Mahu Blood

by Alex Beecroft

  “Maile Kanuha?”

  I shook my head. “I think she’s just a volunteer. We should request the tax records for KOH, see who’s funding the operation.”

  “You’re going to need a subpoena for that,” Ray said. “You have anything to show a judge?”

  “You’re a real party pooper, you know that?” I sighed.

  MAhu BLood 63

  “Well, then, let’s see what we can find out about Ezekiel. Maybe something in his background will lead us to whoever is pulling his strings.”

  We got some takeout for lunch and did a full search on Ezekiel Kapuāiwa. He had no criminal record, and the only information we could find about him online was either in news articles or at the KOH website. He didn’t appear in any databases not even in the division of driver’s licenses.

  “How can he live without driving?” Ray asked.

  “Maile Kanuha.”

  “Nice to have that kind of service.”

  “Hey, I drove you around for months before you and Julie got a second car.”

  “If Edith knew his family, she might have known something shady in his background that could be embarrassing for people to find out,” Ray said. “Maybe there’s something he was hiding.”

  It was like a light bulb went on over my head. “All those clippings and records Edith kept. Maybe there was something about Ezekiel there, something he wouldn’t want public.”

  “You think Greg Oshiro could tell us anything more?” Ray asked. “He’s been writing about KOH for a while.”

  “Maybe you. He wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.”

  “Ah, but that’s your stellar interpersonal skills.”

  Ray called Greg, and I listened in from another phone.

  “Maybe we can share some information,” Ray said. “You know, a real give and take with the fourth estate.”

  “You’re full of shit, Detective,” Greg said. “But my job is to cover the police beat, so if you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Greg,” Ray said. “That cooperative spirit.”

  He arranged to meet Greg at the Kope Bean near the Star-Advertiser office in twenty minutes. “Have fun,” I said.

  Ray shook his head. “I’m not going alone. You’re my partner.”

  64 Neil S. Plakcy

  I started to protest, but Ray interrupted, “Besides, you’re buying the coffee.”

  Thunder boomed as we drove out of the headquarters parking garage, and a lightning strike lit up the gray sky over the Aloha Tower. The palms on South Beretania flapped as a steady rain beat down. By the time we reached the Kope Bean, the shower had passed, though the parking lot was flooded, and a trash can had tipped over, spilling paper cups, napkins and stirrers onto the pavement.

  Greg Oshiro’s attitude turned cold as soon as he realized I was behind Ray. “Detectives,” he said, nodding. I took his order and Ray’s and went up to the counter, while the two of them settled in comfy chairs in the corner. Slack key guitar played through the speakers, and though I couldn’t identify the artists, I got into the groove of the music.

  I ordered us all the chain’s signature drink, the Macadamia Latte, in the Longboard size, their largest. By the time I brought the coffees over, Ray and Greg were laughing like old friends, but that dried up as I pulled up a wooden chair and sat down.

  “What have you got for me?” Greg asked, turning all business.

  I resisted the urge to open my mouth and let Ray do the talking.

  “You know that somebody broke into the house of the woman who was killed at the rally?”

  Greg pulled out a notebook and flipped it open to a clean page. “When?”

  Ray gave him the details.

  “You think it was related to her death?”

  “We’re looking into her background,” Ray said. “On the surface, it looks like she was an innocent victim. But we’ll see.”

  He sipped his coffee as Greg took notes. When the reporter looked up, he saw both of us watching him. His body language eased, and I had the feeling he was ready to give us something.

  “What can I tell you?” Greg asked. “You must have read my MAhu BLood 65

  profile in the paper. She came up clean. Just an old woman who was dedicated to helping Hawaiian people.”

  “How about the group?” Ray said. “Kingdom of Hawai’i.

  You know who’s behind it? Can’t just be Ezekiel Kapuiawa.”

  “They’re a lot like many of the groups. Although Ezekiel is the front man, volunteers set up the events, generate the publicity, raise the money. You’ve met Maile Kanuha, right?” We both nodded.

  “She’s dedicated, and there are a few more like her.”

  “How about the money?” I asked. “Just small contributions?

  Or anything bigger?”

  “There’s something shaky about the foundation of the group.

  I looked up all their contributors, and a lot of the money comes from a bunch of businesses. The Kope Bean is one of them.”

  He motioned with his cup toward the café’s logo, a coffee bean on a surfboard. “But figuring out who’s behind those corporate donors is another story.”

  “What do you mean?” Ray asked.

  “The Kope Bean is owned by a corporation, Mahalo Coffee, LLC. But who owns Mahalo Coffee? Another corporation, out of Japan. The other big corporate donors are the same—owned by another corporation, which is in turn owned by another. I haven’t been able to track them back to real people.”

  Ray made some notes, getting Greg to spell out all the corporations he hadn’t been able to track. “Anything else?” I asked. “Anything that hasn’t made it into the paper yet?”

  Greg chewed on his bottom lip for a minute. “You know they advocate genetic testing?”

  We both shook our heads. “They haven’t gone public with it yet—I have a source who told me about this program they’re going to start. They want to identify people who have as close to 100% Native Hawaiian genes, and then encourage those people to marry others with the same genetic profile.”

  “Sounds like the Nazis and racial purity,” Ray said.

  66 Neil S. Plakcy

  “They say they’re trying to protect the native people. But Ezekiel’s own background is cloudy. There are these big gaps in his history. Was he out of the country? In hiding? Everybody’s got records these days. Job history, driver’s license, bank records.

  Kapuāiwa doesn’t have a lot of that. Maybe it’s that Ezekiel himself is kind of weird. I have a feeling he’s hiding something.”

  “I had that feeling, too, when we talked to him.” I remembered how nutty Ezekiel had appeared and wondered again if there was something between him and Aunty Edith, something that had caused her death.

  “Ezekiel says the birth records from his little town were destroyed when Kilauea erupted, so he can’t prove that he’s 100%

  Hawaiian himself,” Greg continued. “And he doesn’t have a wife or kids to keep his line going—so it sounds like a case of do as I say, not as I do.” He eyed us both. “Cops can get into places reporters can’t. You might find something I haven’t been able to.”

  “Thanks. We’ll take a closer look at him,” Ray said, making a note.

  “And let me know what you find?”

  “Within limits,” I said. “The guy’s got a right to privacy, after all. If what he’s hiding isn’t germane to his cause or our investigation, we can’t just hand it out.”

  “I understand.” He stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Without offering to shake hands or even give us a goodbye salute, he turned and walked out.

  “I wish I knew why he’s so cold to me,” I said, as Ray and I stood up. “And before you say anything, I already know about my winning personality.”

  “He’s jealous,” Ray said, opening the door to the street. “You get to be out and proud, and he’s stuck in the closet.”

  I looked at him. “You think he’s ga
y?”

  Ray laughed. “Dude, where’s your gaydar? How come I can spot gay guys better than you can?”

  “That’s something you should take up with your wife.”

  MAhu BLood 67

  He knocked into me with his hip as we walked down the sidewalk. “I told you about my cousin Joey,” he said.

  “The gay one you grew up with?”

  “That’s the one. I spent a lot of time with him. I got to know the signs.” He looked over at me. “Seriously? You don’t get that vibe?”

  I thought about it. What did I know about Greg Oshiro, after all? I’d never seen him at the Rod and Reel Club, my favorite gay bar on Waikīkī. I had run into him at a couple of police functions, but he never had a date of either sex. And I’d never heard Gunter, the biggest gossip queen on the island, say a word about him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t gay.

  I’d known Greg for a few years before I came out of the closet, and we’d gotten along fine. I’d even thought we were friends, of a sort. Then after I came out, he gave me the cold shoulder. I’d figured him for a homophobe, especially when he covered any of my cases that had a gay context.

  But what if he was gay, and closeted? That put a whole new light on things. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, but if I could figure Greg Oshiro out, I could make him into a useful source again.

  ohANA oLA kiNo

  When we got back to the station, Sampson wanted to talk to us. “Tell me how you’re doing,” he said, when Ray and I walked in to his office. He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, and his hair was getting shaggy. I wondered if I should suggest a haircut, but decided against it. You can be too gay on the job, after all.

  “We’re looking into Ezekiel Kapuāiwa,” I said. “He’s the guy in charge of KOH. There’s something that doesn’t add up about him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s just too squirrelly,” Ray said. “Even with Greg Oshiro’s suspicions. I can’t see Ezekiel convincing somebody to do the job for him.”

  “So you say. But he grew up in the same little town where she lived, and he was in charge of the organization that ran the rally where she was killed.”

  “But why kill her at the rally?” Ray asked. “It doesn’t make sense. Her death could cause big problems for his group.”

  “Unless she knew something that could cause even bigger problems. I want to know more about him.”

  “Play nice, boys,” Sampson said. “Any other leads?”

  Ray said, “I’ve got my eye on a guy. Bunchy Parker.”

  Sampson looked interested. I was sure he knew who Bunchy was.

  “If Edith’s death was a means to discredit KOH, then Ka Leo, the group Bunchy runs, could become the most prominent of the sovereignty groups. That means Bunchy could someday be the elected King of Hawai’i.”

  “I want a suspect, and I want one soon. Put in some overtime this afternoon if you need to.”

  As we went back to our desks, Ray said, “I didn’t mean to sabotage you.”

  70 Neil S. Plakcy

  “Hey, a little creative dissent shows Sampson we’re actually working.”

  “We’ll follow your hunch,” he said. “What do we know about Ezekiel Kapuāiwa? Did he ever hold a job?”

  I called Karen Gold, who verified that Ezekiel Kapuāiwa had a Social Security card and a work record. “I’ll pull up what we have and fax it to you,” she said.

  “How come none of your friends ever asks you for a subpoena?” Ray asked, after I hung up. “That guy at the division of business licensing. This girl at Social Security.”

  “I’ve known Karen Gold since kindergarten. And Ricky Koele since high school. They’re part of my ohana.”

  “You and Lilo and Stitch,” he said. “Ohana means nobody gets left behind.”

  “Yeah, and all the dogs on the island are actually aliens,” I said. “Seriously, they trust me. And when we need something that has to hold up in court, we get a subpoena.”

  By then, the fax had kicked in, and I retrieved the pages from Karen. “We couldn’t find a birth certificate for Ezekiel. How could he get a job without some proof of who he is? These days you have to hand over your Social Security card and photo ID.

  Soon they’ll even be asking for vaccination records.”

  “Maybe he has a birth certificate, it just never got filed with the state,” Ray said. “I had a great-uncle who was born at home, and nobody registered the birth. Got him out of serving in the Army.”

  “I suppose. And they probably had a little community school back then. If the teacher knew his parents, nobody would ever ask for a birth certificate.”

  He leaned over the page and pointed at a line. “It’s like he didn’t exist before 1990, when his Social Security card was issued, and he started working at the Kope Bean and started paying taxes.”

  “You know what this sounds like?” I asked. “Somebody with MAhu BLood 71

  a new identity. I can’t see Ezekiel in some kind of protected witness program, though. Not to mention that Edith knew him on the Big Island.”

  “We know which store he worked at?” Ray asked. “There are a dozen locations, not to mention that warehouse where Dexter Trale works. You have a friend who works in their corporate office?”

  “Nope. But they ought to be able to verify employment without a subpoena.”

  Ray called the Kope Bean’s human resources department, while I thought about Ezekiel and wondered if he knew Dex and Leelee. It made sense that he would; Aunty Edith connected them both.

  Ray hung up the phone. “He worked at the Kaneohe store from 1990 to 2005.”

  We looked back at his records, which showed that starting in 2005, he began drawing a small salary from Kingdom of Hawai’i.

  “You up for a second trip to the Kope Bean in one day?” he said.

  “At least we’re going to a different branch.”

  “Reading my mind, partner.” We drove up the Pali Highway and over the mountain to Kaneohe. We found the Kope Bean at the end of a strip shopping center, the kind my father used to build and own. The room was decorated with murals of coffee, which was appropriate since ‘ kope’ means coffee in Hawaiian.

  A heavyset haole woman sat in the front window, knitting what looked like a very long scarf with bright red yarn. She kept looking around, furtively, as if a cat might appear from under one of the armchairs and steal her ball of yarn.

  “Madame Defarge over there looks like a long-time customer,”

  I whispered to Ray. “I’ll get the coffee if you talk to her. See if maybe Ezekiel still comes in here, for old times’ sake.”

  “You know her name?”

  I sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  He looked at me.

  72 Neil S. Plakcy

  “Called A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. There’s a character in it named Madame Defarge, who knits.”

  “English major,” Ray snorted, but he headed over to the woman.

  I ordered our macadamia lattes from the barista, a teenager with a big bush of blond hair spilling out the back of his ball cap, and after he’d rung me up I showed him my ID and said, “Can I ask you some questions?”

  There were no other customers, so he shrugged and said,

  “Sure.” Leilani Rivera Bond was singing a love song in a Tahitian dialect through the store’s speakers. Ray was sitting with the knitting lady, smiling and nodding.

  I showed the clerk a picture of Ezekiel. “You ever see this guy come in here? He used to work here.”

  “Don’t recognize him. But I’ve only been here six months.”

  “Anybody who’s been here longer?” I asked.

  “Mili,” he called toward the back. He started making our coffees, and Ray joined me at the bar.

  “Mrs. Defarge up there didn’t recognize the picture,” he said.

  “But she did offer to make me a scarf.”

  A short gray-haired woman came out from the back office as the barista was handing us our
coffees. He said, “These guys want to know about some dude worked here years ago.”

  “Years ago is my specialty,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  Ray introduced us and asked if she knew Ezekiel Kapuāiwa.

  “Of course. Ezekiel worked here for quite a while.”

  She took us over to a leather sofa faced by two armchairs, and we sat down, Ray and I holding our coffees. “Is Ezekiel in some kind of trouble?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Ray asked.

  She sighed. “Ezekiel is—special. Sometimes he’s not all there, you know? I worried about him when he left. He said he was going to be the King of Hawai’i.” She smiled. “I thought maybe MAhu BLood 73

  he had stopped taking his medication, but no, he said there was a whole organization, wanted to throw off the chains of oppression by the United States and make him the new king of the islands.”

  “Kingdom of Hawai’i,” I said.

  “That’s it. I have trouble keeping track of all those groups.

  There are so many, and each one thinks they should be in charge.”

  I remembered the big koa bowls we had found in Edith Kapana’s room and how my mother believed those bowls had been restricted to members of the royal family. Maybe there was some credence to Ezekiel’s claim—what if those bowls had been part of his claim to royal descent, held for him by someone he trusted?

  I realized Ray was still asking Mili questions and put aside the bowls to focus on what she was saying.

  “You mentioned some medication,” Ray said, making notes.

  “Do you know what that was for?”

  “He had his good days and his bad days.” Mili had very pale skin, as if she never went out in the tropical sun, and her bony hands were stained with liver spots. “I never asked what was wrong with him, but when he started working here he was living at the Ohana Ola Kino, so there had to be something wrong.”

  “What is that?” I asked. “The Ohana Ola Kino?” Ohana means family, and ola kino means healthy. So it could be anything from a nursing home to a rehab center to who knows what.

  “Sort of a group home,” Mili said. “I never asked him why he was there or what was wrong with him. It’s just down down the street, and a lot of their residents, like that lady there, come in here.” She nodded toward the knitting woman. “We just give them ice water and let them sit, as long as they don’t make trouble.”