1 Murder on Moloka'i (9 page)

seventeen

I suggested dinner that night at a Thai Restaurant in Waikīkī, and Adrienne agreed. She seemed to have dropped the cool act she was putting on after our night at the Halekūlani. But we kept the conversation on business. And, for better or worse, there were no Chi Chis on the menu here.

After dinner, Adrienne insisted on walking back to the Halekūlani, a half mile distance, alone. I sensed that this was her way of signaling the evening was over.

“Let me drive you. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” By now I had poked around enough in this case to know that whoever had killed Sara might be on to me–
and
Adrienne.

“Really, Kai! I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.”

“Then give me a call when you get back to your hotel. O.K.?” I wrote my home phone number on the back of my business card and gave it to her.

She nodded grudgingly and turned with a wave of her hand.

When I got back to my apartment a while later, my phone message light was blinking. I pressed Play.

“Naughty surfer boy. Why haven’t you called me?” Niki.

I almost tossed her photo off my
lānai
, a forty-five-story plunge to the sidewalk below. Suddenly I had a better idea. Removing Niki’s picture from the nightstand, I pried open the retaining clips behind the frame, took off the cardboard backing, then slipped in Sara’s speech, which had been folded in my shirt pocket. I replaced the backing and wiped the frame and glass. For the time being, Niki would provide a safe hiding place for my only hard evidence.

In bed that night above the murmur of the
Late Show
, I pondered the case. I began thinking more about one of the names on Sara’s infamous list–Rush McWhorter. The two apparently had known a long, complex, and vexed relationship. How had it all played out? McWhorter’s failed romance and his work for Chancellor Trust must have put him at constant loggerheads with the “ecofeminist” he once–and perhaps still– loved. Did Rush keep his distance or continue to pursue her? Did he become a more aggressive adversary? If so, he would have been in a perfect position to snoop on his colleague, considering the proximity of their offices and the fact that their computers were hooked to the same university mainframe.

Her computer.
I decided to have another look at Sara’s office in the morning. I switched off the television and tried to sleep. But something was bothering me.

Adrienne had not called.

I sat up and switched on the light. Dialing her number, I tried to estimate how long the walk would take. The phone kept ringing. She might not necessarily be back yet, and she’d probably think I was neurotic if I left a message. As she reminded me, she could take care of herself. I hung up the phone and tried to get some sleep.

The next morning I returned to the Mānoa campus and Sara’s office. A key Adrienne had provided me opened the outside door of the office building, as well as Sara’s own office. A quick look inside told me something wasn’t right. Papers, files, notebooks, journals, pens, pencils–everything– lay essentially where they had been the day before, but the relationships among things looked different. Someone had been here. I checked the door for evidence of a break-in. No marks on the sill or the lock, though janitors’ passkeys were easy enough to come by.

I wondered what had been taken. The most important document, Sara’s speech, was safely tucked away in my apartment. And, of the suspects, only Milton Yu let on that he knew anything about it. A break-in seemed ill-timed–more than a month after Sara’s death. What would be the point?

I turned on Sara’s computer and scanned her many files, coming up with virtually nothing. Had the break-in artists cleared all incriminating files from her hard drive? I thought a minute. If there were any pertinent documents left, they were probably hiding in her email account since it would be more difficult to crack. Fortunately, I had learned how to circumvent the university’s log-on and password requirements from an appreciative client who also happened to be a university computer science major.

Once in Sara’s account, the computer flashed a message: “You Have New Mail.” There were seventy-four new messages. About fifty appeared to be junk email and several were departmental memos addressed to all law faculty. A few looked personal. I noted one in particular dated the day before Sara died from [email protected], whom I assumed was Baron Taniguchi.

Sara,

Another threat came in today on the Hotline, this one aimed at you and me both. Be careful. I’ve never taken threats seriously before, but these
hui
guys sound serious.

I hope your Moloka‘i mule ride pays off. What a clever way to let the folks at Kalaupapa know what Chancellor Trust is up to. Please give my regards to the folks at Sun Whole Foods. I’m sure your speech will galvanize the coalition.

The pressure of this trust business is getting to me. Only one way to handle it – night fishing at Bamboo Ridge!

Have a safe trip to Moloka‘i.

Aloha,

Baron

I double-clicked on her Saved Messages folder, but before I could open any my solitude was disturbed.

Tap. Tap. Tap,
A heavy hand rapped on the door. “Campus Secur-ah-tee,” intoned a husky pidgin voice.

I rose from the desk and unlocked the door. A meaty local man in a khaki uniform peered in. He looked more like a heavy-weight wrestler than a security guard. I noticed his uniform displayed no official badges or patches.

“Wassup?” I asked in my best pidgin.

“Dis’ professor Ridgely-Parke’s office.” He eyed me suspiciously. “What you doing hea?”

“Da Professor
go hala,”
I replied. “She’s dead.”

“Know dat awready,” said the man. “What you doing hea?”

“Work fo’ da professor’s family.” I reached into my wallet and handed him my card.

He studied the surfer logo, then put the card in his shirt pocket. “O.K., brah.” He turned and walked away.

Closing Sara’s office door, I had second thoughts about giving the man my card. But it was too late now.

Turning back to Sara’s saved messages, I found several more emails from Taniguchi in which he revealed the names of the
hui
members that Sara was going to expose to the public in her speech. If the
hui
had hacked into Taniguchi’s e-mails, they would have known everything–including Baron’s and Sara’s whereabouts to arrange for their elimination.

These emails made it clear that Sara owed Taniguchi a great debt. He was the unsung hero of the coalition against Kalaupapa Cliffs. But now with Sara dead and the law student missing, only two people remained alive who knew of the undelivered speech and the identities of every
hui
member.

Adrienne and me.

eighteen

I found a floppy disk in Sara’s desk and copied all the emails from Taniguchi. I then shut down Sara’s computer and left her office, locking the door behind me. I had the eerie feeling of being watched. At the end of the darkened hall, the security guard in khakis stood eyeing me.

Chicken skin.
He got my adrenaline pumping, as I quickly exited the front doors.

I steered my Impala down Beretania toward Maunakea Street. After less than a mile, a smoke grey Dodge van suddenly appeared in my rearview mirror. It kept behind me for several miles–about ten car lengths back. By the time I turned onto Maunakea, the van was gone.

I pulled up to my office building and found Mrs. Fujiyama doing a brisk business inside the flower shop on this Saturday morning. The color and scent of freshly strung
lei
filled the bustling shop–orange
‘ilima,
pale yellow plumeria, lavender crown flowers, fire red
lehua,
green
maile
leaves, pink rosebuds. Their sweet aroma compensated in some way for this foul business I’d gotten involved in.

I wove around several customers, nodded to Chastity, the
lei
girl, and hurried up the stairs. Only one other office tenant was in today, Madame Zenobia, the psychic. Behind her psychedelic bead curtain flickered a single candle. Incense wafted into the hallway as a musty haze. Perched on a throne-like wicker chair amidst the smoke, Madame whispered tremulously in her bejeweled turban. A shriveled woman with blue hair sat across from her, glued to every word.

“I see a messenger bearing bad tidings,” the medium told her client. “For the rest of this day, do not answer your door. Do not pick up your phone. Respond to no one. With vigilance, the danger will pass.”

The blue-haired woman nodded slowly, entranced.

I reached the familiar surfer on my office door, the thick mahogany and twin dead bolts so reassuring. Inside, on my desk, sat the same stack of invoices and bills that should have been filed last week, or the week before. It didn’t take long to save on my computer’s hard drive the vital files from Sara’s office.

As I was ejecting her floppy disk, my phone rang. I let it ring twice, then three times. For some reason I hesitated. Was I thinking of Madame Zenobia’s warning? I let it ring a fourth time. Just before my answering machine kicked in, I lifted the receiver.

“You are the ‘Surfing Detective,’ yes?” asked a Middle Eastern male voice.

“I’m Kai Cooke.”
Another crank call?

“Mr. Cooke, I am Dr. Majerian, emergency room surgeon at Halekōkua Medical Center. You would kindly assist us, please, in locating the next of kin of a mainland accident victim?”

“Actually, I’m kind of busy with a case right now, but I can give you the name of another investigator.”

“You, Mr. Cooke, I called first,” the doctor continued, “because in her purse the victim had your business card. Last evening she was struck by a hit-and-run driver in Waikīkī”

“Waikīkī?”

“Correct, Sir.”

“Not Adrienne?”

“Yes, her Massachusetts driver’s license says ‘Adrienne M. Ridgely.’”

No words would come.

“Mr. Cooke? … Hello?”

I bolted out the door.

My Impala ripped along King Street at double the speed limit, through three yellow lights and one red. I squealed left against another red light at Punahou Street, then sped
mauka
up the hill toward the slopes of Tantalus. Just before the H-1 overpass, I screeched to the curb in front of Halekōkua Medical Center.

I ran to the emergency room and asked the first green smock I saw where I could find Adrienne. The orderly sent me to the ER admissions desk, where a receptionist sat behind a computer. She typed in Adrienne’s name and gazed at the screen.

“ICU,” she said. “Ms. Ridgely came out of surgery early this morning.”

“ICU?”
I asked, breathless from my run.

“Intensive care. Her surgeon was Dr. Majerian.”

“Could you please page the doctor? Tell him it’s Kai Cooke. He’s expecting me.”

I stood huffing by the desk with my arms folded while she paged. “Dr. Majerian, call ER reception …”

A few minutes that felt like hours passed. Then the phone rang. The receptionist answered in whispered tones I couldn’t hear.

A minute later, a slight man with coffee-colored skin stepped off the elevator across the lobby and walked to the ER desk. His eyes were ebony and moist.

“How is Adrienne?” I asked.

He spoke softly: “Come, please, with me.”

We rode the elevator up to the second floor. “On Lewers Street the police found her, yes, at about ten last night in Waikīkī,” the doctor said. “From her purse was taken apparently nothing. Puzzling, no?”

“It was hit-and-run?”

Dr. Majerian nodded. He still hadn’t told me Adrienne’s condition. Now I was reluctant to ask.

We walked down a wide hallway ending at a pair of large double doors marked, Intensive Care–Medical Personnel Only. Dr. Majerian pushed through the doors into a big bay with several alcoves, each one holding a patient on a gurney surrounded by an awesome assemblage of high-tech medical machines. Nurses scurried from alcove to alcove. Patients were attached to the equipment through various tubes and lines and straps, like spacewalkers tethered to a mother ship. All looked utterly helpless. Ashen white, dependent for their existence on IV drips, oxygen hoses, tracheal tubes, and electronic hookups to measure heartbeat, pulse, blood pressure, body temperature.

It was a sobering sight.
No wonder the hospital doesn’t let visitors in here.
I couldn’t imagine Adrienne looking so defenseless.

“Please, this way …” Dr. Majerian walked on and I followed.

We approached a gurney holding another ashen creature. The same array of tubes connected this frail patient to the many machines, including a tracheal tube. She couldn’t even breathe on her own. As Dr. Majerian scanned a clipboard at the foot of the gurney, I beheld the now-helpless woman from Boston who less than a week ago had made passionate love to me.

Gone was the color in her cheeks. Her skin looked not just pale, but paper white. She lay motionless except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Those vivid grey-blue eyes now lay behind pale, closed lids. Her luxuriant chestnut hair appeared straw-like and was bloodied. She wore a plain smock, also blood splattered.

“She is in critical condition,” the doctor said.

“What did she break?”

“Broken bones are not the problem, Mr. Cooke. The severe concussion, rather.”

“Is she in a coma?”

“Later we will know. At present, she is still traumatized.”

I watched Adrienne for any sign of life–the rustle of a limb, the blink of an eye, a sigh, a cough–anything.

“Mr. Cooke, sir,” the doctor said. “Please, would you provide us with some information about her?”

“I’ll tell you what I know.”

I related to him the story of Adrienne coming into my office the week before and hiring me to investigate her sister’s death on Moloka‘i. I told him that both of Adrienne’s parents were deceased, as well as her only sister, whose demise I was investigating. I frankly didn’t know who he could contact in Boston. And while I did know one person who might tell us– McWhorter–I wasn’t about to give his name to the doctor until I could be sure he wasn’t responsible for this.

Dr. Majerian jotted a few things on his clipboard. Before he was finished, I swore I saw Adrienne move–a slight flutter of a finger. But I must have been dreaming.

“Did anyone see the car that hit her?” I asked.

“I do not believe so. The police, they may have more information on the accident.”

This was no accident.
I approached the gurney on which Adrienne lay and touched her cold hand.

“I’ll be back for you,” I whispered into her unhearing ear.