a car?”

  “No, but I do need Frank Kimaio’s number, if it’s handy.”

  “No problem: 555-8998.”

  “Easy to remember,” Kawika commented.

  “That’s what Terry said too,” Tommy replied.

  Next Kawika called Kohala Kats. A woman answered, “Aloha. Kohala Kats.”

  “Aloha. This is Detective Kawika Wong calling from Hilo.”

  “Right. Nice try.”

  “Excuse me?” Kawika said.

  “Right, you’re Detective Wong—and I’m Queen Emma.”

  “Actually, I am Detective Wong. Who are you, when you’re not Queen Emma?”

  The line was silent for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said at last. “I’m Malia Evans. I was just reading about you in the paper. I can’t believe it’s you calling.”

  “Yesterday’s paper,” Kawika said. “Old news, eh?”

  “Today’s paper, over here,” she replied. “Might be yesterday’s news in Hilo. We’re on island time here.”

  “Well,” Kawika said, “don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”

  “I don’t believe anything I read in the paper. And you didn’t shoot that couple up in Waimea, did you? I bet someone else did that.”

  “Correct,” he replied. “Look, Ms. Evans, I’m trying to reach Jason Hare. He works for you, right?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t he work for Kohala Kats?”

  “Oh, he did for years, but not much this year. Did a little work at the Mauna Kea a while back—just a couple of mornings. Hasn’t been around since.”

  “The Mauna Lani, you mean.” And she must mean nights, not mornings, he thought.

  “No, the Mauna Kea. Not the Mauna Lani.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But he brought you a check from the Mauna Lani—from Patience Quinn?”

  “Nope,” said Malia Evans with a laugh. “That came in the mail, plain envelope, address on the check. I’m just writing her a thank-you. Jason Hare brings me a check, I’d remember it—let me tell you. I will say, the man absolutely loves cats—almost a fanatic—and he’s very gentle with them. So I’m quite fond of him, really. But I don’t think he’s ever had two nickels to rub together.”

  “Any idea how I can find him, then?”

  “Simple. Just drive Highway 19—the Queen K nowadays. Silly, isn’t it, naming highways for Kamehameha’s wives? Good thing we’ve got a lot of ’em. Anyway, Jason’s out there all the time. Can’t miss him. Guy in a loincloth—or just a Speedo, some days—walking along with a tall staff like some lost prophet, and brown as a coconut.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that. A colorful guy, it seems. Though he was a bit better dressed, the night I met him. And by the way, since you’re in Kawaihae, do you know Peter Pukui, by chance?”

  “Not by chance—by rescuing his cats. He’s a total cat abuser. The worst. We’ve been rescuing Peter’s cats for years—Jason Hare helped us with that in the past. Jason even reported Peter to Animal Welfare. Newspaper says you’re persecuting Peter. Go ahead and persecute him, I say. But no one’s seen him lately. Not his girlfriend either. Melanie Munu. Sometimes she hangs out with him, feeds his cats. But lately we’ve been going over there and feeding them ourselves. She’s not around, and neither is Peter. I’ve half a mind to rescue this bunch of cats too.”

  Kawika called Dr. Terrence Smith next. His assistant explained it was Dr. Smith’s day off. “You could try him at the museum,” she offered. “North Kohala Historical. He volunteers there on his days off.”

  “Thanks. If I don’t reach him, have him call me, okay?”

  “Okay, I will. And you be careful now, yeah? We’ve all seen the paper. We’re worried about you.”

  Next, Kawika dialed Frank Kimaio, the retired FBI agent.

  “Detective Wong?” Kimaio answered on the third ring, without saying hello.

  “Mr. Kimaio?” Kawika asked, a bit puzzled. “Did Tommy tell you I’d be calling?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, then … I’d really like to pick your brain about Ralph Fortunato. I understand you headed the mainland investigation.”

  “Not exactly headed. But I did work on it, the investigation of Fortunato’s resort.”

  “Right. Well, I’m coming to South Kohala today. Could I meet you on the way, take you to lunch?”

  Kimaio took a moment to reply. “Look, Detective,” he said, “you’re sort of conspicuous today—the newspaper over here, you know. Me, I’m retired FBI. I moved here to be inconspicuous. Sent a lot of guys to prison. I don’t want to have to start watching my back.”

  “Oh,” Kawika said. “Of course. I understand. Should have thought of that. I haven’t actually seen the paper over there, just yesterday’s Hilo paper.”

  “Was it bad in Hilo?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “Well, I’ve got an idea,” Kimaio said. “You driving over the Saddle Road?”

  “Yup.”

  “Your car unmarked?”

  “Yup. It’s mine. I had a cop car from Waimea, but I turned it in.”

  “Good. Then let’s meet on the mountain. There’s a good spot on your route, nice place for a visit. Park at the trail
head near the power line right of way. You know it?”

  “I’ve seen it, I think.”

  “Good. Park there, take the old cattle trail over the lava. After a while, you’ll come to a kipuka. I’ll meet you there.”

  “A kipuka?”

  “Yeah, a little island of native forest. The lava just split and flowed around it. Very beautiful. One of my favorite places. Lots of native species. No tourists. No locals anyway. I’ll bring something for lunch. Around eleven, say? Can’t leave it too late—clouds roll in around one. Easy to get lost in the fog, coming back over the lava.”

  Kawika was happy to meet out of the public eye; he’d begun to feel apprehensive about the newspaper the Kohala folks seemed to be reading. His next call, with Michael Cushing, heightened his unease.

  “I’m happy to see you, Detective,” Cushing began, “but not at the office, okay? You’re the wrong kind of celebrity these days. People see you coming in, we’d have an angry crowd in no time. How about my house, tomorrow night?”

  Kawika had been thinking tonight. He’d planned to see Kimaio and Cushing, spend the night with Patience—any resolve he’d had not to see her had weakened the nearer South Kohala became—then the next morning interview the Murphys, who’d returned from California at Tanaka’s insistence. After that he’d head back to Hilo. If he had to wait and see Cushing the second evening, he’d end up spending an extra night in South Kohala.

  “Would tonight work for you?” Kawika asked, fighting the temptation of that extra night.

  “Sorry, no,” Cushing replied. “Gotta get financial reports to Japan by tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” said Kawika. It’s out of my hands, he thought.

  He next reached the lawyer Ted Pohano in Kailua. “I want to meet the Murphys tomorrow at their house,” Kawika said. “You’re welcome to join, of course.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid,” said Pohano. “I’ve got them meeting a criminal lawyer in Honolulu tomorrow.”

  “You’re not a criminal lawyer?”

  “Not really. They’re going to need the very best, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a tricky question for someone who’s not a criminal lawyer.”

  “I try. How about the day after tomorrow?”

  “If that’s the best you can do.” I’ll be spending the night now anyway.

  “Eight o’clock?” Pohano suggested.

  Kawika considered how his morning might unfold at the Mauna Lani. “Nine o’clock,” he replied. “Nine’s better for me.”

  “Okay,” said Pohano. “Nine it is. The criminal lawyer, the Murphys, and us.”

  “Now, about your press release,” Kawika said. “Seems it did a little damage.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. The paper over here—someone was confused, I guess.”

  “What exactly does it say?” Kawika asked.

  “You haven’t seen it? No one’s read it to you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh. Well, ah, some readers might make the mistake of thinking you shot the Malos.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. The reporter kinda muddied it up. She wrote you’re responsible for the deaths—because of your investigation, you know. And she linked that with your blaming Peter Pukui for Fortunato. Got some stuff in there about Melanie Munu too. So she sorta suggested you’ve declared open season on Hawaiians. That sort of thing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Like I said: sorry. The article was just sloppy. We could clarify things in another press release, though—hail new developments, new suspects, and so on. Are there new developments?”

  “You’d know before I do, with all your inside sources.”

  “Yeah, I hear you met Bingo Palapala. Piece of work, that guy. What’d I tell ya?”

  “We were discussing your next press release, I believe.”

  “Right. Okay, how about this? We say S&R met with police and offered to assist your investigation on lines of inquiry other than Peter Pukui. And we’re pleased the police—led by you, Detective Kawika Wong—have yielded to public indignation and accepted our offer. We’d also clarify that you didn’t shoot the Malos, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kawika replied.

  “We could issue it right away. Or maybe we should wait till after you’ve met with the Murphys?”

  “Very clever. Now you do sound like a criminal lawyer: a lawyer who’s a criminal.” Kawika hung up and called Patience at her condo.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’ll be better when I see you. Can’t see you in public, apparently.” That was a relief, actually; less risk of love affairs colliding.

  “Public isn’t what I had in mind,” she teased. “Went shopping, got everything we need. But by the way, as I was driving up to the Village, I saw something kind of strange. You know how people over here write graffiti on the roadside, using white pieces of coral?”

  “Yup, sure do. Bleached coral on lava—blackboard of the gods.”

  “Okay. Last time I saw some graffiti that said ‘KW’ and ‘HI.’”

  “Initials, right?” he said. “Boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “That’s what I thought. But yesterday I noticed someone’s taken away the ‘HI.’ The ‘KW’ is still there. But after a colon it says aloha in block capitals: ‘A-L-O-H-A.’ What do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Kawika.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Could be a coincidence. But maybe someone’s trying to communicate with you.”

  “Two possible explanations? What if we apply Occam’s Razor, P?”

  She laughed. “Probably just coincidence, you think?”

  “Probably,” he agreed. “I mean, if someone’s using graffiti to communicate with me, how am I supposed to communicate back?”

  PART THREE

  KOHALA AND HILO

  Fallen is the Chief; overthrown is the kingdom,

  Gasping in death, scattered in flight;

  An overthrow throughout the land;—

  —Fragment of the epic poem “Haui ka Lani,”

  from E. Smith et al., Ancient Hawaiian Civilization (1933)

  28

  At the Kīpuka

  The lava Kawika crossed to the kīpuka consisted mostly of ‘a‘ā, broken and jumbled and sharp enough to cut shoe leather. At intervals he encountered expanses of smooth pahoehoe, once-molten rock now cooled and weathered. In the ‘a‘ā, the old cattle trail was a path of crushed cinders. On the pahoehoe—flat and hard and colored like a rain cloud—the trail became indistinct, sometimes visible where hooves had chipped a rocky edge, sometimes marked by small stone cairns.

  Kawika knew this vast stone plain was considered beautiful. Still, crossing it made him uncomfortable. Here, where human hands had built nothing—nothing but the cairns—human hands had defiled nothing, but neither were they present to comfort or reassure. Kawika trekked on, small meat on a hot rock, and—thanks to what he’d heard of the local newspaper—feeling it.

  Frank Kimaio waited at the lip of the kīpuka. Relieved, Kawika followed him down into the forest, an island of vegetation in a sea of stone. They sat in the shade of native trees, an overstory of koa and others. Kimaio shushed Kawika so they could hear the hidden songbirds.

  “You know about the avian malaria, right?” Kimaio asked. “Wiped out the native birds except at altitudes too high for the mosquito, like this place. That’s why we hear the birds. Honeycreepers, probably.”

  “Can’t see ’em, though.”

  “No.” Kimaio laughed. “They survive by keeping out of sight. Like most things Hawaiian, yeah?” Kimaio’s voice had acquired a Hawaiian lilt. He looked older than Kawika expected, still fit but sinewy and almost gaunt. His aged appearance reminded Kawika of Jarvis’s often-stated belief: “If you retire, you die.”

  Kimaio opened a backpack full of convenience-store sandwiches, chips, soft drinks. “No tablecloth,” Kimaio joked. “But I got paper n
apkins. And lots of lunch.”

  They ate, and Kawika felt reassured in Kimaio’s company, even though Kimaio claimed he couldn’t help much. “I don’t know about Ralph in Hawaii,” he said. “I’m an expert on Ralph in Washington, up to a point.”

  “Okay,” said Kawika. “That’s what I’d really like to know about.”

  “Then I’ll start with Fortunato 101,” Kimaio began. “Italian name, obviously. Great-grandpa came from Italy, caught gold fever, went to Alaska. Didn’t find gold but found a Native woman—Athabascan, not an Aleut. Ralph made a point of that.”

  “Fortunato was part Native American?”

  “Part Native Alaskan, yeah. One-eighth. It’s nothing, except it mattered later.”

  “If it mattered later, it’s not nothing,” Kawika observed.

  “Good point,” Kimaio admitted. “Okay, so bride and groom moved down to Washington, homesteaded in the San Juan Islands.”

  “I know the place. I grew up in Seattle mostly.”

  “Well, good. So you can imagine the isolation of those islands back then. Great-grandpa and his Native bride probably wanted isolation, an interracial marriage in those days. Ralph’s granddad was born there. Roman Fortunato. Roman fought in World War I, survived, got back to the islands, and became a crook.”

  “What kind of crook?”

  “Small-time. Smuggling during Prohibition, rum-running from Canada. Small boats, fast boats at night—no lights. That sort of thing. But he killed a man once.”

  “Killed a man?”

  “Yeah. Guy called him a half-breed. Roman would have hanged, but an appeals court reduced the murder conviction to involuntary manslaughter. Racial insults are ‘fighting words,’ the court said. Use racial insults, people will fight back. Still, Roman did time. He got out, Prohibition was over, so he made money grading roads, public contract things. Probably padded and fiddled every contract he ever had. That’s what Ralph learned, growing up.”

  “Fortunato grew up with his grandfather?”

  “Pretty much. Seems Ralph’s daddy couldn’t stand Roman. Got married, had a kid, then he and his wife split for the mainland—Tacoma, I think. The kid was Ralph, who got left behind with grandpa. So Fortunato was raised by a crook with a bad temper.”