by Eric Redman
“And inherited that somehow?” Kawika asked. Kimaio smiled, then shrugged.
“Okay, fast forward,” Kimaio went on. “Ralph’s working with his granddad, only now he’s doing construction: foundations, driveways, docks, putting in septic tanks. Yuppies are beginning to come to the San Juans, building summer homes. Ralph makes money off ’em. Sells some land, pours some concrete.”
“I’m starting to see where this is going,” Kawika said.
“I’m sure you are,” said Kimaio. “Ralph learned the game, but the San Juans—that’s small-stakes poker. No big real estate developments, just one house at a time. So when granddad dies, in the 1980s, Ralph moves to the Methow Valley. You know the Methow?
“I visited a few times, like most Seattle folks.”
“Okay. So Ralph leaves the islands, takes a boat to the mainland, and then it’s Highway 20 all the way.”
Highway 20 to the Methow, Highway 19 to the Mauna Lani, Kawika thought. North Cascades to the Queen K.
“If you’ve been to the Methow, you probably know about the ski resort that never got built?”
“Heard about it,” Kawika replied. “Big controversy, yeah?”
“Yup. Well, Ralph gets a job with the ski resort company. They’d been trying for years to get permits, hoped to make it another Sun Valley. They put Ralph in charge of heavy equipment: bulldozers, earth movers. No buildings going up yet; the resort’s still on hold. But he’s down in the dirt doing infrastructure, running a crew. And he marries a local woman—his first wife. She came from pioneers. Big break for Ralph because now he’s a local by marriage. Drinking with the boys, starting to get ideas. Eventually he decides to develop a resort himself. Which is how our paths happen to cross.”
“You investigated him for fraud, right? And destruction of the wintering shelter?”
“Right,” Kimaio said. “Here’s what happened. First, Ralph gets an option on a big spread—Rattlesnake Ranch, about fifteen hundred acres. He doesn’t need his own ski area. His idea is to piggyback on the other resort. Folks buy a place at Rattlesnake Ranch, they get wilderness, they get killer mountain and valley views, and they’re minutes from the slopes—he hopes.”
“Sounds familiar,” Kawika said. “At KKL they’re minutes from the beach.”
Kimaio smiled. “That’s our Ralphie. Of course, he changes the name to Fawn Ridge. Cute, eh? There actually is a ridge, and there are deer on it.”
“So where’s the fraud?” Kawika asked.
“Well, first, Ralph paid a fancy price for the land—to a buddy. Raises eyebrows locally, once folks learn about it. Ralph just explains, hey, money’s rolling into the Methow; wait till you see what the Microsoft crowd will pay. That just about killed Methow land sales for a few years, the locals believing Ralph. They put property on the market at ridiculous prices. No one had Ralph’s advantage, though. Because secretly, Ralph and his buddy split the proceeds from Ralph paying the inflated price. So right off the bat, Ralph’s fleeced his investors—not to mention confusing the locals.”
“Ah, that’s the fraud,” Kawika said.
“That’s just part of it,” Kimaio continued. “Ralph needs a golf course, even though he doesn’t need a ski slope. He plans to sell three hundred condos, plus home sites in five-acre lots. He can’t do any of it without water. Which is hard to come by there.”
“As I remember that valley’s bone dry,” Kawika remarked. “The mountains block the rain clouds. Same as South Kohala, right?”
“Right. And with water rights, it’s use it or lose it. Gotta maintain continuous usage or your rights lapse. Ralph’s buddy could never afford the manpower to irrigate. So he spends years running a scam—this is before Ralph. He keeps irrigation equipment in the fields, puts a little water through the sprinklers now and then. Folks can see he’s using water, but it’s a trickle compared to what he’s recording. He’s waiting for someone who wants to buy the land with the water rights. Fortunato comes along, they make a deal, and split the hidden profit.”
Kawika shook his head ruefully in admiration of the devious ways of crooks.
“Speaking of water,” Kimaio added. He dug in the backpack, came up with bottled water for them both. “Gotta stay hydrated out here.”
Kawika took a drink. “How come you couldn’t nail him?” he asked.
“Ah, that’s where it mattered, Ralph having an Athabascan great-grandmother—though an Aleut would have worked too. One guy in the valley knew what Ralph and his buddy were up to. Guy by the name of Jimmy Jack. An Indian. Married to another Indian—Madeline John.”
“Jimmy Jack and Madeline John? Great names for a couple.”
“Methow Indians, named for their dads. Jimmy hauled irrigation pipe around Rattlesnake Ranch. He knew the real water usage. Ralph’s buddy had to explain the scam to him, since the irrigation pattern made no sense.”
“Couldn’t Jimmy give you enough to nail them for fraud?” Kawika asked.
“Jimmy could but he wouldn’t,” Kimaio said. “It was a ‘White man speak with forked tongue’ problem. Jimmy was probably worried about his safety too. But more important to Jimmy was that the government cheated the Methows out of their reservation, back in the day. Gave it to some miners and crammed the Methows onto another Tribe’s reservation. So Jimmy hated the government and refused to testify. But at least he did finally spill, once Fortunato dynamited the old wintering shelter. Then Jimmy gave us the entire deal—the water rights, the kickback on the purchase price, all that. He said, ‘Ralph told me he’s got Native blood, but when he blew up the shelter, I knew he’s just another lying white man.’”
“But he wouldn’t testify?”
“Nope. Wouldn’t go that far. We told him we could make him. ‘You can make me show up,’ he said. ‘You can’t make me talk.’ We begged him to help us put Fortunato in jail. ‘Do it yourselves,’ he said. And after a while, we realized Jimmy was smart. We needed his testimony for the fraud case, but we didn’t need it for destroying a Native American cultural site. That was all public, admitted—right out in the open.”
“You couldn’t do the fraud case?” Kawika paused in his note taking.
“Nope. No independent records of the water usage. The inflated purchase price got treated as payment for the bogus water rights. Then the buddy invested—ha-ha—half the extra amount with Ralph, supposedly as initial capital for Ralph’s next project. Who knows? Maybe that launched KKL.”
“Makes sense,” Kawika said. “Must’ve needed some money before the Japanese backed him. But couldn’t you prosecute him for the dynamiting?”
“Couldn’t prove destroying the shelter was a crime,” Kimaio said. “Ralph had a report from some fancy consulting firm. Interior Department waffled; wouldn’t commission their own report. That fucked us. End of story.”
“Destruction of a Native site—so now history’s repeating itself,” said Kawika. “Besides Jimmy Jack, were there any people—”
Kimaio had started collecting the refuse from their lunch. “Oops,” he said. “Almost forgot. Brought you the paper.” He handed Kawika a folded newspaper from the knapsack. Kawika unfolded it and found, centered on the front page, his own official police photo—and superimposed over it, the red and white concentric circles of a target, with the bull’s eye on his forehead. “WONG TARGET” read the large headline. The photo caption read:
Native Group Sovereignty & Reparations blames Detective Wong of Hilo for shooting deaths of two Native Hawaiians in Waimea, persecution of a third. (Hilo Police Photo)
“Let’s save questions for another day,” said Kimaio as Kawika sat immobile with the newspaper, stunned. “Got a doctor’s appointment, and the fog’s coming in.” Indeed, beyond the kīpuka the sky had grown gray; light and temperature began to drop as mist spilled in over the edge. A rising wind stirred the tall koa trees. “Give me a head start,” Kimaio added. “I’m slowing down, these days.”
“We finish this another time?” asked Kawika, struggling to
recover his composure, not ready to be alone.
“Sure,” Kimaio replied. “I’m around. Not going anywhere. But that’s pretty much all I know about Ralph Fortunato. Call me, if you want. You know my number.”
Halfway up the little track out of the kīpuka, Kimaio stopped and gave Kawika a crisp salute. “Good luck, Detective,” he said, and added, “And you should trace that spear. Seriously. You do that, you find out who owns it, you’ll find your killer. Someone will know.” Then he vanished into the mist. With dread, Kawika looked down again at the newspaper, at his picture centered in a target.
Kawika dropped to his knees and threw up all over a native shrub.
29
Waikoloa Village
Kawika decided to check on Joan Malo’s mother again, and picked up Tommy first. The newspaper had made him suddenly crave some protection—at least some companionship. As they drove, he and Tommy discussed the case. Peter Pukui and Melanie Munu hadn’t turned up, and no one had identified the three-barbed murder weapon yet. Dr. Smith had called with DNA results: whoever sodomized Joan Malo, it wasn’t her husband or Ralph Fortunato. And Tommy reported that Kai Malo had indeed been on Moloka‘i the night Fortunato died.
“Yeah, story checked out. His family held a baby luau for Kai’s cousin. Kai played guitar. He was still there when the last plane took off.”
Okay, Kawika thought. Forget Kai.
But forgetting Kai wasn’t easy. Joan’s mother lived in a small, well-kept house with so many pictures of Joan and Kai it felt like a shrine. She welcomed the chance to talk. She hadn’t seen the paper—she said it distressed her—and didn’t recognize Kawika’s name. But she recognized Tommy as one of Joan’s high school classmates and greeted him fondly. Then in one long monologue, she recounted her daughter’s life, which, Kawika realized, was actually what he wanted to hear.
Joan had been born in Hāwī, her mother began. Joan’s late father had worked maintenance for sugar companies until the industry failed. Then he moved his family to Waimea and worked for the schools. He earned extra income from the County by traveling around Kohala, affixing little reflective rectangles to highway signs, selectively turning a, e, i, o, and u into ā, ē, ī, ō, and ū. “You can still see his work everywhere,” his widow said proudly.
Joan had done well in school. Her mother showed Kawika and Tommy report cards and honor roll certificates she’d saved, plus photos of Joan in school pageants, dancing the hula, or playing Pele—and once, an incongruous sylph-like version of the enormous Ka‘ahumanu. Her mother had a scrapbook devoted to Joan’s other triumphs, first as Miss Kohala, then as Big Island Beauty Queen, finally as second runner-up in the Miss Hawai‘i competition in Honolulu. The youthful Joan looked wholesome and desirable in swimsuits and in gowns she’d made herself.
“All the local boys wanted her,” Joan’s mother said, “but we told her, ‘Save yourself for someone better.’ She had it all—looks, brains, common sense. Her dad and me told her, ‘Go for reception, not housekeeping. You won’t meet anyone decent changing sheets.’ So she went for reception, and she got it.”
Not “Her dad and me told her, ‘Go for college,’” Kawika thought.
“The Mauna Lani,” her mother said proudly. “That’s where she met Kai, when he came to perform. That’s where she met Mr. Fortunato too. Great husband and a great job—all from working reception.”
Kawika looked at Tommy, who discreetly rolled his eyes. Joan’s mother must have been in denial or shock about Joan and Kai, Kawika realized, but she probably never knew about Joan and Fortunato.
“Well, one thing’s true,” Tommy told Kawika, back in the car. “Joan didn’t go with local boys. We were never good enough for her. Or good enough for her mom and dad. That’s why I gave Joan that stink eye, up at the station. I was still mad at her.”
“Not mad for Kai then?”
“No,” Tommy admitted. “Mad for myself. She’d never have me, right? She wouldn’t have no local guy before she got married. But after she’s married, she cheats with that haole dirtbag.” He turned to his window, his face hidden.
Kawika wondered what to say. “Tommy,” he began, “I’ll tell you something. When I talked with her in Waimea that day, I got sort of envious of her husband too.”
Tommy turned to face him. “Huh,” Tommy said. He sounded unconvinced.
“And today,” Kawika continued, “today, when I saw those pictures, I was so sad for Joan all over again. She was gorgeous. Very beautiful, very smart, very sexy. It’s okay, Tommy. We’re human. Let’s not worry about it. Let’s just find whoever killed Ralph.”
Tommy nodded. A moment later, lapsing into pidgin, he declared, “So, cool head main ting, right?”
Kawika laughed. “Cool head main ting,” he repeated. “I like that. That and stink eye. You got more of that for me?” Tommy laughed too.
Kawika thought about Joan’s sun-bleached Honda Civic, slowly rusting in her mother’s yard. “She didn’t need it,” Joan’s mother had told them. “Not after she got the BMW.” Kawika felt he’d found some missing pieces, understood better the puzzle of Joan’s desires, her fall, the lure of a haole lover. He kept it to himself. It wasn’t relevant to the case. It would be painful for Tommy to talk about. And Kawika had his own desires to brood over, his own potential fall.
30
Mauna Lani
The night Patience dined with Kawika—the night they’d spent together, the night of Jason Hare—she hadn’t known him well. She’d wanted him, certainly, but her impulsiveness worried her a bit. Was she falling into what her Bay Area friends called a “PDFF”—a post-divorce fucking frenzy? She couldn’t tell, and she’d been nervous, so she’d chattered a bit during dinner. One thing she’d chattered about was why she preferred Hawai‘i to the Caribbean and other places in Polynesia.
“Here,” she’d said, “I’m in a tropical paradise, but in the United States. I don’t feel like an Ugly American. I don’t worry that my pleasure rests on exploiting downtrodden people.”
She’d regretted it, of course, as soon as she’d said it. So foolish, she’d thought; so privileged and insensitive. But Kawika had handled the moment gently.
“Well,” he’d said, “it’s true the local people—most of them—want you here. And, yes, they’re Americans, whether they admit it or not. They want the jobs, as you’ve said. All the same, they’re capable of feeling exploited. Tourism does rest on their labor. Some are angry. Most just feel a bit …”
“Resentful?” she’d suggested.
“Soiled, I was going to say.”
Now, a few days after she’d dragged Kawika back to bed, Patience spent her early morning as she more frequently did. She brewed her Kona coffee, watched the sunrise strike the top of Haleakalā, then went for a jog. She loved the still cool air and the great mountains of her own island backlit against a dawn more pale than blue.
On this morning she noticed something for the first time: two rivers of headlights flowing down the mountain, one from Waikoloa Village and, further north, one from Waimea. For a moment she was puzzled. Why bumper-to-bumper traffic at this time of the near-night, snaking down the lava fields toward the resorts? Then, of course, she knew: the local people were coming to work. All coming to work for her and for tourists. She felt a bit abashed.
After breakfast, Patience got in her car and wound her way up the mountain toward Waikoloa Village. The traffic had vanished; everyone was already at work. Including Kawika, she realized. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Usually she would have driven straight to the Village Market. Today she decided to poke around a bit, explore the Village itself. She drove along the side streets, observing the housing, the yards, the flowering vegetation. She tried to imagine where Kawika had driven, which house might be Joan Malo’s, which belonged to mainland retirees and which to Kawika’s local people—the ones who worked at the resorts, who might feel soiled.
Returning to the Mauna Lani, Patience met her trainer at the
gym, then followed her workout with an outdoor massage. After that, she stopped for coffee and noticed the large number of single parents at the hotel restaurant, adults without wedding rings, alone with children, sitting placidly, their gazes resting on their kids or raised to the horizon. A guide explained to some newly arrived guests, “It’s so dry here, there’s not a single year-round stream on the entire South Kohala coast.”
Patience wondered about a year-round life for herself on the South Kohala coast. Or in Hilo. “Damn,” she muttered, with a small laugh. “I really am impatient.” Impatient for the night ahead.
31
Mauna Lani
Kawika and Patience awoke three times in the night. The first time, they used few words.
“Jesus, Kawika.”
“I know. Me too.”
The second time, she lay with her cheek on his chest while he nuzzled her hair.
“You’re an incredible lover,” she said.
“But not very considerate,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I realize there’s something important happening here, P. With us, I mean. I wasn’t expecting this, or anything like it. I know I should focus on it, but I can’t. I’m preoccupied with this case.” He knew that wasn’t strictly true. He was also preoccupied with his personal dilemma.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, and kissed him. “Be preoccupied. You should be. You’ve got a murder to solve. But not tonight.”
She settled her face on his chest again. He regarded the whiteness of her hand against his belly, the contrast greater in the low light. White hands on dark skin: it might be a novel sight for her—he guessed it probably was—but it wasn’t novel for Kawika. A white woman had raised him, and on the mainland he’d had white girlfriends. It wasn’t her whiteness that seemed unusual; it was that she wasn’t Carolyn. He was accustomed in the night to other hands.