by Eric Redman
Now, on the night before he was to meet Kawika, Cushing had finally gained access to KKL’s real books, the ones Ralph had never showed him. Cushing understood their significance immediately: no way could KKL possibly succeed. Period. Shimazu was wiped out already; he just didn’t know it. Ralph had cheated him.
Fortunato had paid too much for the land—far too much, even if he’d gotten valid title. Ralph had wasted—stolen?—far too much as well. He’d grossly inflated income estimates for the hotel and golf courses. And it would be impossible to sell real estate at prices high enough to make a profit, because the prices Ralph had projected for the benefit of the Japanese investors were a joke. Cushing couldn’t believe it. Ralph had used real estate at the Mauna Kea, the Mauna Lani, and Hualālai as comparables, for Christ’s sake. Hawai‘i’s top three resorts. But Kohala Kea Loa won’t even have a fucking beach.
It was time to put KKL into bankruptcy, a victim of Ralph’s fraudulence, although only Cushing knew that yet. And with KKL dying, Melanie Munu couldn’t extort a cent as the supposed heir to some long-dead Hawaiian chief.
So Cushing could have called off her killing. But he’d already frustrated Rocco once, when someone else had murdered Fortunato. Cushing crushed out his cigarette and lit another. He worried that Rocco had traveled a long way—twice. It might be risky to disappoint him again. Cushing thought about paying Rocco a bigger breakup fee this time—maybe the whole amount? But if the entire fee had to be paid, why not just go ahead with Melanie’s killing? Keeping her alive wasn’t a priority.
Cushing found it hard to think clearly. He’d been up all night, and the bookkeeping he’d had to unravel, combined with jet lag, the destruction of his financial dreams, and the imminent end of his employment, left him exhausted. So he went to bed. He woke up a bit refreshed and resolved to escape: escape Melanie’s killing; Fortunato’s killer, whoever that was; Kawika; Shimazu; the whole lot of them.
His objective for the meeting with Kawika, Cushing decided, should just be to talk: talk as long as Kawika let him. Talk and tell him nothing. Let Kawika say good night no wiser than when he’d said hello, and Cushing could get some more sleep. Then he’d be fully rested. Then he’d make a plan. He crushed out his second cigarette, closed up the office, put the top down on his KKL convertible, and headed down the mountain toward the Queen K for the long drive home.
41
Hilo
Sammy Kā‘ai devised a sensible plan to discover the identity of the Shark Cliff victim he’d dubbed the Handcuffed Haole, though he still suspected the man was a stray. First, he asked a fellow officer to look through the missing person reports. The Big Island generated a lot of them. Then he had Dr. Ko, the Hilo coroner, provide enhanced images of the dead man’s tattoos, the traditional anchor and the ancient aku fishhook with coiled line. Sammy had these printed on scores of flyers. Finally, he picked a small team—just two officers—to canvass the boats and crews in Hilo harbor.
The plan had shortcomings. Sammy knew his pair weren’t the most diligent; they were just the officers Hilo’s top brass were willing to spare. Maybe they’d get lucky on the first try, or early at least. But Hilo Harbor was jammed with boats—big boats, little boats, fishing boats, tugboats, all kinds of boats. Some were almost always out to sea. Others came to port only at night. And whatever else they did, Sammy’s pair of officers didn’t work at night. Some boat owners and captains and crew weren’t possible to identify, much less find. A lot of them lived in Honolulu or even Alaska.
Sammy had the pair check the Big Island’s other major harbor, Honokohau in Kona, a marina that provided all the frustrations of Hilo’s, plus a lot more lazy afternoons on the island’s dry side for the two officers. Sammy urged them to stick with it. “Sooner or later we’ll find someone who knows him,” he insisted.
Sammy did not ask them to check the tiny boat harbor in Kawaihae, the one near Pu‘ukoholā Heiau. The one with only a handful of watercraft, although it did include the racing canoe that Kai Malo and Tommy once paddled together.
42
Waimea
Cushing lived halfway up the slope between Kawaihae and Waimea. From that elevation, you could see twenty miles down the coast and far out to sea. But Cushing’s house, curved like a wide-angle lens, faced Kohala Mountain instead. People were meant to enter this house and walk right through it, out the other side and into the view—one of the biggest views on the Big Island. As Kawika drove up, he noticed that the Waimea cop guarding the house had positioned himself to be able to enjoy that view.
Cushing answered the door. “A yellow Mustang convertible?” he said. “Pretty nice cop car.”
“It’s mine,” Kawika said. “Second-hand from Mr. Hertz.”
Cushing chuckled and led Kawika inside. “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said. “Hope you understand. We’ve got the place to ourselves. My wife’s off leading a tour in Raiatea.”
“Good,” Kawika said. “Then I don’t feel so bad, taking up your evening.”
“How about a drink?” Cushing asked. “I know you’re on duty, but I make a mean Mai Tai. Personal recipe. Got the ingredients ready and waiting.”
“Can’t turn that down, I guess.” Kawika figured it might help if Cushing had a drink. He resolved just to sip his.
“Look around,” Cushing said. “We can talk while I work.” A half wall separated kitchen and living room. Kawika turned slowly to regard the décor.
“You’ve got a Hawaiian museum here,” Kawika said appreciatively. “You’ve even got an old ihe.” The four-barbed spear hung over the front door. Kawika walked over to inspect it.
“Correct,” said Cushing. “But not the murder weapon, right?” Cushing laughed to signal the small joke.
“Nope,” Kawika replied. “We’ve got that one locked up in the evidence room.”
Cushing switched on a blender. When the noise stopped, he said, “My ihe’s not just old, it’s historic. It’s one Kamehameha used in a famous exhibition for Captain Vancouver. Dealer in London got it for me.” Cushing retrieved limes and cherries and pineapple from his refrigerator. “There were six to begin with, all thrown at Kamehameha. He caught or deflected or dodged them all. Then he gave them to Vancouver as a present. Vancouver kept one, delivered four to the British Museum, and gave the sixth to one of his fellow officers, Peter Puget.”
“Peter Puget, as in Puget Sound?”
“Same one, the guy who raised the British flag on Hawaiian soil. Puget’s family kept his ihe for two hundred years. Finally they sold it. I was lucky to get it.”
“Amazing,” said Kawika, struck by who’d touched this ihe: Kamehameha, Vancouver, Puget. He reached up to touch it himself, running one finger over the four barbs. “Do you know other collectors, folks who might be missing an ihe?”
Cushing laughed. “Sorry, can’t help you there. Collectors of Hawaiiana don’t hold swap meets. We’re rivals, not friends.”
Kawika stepped away from the ihe and peered into a display case. “What about this fishhook?” he asked.
“Mother of pearl,” Cushing called from the kitchen. “For aku. I don’t think mine was ever used, though, judging by the fish line. Doesn’t look like it ever got wet. I think the hook was ceremonial.”
“The line’s made of olonā fiber, right?” Kawika asked.
“I’m impressed,” said Cushing, skewering the fruit on a plastic spear. “How do you know about olonā fiber?”
Score one for the Waimea cops, thought Kawika. Just as he’d requested, they’d kept key details out of the papers.
“Strongest fiber the old Hawaiians had, wasn’t it?” Kawika replied, avoiding an answer.
“Definitely,” said Cushing, completing his work on the drinks. “Hard to find olonā anymore. And who knows the old cordage techniques?” He handed Kawika a drink, clinked glasses, slid open the glass door. They walked out onto the lanai. Cushing set down a wooden bowl of macadamia nuts.
Kawika shook his head in admiration. “Your view
is magnificent,” he said. He couldn’t imagine what such a house must cost. Even now, at dusk, the bare flanks of Kohala Mountain, parched and ocher-toned at their lower elevations, stretched with increasing greenness up to a forest, over which a flat white cloud lay like a cloth. The ironwood trees guarding the road to Hāwī, the Kohala Mountain Road, stood in a dense dark line. In the failing light, Kawika picked out a few dwellings, wondering if one were Frank Kimaio’s. A pair of headlights, fused at this distance, slowly wound down the mountain toward Waimea.
The two men sat down and regarded Kohala Mountain in silence—the spectrum of fading colors, the trees lining the road to Hāwī, the tiny comet of the distant headlights. “Nice Mai Tai,” Kawika said, sipping his drink. “Strong, though. Whew.”
“So, how’s the investigation going?” Cushing asked.
“There’ve been some developments,” Kawika replied. “Not allowed to tell you much. But it looks like Peter Pukui didn’t do it.”
“What?” Cushing sputtered and sat up sharply, spilling some of his drink. “How can you say that? If he didn’t do it, who did?”
He’s not faking it, Kawika thought, noting the sudden flush on Cushing’s pale skin.
“We don’t know yet. But we’re quite sure it wasn’t Peter Pukui. I’m not at liberty to tell you why. You understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. Someone killed Ralph on an imitation heiau with a Hawaiian spear. If not Pukui, then who? Melanie Munu? Someone else in HHH?”
“Possibly. No one’s seen Melanie, but the Waimea cops are checking out the rest of them. Still, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Again, I’m not free to say much. The killing seems staged to make HHH look responsible. But whoever did it was … clumsy, let’s say. Culturally illiterate.”
Cushing face turned even brighter red. “Culturally illiterate in what way?” he asked. Then, sarcastically, “If you’re free to say, that is.”
“Well, just taking information that’s public, the ancient Hawaiians used javelins for warfare, not human sacrifices,” Kawika replied, sounding as if he’d always known this.
Cushing took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “I would have thought,” he said evenly, “that the killer is a modern Hawaiian, not an ancient one.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, this killing wasn’t designed to museum-quality specifications. The killer didn’t check with the Polynesian Cultural Center. He just wanted to say, ‘Let this be a warning to anyone who would desecrate a Hawaiian cultural site.’”
“Could be,” Kawika conceded. “But I doubt it. I think that’s what the killer hoped we’d believe. The good news is that you probably have nothing to fear from Pukui or Melanie Munu or anyone else in HHH.”
Cushing winced slightly. “So, is there bad news?” he asked.
“Well, we believe Mr. Fortunato’s death might be tied to KKL as a business venture. Something to do with the money, where it came from, where it went—that sort of thing. You worked with him, so it’s possible that whoever killed him may present a danger to you.”
“Jesus. You suspect the Japanese? The investors?” Cushing shook his head, as if trying to comprehend.
Kawika shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Mr. Shimazu was here personally. But he also could have hired the killer. Anyway, we’ve got to follow the money. Look at the books, interview Shimazu, and all that. We’d appreciate your help. You told Shimazu we’d like him to come to Hawaii voluntarily? Good. He’s being pretty elusive. And you must know the books pretty well; you’ve been preparing financial stuff for Shimazu, right?”
Cushing nodded slowly but said nothing.
“We can’t avoid visiting your office,” Kawika continued. “I don’t have to go myself, but my colleagues do. Guys in plainclothes. They won’t attract attention.”
“Of course,” Cushing muttered. Then, as if impulsively, “I’ve got things to tell you, Detective. Quite a few things, in fact.”
Just what Kawika had hoped.
“I don’t know whether this relates to Ralph’s death,” Cushing began, “but I’m pretty sure he was defrauding the company. That’s what I discovered, when I got to see the real books. And right now I need another drink.”
For an hour, Cushing ran Kawika through it: the grossly inflated price Fortunato had paid for the land, the ridiculous revenue projections, the absurd use of the Big Island’s best beach resorts as comparables for estimating sales prices of KKL real estate. Cushing explained how Fortunato could freely draw on KKL’s available cash. Cushing admitted he still didn’t know exactly what Fortunato had been up to, or whether Fortunato colluded with Shimazu. But he’d provided Kawika something new to investigate.
It was late when Kawika rose to go. Cushing, who’d consumed two more drinks, by that time looked a bit disheveled and completely wrung out. As he walked Kawika to the door, he stopped abruptly by the display case, the one with the fishhook and the olonā fiber fish line.
Kawika turned and looked back. Cushing stood immobile, staring into the case as if mesmerized. He shook his head twice and then resumed walking, now with an uneven gait.
“Lost in thought?” Kawika asked sympathetically. He could tell Cushing was drunk.
“Yeah,” Cushing answered. “Still trying to figure out Ralph’s scheme.”
“Me too,” Kawika said, cheerfully. He didn’t understand the scheme entirely, but he’d made progress. He’d also drunk his whole Mai Tai, a strong one.
Cushing walked toward the door, weaving a bit. Then he stopped suddenly again. His gaze drifted up to the ihe above the door. His eyes opened wide and he staggered back a bit, then looked up at the spear again.
Kawika smiled at Cushing’s impaired motion, glad Cushing had drunk too much, enough to lose all caution, enough to divulge what looked like corruption in KKL’s finances—a possible motive for someone to murder Fortunato.
Cushing shook his head as if to clear it, but kept looking above the door.
“Admiring your spear?” Kawika asked, also looking up at it. “It’s amazing, knowing Kamehameha handled it, maybe just a mile or two from here, yeah?”
Cushing nodded, then turned and followed Kawika to the door. A few moments passed as Kawika sat on the porch and began putting on his shoes. Then Cushing, suddenly becoming animated, said sneeringly, “By the way, Detective, you shouldn’t feel bad about killing Joan Malo.”
“What?” Kawika looked up sharply. The accusation and Cushing’s change of tone—taunting, out of nowhere—startled him.
“You know, making me tell you about her affair while that Waimea detective listened. I tried to warn you. You didn’t pick up on it, I guess.”
“What are you doing, Mr. Cushing?” Kawika, bristling, stood up to face him.
“You’re probably upset with yourself,” Cushing continued. “Don’t be, that’s all I’m saying. Joan was smart and good looking, but she was a slut. Her husband was bound to find out. Good thing it happened when it did. Otherwise, he might have killed me.”
“Mr. Cushing—”
“Oh yeah, I fucked her too. Everyone did. Joan loved it. Horny little bitch. Ralph fucked her all the time. He never did kinky stuff with her. But Joan told me that when Ralph took her to Tokyo and gave her to Shimazu—”
“Mr. Cushing.” Kawika’s angry tone forced Cushing to stop. “You’re not a Native Hawaiian, are you?” Kawika asked.
Cushing looked puzzled and shook his head.
“Good,” said Kawika. “Wouldn’t want to persecute you.”
Then he broke Cushing’s nose with a right cross, the hardest punch he’d thrown in his life.
43
Waimea
Cushing collapsed on the porch, covering his face with his hands. Blood streamed through his fingers.
“You son of a bitch!” he screamed, kicking blindly and pedaling with his feet. “I’ll have you fired for this! I’ll sue the shit out of you!”
The Waimea
cop standing guard came running. Kawika sat down on the steps. “Here,” Kawika said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pushing it into Cushing’s hands. “Here,” he repeated. “Use this.”
Cushing held the handkerchief to his bloody face. Kawika finished lacing up his shoes.
“What the—?” exclaimed the Waimea cop, nearly breathless. A small sweat towel hung from his pocket. Kawika took it and pressed it into Cushing’s hands. He retrieved the bloody handkerchief and held it away from his body.
“Take him to the emergency room,” Kawika told the Waimea cop. “Stop the bleeding first, then take him up there. His nose is broken. He needs a doctor.”
“What about you?” the Waimea cop asked.
“I’ll go ahead,” Kawika said. “Make sure they’re ready for him. And I’ll report this too. You saw what happened?”
“I saw you hit him. I couldn’t hear what you were arguing about.”
“That’s okay. Captain Tanaka will probably want a statement from you.”
“I’ll give your fucking Captain Tanaka a fucking statement!” Cushing bellowed, his face still covered with the towel.
Kawika’s meeting was over. Cushing had provoked Kawika into a violent outburst—unprofessional conduct that would get Kawika suspended from the case, Kawika knew, if not thrown off the force. At least he had obtained a sample of Cushing’s blood. It could never be used as evidence, the fruit of an illegal search. But it might solve a nagging problem. Cushing’s DNA might match that of the sperm Dr. Smith had found in Joan Malo. And that would tell Kawika something he very much wanted to know.
From his car, Kawika called the hospital. Smith was waiting when Kawika arrived. Kawika held out the handkerchief. Smith used tongs to deposit it in a plastic bag.