5 Murder at Volcano House (3 page)

“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: R
ANSOM
.

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.

There’s a lot about the protests against the former CEO of Ransom Geothermal, a Montana-based corporation that spearheaded a controversial drilling in the Wao Kele O Puna rain-forest. The Save Pele Coalition—the native Hawaiian group that protested the project from the get-go—claimed it violated a state land trust that set aside the pristine rainforest for preservation and for their use and gathering rights. They alleged that this last existing lowland rainforest had been illegally swapped for comparatively barren and worthless land many miles away. And that drilling in their goddess Pele’s domain was, to them, tantamount to rape. These were highly charged issues involving the Hawaiians’ land, cultural practices, and religion. Before the age of the internet, the protests splashed the headlines and made the radio and TV news.

Ransom received threats. The one act of violence against him came at the hands of SPC radical Ikaika “Sonny Boy” Chang who dragged the CEO from his car into the red mud road Ransom’s crew had cut into the forest. Sonny Boy was arrested and denounced by the SPC, since it advocated nonviolence. He did time for the attack, was released, and then arrested again for violating parole. Over the last two decades he’d been in and out jail. Currently it appears he’s out. That could be trouble.

Ransom’s geothermal operation ultimately failed to produce enough electricity to be commercially viable. He bailed
out and the disputed land was ultimately returned to a trust for the benefit of Hawaiians, after years of continued protests and legal wrangling. When the CEO walked away, his former partner Mick London went bankrupt, sued Ransom, but did not prevail in court. London apparently lost everything, including his home. After the court battle, it appears the two men never reconciled. If London still lives on the Big Island, which seems to be the case, he might attend the funeral of a former Ransom company officer. That could also be trouble.

At the same time Ransom pulled out of Puna and was being sued by his former partner, the CEO was going through an ugly divorce from his first wife, Kathryn Bates Ransom—while former beauty queen Donnie Lam waited in the wings. During their bitter divorce, Kathryn, who apparently still resides in the family home in Kona, was questioned by Big Island police about a knife wound to her husband’s hand that was treated at Hilo Medical Center. Ransom claimed the wound came from a cooking accident. Those who knew the couple thought otherwise. Kathryn had finally snapped, one neighbor said, and given her cheating husband what he deserved.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Rex’s ex showed up at the funeral too. Kathryn no doubt knew the family of the deceased and might want to pay her respects. More trouble?

I close my laptop. Three potential threats to my charge over breakfast are three too many. And they only confirm my suspicion that Pele should be the least of Donnie Ransom’s worries.

six

Monday morning I show up at the interisland terminal more than the required hour before the nine-forty flight to Hilo. When I check in, there’s no sign of Donnie Ransom and her husband. I’m a seasoned island hopper, so I know enough not to check a bag. Especially if I have to pay for the privilege.

I get my carry-on and myself through security, go to the gate, and take an inconspicuous seat in the waiting area. It’s early. Only half a dozen passengers have beat me here. I glance at my boarding pass. Seat 26E, at the back of the Boeing 717, as far from first class as you can go. Donnie wasn’t kidding. She’s put a lot of seats between her husband and me. The Ransoms are probably in row one. I know her type. First class isn’t enough. She must be in the first row of first class.