by Robert McCaw
Koa looked up at Ozzy. “This all seems pro forma.”
Ozzy nodded. “It is. That’s typical of the way these government contracts work.”
“What about the other order?”
“Strange, that one. Never seen anything like it on a government deal, and I’ve been doing this job for more than twenty-five years.”
“What happened?”
“Hank Boyle comes in here just after they start grading the site and wants an emergency delivery—twenty-five hundred cubic yards of concrete. You know how many trucks that is?”
“A truck holds nine yards. Isn’t that where the expression ‘the whole nine yards’ comes from?”
“Very good. You want a job?”
“No thanks,” Koa responded, wiping some of the concrete dust from his face.
“Boyle wants two-hundred-eighty truckloads of concrete, like yesterday.”
“And you guys delivered?”
“Yeah, we delivered, but we jacked the price up by 50 percent. We brought in all the temporary drivers and layers we could find and still had guys working eighteen-hour shifts. Ran thirty trucks a day for ten days.”
“Jesus.” Koa had seen the six-foot walls at KonaWili, but he still asked the question. “Where’d they put all that concrete?”
“I wasn’t out at the site, but my guys said they were pouring some kind of concrete bunker under the school.”
Koa wanted more. “Can we talk to one of the drivers who was out there?”
“Sure.” Ozzy picked up a telephone from a table in the corner of the room, dialed, and asked, “Is Keao around?” He waited a moment before saying, “Send him in here.”
A couple of minutes later, a huge Hawaiian man, dressed in cement-covered coveralls, stepped into the room. “Keao,” Ozzy introduced the driver, “this is my brother Arsenio and Detective Kāne. They want to know about the rush job down at KonaWili.”
Though Keao looked to be all of two-hundred-fifty pounds, he was taller than Ozzy and his massive shoulders and arms bulged with muscle. A match, Koa thought, for my fisherman friend, Hook Hao. Keao pulled a chair from the end of the table. One of those plastic bucket chairs with metal legs. The chair legs bowed outward, and creaked under Keao’s weight, but held. Keao ran a hand through his hair, sending a shower of concrete dust onto the table and the floor. “Crazy fuckin’ job.”
“Aloha, Keao,” Koa began. “Tell us what you saw out there.”
“Crazy fuckin’ job,” Keao repeated. “Started out fillin’ a goddamn hole, ’cept it wouldn’t fill. Took seventy trucks even with all the accelerators.”
“Accelerators?”
“Chemicals. Makes the concrete harden faster.”
Koa did the math. “You poured more than six hundred cubic yards of concrete into a hole?”
“Yeah, ’cept your ’rithmetic is screwed up. It was six-hundred-thirty yards.”
“Got it,” Koa conceded. “But you filled the hole?”
“Yeah. We filled the damn hole.”
“And then?” Koa prodded.
“Then we poured the bunker.”
“Bunker?”
“Yeah. A big cube with floor, walls, and top six feet thick, like one of the damn military ammo bunkers up at Pōhakuloa.”
There it was, stark as a movie in Technicolor. Tony Pwalú uncovered the volcanic vent. Hank Boyle filled it with concrete and covered it with a bunker. What had Tatum said: “Trying to seal a volcanic vent is beyond stupid. Just causes the pressure to build up until you get an explosive release.” Boyle created a ticking time bomb just waiting for rainwater to flash into steam under millions of pounds of pressure. Six-hundred-thirty cubic yards of concrete might be a big cork in the neck of the volcanic bottle, but it didn’t stand a chance against Pele—ka wahine ‘ai pōhaku, the stone-eating woman.
Koa stared at Keao. “You ever ask Boyle’s people what they were doing?”
“Yeah, once.”
“And?” Koa prompted.
“The foreman told me to mind my own business and get the fuckin’ concrete poured.”
“Ever see a building inspector at the site?”
Keao laughed. “Sure. When Zak showed up, Boyle’s guys gave him a six-pack and a fifty. He signed off and crawled back in his hole. He’s a joke.”
Koa pulled the papers for the rush job across the table and focused on the government order number. Unlike the first set of documents, this one said: “Change Order No. 1” followed by the original contract number. Koa had seen the original contract, but no change order. “I didn’t know there was a change order.”
“Had to be a change order,” Ozzy responded. “Otherwise we don’t get paid.”
“You have a copy?” Koa asked.
“I don’t, but the accounting department will. The gov gets a special rate, but we’ve got all kinds of contractors in here blathering on about how the state sponsors their jobs, trying to get the government rate. We have a simple rule: no state contract, no state discount.”
“Can you get me a copy?”
“Sure.” Ozzy left the room and came back a few minutes later. He handed Koa a copy of an official state document. The DOE change order for “environmental improvements” increased the contract price for the school from nine-point-nine million dollars to eleven million dollars. It bore the signature of Francine Na‘auao, head of the DOE. Environmental improvements, Koa thought, like sealing up a volcanic vent. Still, the numbers puzzled Koa. “The rush concrete job didn’t cost a million-one, did it?” he asked.
“Hell no,” Ozzy responded. “With the surcharge and overtime, it barely topped four hundred thousand.”
The concrete had cost roughly a third of the $1,100,000 authorized by the change order. What, Koa wondered, about the remaining $700,000? Bribes? But to whom? Gommes stood to make tens of millions from the project. So too did Makela, who supposedly owned 40 percent. They had incentive enough. Boyle? Had he been bribed? Probably. Why else would a contractor knowingly cover up a volcanic vent? What about Na‘auao? Had some of that money found its way back to her? Or Witherspoon? Or were there other silent partners who had extracted a toll for participating in the conspiracy? They—whoever they were—killed fourteen children and four teachers. Koa intended to chase them, every one of them, to the ends of the earth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RAIN AND FOG returned that night and continued into the following morning, making the road slippery and the visibility poor. “Where’d this shitty weather come from?” Basa asked. “Kona’s supposed to be sunny.”
“It’s a Kona front, weather coming in from the west. We’re getting more western storms. Must be global warming,” Koa responded.
“Hope it doesn’t start the damn vent spewing again,” Basa said.
Koa, too, worried about another volcanic blowup on Hualālai, one that might be even worse than the one that had killed the kids. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
“Hey,” Basa suddenly caught on, “you’re worried about more than just the school, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, you heard Tatum. Kona’s at risk if Hualālai blows.”
“Jesus, that would be awful.” Basa paused. “Didn’t he say we’d have some warning?”
“Yeah. I hope he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Me, too.” Basa paused, wiping the condensation off the inside of the windshield before changing the subject. “We’re gonna get soaked, and for what? Talking to this doctor is gonna be a colossal waste of time.”
Basa probably had it right. Koa viewed getting anything useful from Patrone as a long shot, but dozens of prescription pill bottles in Boyle’s medicine cabinet bearing Dr. Patrone’s name meant Boyle had suffered serious depression. The trip would be worth getting soaked if Dr. Patrone could shed some light on Boyle’s mental condition.
When they arrived at their destination, rain pelted them before they got to the door. They took the stairs to the second floor and walked down a hall, their wet shoes squeakin
g, to a door marked, “Dr. Patrone, M.D., Mental Health and Psychiatric Services.”
Finding the door locked, Koa followed the instructions posted on the glass and called the doctor’s number. After a few seconds, a tall, thin man opened the door and introduced himself as Dr. Patrone. Koa judged the psychiatrist to be north of eighty years old, and the years hadn’t been kind. His straggly white hair hung to his hunched shoulders, and framed a heavily scarred face, likely from too much Pacific sun. He let them into a tiny office just large enough to hold a couch, a chair, a small desk, and a steel filing cabinet. A larger-than-life poster of bodybuilder Mickey Hargitay, Mr. Universe 1955, seemed way out of place.
“Can’t afford a receptionist,” Dr. Patrone apologized in a soft, girlish voice. He gestured toward a tiny couch, too small for both policemen, so Koa stood against the wall. The atmosphere felt claustrophobic, and Koa doubted the good doctor treated many clients. He plainly paid little rent.
“We’re here about Hank Boyle,” Koa began. “He was your patient?”
The doctor frowned. “Did something happen to him?”
“Yes, Doc, I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Oh, my God … oh, my God.” Dr. Patrone’s eyes widened, and tears gathered in his eyes.
The emotional physician in his ice-cube-sized office under the watchful gaze of Mr. Universe did nothing to heighten Koa’s low regard for doctors. “He was your patient?” Koa repeated.
Patrone hesitated, took a tissue from his desk, and blew his nose. “Well, yes.”
“From the number of antidepressants you prescribed, Boyle seems to have had some nervous or anxiety disorder?”
Patrone evaded the question. “How’d he die?”
“We found him hanged and are investigating the circumstances. Was he—”
“Oh, my God.” Patrone went limp and slumped into his chair with his face in his hands.
Koa found the doc’s reaction bizarre. Most medics, even psychiatrists, dealt all too often with death. To Koa, Patrone’s reaction signaled more than a doctor-patient relationship. “He was your friend?” Koa asked.
The doctor seemed not to have heard. “He was your friend?” Koa repeated.
Patrone looked up, his face stricken with grief, tears in his eyes, and nodded. “Yes, a dear, dear friend.”
Koa waited, giving the shrink time to recover. “We need to know about his recent condition, his state of mind.”
Patrone pulled another tissue from the box and dried his eyes. “I … I can’t. I just can’t. There’s a doctor-patient privilege.”
“Hank Boyle is dead under suspicious circumstances. We need—”
Patrone shook his head. “The privilege survives his death.”
Koa knew the law and remained undeterred in seeking answers. “Did he have any relatives who survived him?” Koa demanded.
“No. None I know about.”
“Then who are you protecting, Doc?”
“I can’t. I just can’t—”
Koa moved closer to the physician, invading his space and leaning close until their faces were no more than six inches apart. “He was your friend. Don’t you care what happened to him?”
The doctor stared at Koa for several seconds. “Talk to Gene.” The doctor spoke so softly, Koa barely heard.
“Who’s Gene?”
“Gene Forret, Hank’s friend. He lives down at the Sunset Villa condos.”
Recognizing he wasn’t going to get what he needed from Patrone and now more curious than ever about Boyle, Koa said, “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll likely need to see you again.”
He led Basa back through the rain to the Explorer in search of Gene Forret.
“That quack is one weird dude!” Basa exclaimed. “Not like any doctor I know. Acted more like a bereaved spouse than a shrink, and he’s damn sure hiding something.”
Koa nodded in agreement. In his years on the street, Basa had developed uncanny instincts for unusual personalities, of which the Big Island had more than its share. “Yeah. I’m getting strange vibes about Hank Boyle. He’s coming across as an untold tale.”
“You think Boyle and the doctor were more than friends?” Basa asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
They found the Sunset Villa condos, hidden behind cascades of rain-drenched red bougainvillea flowers not far off the south Kona waterfront. A woman in the office pointed them to Gene Forret’s unit, and they trudged through the rain, still falling with thunderous force. A sixty-something bodybuilder with long gray hair and a beard, dressed only in dusty green shorts, responded suspiciously to their knock, opening the door only a few inches. His hard, well-muscled body reflected regular workouts, but tattoos covered his chest, and a gold hoop hung from his nose. He spotted Basa’s uniform and said, “Cops. What do you want?”
“I’m Chief Detective Kāne. It’s about your friend Hank Boyle,” Koa responded.
“He’s dead.” Guarding the door, Forret gave no sign of inviting them inside.
“We’re aware of his death,” Koa responded. “Dr. Patrone suggested we chat with you.”
Forret’s expression changed at the mention of Patrone’s name, and he stepped back, letting the two officers into his one-bedroom apartment. Life-sized, bodybuilding posters—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dexter Jackson, Bob Paris, Tony Atlas, and others—dominated the walls of the living-dining-kitchen area, and a massage table sat where the architect had envisioned a dining table.
“You a fitness trainer?” Basa asked.
“Yeah, and a freelance masseur.”
Koa wondered if this aging hippie held a massage license. Koa didn’t see one hanging on the walls. The two policemen sat on folding chairs around a large mat spread in the center of the living room floor. Forret dropped into a lotus position in the center of the mat. Koa noticed a diamond stud on his left ear. It weighed at least two carats and glinted like the real thing. He hadn’t paid for the earring with his massage business. “How well did you know Hank Boyle?”
“He finally committed suicide.”
Koa jumped on the word “finally.” “He attempted suicide before?”
“Yeah, that’s how we first hooked up.”
Koa had missed a turn somewhere. “I don’t understand.”
“Patrone treated him after he attempted suicide back in college. The quack and I were together back then, and he introduced me to Hank. He was really fucked up, coming off some kind of weird episode.”
“You met at UH?”
“I didn’t go to college, but Patrone introduced me to Hank back then. We’ve been together ever since.”
“Tell me about this weird episode?”
Forret shook his head. “It’s a mystery, a forty-year-old mystery.”
“Meaning?”
“Something happened to Hank Boyle during his senior year at UH. Something terrible, involving a woman, and it changed his life. That much I know. The rest—” Forret spread his arms—“only the gods, and maybe old Doc Patrone, know.”
“What year was this?”
“Mid-1970s. We were all still living the 1960s hippie life chronicled by Tom Wolfe in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. You remember those days, don’t you? Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters ridin’ across the country in a painted school bus named Further. You know, free love, sex, and LSD, all in search of intersubjectivity.”
Although Koa had once read the book, he wasn’t a Tom Wolfe fan. “Boyle had a bad trip?”
Forret shook his head slowly, the way people do when they’re replaying memories in their head. “I’ve had some bad trips but not like Hank Boyle. I don’t know what drove him into a lifelong depression, but it was a hell of a lot worse than acid, much darker and more dangerous.”
“You know any of his friends?”
“Maybe a couple, but as you can see, Hank lived two lives, and I was never part of his other life.”
“The name Witherspoon mean anything to you? Arthur Witherspoon?”
&n
bsp; “I’ve heard the name, but never met the man. Like I said, Hank didn’t introduce me to his straight friends.”
“What about Gommes? Howard Gommes?”
“The developer? Sure, Hank worked for him. Talked about him from time to time. Described him as one nasty son of a bitch, but rich as Midas, and tough as lava chewing gum.”
“Boyle and Gommes have a run-in?”
“On every job. Boyle would come back from meeting with Gommes all chewed up. Gommes is a screamer, yelling, banging his fist, making threats, acting like he owned Hank, or had some kind of hold over him, but Hank always took his jobs. Made good money, too.”
“When did you last see Boyle?”
“We had dinner together down at the beach the evening before he killed himself.”
“Anything unusual happen?”
“Yeah, Hank was bummed out about the school thing up at KonaWili.”
“What’d he say about it?”
“That it shouldn’t have happened. He just kept saying over and over: ‘It shouldn’t have happened … it shouldn’t have happened.’”
“He say why?”
“Naw, just it shouldn’t have happened.”
“Where were you the rest of that night?”
“Here. All night by myself.”
Koa hadn’t expected to learn much from Boyle’s psychiatrist, but Gene Forret had given him a lot to think about. Koa had pegged Gommes as an arrogant prick with a mean streak, but Forret made him out to be more sinister with “some kind of hold” over Hank Boyle. Gommes, Koa thought, must treat people the way he treated his butcher’s dogs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AS THEY NEARED the KonaWili school on their way back to Hilo, strange streaks of light off to the right of the highway cut through the water-soaked sky. Basa opened his passenger-side window, and, despite the drumbeat of the rain, a violent whooshing noise filled the air.
“My God,” Basa exclaimed, “the school is blowing up.”
When Koa turned into the subdivision, they saw a giant geyser of smoke and ash shooting into the gray sky, creating an ominous blanket of darkness. TV trucks, cameramen, and a few rain-soaked demonstrators stared. None ventured too close. Pele’s violence kept everyone at a distance.