Fire and Vengeance

by Robert McCaw

  At that moment, Mrs. Witherspoon entered the dining room, dressed in jeans and a green pullover. A tall woman in her early sixties, she moved with an easy grace. Her face even in distress without makeup remained unwrinkled and unblemished. Koa imagined that she’d been stunning in her prime. Gesturing to the other photographs on the dining room walls, he asked, “They’re all the same church?”

  “Yes, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres—Arthur’s favorite building.” Her eyes teared, and her voice choked. “We went there on our honeymoon.” She reached out to straighten one of the pictures. “And planned to go back next year for our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary.” She began to cry again and reached for a tissue.

  He waited before asking, “If you’re up to it, I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Alright, but I need to sit down.” She led him back to the living room and sank onto the couch. Koa pulled a chair close to her. He kept his voice gentle. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Words failed when people confronted death. Most people took it better if you simply acknowledged their loss. She sat stone-faced for what seemed an eternity before beginning to regain her composure.

  “Mrs. Witherspoon, you need to tell us what happened.” She stared blankly—her mind lost in faraway spaces—and didn’t seem to hear.

  His words, more forceful this time, brought her back, and her eyes focused. She swept a lock of hair away from her face and looked at him through tear-filled eyes.

  “What … what do you want?”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  She pulled a tissue from the pocket and dried her eyes. “He … he got up early. He always does. I’d just woken up when I heard the doorbell. He went to answer it. I heard him say something, and then … and then I heard two gunshots close together.” She started crying again, repeatedly dabbing her eyes. “I ran to the foyer, and … and it was awful. Blood all over the place.” She began to lose control.

  He paused, giving her time. “What did he say?”

  “I just …” She choked on the words. “… Just heard his voice, not the actual words.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  She shook her head. “No, I was in the bedroom upstairs when it happened.”

  “Tell me about your husband, his work, his habits.”

  “He’s an architect.”

  “Yes.”

  “He runs his own firm here in Hilo.” Not uncommon in such situations, she used the present tense. “He has lots of clients and works day and night.”

  “Have you noticed anything unusual recently?”

  “No—” Then she caught herself. “Well, he’s been upset since that awful KonaWili school thing.”

  “Why? You didn’t have a child at KonaWili, did you?”

  “No, no, but the daughter of our closest friends died there. Karen’s death devastated Arthur. Really upset him.” She paused to blow her nose.

  “Anything more than sympathy for a friend’s loss?”

  She started to say something and then stopped.

  “You need to help us, Mrs. Witherspoon. Tell us anything you know.”

  She sighed heavily. “Arthur said he felt guilty about the terrible accident.”

  Witherspoon might have been upset about a friend’s loss, but Koa focused on the word “guilty.” “Any reason why your husband would feel guilty?”

  “He said he’d done his best, but it hadn’t been enough.”

  Had he been referring to the unsuccessful effort to choke the vent off? It made sense. As the project architect, Witherspoon would have inspected the site during construction. He couldn’t have missed the extra concrete. And his words suggested he’d, in fact, designed the massive—but ultimately unsuccessful—concrete cap over the volcanic vent.

  “He’d done his best. What did he mean?”

  “He didn’t say, but I took him to mean the design of the school. I told him not to be silly. It wasn’t his fault.”

  But it was Witherspoon’s fault, Koa thought. He should have stopped the project or at least blown the whistle on it. Why he hadn’t remained a mystery. Why would a respected, successful architect like Witherspoon—a man who’d designed many public buildings in Hilo—keep quiet about a potential threat to grade-school children?

  Thinking the answer might be somewhere in the architect’s files, Koa asked, “Where is your husband’s office?”

  “On the corner of Pu‘u‘eo and Waiānuenue. On the second floor.”

  Koa pictured the filing cabinet in Boyle’s home office—the one with the missing KonaWili file. If Boyle’s killer took the file, then Witherspoon’s killer might have taken his files, too. Koa called Basa to request a check on Witherspoon’s office.

  Turning back to Mrs. Witherspoon, Koa asked, “Did your husband have a partner or an assistant?”

  “Not really. He mostly worked alone. Sometimes on big jobs, he hired a young woman to make copies and deliver plans, but it wasn’t a regular thing.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Mrs. Witherspoon looked down at her hands. “Sally … Sally Meacham or something like that.”

  “Do you have an address or telephone number?”

  “It’s probably somewhere in Arthur’s records.”

  Koa sensed an evasion. She couldn’t recall—or more likely didn’t want to remember—the name and address of her husband’s assistant. He considered pursuing it but decided to find Sally and get the story from her.

  “Did he receive any threats?”

  “Heavens no. Arthur didn’t have enemies.”

  As he walked back to his Explorer, Basa called. Witherspoon’s office had been ransacked. Koa drove across town, leaving the SUV, its lights flashing, on Pu‘u‘eo street, and climbed to the architect’s second-floor office. Filing cabinets hung open, files and architectural drawings lay strewn about the floor, desk drawers pulled out.

  Witherspoon’s death and this break-in at his office had to be connected. Whoever killed Witherspoon had searched for something—like the KonaWili plans. But as Koa looked around, the complete destruction of the office struck him as odd. Unlike Boyle’s place where a single file had gone missing, Witherspoon’s office resembled the aftermath of a tropical cyclone. If the murderer wanted the KonaWili files, why tear up the place?

  Koa took a fresh look around the office. Every file had been ripped out of its place and dumped on the floor. Papers were strewn everywhere. Every drawer opened and its contents scattered. Several drawers had been removed from their slots and turned upside down. Supplies littered the floor. An air-conditioning vent had been ripped from the ceiling. No architect would store files in a ventilation duct. The more he studied the mess, the more he thought the thief left empty-handed. Witherspoon had hidden something—something so incriminating he’d been murdered to keep it secret.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PULU ‘ELO I ka ua o ka ho‘oilo—drenched by winter’s rain—grief filled Kona. The distraught Kona community held a memorial service for its lost children at the United Christian Church. More than a thousand people mobbed the historic house of worship, spilling out onto the lawn and even into the street. Thirteen poster-sized pictures of the dead children bordered in thick black frames lined the walkway leading to the sanctuary. The fourteenth poster had a double black frame around the picture of Mica Osbourne’s daughter, the one child whose body hadn’t been—and probably never would be—recovered. Photos of the dead teachers, one on each corner, guarded the ends of the rows. Leis of maile and ‘okika, orchids, draped every portrait, and mourners brought more flowers until the façade of the church became a single mass of blossoms.

  Koa and Nālani came with fourteen leis, one for each of the fallen children. Koa attended out of genuine sadness for the victims and the community’s loss. With the investigation only secondary in his mind, he mingled with the mourners and listened for anything that might shed light on the tragedy. He sensed a seething rage bubbling just below the surface underlining the community’s sha
red loss. People came to honor the dead, but Koa felt a powerful groundswell of outrage rising like a rogue wave directed at the officials who’d let this disaster happen. When that wave broke, it would affect the power brokers in Hilo and as far away as Honolulu.

  Governor Bobbie Māhoe and Mayor Tanaka vied to deliver the most compelling eulogies, with each man focusing individually on the uniqueness of each of the fourteen children and calling upon the community to support the parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends who’d never forget their loss.

  After the service each official held a private reception for the wounded families, taking time to console each of the relatives. The governor visited the children at Kona Community Hospital while Mayor Tanaka did the same for the children hospitalized in Hilo. Although both men kept the press at bay for most of the day, Mayor Tanaka held a late afternoon press conference, while the governor returned to Honolulu.

  Hawai‘i mayor Tanaka, flanked by his ever-present aides—Ben Inaba and Tomi Watanabe—told the world that Chief Detective Koa Kāne, one of Hawai‘i’s most experienced detectives, would command the investigation. “We will get to the bottom of this tragedy,” he promised. “And we will hold anyone who let this tragedy happen responsible.”

  Immediately after the mayor’s press conference, Koa returned to the Kona side of the island. He’d arranged an early evening meeting with Howard Gommes at his home in Kūki‘o, an enclave of multimillion-dollar estates. A security guard at the guardhouse directed him to Gommes’s residence. Gommes, the Donald Trump of Hawai‘i developers, came across as brash, controversial, politically connected, phenomenally wealthy, and quite the showman. Working on his third wife, a showbiz model, he’d grown up the scion of a wealthy family and supposedly quadrupled his already enormous inherited wealth. Allegations of fraud and sharp practices swirled around him, but none of the numerous lawsuits against him had changed his behavior.

  As soon as Koa stepped out of his car, a servant opened the front door and ushered the detective through the palatial, if gaudily decorated, house to a sundeck beside a sparkling infinity pool. The sun, dropping majestically toward the Pacific, blazed in a riot of red and yellow bands. A cool ocean breeze blew in from the moana, the sea. Despite Gommes’s wealth, Koa found the developer in typical Hawaiian attire—a tee shirt, shorts, and sandals—sitting beside the pool, sipping iced tea. Broad-shouldered with muscled arms, huge hands, and bleached white hair, Gommes topped six-two and weighed a good two-twenty. Sunspots on his face and arms suggested extended hours in the sun, most likely on Kūki‘o’s world-class, members-only golf course. His laser-like onyx eyes radiated an intimidating power.

  A pair of giant Rottweilers lay on the patio near their master. One remained still, staring malevolently at Koa, while the other lifted its head and growled. Gommes barked, “Quiet, Dante,” but the black beast continued to growl until Gommes whacked it with a riding crop. The animal cringed and whimpered, but still bared its teeth.

  “Someday I’ll get that Metzgerhund to mind his manners.”

  “Metzgerhund?” Koa asked, staying well clear of the dogs.

  “Butcher’s dogs. Dante and Virgil from Dante’s Devine Comedy.” Gommes smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression.

  How appropriate, Koa thought, trying to remember which level of hell was reserved for those with Gommes’s avarice.

  The man didn’t bother to get up or shake hands, but instead, waved Koa to a chair across a glass-top table. Pointing to a sweating pitcher atop a silver tray, Gommes said, “Help yourself to an iced tea. Damned shame about those kids. Terrible accident. Knocked the hell out of property values.”

  Koa felt a surge of anger at the man’s callousness. How could he think of profits when thirteen little bodies lay on cold slabs in the Kona morgue and one child remained missing? But ever the professional, Koa controlled himself. “Tell me about your Hualālai development.”

  “One sweet piece of real estate—or at least it was before this fiasco. Three thousand five hundred acres of prime land on the outskirts of Kailua-Kona, one of the fastest-growing communities in the state. Not far from the new community college. Great views from most of the lots. I’ve had my eye on that property for years.”

  “You bought it in 2004?”

  “That’s right. Those Paradise assholes got overextended, and we cut a sweetheart deal.”

  “Whose we?”

  “I own 60 percent of the hui and Cheryl Makela owns the rest.”

  Koa frowned, showing his disapproval at the pat answer. “I know what the land records show; I’m asking who the real owners are.”

  “I hold my 60 percent in my real estate development company. I can’t say how Cheryl holds her interest.”

  Koa didn’t believe Gommes’s bullshit for a moment. Hawai‘i law required property owners to be registered, but the registration system had huge holes. Silent partnerships, often called sub-huis, permitted politicians to own hidden interests in land subject to their development decisions. “She’s got silent partners in a sub-hui, doesn’t she?”

  Howard spread his arms. “That would be news to me.”

  Koa wanted to ruffle this man’s too-cool feathers. “Did you know Hank Boyle?”

  “Of course. He’s been the general contractor on a bunch of my projects. Damn shame he took his own life.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “About a month ago at some dumb fundraiser. He seemed happy as a clam.”

  Gommes was full of shit. The anti-depressant medicine bottles in Hank Boyle’s bathroom said Boyle hadn’t been “as happy as a clam” in decades. Gommes’s glib answer made Koa more determined to get under the developer’s skin. “You know why anyone would murder Boyle?”

  “Murder him?” Gommes bellowed. “I heard he snuffed his own lights.”

  “Well, you heard wrong. The murderer staged the scene to make it look like a suicide.”

  “Is that so?”

  Gommes seemed surprised, but the man was hard to read and Koa couldn’t tell whether his reaction was genuine—or faked like Boyle’s suicide. In either case, Boyle’s death didn’t seem to faze Gommes. Koa switched directions. “How about Witherspoon? You know him?”

  “Yeah, I know Spooner. A really fine architect. Designed lots of local buildings.”

  “You use him on your projects?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Gommes’s tone triggered Koa’s antenna. “You have a problem with Witherspoon?”

  “Not really. We had a couple of fee disputes and I quit using him. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  Gommes said it softly, but Gommes plainly harbored animosity toward Witherspoon.

  “But he designed the KonaWili school.”

  “On the DOE’s dime.”

  Witherspoon’s name got under Gommes’s skin. No doubt about it. Koa tried again. “You and Spooner have some kind of falling-out?”

  “No!” Gommes replied, and then as if to catch himself, he tried to smooth his harsh tone away. “We just disagreed and drifted apart.”

  Something had happened between Gommes and Witherspoon. Koa would have Piki check it out, but in the meantime, he shifted tacks. “Can you tell me how the particular site was chosen for the KonaWili elementary school?”

  “Simple. We hired a planning firm, one specializing in laying out communities. They told us we needed an elementary school and recommended its placement.”

  The man’s answers were way too facile. It couldn’t be so simple. It defied probabilities that some independent firm had randomly selected the fumarole site out of 3,500 acres on which to build an elementary school. Besides, as Koa had seen on his aerial recon of the KonaWili development, the school was oddly placed. Gommes had buried the KonaWili school at the most remote point in the whole subdivision rendering fire and police access difficult. Koa, tired of playing games, got tough. “When did you learn about the volcanic vent?”

  “When the school blew up.”

  “You knew bef
ore then.”

  “You’re out of your mind. You think I’d buy a property if I knew it harbored a volcanic vent?” Gommes’s temper now flared. “Do you know how much money I stand to lose? Ten of millions.” He shouted, “Tens of millions. I’m not an idiot.”

  Koa smiled inwardly. He’d broken through Gommes’s reserve and provoked anger. Strong emotion—almost any strong emotion—inhibited thought and made people careless or even reckless. Things came out unfiltered. Koa decided to add more heat. “Maybe you didn’t know about the vent when you bought the property, but you learned about it shortly thereafter.”

  Gommes’s face grew red and hostility flared in his eyes. “That’s a damn serious allegation. You have a basis?”

  Koa watched Gommes’s eyes. “Yeah, I do. The fumarole emitted steam a bunch of times over the years—”

  “Jesus.” Gommes hit the table so hard the iced tea pitcher jumped, crashed to the flagstones, and shattered. The two Rottweilers jumped to their feet and began barking. “Shut up, you damned Metzgerhunds,” Gommes screamed and whacked the nearest dog with his crop. The dog yelped and both retreated. “You mean those Paradise fuckers screwed me?”

  Koa hid his disgust at Gommes’s violence toward the dogs and increased the pressure. “Maybe. Months after you bought the property and just before the surveyors showed up, a bulldozer shoved a bunch of dirt and rock into that vent, concealing it from view.”

  “What?” he roared. But something in Gommes’s eyes told Koa it was an act, the kind of overwrought performance that so famously marked Gommes’s public persona.

  “I ask you again, when did you learn about the fumarole?”

  “I told you.” He slammed his fist down on the table, hard, and this time the glass top cracked. “When the goddamn school blew up.” This time both Dante and Virgil cringed and moved well out of range of Gommes’s whip.