1 Murder on Moloka'i (10 page)

nineteen

During the two-mile trip from the hospital back to Maunakea Street, I again saw the van that had been tailing me the day before. When I turned
makai
onto Maunakea, the van turned, too. I swung into my garage and watched the van slowly pass and pull to the curb. I kept my eyes on the van for several minutes, then walked the back route to my office, using the side door on Beretania Street.

The monitor of my PC still glowed. I shut it down, then peeked out the window onto Maunakea Street. The van was gone.

My phone rang. This time I heeded Madame Zenobia’s warning and didn’t pick up. After four rings the answering machine answered.

“Mister Cooke, dis ist Docktor Otto Frenz. I haf found somet’ing about das mule vich may interest you. Only one case I find in der journals vhere das mule stumble ven not spooked or ill.”

Dr. Frenz paused. I heard the sound of shuffling papers.

“Ya, here.” He paused again, then apparently read from a journal.

“Ven mule ist sedated, if large dosage ist indicated, he mus’ be allowt sufficient recovery time bevore valking again, since he may be drowsy und not sure of foot. Drugs, Mr. Cooke,” Dr. Frenz concluded. “Das ist best I can do.
Auf Wiedersehen.”

He hung up.

I played Dr. Frenz’s message again, recalling Kaluna’s comment about his fallen mule: Even though Coco’s leg was broken, he had lain peacefully. Heather Linborg observed the same. The veterinarian provided an explanation for both why the animal had stumbled and why it did not suffer.

But how could Coco have been drugged under Kaluna’s watchful eye? No
paniolo
would let his animal be so abused. There had to be more clues–on the trail, in Kaluapapa town. It looked like I would be paying another visit to Moloka‘i.

Sunday morning I visited Adrienne again at the medical center. She had been moved from intensive care to a hospital room–a positive sign.

In place of her tracheal tube, an oxygen line now led to her nose from a spigot on the wall marked O
₂
. Adrienne looked much as she had the day before: eyes closed, hair lusterless and drawn back, skin paper white. She had not shown any sign of consciousness since her accident. I sat beside her for nearly an hour, watching the barely perceptible movement of her breath.

At about nine I left the silent Adrienne and headed back to my office with a growing sense of urgency. In some strange way, I felt Adrienne’s recovery depended somehow on my solving her sister’s murder. I checked the rearview mirror. No van. Since Adrienne’s accident, I could feel the
hui
hovering everywhere.

Fujiyama’s is closed on Sundays, but when I walked up to the building, one of the front doors on Maunakea was open.
Strange.
I saw Mrs. Fujiyama inside, head in her display cases, her half glasses riding low on her nose. She gazed up when I walked in.

“There’s some bad people in this world, Mr. Cooke.”

“Surprised to see you here on Sunday, Mrs. Fujiyama. What’s wrong?”

“The police just left. Last night robbers broke in.”

“What did they take?”

“Nothing,” she said. “They took nothing.”

“Are you sure?” I didn’t like the sound of this.

She nodded. “Better check your office,” she added. “The police said the robbers went upstairs, too.”

I ran up the orange shag stairs, trying to reassure myself that my two dead bolts and solid mahogany door could keep out any intruder. The flimsy, hollow-core doors of the other four tenants were closed and locked.
No break-ins there.

With relief, I saw that my own door was also closed tight. I put my key into the top lock, which opened with the usual click. But the second made a different sound.

The door swung open to an office in shambles. My file folders and their reams of client records lay scattered on the floor as if hit by a hurricane. My computer was gone, its unattached power line and printer cable resembling torn umbilical cords. And my tarnished longboard trophy had taken a dive, head first, into the wastebasket.

The
hui
was giving me a wake-up call. They had killed Sara. They had disappeared Baron Taniguchi. They had run down Adrienne. Now they were sending a message that they could do the same to me. How had they managed to break into my office without busting down the door, then trash the place and not get caught? I grudgingly gave credit to their techniques, then wondered if they had done the same to my apartment.

I closed up my ransacked office and drove to the Waikīkī Edgewater. Packing into an already-crowded elevator, I pushed PH. The ride to the penthouses seemed to take forever, the elevator stopping six or seven times on the forty-five floor climb. Finally, the doors opened to the familiar floor and I hurried down the hall.

My door appeared to be locked just as I had left it. The turning of my key produced no unusual sound.

Inside everything looked in place. I rushed straight to the nightstand and grabbed my photo of Niki, still beaming a heartbreaking smile in her string bikini. I inspected the photo, the glass, the frame, and the cardboard backing. From the thickness of the backing I could tell all was well.

Relieved, I immediately called Johnny Kaluna, who picked up on the first ring. Since the mule guide’s tour business was still suspended, he had time on his hands and agreed to hike again with me down the Kalaupapa trail. I told him I was in a hurry. We settled on the next morning, Monday, at nine.

After I made reservations for my impromptu Moloka‘i trip, I called the Halekōkua. No change in Adrienne’s condition. I walked out on the lānai and leaned on the railing. The midafternoon sun was reflecting in brilliant patches off the distant ocean. I might as well go back to the office and deal with the mess there, since I couldn’t bear the thought of coming home from Moloka‘i to ankle-deep files.

But I knew it wasn’t my files the
hui
had been after. It was my computer. All of Baron Taniguchi’s transferred email files, incriminating
hui
members, were now lost.

twenty

After a bouncy but uneventful flight later that afternoon to Moloka‘i, I picked up another rental car at the tiny airport and drove to Kaunakakai. On the edge of town I saw that white-muzzled retriever snoozing at Kalama’s Service Station, then I passed Sun Whole Foods where Sara was to have delivered her speech.

I arrived at the ‘Ukulele Inn at sunset. At the front desk, a Hawaiian woman in a tent-sized
mu‘umu‘u
checked me in.

“Room 21d,” she said. “Sign da book, please?” She opened a spiral-bound register on the counter. It contained guests’ names for each day of year.

I signed, then asked in pidgin: “O.K. I can look an’ see if any my frien’s stay here?”

“When your frien’s come?”

“Septembah–I t’ink maybe foah, five, maybe six.”

“
Huli
da page.” She made a page-turning gesture.

I turned the log back to “September 4,” two days before Sara’s death. I scanned the register. Among perhaps thirty autographs, I could decipher none of my suspects’ names.

“You fine ‘em yet?”

“Looking.” Toward the bottom of the page, I squinted to read a tightly scrawled name: “J. G. Parke.”

I tried to conceal my glee. “Maybe try da next page, too.” Among the many names on the page dated September 5, was “H. Linborg” in a swooping, feminine hand.

“Find your frien’?”

“No can find.” I attempted to keep a straight face. “Try one more page.”

I turned to September 6, the day of Sara’s fall. Three dozen names appeared, but no suspects, unless they had used aliases.

“Shoots. No luck.”

“Maybe dey stay anoddah hotel?” she suggested.

“Where you t’ink?”

“Try Moloka‘i Beach Hotel. Ask for my frien’ in reservations, Mele.”

“T’anks, eh?”

Within minutes, my rented car was flying two miles up shore to the Moloka‘i Beach Hotel. I wandered among its Polynesian thatched cottages, soon coming upon an open-air lobby flanked by two towering
koa
statues–
ki‘i
or tiki– apparently of local gods.

The reservationist I had been instructed to see, Mele, showed me the guest register for September 3 through 7. I scanned the pages for suspects Goto, Yu, Archibald, and McWhorter. Only Archibald’s name appeared, on September 4 in a beachfront cottage. Listed in the same room with Archibald was another guest named Stevens.

The travel agent had lied, claiming to have journeyed to Moloka‘i alone. I suppose if the
hui
had wanted a remote hit man with little obvious local connection, Archibald or this Stevens could have been their man–or woman. I asked if the receptionist could tell me more about the mysterious traveling companion. Was Stevens also a travel agent? Did the two check in together? Did they take meals together?

Mele didn’t know. But she told me to come back on Sunday to talk to someone who might, a chambermaid named Raine who cleaned the seaside cottages.

After grilled
mahimahi
that evening at the ‘Ukulele Inn, I stopped by the Banyan Tree. The same local surfer was tending bar as before.

“Hey, Kai, wassup?” he said.

I ordered a beer and put another ten on the bar. “Keep da change.”

“T’anks, eh.” He set a frothing mug in front of me and picked up the bill.

We talked story about surfing for a while, then I steered our conversation toward the case.

“Eh, brah, you remembah dis’ guy?” I showed him the photo of Parke. “Was here ‘bout one mont’ ago. One
haole
guy, mid-fifties.”

The bartender studied the photo. “Ho, how can I forget! I wen’ see him sitting wit’ one
ono wahine.”

“You remembah what da
wahine
look like?”

He smiled wistfully. “Was blon’. I t’ink she one masseuse, or somet’ing.
Lomilomi
kine.”

“Was named Heather?”

“Maybe. Dey wen’ meet in da bar and lef’ togeddah. Dat’s her style. I seen her operate hea befoah.”

“She one hooker?”

The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Maybe. I no ask.”

“Why you t’ink she work hea on Moloka‘i? Brah, t’ink she no get plenny business on Maui?”

“Maybe she no like nobody fin’ out.”

“Like her boss?” I thought out loud. “Or maybe she get one boyfriend?”

“I dunno, brah. Whatevahs.”

“T’anks, eh.” I clasped his hand. “If you t’ink of anyt’ing else, try call me, ‘kay?” I handed him my card.

Back in my room I mulled over our conversation. Heather was indeed in “the business.” And as I assumed all along, she too had lied. She did know Parke. Intimately. Maybe she needed the money. Or maybe she was working for somebody else … A pimp. A crime syndicate. The
hui
itself.

I climbed into bed. The Spartan accommodations–no TV, no radio, no clock–hardly mattered this time. Morning was on my mind. Tomorrow I had a murder to solve.

twenty-one

“Errr-Errr-Erroooo!”

The ruby red rooster that struts the grounds at the ‘Ukulele Inn crowed like clockwork before six the next morning.

I turned over in my bed, too groggy to rise. Last night the bar band had played Jimmy Buffet tunes until past midnight– evidently my room wasn’t far enough away to block the sound. Then some rowdy and tone-deaf merrymakers in a nearby room had sung “Margaritaville” off-key for who knows how long. I would have had a rough night anyway. My thoughts kept returning to the Halekōkua Medical Center. Adrienne was in a coma and I felt responsible.

On the way to my meeting with Kaluna, I stopped at Kanemitsu Bakery, where I sipped Kona coffee and turned over details of the case. None of my theories were going to matter much without hard evidence. With a loaf of freshly-baked Moloka‘i bread in hand, I headed up the two-lane highway to the cliffs of Kalaupapa.

A few miles from the summit, mist clouded my windshield, then cleared as the sun emerged. I passed the countless acres of conservation land Chancellor Trust proposed to plow under, where
kukui
and ironwood trees waved in the cool morning trade winds. The Land Zoning Board was expected to approve the project on Friday–just four days away.

I pulled up to the mule stable a few minutes early. The corral, as before, lay empty. Inside the barn the wooden feeding troughs still held no feed. Saddles, blankets, harnesses, bits–all the riding gear–hung as before, awaiting the animals’ return. The barn was ghostly quiet, except for a hen pecking by the troughs where once seeds and morsels of food had been.

In what mood had Sara waited here before her fateful ride? Was she on guard, alarmed by the death threats against her? Or was she at ease, having escaped, if briefly, to the more pristine Hawai‘i she was fighting to preserve?

I wandered outside to the corral, just as Kaluna’s Jeep rattled into view. He hopped out in his signature black felt cowboy hat and worn denims, then ambled toward me in the elegantly bowlegged walk of a
paniolo.

He extended his hand. “Kai,
aloha mai.”

“I brought you one small
makana.”
From my car I fetched the gift–warm bread from Kanemitsu Bakery.

“Oh
mahalo.”
He breathed in the fresh-baked aroma. “We no get dis’ kine bread up hea.”

“I pay fo’ da hike today, like da last time.”

“Mahalo,
Kai.” Kaluna smiled. “Your client still not satisfy ‘bout da accident?”

“My client in da hospital. Was run down I t’ink by da same
hui
dat kill da
wahine.”

“Nobody kill da
wahine,”
Kaluna shook his head. “Coco wen’ stumble.”

“But Kaluna, you say yourself it no like Coco fo’ stumble. You say, ‘Coco one good mule.’”

“‘Ae,
real good.”

“Well den, somebody wen’ mess wit’ Coco.”

“Nobody mess wit’ Coco,” Kaluna protested. “Nobody go neah da mules but me and da customahs. And I dere wit’ Coco da whole time.”

“Da whole time? You sure?”

“All da time ‘cept when da customahs take da walking tour down dere in Kalaupapa …” Kaluna paused. “Den Coco tether wit’ da oddah mules and I talk story wit’ some friens’.”

“One vet in waimānalo t’ink Coco drugged.”

“Coco drug’?” Kaluna’s leathery face contorted.
“‘A‘ole!
Nevah!”

“Maybe one customah give Coco drugs when you wen’ talk story.”

The mule guide ripped off his cowboy hat and grimaced again. “One customah drug Coco?”

“Is jus’ one t’eory, but if we fin’ evidence, your company get plenny
kālā
–plenny money.”

“How?” The
paniolo
restored his hat.

“Ask your lawyers. Dey sue da guilty party fo’ cause da accident and fo’ damage your business. Da court award millions in case like dis.”

“Millions?” Kaluna’s brown eyes widened.

I pulled out my wallet. “I pay now fo’ da hike.”

Kaluna waved me off. “We fine dat drug evidence, Kai, an’ you no owe me nut’ing.”

We crossed the highway and walked down the winding red dirt road that led to the Kalaupapa trail. On my previous trip, this panoramic view of the tiny colony and leaf-shaped peninsula had been shrouded in mist. Today, under the bright October sun, every detail was sharply etched like a picture postcard. The waves washing the chocolate beach below were brilliant turquoise. The whipped cream foam looked good enough to eat. Above on the ridge a gentle breeze whispered in the ironwoods, carrying a fresh scent that stirred my senses.

—
I recalled the fabled motto of Kalaupapa:
‘A‘ole kānā wai ma kēia wahi
–“In this place there is no law.” The saying was old, dating back to the nineteenth century, but its meaning had carried forward with a new twist. I glanced toward the eighty acres that Chancellor Trust, allied with a “who’s who” of Hawai‘i leaders, was poised to desecrate. Who would have dreamt that the lawless of today would be our own public officials sworn to uphold the law?

Before we started down the trail, Kaluna stopped at the grave of his fallen mule, marked by that pine cross with the crudely carved “Coco.” Kaluna gazed at the cross. The red earth beneath it, once mounded high on the immense plot, already looked sunken like a little valley.

“If da mule nevah cause da accident,” Kaluna said, pausing at the grave, then fixing his glistening brown eyes me, “I like clear Coco’s name. Let’s
hele!”

We hiked through the first few canopied switchbacks, nearly every turn bringing breathtaking views of the wave-pounded peninsula. In the open stretches, the sweltering sun beat down, but to our great advantage: No rain-slick boulders or gooey red mud to challenge our footing today.

About halfway down the trail we began to hear the quiet wash of surf. At the red “15” marker, beneath the site of proposed Kalaupapa Cliffs resort, we made a sharp left to the rocky path from which Sara had fallen. I glanced down and involuntarily took a deep breath, envisioning Sara’s slight body being thrown from her mule, lunging over the edge, clutching the air in a futile attempt to regain a hold on life before gravity dashed it from her on the rocks below.

I glanced back at the pockmarked trail. In the last month, mist and rain had washed the boulders and red earth. The searing sun had baked the crusty soil. I searched the accident site as before but, not surprisingly, came up empty.

Before turning at “16,” we paused again at the flat-topped boulder with the makeshift shrine–Madonna, baby Jesus, wise men,
maile lei,
and rosary beads. The huddled, tiny figurines looked both sorrowful and jubilant. Despair and hope–two opposite emotions–portrayed in the same poignant scene. I noticed that atop the boulder the two red roses we had seen before were gone. In their place lay a fresh new rose, crimson and fragrant. Someone had recently–very recently–tended this shrine. I looked at Kaluna, who crossed himself as we passed. Then his eyes met mine.

“Fo’ Coco and da
wahine.”
He walked on.

The trail seesawed down through the remaining switchbacks, the village of Kalaupapa growing under my gaze– from a grid of tiny specks to visible outlines of frame houses and gardens. Every so often I spotted a glinting object–a bottle cap, a plastic spoon, a piece of rusty pipe that recalled earlier days when mules ferried Kalaupapa’s basic supplies. Around each object I scoured the trail with a falcon-like, circular search pattern, combing every inch of accessible ground on and off the trail. Nothing. In some places where the cliff dropped off too steeply, my search covered the narrow footpath alone. Still nothing.

Kaluna and I marched silently, scanning the trail as we covered the remaining few hundred feet. At the last switchback before Kalaupapa, the
paniolo
broke the silence.

“Eh, Kai, try look ovah deah. You see dat t’ing?” He pointed to a faint gleam about five strides off the trail. “What dat?”

I followed his finger, squatting to get a better look. The dully glimmering object lay on rocky soil under thick dwarf
kiawe,
so dense we would have to crawl on our bellies to fetch it.

I squinted to bring the subject into focus. “Look like one plastic bag reflecting da sun.”

“I go take one closah look.” Kaluna stepped off the trail.

“Might only be
‘ōpala–
trash.” I got down on my hands and knees. “But we no can afford to pass up nut’ing.”

Kaluna stopped me. “I go.”

“What fo’? Have to slither like one gecko under dat brush.”

“‘A‘ole pilikia
–no problem. I do it for Coco.”

Kaluna crouched down and crawled. His black felt cowboy hat flopped off under the first low
kiawe
branch. He kept crawling until he was out of sight except for his well-worn boot soles. I remembered I had brought my camera and snapped a few pictures, in case this led to the discovery of evidence we might use.

Suddenly a long, slithering insect darted toward Kaluna’s hand like an undulating snake. It had countless tiny feet moving in waves. Kaluna let out a whoop.

“You O.K.?” I called.

“Centipede! Da buggah is on me!”

I knew too well the centipede’s painful and poisonous bite, which can send even a strong man like Kaluna to the hospital. When I crouched down to check on the guide, the many-legged insect was weaving its way across the trail.

“Dat was one close one!” Kaluna shouted back through the
kiawe
boughs. “Da centipede ran ovah my hand, but he nevah sting.”

“Come out of dere before you get hurt, bruddah.”

“Jus’ anoddah few feet to da kine–plastic bag or whatevah.” He edged toward the elusive gleam. I heard him groan as he apparently stretched out his hand. “Got da bag!”

“Plastic bag?” I asked. “What’s in it?”

“Hū!”
Kaluna slid out from under the brush with a weathered Ziploc bag containing three spent syringes. Though mist and rain had fallen throughout this last month, inside that sealed bag the syringes remained dry as bone.

I dared to hope for usable fingerprints.