by Eric Redman
Just when I’d finally decided, Kawika thought. “Shit,” he said aloud.
75
Hilo and Berkeley
Carolyn worried, of course, when Kawika didn’t show up and didn’t call. But she realized she also felt relieved. In truth, she’d half-dreaded seeing him; she wasn’t ready. The relationship wasn’t right, she told herself. She loved him, but she couldn’t keep going—didn’t want to keep going, didn’t think she should. She’d tumbled down a lover’s cliff and begun to roll incessantly, sea-rounded, on a stony shore of unforgiving doubts.
* * *
Patience didn’t dread hearing from Kawika, but ultimately despaired of it. He didn’t return her calls. Something had made him inaccessible. She didn’t know what—the distance or the case or their two such different lives. But she suspected the last of these. As for distance, he’d begun withdrawing in the Methow Valley when the distance between them was only from one car seat to another, and he’d suddenly stopped answering her questions. As for the case, well, it had brought them together. If it separated them now, that was a bad sign. After this murder there’d be another and then another. So it had to be their hopelessly different lives, she concluded. Like a stone adze of the ancient Hawaiians, doubt began to thud against the new life she’d been imagining, cutting the lashings, flaking the timbers, reducing it to rubble, chip by chip, chunk by chunk.
76
Hilo
At the station the next morning, Kawika again apologized for missing the press conference. Something personal had come up, Kawika said without further explanation, something he just couldn’t talk about. Tanaka waited. Kawika could tell Tanaka still assumed a tryst with Patience had kept him from showing up. He knew his terse apology probably made matters worse. But having thought about it overnight, he realized he had to be very careful with Tanaka right now.
Awkwardly, Kawika began. He wanted to make sure, he said, that Tanaka had considered certain evidence that made Kawika question whether Rocco had killed Fortunato and whether a Hawaiian group—S&R in particular—had killed Rocco.
“What evidence?” Tanaka asked defensively.
“Well, start with the confession. Rocco says he killed Melanie, and he says he tried to kill me. But he never actually says he killed Fortunato.”
“He comes close,” Tanaka replied. “And it’s corroborated. Cushing owned the murder weapon, and Rocco says Cushing told him to use the weapon Cushing gave him.”
“But that particular one? It’s about the most significant spear in Hawaiian history.”
“Yes, but no one in Hawaii would know that. No photos of it, no other identification. Only other person who knew its history, before Cushing told you, was a London antique dealer we’d never think to even look for. Plus, Cushing could always claim the killer stole it—which is what he does claim. Same with the cord. And the cord wasn’t public information.”
“But Terry, the confession doesn’t mention the cord at all. I don’t think Rocco knew about the cord.”
Tanaka ignored him. “The naupaka in Fortunato’s pocket,” Tanaka continued, “came from a flower bed right next to Cushing’s front door. Did you notice that naupaka, after you decked him? No? Well, the naupaka wasn’t public information either. We’ve got Cushing for the Fortunato killing, Kawika. End of story.”
“What about the shore naupaka in Rocco’s pocket?” Kawika asked. “Doesn’t that suggest the same person killed both of them?”
“It’s a coincidence, like we already discussed,” Tanaka said. “Cushing wanted naupaka in Fortunato’s pocket to make it look like Hawaiians did it. Hawaiians put naupaka in Rocco’s pocket so we’d know they did it.”
“But Rocco’s confession refers to a ‘sacred flower,’ Terry. Naupaka’s not sacred, is it? I think he was talking about ohia or something.”
“Maybe Cushing’s culturally illiterate. Carolyn said the killer must be.”
“Yet Rocco’s statement suggests killing Fortunato and then putting his body on the tee box,” Kawika responded. “That’s not culturally illiterate—it’s more authentic than what actually happened.”
“Kawika, the cultural aspect of Fortunato’s murder was merely simulated—crudely simulated. A haole was killed on a luxury golf course with a spear,” Tanaka said. “That’s all there was to it.”
Kawika tried again. “Okay, then, is S&R culturally illiterate too? So illiterate that suddenly they can’t spell?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Rocco’s confession spells Kawika with a v. Consistently. The envelope that arrived here at the station had the same mistake, didn’t it?”
“We can check—I don’t remember. But I’d say that’s a stray, Kawika.”
“And his confession never capitalizes ‘native’ where it uses ‘Native Hawaiian.’ Does that sound like S&R?”
The expression on Tanaka’s face verged on stink eye.
Kawika made one final effort. “Let me try one more approach,” he offered. “Once Tommy gave me a phone number: 555-8998. ‘Easy to remember,’ I said. ‘That’s what Terry thought too,’ Tommy said. Why did you think that, Terry? What made it easy to remember?”
Tanaka waved his hand, as if brushing away a fly. “That’s Frank Kimaio’s number,” he said. “It’s easy to remember because eight-nine reminds me of August 9.”
“And what’s special about August 9?”
“Nagasaki. The atom bomb. Hiroshima was August 6, Nagasaki was August 9.”
“How about eight-nine-ninety-eight? August 9, 1998, that is?”
“Like I said, Nagasaki. Fifty-third anniversary, I guess.”
Kawika clenched his teeth in frustration, but kept trying. “So eight-nine-ninety-eight could be a date? A phone number that would remind you of that date? A number you might get from a buddy who works at the phone company?”
“So what?” Tanaka said. “This has nothing to do with the case, Kawika.”
Kawika barely restrained himself. He wanted to scream, Don’t you get it, Terry? Every single clue in Fortunato’s murder turned out to be a red herring. We were meant to arrest the wrong guy—and we did. But Kawika didn’t scream. He didn’t say anything at all. He was sure Tanaka must understand all this perfectly. Yet for some reason Tanaka had decided to pretend he didn’t.
Kawika and his boss spent a long time regarding one another. Finally Kawika spoke. “Why are you doing this, Terry? I’d really like to know.”
“What’s true is this, Kawika: I’m your superior and I am doing this. That’s what matters. But as to why—well, whoever killed Fortunato and Rocco killed the right people. Whoever did it probably saved your life. Rocco could have kept shooting, you know; he had plenty more ammo, and that lava wall wouldn’t have stopped a pea shooter. Cushing did commit Melanie’s murder, using Rocco, and he tried to kill you, so Cushing’s not an innocent. And by putting an end to S&R—I think you’ll agree I’ve probably done that—I’m protecting your back, making Hawaii a better place, cutting down a nasty weed so more responsible groups can grow. Is that good enough for you?”
“But Terry,” Kawika asked, “have we gone from thinking it’s okay if the right guy gets caught to thinking it’s okay if the right guy gets killed?”
“Kawika,” replied Tanaka evenly, “in this case the right guy was caught. You forget—he hired Rocco.”
Kawika met Tanaka’s gaze. It was softer than a stare but not nearly as paternal as it had been once. “I owe you a lot, Terry,” Kawika finally said. “I owe you just about everything. I do appreciate your watching my back, protecting me. Believe me. I really do. Thank you.”
Tanaka nodded in acknowledgment, then brushed his palms together quickly, as if ridding them of crumbs. “So, you ready to get back to work?” he asked. Kawika recognized it as a test. A pause followed—but not a long one. Kawika had already made up his mind.
“If you want me to,” he replied, trying to sound game. “More than that, I’m even ready to scare a druggie for you out at Shar
k Cliff.”
Tanaka didn’t laugh, but he smiled. The smile wasn’t warm, yet it was the first smile Kawika had seen from Tanaka in a long time.
“I think you can help,” Tanaka said, getting up to leave. “And yes, I want you to.”
He didn’t add, Iiko, iiko.
Epilogue
“I’m a detective and expecting me to run criminals down and then let them go free is like asking a dog to catch a rabbit and let it go. It can be done, all right, and sometimes it is done, but it’s not the natural thing.”
—Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon (1929)
Michael Cushing pleaded guilty to killing Fortunato. The prosecutors insisted, and they already had him for Melanie’s murder and the attempt on Kawika, using Rocco. It wasn’t worth the sentencing risk to reject the plea bargain and go to trial, his lawyers told him. He began serving time on O‘ahu, but after threats from Hawaiian inmates, the authorities isolated him and made plans to transfer him to Walla Walla.
Carolyn, too, went to Washington once she received her PhD. She couldn’t get to Kaho‘olawe for restoration work—nothing had really started yet—and the rest of Hawai‘i just depressed her. She met Jimmy Jack in the Methow Valley, having contacted him through Kawika. She took a job with the Bureau of Land Management as a specialist in rangeland management and native species restoration. On weekends she worked with Jimmy and helped him apply for grant money. Together they made advances in biological methods of dry land weed control, discovering, for example, at what growth stage Russian knapweed seems particularly palatable to Angora goats. Madeline John taught Carolyn to ride on a horse named Monte, and sometimes Carolyn helped Madeline trap cats.
Of course, Madeline told her about Patience, but by then it didn’t matter. Carolyn had ended her relationship with Kawika, and Kawika had summoned up sufficient character to tell her the truth about his faithlessness, or much of it. “Well,” she said, “we were always better friends than lovers,” but unlike friends, Carolyn and Kawika didn’t stay in touch. She did travel to Washington, DC, each year on behalf of Kaho‘olawe restoration groups, working with Hawai‘i’s congressional delegation to get more funding. But she didn’t go home, not even to Maui.
One day Carolyn and Jimmy rode across Jimmy’s property to check the progress of some parasitic Dalmatian toadflax beetle grubs they’d planted as an experiment. Unexpectedly, Jimmy pulled up his Appaloosa and turned to Carolyn, who gently reined Monte to a halt.
“By the way,” Jimmy said. “This is where he did it. On this ridge, right here—this spot.” He spread his arms, offering the entire view.
“Who?” Carolyn asked. “Did what?”
“Your detective friend. This is where he figured out who killed that scumbag Fortunato. And he figured it out from my phone number—partly anyway.” Jimmy shook his head and smiled appreciatively, then leaned out from his horse and spat. “For all the good it did him,” he added.
Carolyn felt confused; she’d understood from the official story that Rocco had killed Fortunato, and that Kawika hadn’t figured it out. Yet here was a spot where Kawika had stood, marked as precisely by Jimmy’s spit as if by a stone cairn on the trail to the kīpuka. So Carolyn turned, accepting Jimmy’s offer and taking in the entire view, the same panorama of snowbound peaks Kawika must have seen. Jimmy heard Carolyn’s sharp intake of breath, as if without warning some god of love had given his deeply buried spear a twist.
Kiku Takahashi, the assistant curator at the Kohala Historical Museum, eventually checked and found that the museum’s absent four-barbed ihe had not been loaned to the Bishop Museum. Kawika, meanwhile, grew to suspect that the unidentified spear above Cushing’s door might belong to a collection accessible to Dr. Terrence Smith. Kawika waited for a day when Smith was at Kohala Historical as a volunteer, then took the javelin there and handed it to Takahashi in Smith’s presence.
“You missing this?” Kawika asked.
“That’s it!” she cried. “That’s the one! Where did you find it?”
Kawika explained in a few sentences. “Thank you, thank you!” she said. “Oops, I mean mahalo nui.”
“Glad to help,” Kawika told her. To Smith he said, “Walk me to my car.” Smith complied. “If I dusted that spear for prints, I’d find yours, wouldn’t I?” Kawika asked. He was still cataloguing the ways this particular blackboard boy had helped his dying patient.
“Detective,” Smith replied with a smile, “on the day I first met you, we both already knew not to handle an ihe without gloves.”
That taunt reminded Kawika—as if he needed a reminder—that despite struggling with indecision, he’d finally made a decision of great consequence. Stubbornly, he’d stuck with it. He’d let Kimaio go. He could have exposed him, blown the whistle, brought the whole dishonest structure and the blackboard boys tumbling down, whether or not they all got convicted. But he hadn’t. He wasn’t Mr. Clean this time. He’d learned—perhaps from juggling Carolyn and Patience, or perhaps from Tanaka—to lie by omission. It was not comfortable for him to realize that.
Kawika felt his decision didn’t reflect any satisfactory principle; it just seemed to accord with Kimaio’s advice: “Always conduct yourself the way that five years from now you’ll wish you’d conducted yourself.” Still, the decision had a messy habit of sleepwalking. Kawika wasn’t sure he’d ever reach the end of its unpleasant consequences.
The worst, of course, was that even though he’d solved the crime—in fact, precisely because of that—he couldn’t talk about the solution with anyone. He’d found it on his own, with no tips from informants, apart from Edgar Allan Poe. But Tanaka didn’t want to hear Kawika’s discoveries. That was clear. Tanaka had resolved the investigation to his own satisfaction, and Kawika knew part of Tanaka’s satisfaction lay in punishing those who’d tried to harm Kawika—Michael Cushing and S&R.
All this, especially his indebtedness to Tanaka, silenced Kawika completely. What could he say to Patience, for example, after his day in the Ka‘ū Forest Reserve? And after Tanaka had gone public with a story Kawika knew to be false? Nothing, despite having lived almost the entire investigation with her. He couldn’t expose Tanaka, nor ask Patience to keep secrets as corrosive to the soul as his. Much less, he thought, could he ask her to do so and still love him. And thus, with Patience as with Tanaka, he recognized—bitterly—that he’d chosen to let intimacy fail him rather than risk a great plunge in reliance on it. Like Fortunato’s murder itself, the corner into which Kimaio and Tanaka had painted Kawika had little to do, in the end, with Hawai‘i. But it was Kawika’s own corner, and if a way out existed, he couldn’t find it.
Patience didn’t stop visiting the Big Island. She counted herself a kama‘āina, after all, and resilient. She reluctantly accepted the official account of Fortunato’s murder and never felt sure exactly how the discoveries she and Kawika had made in the Methow Valley actually related to it. She managed to overcome her reporter’s urge to investigate further; she couldn’t be a character in her own feature story. And she wasn’t ready to confront Kawika.
Patience half convinced herself that Kawika had provided just a transitional relationship, that they never could have lasted. Friends told her the same thing. She’d already known, from marriage, that sometimes relationships can get broken in ways that can’t be fixed. And this relationship was certainly broken. She did grow more cautious, however, and she did teach herself to sit still. Yet she never stopped wondering.
In time, Patience made love again at the Mauna Lani and even awoke at night to find her lover deep in thought, staring at the ceiling fan. But she never again walked out on her lanai, opened her yukata, and pressed a man’s head to her bare breasts. That had been a sacrament, one she felt she’d received, not given. She would recall it in the small hours of the morning, when she held her cup of coffee and lifted her gaze to the sunrise striking the summit of distant Haleakalā. She tried not to look at the elevated tee box a few yards away.
When Patien
ce’s father next shook hands with Jarvis Wong, his old friend, he felt overwhelmed with wistfulness, with thoughts of what might have been. That same firm handshake made him dizzy with images of haole flesh joined with Hawaiian, the flesh of his flesh with the flesh of Jarvis’s.
Kawika’s stepfather Pat also saw things in a wistful way, although none of his flesh was involved. He, too, wondered what might have happened had Patience and Kawika chosen to be together. But he knew it was pointless. “A truck might have hit them the first day,” Pat said to Kawika’s mother, Lily.
Lily shook her head. “A truck did hit Carolyn and Kawika,” she insisted. “She’s here in Washington now. If they’d stayed together, he’d be home.”
“Maybe,” Pat allowed, “but a truck might’ve hit him here too. And anyway, maybe he is home.”
A truck of sorts did hit Mr. Shimazu. KKL’s collapse left him humiliated, not just ruined. His investors provided him a teller’s job at one of their retail banks in Tokyo. And they made sure he took it. A teller’s job with no chance of promotion.
No truck hit Jarvis. But he did feel bruised, believing Kawika must have failed in some unspoken way. He wanted to embrace his boy again, comfort him, but Kawika stayed resolutely in Hilo. Jarvis felt a bit awkward with his friend Tanaka, and even more awkward when next he encountered Carolyn and, a year later, Patience. Jarvis loved them both, in his avuncular way. He didn’t know what to say. Nor did they. They just hugged, each young woman with the massive older man.
The Mauna Lani Resort, after some internal discussion, posted on its website a simple statement that no features of its famous golf courses were intended to suggest Hawaiian cultural sites. At about the same time, Tanaka arrested Bingo Palapala, the official who’d granted the bulldozing permit, on public corruption charges because he’d solicited a bribe from Fortunato for the consulting firm Palapala secretly co-owned. Because of the bribe, Palapala went to jail even though the consulting firm’s report itself seemed otherwise legitimate and did prove convincingly that the boundary marker or altar Fortunato destroyed wasn’t a heiau.