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Bones of Hilo

Page 26

by Eric Redman


  Kawika shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” Gonzales said. “There are lots of restrictions on Federal wiretaps. I hope you understand.”

  “Sure,” Kawika said. “But why don’t we ask the judge to modify the order now, in light of new developments. Then you could tell us about the Hawaii wiretaps.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble, Detective.” Gonzales looked at him gravely. “We didn’t learn anything from the Hawaii wiretaps.”

  Billings nodded. “That’s what brought the Kellogg murder investigation to an end,” he said. “We didn’t learn shit.”

  “Not one darned thing,” Gonzales emphasized. “Then the wiretaps had to stop, once that year ended. And we never learned anything more about Ralph Fortunato until we heard he’d been killed.”

  Kawika frowned. Gonzales and Billings exchanged looks; Billings motioned slightly with his head, toward the door.

  “Well, I guess that’s it,” Gonzales said, getting to his feet. “Time for another meeting. Sorry we couldn’t be more help. But I doubt you’ll find your killer in the Methow, Detective. Or here in Wenatchee, for that matter. And frankly, I hope you never find him—or her. I know you have to try. But don’t try too hard.” He smiled again, making a joke of it.

  Kawika still had questions, but as they shook hands, he asked only one. “Mr. Gonzales,” he said, “I assume if you’d convicted Fortunato of murdering an Assistant United States Attorney, you would have sought the death penalty?”

  “Fuckin’ right we would have,” replied Gonzales, with unexpected heat. “That puta deserved to die. I’m really glad he’s dead.”

  Kawika felt grimly gratified himself. Thanks, Ernesto, he thought. For a while there I couldn’t imagine anyone calling you Ernesto Che.

  67

  Winthrop

  Kawika found a Cirrus pilot to fly him to the tiny airstrip outside Winthrop. Melissa Jane Harding waited by her car. He’d gotten her number from Directory Assistance and hadn’t worried that the operator, probably sitting in Alabama, might tip off Marshal Hanson.

  “You’re taking a big risk, coming back,” Fortunato’s ex-wife said. “People don’t want you here.”

  “Gotta pick up my car,” Kawika replied, smiling.

  “Let’s sit in mine,” she said. “It’ll be dark soon. Then I’ll take you to yours.”

  Melissa Harding tried to persuade Kawika he was making a mistake, not just taking a risk. “I know it’s your job to catch Ralph’s killer,” she said, “but not every murder gets solved. In this case, that might be a blessing.”

  “Why?” Kawika asked. “Because he was such a bad man?”

  “More than that,” she said. “For killing my brother, he might have gotten life in prison. But he also killed a federal prosecutor. And for that, he would have been executed anyway—no matter what, and no matter what the governor said, because it’s a federal crime with a federal death sentence. The U.S. Attorney made that very clear.”

  “Generally, though, we don’t execute people we haven’t convicted,” Kawika said. “If he’d been convicted, I’d agree: He’d probably be dead by now. But they never even indicted him.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give them the evidence,” she said. “I was afraid—a coward, actually. But trust me, Detective, the evidence did exist.”

  “Then why not give it to them now? Why not give it to me? Ralph can’t hurt you.”

  “Because I want all this to end. I don’t want you to catch Ralph’s killer. Whoever did it performed a good deed. Terrible, but good. I wish I’d had the courage to do it myself. And that should be the end of the matter.”

  Kawika sighed. “Well, there’s a problem with that,” he said. “Whoever killed your ex-husband didn’t stop there. He murdered a second man too.” Here Kawika was venturing much further than anything the evidence yet supported. But by now he was confident he knew the killer of Fortunato and the Duct Tape Mummy. It was his own shooting that he couldn’t figure out—along with what had become of Peter Pukui, Melanie Munu, and Jason Hare, why they’d disappear.

  “How do you know those murders are linked?” Melissa Harding asked skeptically. “People get murdered every day.”

  “Well, there’s a Hawaiian legend that links two plants. One is rare, and a sprig of it was found in your ex-husband’s pocket. A sprig of the other was found in the second victim’s pocket. Otherwise, their pockets were empty.”

  “Oh,” she said. She seemed to understand Occam’s Razor intuitively.

  “Ms. Harding,” asked Kawika, “you think your ex-husband killed both your brother and Steve Kellogg, right?”

  “I know it.”

  “Did you know that Ralph killed someone else too?”

  “No—who?”

  “A man in Hawaii. A man he bought property from so he could develop a resort. Supposedly his friend. A man named Thomas Gray, who drowned while fishing. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Oh God.”

  “My point is, once people start killing, they often keep killing. We’re not just trying to catch a killer. We’re trying to stop more killing.” Including mine, he wanted to add, but it would have invited questions, become a time-wasting digression.

  She stared straight ahead, then finally turned to him, eyes brimming.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you this much, but no more. Ralph and Bill went fishing the day Bill drowned. Ralph came home early, said he wasn’t feeling well, told me Bill stayed out there. Bill’s body was found the next day. Ralph made me promise not to tell anyone about the fishing trip. He said it would complicate his life unnecessarily, maybe harm Fawn Ridge.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, for one thing, I stopped sleeping with him,” she said. “I didn’t trust him anymore. Then he started sleeping with Corazon. Or maybe he was sleeping with her before; I don’t know.”

  “Corazon, his widow?” Kawika asked, surprised. “Corazon was here?”

  “She ran the Fawn Ridge office in Mazama.”

  “But she’s Filipina. Isn’t she from Hawaii?”

  Melissa Harding looked puzzled. “Filipinos live here too,” she said. “Ralph took her to Hawaii and married her there. Anyway, after all that—” She wiped her face with her hand, composing herself. “After all that, I knew he’d killed Bill. He’d killed Bill because they’d done something crooked together, something involving Bill selling him Rattlesnake Ranch. He killed Bill just as a precaution, because Bill became a risk once the grand jury investigation of Fawn Ridge started. Nothing more than that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kawika said, “but I believe you’re right. I think he did the same thing in Hawaii, just as a precaution.”

  She took a deep breath. “He came back to the house sometimes. He didn’t have a place for his stuff yet. A few days before Steve Kellogg was murdered, Ralph came and got one of his handguns. He went straight to the shop, where he kept his guns, and left without saying a word—and not carrying a rifle, so it had to be a handgun. Then Kellogg was killed. The next day Ralph came back and said he’d kill me if I talked to the cops. He said I’d never be safe. Told me not to talk about it on the phone. They’d be tapped, he said.”

  “Well, he was right about that,” Kawika said. “Did he admit he’d killed Kellogg?”

  “No, but I found out. The FBI talked to me—an Agent Billings. I was too scared to tell them anything. They asked if Ralph owned a nine-millimeter handgun. They’d searched our house and the shop but couldn’t find one. I told them I had no idea. But that was a lie.”

  “He did own a nine-millimeter?”

  “He did. He bought it just a few months earlier at a gun show in Monroe. I was with him; one of the last times we were together. He bought ammunition for it too. So the FBI asking about it, that’s when I knew for sure. But I kept silent. I was afraid he’d kill me.”

  And there it was. The last piece Kawika needed. The piece Gonzales and Agent Billings never had. He knew it might
not be enough for a jury. But it was enough for him. Now Kawika knew beyond doubt—his own doubt—that Fortunato had killed Kellogg. And that he’d created the motive for his own killing, his own appointment with the Big Island equivalent of Poe’s catacombs of Venice.

  Melissa Harding had paused and looked away. Kawika regarded her closely.

  “Let me ask,” he resumed, “did Ralph also—”

  “Stop.” She turned and held up her hand, fending off further questions. “That’s enough; that’s all I’m going say. Ralph owned the gun we both know killed Steve Kellogg. Satisfied?”

  Kawika started to say something, but she turned the key in the ignition. It had gotten dark. “I’ll drive you to your car. We should be able to avoid the marshal now.”

  There, however, she was wrong. They didn’t even make it to the highway. Marshal Hanson came driving in at high speed, bouncing over the gravel potholes and skidding to a dusty stop, blocking their path.

  “Uh-oh,” she said.

  Her concern was misplaced. Smiling in her headlights—this time in an easygoing manner—Hanson strode casually to Kawika’s door. Kawika rolled his window down, but only part way.

  “Relax, Detective,” Hanson said. “I’ve got good news for you. Your boss called—Captain Tanaka? He’s trying to find you. They caught the killer you’ve been looking for. The guy who iced Ralph.”

  Melissa looked shocked. “Who is it?”

  Hanson smiled broadly. “No one we know, Melissa—no one. Some guy in Hawaii hired a hit man, a contract killer. Captain Tanaka says the hit man confessed. And weirdly enough, it turns out that back in the day, Ralph himself hired that same hit man to kill Steve Kellogg.”

  Melissa and Kawika sat speechless, astonished.

  “There’s more, Detective,” Hanson added. “The same hit man also tried to kill you.”

  68

  Winthrop

  Tanaka spoke with unusual excitement as Kawika and Marshal Hanson listened on the speaker phone in Hanson’s storefront office. It was as Hanson had said: Tanaka had arrested Michael Cushing for hiring the contract killer of Fortunato and Melanie Munu—yes, Tanaka said, Melanie was dead—and for the attempted contract killing of Kawika. The Duct Tape Mummy turned out to be a California hit man named Roger Preston, who called himself Rocco.

  “Wait,” Kawika said. “Back up. How’d this all come together?”

  Tanaka laughed—a laugh of relief, it seemed. “A package came to the station yesterday. A lumpy padded envelope addressed to you, Kawika. Mail room guys figured it might be a bomb or anthrax or something, especially with people shooting at you. We evacuated the station while the bomb guys checked it. Turned out to contain a typewritten confession from Rocco—the hit man, the Duct Tape Mummy. The lump was an audio cassette, and the cassette had also been burned onto a CD that was in the envelope. The audio was Rocco reading the confession aloud, sounding very scared.”

  “Who did he confess to?” Kawika asked.

  “I’m coming to that. But first, it turns out Rocco had a room at the King Kam Kourt in Kailua, left the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign out. When he didn’t return, the manager began slipping notes under the door. This morning the manager finally went in. He found Rocco’s ID, some ammo, and guess what? A rifle for .375 H&H Magnum cartridges. Then he called us.”

  Hanson interrupted. “Excuse me, Captain, but that’s an interesting coincidence. Fortunato owned a gun for .375 H&H Magnum ammo. A fancy one, customized. European, I think.”

  “Perhaps a CZ 550 Safari? From Czechoslovakia?”

  “Sounds right. Bolt action, walnut stock?”

  “That’s what we’ve got here,” Tanaka said. “How’d you know he owned it?”

  “He bragged about it,” Hanson said. “Got it at a gun show, showed it off. Folks had to tell him, ‘That’s too big for deer.’ That surprised Ralph, I guess. So he said he was going to use it for cougar and bear. Of course, Ralph didn’t have any dogs to hunt cougar. Nowadays, you can’t use dogs anyhow. Voters passed an initiative against it. But back then—”

  Kawika interrupted. He was tired of everyone in the Methow—and Wenatchee—trying to deflect his queries. “Again, Terry, who did he confess to?”

  “That’s the amazing part,” Tanaka said. “You’ll see when you read it. We FedExed a copy to your mom’s and you’ll have it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Hanson smiled and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, no fax here.”

  “Someone snatched Rocco while he was shooting at you—caught him in the act,” Tanaka continued on the speaker phone. “We don’t know who they are; the confession doesn’t say. It just says, ‘I’m being forced to confess, but not by cops.’ He says he’s confessing in order to save his life.”

  Hanson frowned. “Shit, you’re not going be able to use it as evidence then.”

  “Maybe we can,” Tanaka said. “After all, we won’t be using it against him.”

  “True,” Hanson acknowledged. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”

  “We’ve got the prosecution exception to the dead man’s statute if we need to use it against Cushing,” said Tanaka. “But I doubt we will. Rocco’s confession said we’d find Melanie Munu’s body at Waiki‘i Ranch. She was there, sadly. That pretty well corroborated the confession. The confession said Cushing paid Rocco to kill her. So we confronted Cushing today. Made sure he had his lawyer present. Told him the Duct Tape Mummy was named Rocco or Roger Preston. You should’ve seen his face, Kawika! Remember he said he’d never seen the guy in his life? Well, he hadn’t. Only knew the man by phone.”

  “Cushing confessed?”

  “No, not yet. But we showed him the Fortunato murder weapon—the spear—and he admitted it was his. His lawyer tried to stop him, but Cushing said the spear was historical, that you knew how to trace it, Kawika. But he says someone stole it from him.”

  “Wait—” Kawika began.

  “Crooks,” Hanson interrupted. “Funny, aren’t they? The murder weapon always seems to have been stolen from them. But if they’re in possession of a stolen wallet or credit card or car stereo, they never stole ’em, always just found ’em in a dumpster.”

  “We played Rocco’s confession to Cushing,” Tanaka went on, ignoring Hanson’s aside. “He listened to the whole thing. Including about Melanie and about Rocco shooting you with the rifle Cushing stole from Bruno Moku‘ele. And after all that, guess what Cushing said? ‘But Rocco didn’t kill Fortunato.’ Then his lawyer shut him up.”

  “Wow,” Hanson said. “A negative pregnant with admission! Hardly ever see those. One time down in Kittitas County …”

  “Yeah, that pretty much locks it up,” said Tanaka, cutting off Hanson again.

  “But wait,” Kawika objected, suddenly confused. “Not the Fortunato part. And if Melanie is dead, then where’s Peter Pukui?”

  “Haven’t found Peter yet. It’s worrisome. But as for Fortunato, trust me, Kawika. Cushing admits he hired Rocco to kill Fortunato and that the murder weapon is his. And Rocco gives details that aren’t public. Wait till you read it, Kawika. It’s incredible. Whoever snatched Rocco was a very thorough confession drafter.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait,” Kawika replied, still skeptical, and looking over at Marshal Hanson, who was looking intently at Kawika too. “But did you ever reach that guy we were trying to talk to, Terry? You remember his phone number, right?” Kawika guardedly added. “And has anyone found the highway-walking guy?”

  “No,” Tanaka replied. “But none of that matters now, Kawika. We’ve got the confession.”

  “Terry—”

  “Go ahead and fly first class to Hilo,” Tanaka interrupted, obviously in a hurry. “The Department will spring for it.”

  Tanaka had to get off the phone—there was work to be done—and Kawika needed to leave for Seattle if he was going to catch a flight the next morning. But Kawika lingered a bit. He gave Hanson an accusatory look.

  “Hey, you got your man,” said Hanson, fending
him off. “Now you and Ms. Quinn are welcome in the Methow. Come back in May; the wildflowers are incredible.”

  “Before we get to that, Marshal, it seems odd that Terry didn’t mention Steve Kellogg just now.”

  “He already did, when he called me looking for you.”

  “He told you Fortunato hired this same hit man to kill Kellogg?”

  “He did, yeah. It’s in the confession, he said.”

  “Aren’t you curious? I mean, why would some abductors, way over there in Hawaii, guys who aren’t police, bother to extract that particular confession from this Rocco guy? He’d already confessed to two Hawaii murders, plus the attempt on me. He wouldn’t have volunteered anything about an unrelated murder here in Washington.”

  “Son,” replied Hanson, “with respect, I don’t need this Rocco or a Hawaiian detective telling me anything about the Kellogg killing. We both know Ralph Fortunato was behind it.”

  “Yes, I know that now. But why would Rocco’s abductors in Hawaii care about that, Marshal?”

  “Good question,” Hanson replied. “But I’ve got one of my own. You just learned someone saved your life. Grabbed this fellow Rocco in the act of shooting at you. Isn’t that what Captain Tanaka said?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But you didn’t ask Captain Tanaka about it,” Hanson pointed out. “Aren’t you curious?

  69

  On the North Cascades Highway

  The confession confounded him at first, but long before Kawika reached Seattle, he knew it couldn’t be entirely true. The notion that Cushing’s hired killer had murdered Fortunato was just plain wrong, Kawika was convinced. Cushing’s terrified, panicky fear of Fortunato’s killer on that first day could not have been faked, nor his reaction when Kawika told him the killer wasn’t Peter Pukui. Tanaka hadn’t seen Cushing either time. Otherwise he, too, would know that at least part of the confession was simply false.

 

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