Murder at Volcano House : A Surfing Detective Mystery ( Surfing Detective Mystery Series )

by Chip Hughes

  “I’ll pay your room, airfare, car, everything, plus your daily fees,” she says. “All you have to do is follow my husband at a safe distance and make sure nothing happens to him. He’s proud and wouldn’t hear of being protected, so you’ll have to do it incognito.”

  “Incognito?” I’m surprised she knows the word. But what she apparently doesn’t know is that following someone unnoticed is not easy, especially in the wide-open spaces of a national park. If you’re far enough away not to be seen, you may be too far to protect the client from sudden violence. The job is nearly impossible.

  “That’s right,” she says. “I’ll keep in touch with you when I can by cell phone and let you know our movements.”

  Tommy gives me a look.

  It’s only a few days, I rationalize. And I won’t have to be seen with the man.

  “Okay,” I hear myself say.

  When Tommy and the woman finally leave my office and clear the building I rush out right behind them. I can almost smell the waves.

  I don’t get far. At the bottom of the stairs I see Blossom, one of Mrs. Fujiyama’s lei girls, crying. She’s a slim, sweet local girl, barely out of high school. Mrs. Fujiyama is looking distressed, but doing nothing. Chastity and Joon, her other lei girls, are sitting stock-still.

  I see what the problem is. Blossom’s boyfriend—or her ex-boyfriend—Junior has tracked her down at work. He’s got his big mitt on her and he isn’t letting go. Blossom tries to pull away. That makes Junior clutch on harder. He’s about twice her size. And he must outweigh me.

  “You’re hurting me,” she cries. She’s broken up with him before, but he just won’t go away.

  Mrs. Fujiyama tells Junior if he doesn’t leave she’s going to call the police.

  I’m standing on the stairs, looking down on this. What can I do? Punks like Junior are bad news—they punch first and talk later. I can handle him, if it comes to that. But I don’t want to antagonize him, unless I have to. He starts flinging Blossom around like a ragdoll and Mrs. Fujiyama screams she’s going to call.

  That’s it. I can’t watch any more. I step down and say, “No need. I’ll call.” I pull out my cellphone, look directly at Junior, and dial 911.

  The line rings and rings. Finally an operator answers.

  “Police,” I say. “Emergency.” I keep looking at Junior, wondering if he’s coming for me.

  There’s a bit of a wait before a dispatcher gets on the line. I hold the phone to my ear, never taking my eyes off the punk. He’s not pulling Blossom now. In fact, he’s let go of her. I suspect there’s a warrant out on him, or he’s on parole, because he’s starting to look uneasy.

  Finally, I get a dispatcher.

  “Assault in progress,” I say. “Corner of Maunakea and Beretania. Fujiyama’s Flower Leis.”

  The dispatcher asks me what’s happening. But before I can answer, Junior is hustling out the door. He turns back and flips me the bird. “I get you, fuckah!”

  After things calm down in the lei shop, I give HPD my version of events in a witness statement. Then I head for the beach.

  Junior, it turns out, does have outstanding warrants. But they’ve never been served. There’s a backlog of warrants in the City and County of Honolulu and not enough personnel to serve them. So guys like Junior sometimes go on their merry way.

  Me, I’ve got enough on my plate already without dealing with him. There’s the Pali case, not to mention that Big Island errand I’d rather not think about. But as I cruise down Maunakea Street with the nose of my board riding on my Impala’s dash, the brown haze hanging in the dying afternoon sky won’t let me forget.

  It’s vog—volcanic smog—drifting up from the Big Island and signaling another eruption in the East Rift Zone. Volcanoes down there have been going off sporadically for months. Red-hot molten lava flowing to the sea brings out the crowds. The Volcano House will be busy.

  It’s sunset when I finally paddle out to Pops. Usually I can leave my cases on shore, if I choose, but the vog keeps me in mind of Rex Ransom. No way I’d work for the man—ever—except to repay a favor. I’m hoping the waves will let me forget. At least, temporarily.

  As I’m paddling to the lineup I glance back at the Sheraton Waikīkī--, soaring directly opposite the break. In old times, many Hawaiians lived on the oceanfront land the hotel now occupies. They named the surf spot offshore of their home Populars, because it was a favorite break in the area. There’s a reason, beyond proximity, why it was popular with Hawaiians back then, and remains popular with surfers today. Though we call it simply Pops.

  On a good day, Pops serves up long, hollow, right-breaking curls that you can ride almost forever. As the wave peels and swings toward shore, it often bowls in sections. A couple hundred yards offshore, and far from the more accessible Waikīkī breaks, Pops is a long paddle from anywhere. And that keeps the crowds small and mellow, except during a big south swell.

  Then look out. The waves are packed, the riders more aggressive, and the vibe more edgy. On one of those big days a hotshot once ran right over the top of my board—slicing my deck with his skeg. Then he had the gall to ask if he could see the damage he’d done. I covered the scar with my prone body and told him he didn’t hit me after all. He paddled away looking disappointed.

  As the sun sinks in the west, the brown haze on the horizon turns glittering gold. A few riders are paddling in, and a few dozen remain. Friday afternoon. Pau hana—quitting time. I should’ve known. I don’t like crowds, even small crowds, so I paddle next door in the Ewa direction to the peaky breaks of Paradise. There I’m one of only three surfers. The waves are fewer and farther between, but when they jack up there’s plenty for everybody.

  In between rides, thoughts of Rex Ransom return. Sherlock Holmes had his pipe—I have my surfboard. Floating on the glassy sea, scanning the horizon for my next wave, sometimes I can solve problems that elude me on shore. Out of the blue I recall memories from the distant past. Ransom’s controversial drilling operation at Wao Kele O Puna and the disputed land swap that enabled it made him a very unpopular man, especially among Hawaiians and members of the SPC—Save Pele Coalition. They believed Ransom had despoiled the rainforest—essential to their cultural practices and gathering rights—and defiled, if not raped, their goddess. I can’t say I fully understand the depth of their belief in Pele and other Hawaiian deities. But it’s hard to miss her power among her followers.

  Donnie Ransom knows the score. But she’s worried only about Pele—not about the protesters who had tried to defend her. Their revenge seems more likely than hers. My prospective job is looking hairier by the minute. It’s tough enough to fend off a goddess—not to mention a raft of mortal foes. Better find out more about Ransom’s human enemies before catching my flight to Hilo on Monday.

  I glance out to sea. Here comes another Paradise roller. The wave builds and peaks like a liquid pyramid. I swing my board around, paddle, and rise. The drop is steep and fast. I make my turn. Stoked! Before I know it, the ride is over.

  I pivot my board around and paddle back to the lineup, smiling ear to ear. I try to remember what I was thinking about. Rex who?

  four

  Saturday morning, on my way to the Pali Highway, I pass by the Aloha Tower. The big white cruise ship Pride of Aloha is moored just to the right of the tower. Above its flower-festooned bow and soaring stack the brown haze of vog from the Big Island still hangs in the air. I remember Donnie Ransom saying that their renter will board the ship tonight for the weeklong inter-island cruise. I’d like to trade places with Jeffrey. Let me take the cruise and him shadow his landlord. All my years in the islands—born and raised—I’ve never been on one of those ships.

  “You’re not the cruise type, Kai.” I hear Tommy Woo’s sardonic voice in my ear. Tommy may be right. But I imagine myself gazing from a porthole onto the sunlit sea. Nah.

  I shrug it off and aim my old Chevy up the Pali Highway toward the windward side of O‘ahu. My Impala’s big V-8
growls up the highway, called Route 61 on the map, climbing through lush Nu‘uanu Valley to the tunnels at the pali, or cliff. Beyond the tunnels, the pali drops more than one thousand feet.

  The sheer plunge has caused many deaths, some long before the three I’m investigating today. The first road was built back in 1845 over an ancient Hawaiian footpath that carefully navigated the cliff. When the second was blazed in 1898, hundreds of skulls were found, believed to be the remains of warriors who jumped or were forced from the cliff when Kamehameha I conquered the island of O‘ahu. The present highway replaced the old road in 1959 and introduced the tunnels where the accident I’m working on occurred.

  Even as I pursue the Pali case, thoughts of Pele keep intruding. Da goddess stay pa‘a in my mind! Just before I reach the ramp to the scenic Pali Lookout—with its sweeping views of the Windward coast—I remember the story about Pele preventing cars from passing through these tunnels. Motorists reported their vehicles mysteriously stopping and not starting again—until they removed pork they were packing. Lolo? Not in Hawaiian legend. The goddess once intercepted a half human, half hog god named Kamapua’a and did not allow him, or any form of pork thereafter, to pass. Since I’ve got no bacon on board, my Chevy glides through the tunnels without incident.

  Not so for those unfortunates involved in the case I’m working. On the Windward side of the tunnels, about a week ago, a Honda Civic plunged from the cliff and landed upside down, killing everyone aboard—the driver, Freddie “Fireball” Furman, and his two passengers, twin sisters Heather and Lindsay Lindquist. The twins had been celebrating their twenty-first birthday at several clubs in Honolulu when Fireball offered them a ride home to Kailua. All three were intoxicated—well over the legal limit. Fireball was double over.

  I pull off at the next scenic lookout—a lesser version of the dramatic Pali Lookout above—after the big bend in the road about a quarter mile below the tunnels. I walk toward a trailhead that will lead me down to the scene of the crash. I’m hiking this steep trail because the twins’ father is suing the clubs that served his daughters and the driver. I’m working for Mr. Lindquist’s attorney, a partner in a Bishop Street law firm. Tommy recommended me—another reason I owe him. What the job amounts to—in addition to searching the crash site and the vehicle—is investigating each club the doomed threesome went to that night and then interviewing the employees and tracking down other patrons who were there.

  This sad job—I know because I’ve done it before—is complicated by two things: First, club owners don’t want their employees to go on record with anyone except their own attorney, who would be defending the clubs in court. Second, ferreting out club goers after the fact can consume more client dollars than the resulting information is worth. Sometimes you get lucky. One witness may clinch the case. Question is: which one?

  Despite these challenges, I took this case, and others before it, because too often drunken and/or stoned racer-boys like Fireball—hell bent on killing themselves—take innocents like the Lindquists with them. It makes me angry. And heartsick. These cases, for me, tend to become more like missions. I can’t bring back the dead. But I can try to give their grieving families and friends the satisfaction, if not the consolation, of knowing exactly what happened and why.

  I’m just starting to look into this particular accident. And the Bishop Street attorney who hired me is in a hurry. The only reason, besides a favor to Tommy, I will go to the Volcano House tomorrow is that I’m waiting on a few things. My HPD friend Creighton Lee says he can get me access to the impound lot to examine the wrecked Honda. But that won’t happen until later in the week. And another contact, through Tommy, says he can provide liquor commission reports on the clubs where Fireball and the twins did their drinking. The reports could help determine the history of over-serving in those clubs and whether or not any claims have been made or any litigation filed. But I have to wait for the reports.

  From the trailhead I hike steeply downhill toward where Fireball’s Honda landed after its dive from the highway above. The terrain is rugged and the underbrush thick. It’s slow going. The picture emerging of the accident is pretty much what I expected from the facts of the case.

  A dozen or so friends had been drinking at the clubs. Neither girl knew Fireball. He was a friend of a friend whom they met at the last club. They hitched a ride home with him when their pal Ashley, who had driven them to the celebration, left earlier than they did to catch a redeye to Denver. Ashley hasn’t returned my calls. But that’s another story.

  Leaving the last club, the Lollipop Lounge, the three climbed into Fireball’s Honda and headed up the Pali Highway. His Honda was tricked out with lowered suspension, after-market turbo, nitrous oxide kit, and one of those angry-bee mufflers. Fast & Furious. Fireball had accumulated a raft of citations, arrests, and DUIs. His license had been revoked recently for driving 110 mph. On the Kailua-bound ascent, which was slick from a passing shower, Fireball no doubt mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The twins must have been terrified—if they weren’t already knocked out from all the alcohol they’d consumed.

  When his car screamed into the first tunnel, Fireball was already in trouble. He wasn’t as good a driver as he thought. Especially drunk. The Honda’s four tires, those essential points of contact with Mother Earth, lost traction on the slick pavement. The car started to slide. Impact marks entering the first tunnel suggest that the Honda’s driver’s side fender, doors, and rear quarter hit hard as the car began to swerve. It probably entered the second tunnel half-sideways, passenger side of the vehicle leading the way, and failed to negotiate the acute right curve immediately following that tunnel. The Honda collided with the low concrete barrier that separates the two elevated sections of the highway, flipped, and disappeared. An astonished motorist in the town-bound lanes saw the car vanish.

  I hug the pali and carefully measure my steps. The trail continues steep and slow. But I finally reach the accident site. The impact of the falling car has crushed dwarf kiawe and caused a minor landslide. Debris from the wreckage is scattered. There’s not much left, just bits and pieces. I scour the scene. I’m looking for physical evidence—receipts, bottles, personal items, and vehicle parts—anything that might corroborate that the three accident victims were sold drinks while intoxicated.

  I find several jagged pieces from the car and broken glass on the dark-stained earth. No receipts or bottles. But there is something.

  Off in the brush to the side of the debris a small object gleams gold. I step toward the gleam, reach in, and extract a Hawaiian bracelet. It’s bent, but not mangled. And it’s engraved. A woman’s name? Apparently not Heather or Lindsay. Odd. Why would the twins, or Fireball, carry another woman’s bracelet in the car?

  The letters on the bracelet are ornate and difficult to read. Turning it to the light, I think I have the name. The twins’ friend who drove them to the party and then flew to Denver. The same friend who hasn’t returned my calls. Ashley.

  five

  Sunday morning I’m snoozing when my phone rings. I check my watch. It’s not even seven. Maile?

  I look at the phone. No such luck. Why do I keep hoping?

  Caller ID says: RANSOM.

  I pick up.

  “Hello, Kai?” says the now familiar feminine voice. “It’s Donnie. I hope it’s not too early.”

  “No worries,” I say. “I had to wake up anyway.”

  “Oh.” She seems ever so slightly taken aback.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask.

  “I just wanted to fill you in about the arrangements for Monday morning,” she says. “You have an e-ticket on Hawaiian Airlines from Honolulu to Hilo, departing at nine-forty. Rex and I will be on the same flight—in first class. Your seat is in the back of the coach cabin. That way, Rex won’t suspect you’re following us.”

  “Makes sense,” I say.

  “At the Hilo Airport Rex and I will be picked up by a chauffeured limo. I’ve reserved a rental car for you. You
can follow us to Volcano House at a discreet distance.”

  “Your limo will have a head start,” I say. “It’ll take me a while to pick up the rental car.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “I’m not concerned about Rex’s safety on the drive to the hotel. Just once we’re there. We’ll be staying in a crater-view room on the first floor in the main building. You’ll be in a second-floor crater view room in the adjacent building, not far away, but far enough that we won’t run into you every time we go out in the hall. I’ll stay in touch with you when I can by cell phone.”

  “Got it.” I’m still wondering why she called me at this hour on a Sunday morning.

  “Now let’s go over the instructions,” she says. “You’re going to follow Rex, but he’s not to know. You’ll stay with us—at a distance—everywhere we go. You’ll eat in the hotel dining room when we eat, but not at our table. You’ll act like any other hotel guest. You and I won’t talk when Rex is around. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I say, not much liking her tone.

  “I’ll be in touch when I can to let you know my husband’s comings and goings.”

  “Okay,” I manage.

  “You don’t sound too concerned,” she says. “This is really important. My husband’s life is at stake.”

  “I am concerned. But it’s early and—”

  “This was the only time I could call when he wouldn’t overhear me,” she interrupts. “He’s in the shower now. When he’s out we’ll be together all day.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll stick with your husband. I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  “Aloha.” She hangs up.

  No chance of sleep now. I grab a bowl of cereal and flip open my laptop. As I’m spooning in my breakfast I begin a quick and dirty investigation of Rex Ransom. Google provides lots of hits.

  What I’m looking for are potential threats to the man I’ve been hired to protect. Donnie Ransom has already briefed me thoroughly about Pele. Whatevahs. Realistically, I’m concerned more about mortal enemies. Some of what I see brings back memories from two decades ago. Some is new to me.