“For all I know,” he added, “someone’s listening in right now.”
I told him I could meet him anywhere. I was already imagining a clandestine encounter in a subterranean parking lot. The place he suggested was a café in Kailua-Kona, on Ali‘i Drive.
Which was how I realized I had been talking to someone who lived on another island. Against all reason, I offered to be there by evening.
• • •
“You’re going to the Big Island?” Mia said when I called her and told her. “How cool is that?”
“I’m not going for the triathlon. I have to meet somebody there. I’m just following a lead.”
“Still, you’ll be there when I’m there.”
“It’s just a quick in and out.” Poor choice of words.
“Still.”
• • •
Mia had booked her own hotel and flight months ago, anticipating that Saturday’s triathlon would make for a helluva busy weekend for the airlines. When she told me how crazy it gets with rent-a-cars and everything related to getting to and around that island, it dawned on me that I might have some trouble getting a flight.
I called Hawaiian Air and learned there were a few available seats for their 5 a.m. flight—the next morning. Aloha was similarly booked. While go! Airlines had an early evening flight that could work, I was hesitant to fly with a predatory airline company bent on destroying another. I figured I could fly Hawaiian on standby. But if I didn’t get on, I’d have a teed-off whistle-blower to try to appease.
I even contemplated flying to Hilo and then driving a few hundred miles to the west side of the island. When I happened to share my plight with Rian, he said, “Don’t be a fool. I’ll take you there.”
“On your boat?”
“No, let’s wait till the Superferry arrives.”
“Hate to impose….”
“Look, in case you never figured it out, boats are for going to places.”
“How long would it take?”
“It’s 144 nautical miles. Hundred sixty-six in your jargon. It should be an all-day trip, if you want to travel in comfort, but I can push the miles per hour a bit, work the current, and maybe get you there in about seven hours. It’s not as fast as an aeroplane, but you don’t have to drive through traffic to the freakin’ airport, then be subject to cavity searches and whatever else they do to you nowadays, then sit and wait a couple a hours before you even get to board.”
“Boy … I don’t know.”
“What’s there to know? We’re going.”
Mia insisted on coming with us. Though she had planned to go to the Big Island the next day, to arrive two days ahead of Saturday’s triathlon, and though her hotel booking was for Thursday through Saturday, she said it would be great if she could ride the course in advance. Thinking about those cars tailing her, it struck me as a smart move. I asked Rian if he minded taking on another passenger. He loved the idea. Said he’d ask Meg if she’d want to come along too. This was getting out of hand. I had a possibly vital mission and it was quickly turning into something else, sort of the way a dramatic play descends into farce.
To my relief, Meg couldn’t make it, and Rian told me he was going to return to O‘ahu that evening. Mia canceled her flight out, booked a room—at least I think she said a room—at the Kona Seaside while I arranged for a Thursday return flight for myself. There was no problem getting a flight from Kona. Within the hour she had brought her bike, backpack, and a gear bag to the harbor. I introduced her to Suze, regretting that I was not quite ready to pilot my own craft, promising myself that I’d learn, then took her to meet up with Rian.
• • •
As Mia got acquainted with Rian, I sat back and wondered. The timing of this seemed awfully orchestrated. Rian was ready to go, like he had made sure he was available. Mia jumped on. And fast. Plus, this whistle-blower had worked at a law office; not just any law office, but one of the more notorious ones. He would have had access to the same documents that Mia had passed on to me early on and more. This whole episode, these last ten days, had been so preposterous and unsettling that I had to go along just to find out why.
I felt precariously afloat; my only real anchor was Orse. I had known him well enough and long enough to trust him. He probably knew nothing about Mia and the triathlon on the Big Island. And if he did, if somehow he was setting me up, then maybe everybody was in on it, all the way from Andy through this mysterious whistle-blower. Maybe it’s like that Jorge Luis Borges story where the whole town is in on the conspiracy.
I shelved the paranoia in the name of moving forward with the case; hell, if someone’s pulling the strings, so be it.
We were out of the harbor in no time, with Rian noting for my benefit the channel markers. As we motored toward Moloka‘i, Rian said he was going to take the lee side of Lanai and Kaho‘olawe, clearly the shortest route to Kailua-Kona. He let me steer, directing me, while Mia rested up in his cabin. It was all good except for the diesel fumes giving me a headache. I asked Rian if he had Advil or Motrin. He said he had a pharmacy down below. He instructed me on how to stay on course and went into the cabin.
Rian’s return snapped me out of my reverie and I realized I’d been hypnotized by my surroundings—the white-clouded blue sky, the white-capped blue and turquoise waves, a school of dolphins leading the way—and hadn’t been paying attention to the controls. No harm, it seemed, as far as he was concerned. He just handed me a huge bottle of generic ibuprofen. “From Costco,” he said. “Lasts forever.” I took a few tablets and settled into what would be hours of making our way.
South of Lanai the water was like a lake and it was smooth sailing, but when we crossed the Kealaikahiki Channel it got pretty choppy. Mia was back on deck by then, and took her turn at the wheel, receiving the same instructions I had received earlier. In the hours that passed we jabbered about everything from triathlon training to search strategies to places to eat on the Big Island. When we hit what Rian termed the treacherous ‘Alenuihaha Channel, I was prepared for the worst. He had said earlier that we would course through between 12 and 16 mph. “If I try to go twenty against that current,” he warned us, “this boat could smather into shittereens.” That’s after he told us about a place in Kailua-Kona where we could get a delicious bowl of clam chowder.
Lucky for us, Rian’s boat seemed designed for the constant chop and we roared through. Still, the lengthy journey took its toll and by the time we did hit land I was ready to give anything for that bowl of chowder.
We arrived in Honokohau Harbor, three and a half miles north of Kailua-Kona, at around 6:30, which was a minor miracle. I had to meet my guy at eight. Rian docked the boat and the three of us headed toward the Harbor House restaurant. Their clam chowder wasn’t first-rate, but it still hit the spot. We also ordered chicken and chips, shrimp and chips, as well as fish and chips, and washed it down with a pitcher of Steinlager.
Back on the boat Mia and I threw our backpacks over our shoulders, grabbed the gear and bike, and thanked Rian for the bumpy ride. We carried our baggage across the landing, and bade our friend goodbye. Before I stepped onto the gangway he had whispered to me, like he sensed something was odd, “Sure you don’t want me to stay? Watch your back?”
“Nah, you got things to do. Thanks. I’m fine.”
“Remember, I got your back, mate. Just so you know.”
“I know.”
Rian had told me during our ride that his son was arriving in Honolulu tomorrow afternoon. Hell if I would want to get in the way of that reunion. As he started the motor he yelled out that he wouldn’t mind at all coming back to get me. I yelled, Thanks, you’ve done plenty. He gestured, thumb and pinkie to his ear: Call me….
Mia and I took a minivan cab to the Kona Seaside. When we checked in I learned that she had booked one room for the both of us. How curious.
And how practical.
We entered our fourth-floor room. It was basic, with twin beds divided by a table and a lamp. Not exa
ctly the stuff of fantasy, but then I wasn’t James Bond, or Jason Bourne, or any of those suave JBs.
• • •
“I had a case,” I was telling Mia. “Two young girls, Abigail and Sarah. The father took them to Mexico. I caught up with them, notified authorities, thinking I was rescuing them. What I was really doing was bringing them back to their abuser.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have. I should have known their mom was fucked up.”
Silence. Then, “She seduced you.”
“Yes, and it blinded me.”
“She must’ve been pretty hot.”
I had a visual of the way Carlotta lifted her black dress that first night. She wasn’t wearing panties. “Hot, but crazy.”
“Sex with a crazy person. Hey, I’ve been there….”
We were lying in our respective beds, facing up and talking. I let the fatigue embrace me. I shut my eyes, feeling like I could sleep for days….
When I woke up I noticed Mia wasn’t there. I looked at my watch. Shit, it’s almost eight! Gotta go meet the guy!
While I splashed my face she came in with a bag of groceries.
“I got us a car. A PT Cruiser.”
“Great. I’m running late.”
“Take the car. Or I can drop you off.”
“Naw, it’s a couple minutes away. On foot.”
I opened a bag of corn chips from the grocery bag, separated a bottle of Gatorade from a six-pack, and ran out the door.
Ali‘i Dive
I hadn’t trekked Kailua-Kona’s main drag in nearly a decade. Not much had changed. I walked along the seawall, following Mr. Whistle-Blower’s instructions, and found the Sibu Café in the Banyan Court Mall. When I entered the restaurant, which specialized in Indonesian cuisine, I looked, as per his instructions, for the Chamorro wearing shades in one of the back booths. A guy standing outside the café must have been the lookout. He had purposefully ignored me.
I recognized my man immediately.
He was eating from a plate of satay sticks—chicken, beef, and shrimp—and was nursing some unidentifiable drink. After we shook hands, he motioned that I indulge myself. Still sated from the chowder and chips, I didn’t. When the waitress came by he ordered me a beer and another one for him. He kept his shades on.
“I live in South Kona,” he said. “Don’t come up here often.”
“Honaunau?”
“South Kona … I like it there. Peaceful.” His arms were heavily scarred. Cigarette burns?
“You said you worked for Bishop Estate. How did that happen?”
“Long story.” He eased back on his chair. “Goes back to Saipan. That’s where I met Kamana, Irashige, Blankenship … all those guys. These were guys who liked to party and, well, I was accommodating.”
“Meaning?”
“I used to run the ferry from Saipan to Tinian.”
“Tinian?” I said, pretending I didn’t know.
“‘Beaches to die for’—that’s what the ads say. That’s the supposed attraction. But I would say beaches come in fourth—right after drinking, gambling, and fornication. It’s a playground for rich, horny men.” He cleared his throat, scratched his ear. “I used to pride myself on being ‘the master accommodator.’ Anything you want, I can get for you…. I knew what these guys wanted: comfortable tee times, penthouse suites, willing young girls.” He leaned forward. “I became their buddy. I’d see them couple times a year, and enable them in their wild ways.”
“Why’d you leave such a … lucrative job?”
He was silent for a troubling minute. “Circumstances…. Don’t get me wrong. I was into it, the partying, the crazy lifestyle. Made the downside worth it.”
“What was the downside?”
“Sometimes a girl would get beaten up, and I’d have to hire somebody to get her cleaned up. Pay her off. But, hey, we weren’t gonna let a thing like that spoil the party. And those Hawai‘i guys, I tell you bruddah, they know how to party. Money’s nothing to these guys…. Then—”
Just yesterday I sat with Minerva, learning about her husband’s troubles with Jerry Herblach. Now here I was on another island, listening to some sordid story involving those other names on that sheet of paper in Matthew’s room. I couldn’t believe my life.
“What happened?”
“About two years ago, there was an incident like this recent one. Young girl, asphyxiated. Dead. Appeared to be foreplay gone wrong. That started the ball rolling. Around the same time the girl got killed, I learned that my wife was having an affair.”
He stopped. Sipped his beer. Raked his hand across his mouth. I could barely see his eyes through the shades, but I could tell he wasn’t looking at me.
“Of course,” he continued, “the guy was an American, a high roller who was just like the guys I was taking around. Ironic, huh?”
I gave him the slightest of nods.
“So here’s the thing.” He was gesturing now. More animated. “That bitch thought she could hide it from me? Me, the guy who knew everything that went on in Saipan? Tinian? I tell you, I beat the shit out of her….”
I withheld comment.
“Kicked her out. Then she filed for divorce, and that fricken judge—this prick who was married to her cousin—the fucker hit me with this insane alimony payment. I mean, practically my whole paycheck would go to her.”
Sounded about right to me.
“So one day I’m telling all this to Kamana and a couple of his boys, complaining about my situation, and one of them suggests to Kamana that he could fix me up with a job in Hawai‘i, one that would pay me a lot more than I was making in the Marianas.
“Kamana, he was quiet. You know, stoic, as always. I thought he was gonna nix the idea, and then he spoke, in that gravelly voice of his. You know how everybody shuts up when he speaks. You ever meet the guy?”
“Couple a times.”
“So you know…. So he tells me, ‘Bruddah, you been there for us. Now it’s our turn fo’ take care you.’”
He took a very deep breath.
“And that’s how you got here.”
“They tole me the rent on O‘ahu was sky high but that I could still clear a couple grand a month. Easy.”
I sipped my beer.
“I felt loyal to them, you know?” He chuckled grimly. “Bizarre, huh? I told them, ‘You guys need me here’—you know, on Tinian—and they cracked up. And they were like: We know our way around, brah. We know a dozen guys like you.”
“So I moved to Hawai‘i, got set up with a job at Kawaiahao Plaza and laid low.”
“When was this?”
“December, twenty-o-four.
Two and a half years ago.
“Why’d you blow the whistle on them? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Well … it’s like this. I ain’t no saint. I can handle the idea of women prostituting themselves. Hey, it’s their choice. Commerce and all that.”
I could just imagine Kay’s, or Mia’s, reply.
“… But when I started hearing shit about young girls being abused. Girls, mind you, not women…. I have a daughter, you know. Fifteen. About the same age as these girls.” He took his shades off. Let me see his face. His eyes had welled up. He looked straight at me, one of those intense, piercing looks. “Haven’t seen her since I left. It’s girls her age they’re doing this to … and even younger. They’re all being forced into this shit. Every time I hear about these young girls, I see my daughter’s face.” He again wiped his mouth, this time with his shirtsleeve.
“That’s why you came forward?”
“The more I learned about what happened, the more pissed I got. I still got contacts, you know. I still know everything that goes on there…. You know the room she was found in?”
“The dead girl? You mean the January incident?”
His eyebrows lifted. “She had been moved. What I found out later was that when it happened, they didn’t wanna have her death tied to whoever was st
aying in that room. Or even on that floor.”
“They?”
“Kamana’s guys. They had the whole fricken floor. So, the way I figure it, they got some staff people—or their cleanup guys, you know, abbacus.”
abbacus. The same entity that Orse talked about.
“They got ’em to use the freight elevator to move her to another floor, to a vacant room….”
“Who’s room was she in?”
Half a smile. “Good question. Nobody seemed to know. Well, at least until one of the maids told a security guard that she had cleaned up some blood—in Genaro Blankenship’s room. You know that guy, Kamana’s go-to guy?”
“Heard of him.”
“Yeah. They not only removed and burned the sheets, they dumped the whole fricken bed. I heard they gave the manager a nice stack of cash to get a new bed and forget about it.
“Now that was different,” he continued, “’cause the other incident, the one that happened two years ago—I was already here, mind you—I was told that whoever did it didn’t even bother to clean up. And that one, there was blood everywhere. And the girl’s hands were still tied up. Might have been some kinky sex thing that went too far. I don’t know if it was Blankenship that time, but if I had to—”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying there’s been TWO incidents like this, involving the same guys?”
He nodded. “Like I was saying, if I had to pick somebody, my first choice would be Blankenship. I wouldn’t rule out Kamana, though; fucker’s tough to read. With him, you never know…. I tell you, Mr. Disgraced Reporter turned PI,” he continued, “any one of them coulda done it. But the way they paid off people, the way the big bucks flowed, had to be one of the top guys.”
“You’re talking about the January case?”
“I’m talking about both times.”
“And your guess is it was Blankenship? Both times?”
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