Restless Waters (17 page)

“Yes, it’s both a state and federal law,” I said, impressed that he actually recalled the occasion. “In any case, it’s still going on gangbusters in Oahu. Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“Then you don’t know for certain?” Jake inquired.

“Let’s just say I’m met with plenty of resistance whenever I ask any questions. Even more upsetting is that my informant died tonight.”

“Accident or murder?” Kevin asked, cutting straight to the point.

“Who knows? It looks like he fell off a cliff and was attacked by a shark, but I’m not buying it. This was a native guy who knew the island inside and out,” I replied. “Kalahiki was also an observer with the National Marine Fisheries Service. He’d recently accused the agency of turning a blind eye to shark finning, at best, and possibly giving it their tacit approval, at worst. Whichever it is, Kalahiki was supposed to bring along evidence. However, by the time I got to our meeting place, he was already dead.”

“Don’t tell me. And the evidence was gone,” Kevin surmised with a chuckle.

“Not only that, but the responding officer on the scene called his death an accident, and refused to consider anything else,” I revealed.

“Of course. Why should he make problems for himself, when it can be bagged, tagged, and cleaned up so easily?” Santou concluded.

Then he stared at me, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Vinnie Bertucci, does it?”

“No,” I said, with a shake of my head. “You know how the Statue of Liberty’s inscription reads, ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free’? Well Vinnie’s motto is Give me your men with limp dicks. He’s busy selling black-market Viagra to all the needy Joes of the world.”

Santou burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect. Now
the mob’s dealing in Mr. Blues? The pharmaceutical industry should love that. They’ll have to create another pill just to counteract all the out-of-control erections.”

“Not so fast,” Kevin bantered. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Getting back to the topic at hand, did your boss know that you planned to investigate shark finning? It’s a pretty sensitive matter if it involves another agency,” Jake commented.

“That’s the thing. I mentioned it to him. But sharks fall solely under NMFS’s jurisdiction, not Fish and Wildlife’s. Pryor said I was to stay the hell out of it,” I conceded.

“Yeah. But you went ahead anyway, didn’t you? Because you’re that kind of gal. A fucking
haole
, right?” Kevin responded, with a cynical snort.

Now
this
was the Kevin that I’d come to know: a sarcastic jerk without an ounce of humanity in him.

“Don’t you realize that island life is all about getting by? You don’t do anything to rock the boat,” he continued, seeming to go out of his way to egg me on.

I looked out at the water and swore I could see Sammy’s hand still waving, imploring me not to give up.

“I’m an investigator. That’s what I do. I investigate,” I retorted between clenched teeth. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as ‘my jurisdiction.’ If something is illegal, I enforce the law. The rest is a pile of crap.”

Kevin stared at me and then slowly nodded, as if in agreement.

“Congratulations, Jake. I didn’t realize you had such a hard-ass fighter on your hands. Maybe she really can get something done.”

Santou grinned at him in return. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. The woman’s a wolverine.”

Kevin crossed his legs in half lotus position, and leaned in toward me.

“Then it’s high time that you learn a few cold hard facts about Hawaii. This place works differently from just about anywhere else.”

“So I gathered,” I morosely responded, having begun to wonder if I’d already come to a dead end.

“Everything in Hawaii is based on politics and who you know. It’s incestuous as hell. Oh, yeah. And there’s one other thing that makes this tropical carousel spin round and round,” he added.

“What’s that?” I asked, forced to admit that Kevin knew more about the island than I did.

“Money, money, money talks,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “Everything runs on a cash economy here—be it drugs, meth, shark fins, or anything else illegal. This place is
Apocalypse Now
without the war.”

A shiver raced through me as I flashed back to the note left by the prior Fish and Wildlife agent on my computer. The phrasing was exactly the same. Could it be
that
was what he had meant?

“Hawaii is where deals are cut. The hula shows, the sun and the fun? They’re just a thin layer of icing for tourists on top of a very dark cake. This is by far the most corrupt place in the U.S. And I’m not only referring to what goes on inside most agencies. I’m talking about high-level corruption. You can easily lose your soul in this place,” Kevin acknowledged, with a note of regret in his voice.

For a moment, I wondered if he was talking about himself.

“The question you need to ask is who’s running the shark-fin trade in Hawaii.” he pressed. “Is it just a bunch of local fishermen hacking off fins to make a few extra
bucks? Or is it something bigger and more insidious? And if so, what?”

He’d given me plenty to think about as I gazed at the stars, my mental postcard of paradise becoming increasingly frayed.

“After hearing all this, are you still certain you want to take shark finning on?” Jake questioned, his hand coming to rest on my back.

“I don’t see that I have any choice,” I responded, knowing if I didn’t rock the boat, there was little hope that anyone else would give a damn.

“You really care that much about this stuff, huh?” Kevin asked.

He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit up a cigarette. The tip glowed, bright as a burst of blood in the night. I looked at him in surprise, having never seen Kevin smoke before.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a lousy habit that I gave up years ago. Still, we all need our little vices every now and then. Don’t we?”

His eyes met mine, and I realized he knew more about me than I would have liked.

“But you haven’t yet answered my question,” Kevin reminded me, as if it were a challenge.

“I’m sure that you gave a hundred and ten percent to your job.”
Whatever that might have been,
I thought. “Why should I be expected to do any less?”

Kevin took a deep tug and blew a lazy ring of smoke into the air. It performed a seductive hula before languorously drifting up to join the clouds.

“Okay then. I have friends here that owe me a favor or two. Let me make a few calls and see what I can find out for you.”

Santou looked at me as if to say,
See? I told you that Kevin is a good guy.

But I knew he was doing this for Jake. That was all right. At this point, I was willing to take help where I could get it. There seemed little question but that I was about to jump head-long into a battle that would pit a couple of federal Goliaths against one very determined Fish and Wildlife agent.

I
should have realized that my day was off to a bad start when I ordered a latte at Starbucks and left with a cup of cold tea. My morning immediately went downhill from there. I walked into the office, earlier than usual, only to find Norm Pryor already waiting for me. My first step inside promptly set off an explosion of fireworks.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Pryor demanded, his face turning an impressive shade of purple.

“Showing up for work?” I brazenly responded, determined to ride out the storm.

With any luck, Pryor would decide to back off. I must have been living in a dream world.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You arranged to meet Sammy Kalahiki last night, didn’t you? I want to know exactly why you were planning to see him,” he yelled.

Word clearly traveled fast via the coconut wireless. I watched as Jaba the Hut transformed into the Raging Bull before my eyes.

“We realized that we enjoy taking nature walks together,” I retorted dryly, partially to see if Pryor would get any angrier.

My wish was instantly granted.

“Bullshit! Don’t hand me that line of crap,” he erupted, his face mutating to bright red. “Sammy Kalahiki was an observer with the National Marine Fisheries Service, and a disgruntled one at that. Now I know why you’ve been harping away about shark finning these past few days. The guy was nothing but a troublemaker. In fact, he’d been fired just yesterday. Did you also happen to know that? It’s probably why he jumped off that damn cliff last night. He was embarrassed that he’d lied about things and made such an ass of himself.”

This was the first I’d heard that Sammy had been let go. I wondered if it was true. If so, it shined an even darker light on last night’s events. It also threw a layer of guilt on me. Perhaps I’d pushed too hard for evidence. What if Sammy had tried to get more and been caught? The truth of the matter would be hard to uncover. A document could easily be created claiming that he’d been fired.

“I warned you before. This time I’m ordering you to stay the hell out of National Marine Fisheries’ business,” Pryor fumed.

The man was so worked up that he was nearly apoplectic.

“I don’t get it. Why should everyone be so upset that I’m asking a few simple questions about shark finning?” I inquired.

Pryor looked at me though if I were the village idiot.

“For chrissakes. What rock have you been living under? Don’t you know that Senator Shirley Chang takes a personal interest in anything to do with Hawaii’s commercial fishing industry? If you don’t back off now, both our heads will roll.”

I was well aware that Chang, as a member of the Senate Appropriations Committee, had funneled mucho government funds to both the Hawaiian Fishing Council and the
longline fishing industry. Her picture was constantly in the newspaper, where she was lauded for all her good work.

Chang had managed to secure $250,000 from the 2004 budget alone to fund the Council’s “coral reef ecosystem” fishing plan. That was in addition to the $8,000,000 she’d already finagled for longliners under a little something called “economic disaster relief.”

To my mind, “relief” was a questionable term, considering that it helped to further devastate a number of already endangered marine species. The fishing industry returned the favor by helping to finance Chang’s campaigns and supplying all the necessary labor votes.

It didn’t take much digging to discover that Chang was also responsible for a good deal of money acquired by the National Marine Fisheries Service. Word had it a close look would reveal that a number of Chang’s friends generally wound up as beneficiaries of NMFS grants and contracts. She clearly knew how to work the system by rewarding her chums and punishing her enemies.

Interesting that Pryor should mention her. It led me to further question why Senator Chang, the National Marine Fisheries Service, and Pryor should be so concerned about my poking around if nothing was wrong.

“Are you saying that one senator is powerful enough to dictate policy to Fish and Wildlife?” I needled.

Pryor massaged his temples, as if to calm himself down, before forced to give yet another explanation.

“Listen, Porter. There’s more that goes into the fishing industry than you obviously realize. So let me give you a quick reality lesson. A number of those boats out there—just where do you think they come from?

I looked at him blankly.

“They’re built and purchased from shipyards in Biloxi, Mississippi. Except most of them probably aren’t fully
paid off yet. Now you put those boats out of commission, and what do you suppose is going to happen to that state’s economy? If you don’t already know, I suggest that you call their senators and congressmen and find out,” he snarled. “For the last time, people at National Marine Fisheries have assured me that no illegal shark finning is going on. And you know what? We’re going to take them at their word, and that’s the end of it.”

I spent the rest of the morning commiserating with the sitting-duck poster in my office. If I listened closely enough, I could almost hear the bullets whizzing past my own head.

This must have been exactly how Sammy had felt
, I mused. Funny thing. I was beginning to believe him even more now that he was dead.

A tremor shot through me. Is that what it would take before someone believed me, as well?

The hours crept by as I tried to do paperwork. However, my attention kept wandering to the window. I watched the planes fly in and out of Honolulu, attempting to guess how many boxes filled with illegal reptiles were probably on them. But nothing could completely take my mind off Sammy.

By mid-afternoon, I’d decided enough was enough. The least I could do was to track down his mother and pay my respects. Sammy had said that she lived somewhere near Makaha. I dragged out the phone book and looked up her address. Then, grabbing my bag, I shut the door to my office and left, without so much as a good-bye to Norm Pryor. As far as I was concerned, he could go screw himself.

I flew by the docks with their boats bobbing up and down. Most likely, they carried bags filled with illegal shark fins. I didn’t stop at the airport or slow down as I approached Pearl Harbor, which was crying its daily allotment of tears. Instead, I continued on Route 90 until it
merged into Farrington Highway. Then I headed up the coast road, past the posh condos, toward what many locals consider to be the real Hawaii.

One little town dissolved into another, until even these began to disappear. Soon my Ford traveled between wild ocean and scrub-covered mountains as civilization receded into the distance. The land became increasingly isolated and rural, its beauty marred by just one thing: all the homeless that were camped along the beaches. Although I’d heard about it, the sight had still taken me by surprise. Hundreds of people were living like squatters in paradise.

Their population appeared to be a mixed bag of druggies, nonconformists, criminals, and those who were just plain down on their luck. Many had the same story to tell: they’d lost their jobs, landlords had raised their rents, and they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Seventeen hundred people camped on the west side of the island—three hundred of which were children—having fallen on hard times. Some resided in tents made of bright yellow and blue tarps, while others lived in ramshackle wooden huts. A bumper sticker on one of the cars seemed to sum it up:
DUE TO RECENT CUTBACKS, THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL HAS BEEN TURNED OFF.

Equally heartbreaking was that most were native Hawaiians. But then their community was a troubled one. Comprising less than twenty percent of the state, they have the highest rate of unemployment, welfare dependence, and drug abuse. Factor in that Hawaiians also have the lowest life expectancy, and are the worst educated group in the nation, and it was yet one more reason why they consider their homeland to be paradise lost.

I pulled off the road and stopped at what appeared to be a neighborhood store, no longer certain of where I was
going. I walked inside to spy an array of fried foods that must have been sitting on the counter for too long. It’s always a bad sign when not even the flies will land on them. Leaning against the register was a handwritten sign that read
CASH ONLY.
Two elderly women turned in unison to stare, as though I’d just landed in the parking lot on a ship from outer space.

“Hello. I’m wondering if you can tell me how to get to Ellen Kalahiki’s house?” I politely inquired.

Neither spoke for a moment. Then the woman closest to the door broke the silence.

“She must mean Auntie Ellen, one of the local
kupunas
,” she said, as if interpreting for me.

I’d heard the word before, but wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“A
kupuna?
I’m sorry, what’s that?” I questioned.

“It’s an elder who’s considered to be a source of traditional knowledge and wisdom. They’re called Auntie or Uncle, as a term of respect,” she explained, peering curiously at me over the rim of her glasses.

The store owner then began to clear her throat, as if determining whether I was worthy of such information. When she finally spoke, her voice came out in a wheeze.

“If you want to find Auntie Ellen, you still have a ways to go. Look for a skid mark on the mountains, and make a right turn there. Then continue on that gravel road. You’ll eventually reach her house,” she instructed, beginning to gasp for breath.

“Thanks,” I replied and turned to leave.

“Wait!” the first woman called after me. “You don’t plan to go empty-handed, do you?”

“Why? Should I buy something?” I asked, wondering if I’d been expected to purchase the information.

“Of course,” she answered, and tugged on her flowered
blouse as though adjusting an arrangement. “No one ever pays a visit without taking a
pu’olo
.”

“A
pu’olo
?” I repeated, having no idea what she was talking about.

“A gift,” she responded with a sigh, as if speaking to a dim-witted child.

Of course. To show up without one would have been thoughtless and a sign of disrespect. I glanced around the store, wondering what might be appropriate. The store owner seemed to sense I needed help, and graciously came to my aid.

“Here. Take a can of Spam. She can always use that,” the old woman advised, her words carried on top of a whistle.

I would have considered the suggestion crazy, had I heard it anywhere else. But here in Hawaii, Spam made perfect sense. Residents consume 7 million cans of the gelatinous pink pork brick each year, making it more than a staple food; it’s become part of the island culture. After all, what’s not to like? It’s cheap and it never spoils.

There’s Spam fried rice, Spam sushi, and Spam McGriddles, which is served every morning at McDonald’s for breakfast. Should there be even the slightest hint of a hurricane, people immediately rush to stock up on it. And woe to the grocery store that runs out of the canned luncheon meat. That’s been known to cause riots.

“What the heck. Give me three cans,” I replied, opting to go for broke.

My decision made the two women smile.

I took the supply of Spam and continued my drive up the coast.

White sand beaches stretched on my left, seeming to claim the land for their own. To my right, the ground was strewn with large black boulders, as if a game of checkers
were being played by giants. I kept looking for some kind of skid mark, all the while wondering if the old woman had actually known what she was talking about.

I finally spotted a deep vertical groove that slashed its way through the mountain like a scorch from a lightning bolt. Sure enough, a gravel road appeared on my right and I took it. My Ford bounced along a path that eroded into a potholed track, as I headed for a vista dotted with green, scalloped cliffs.

Yap! Yap! Yap!

A little red puff ball shrilly barked and, jumping in front of my vehicle, forced me to slam on the brakes. Having put me in my place, the Pomeranian then turned on its scrawny legs and bounced along the trail, as if springs were attached to each of its paws.

I crawled along behind the brazen sucker until a house came into view. Then I zipped around the walking, barking mound of fur, proving not only who was boss, but that size really does count.

Auntie Ellen’s cottage stood on stilts, like an old plantation house. The frame was painted sea-foam green, offset by tidy white wooden shutters. Flowers and vegetables were neatly planted in prim little rows inside a fenced-in garden. But that wasn’t the only thing that was sprouting in her yard. A collection of shiny silver CDs hung from wooden poles, modern-day versions of scarecrows, their purpose to frighten the birds away.

I gathered up the cans of Spam and walked up the steps, only to feel myself hesitate. Though I wanted to pay my respects, I was equally tempted to turn and run. I’ve always hated death and anything to do with it. It was one of the reasons I worked so hard to try and keep critters alive. Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage, climbed the last step, and tapped on the front door.

My knock was answered by a hefty Hawaiian woman dressed in a shocking pink muumuu. A red hibiscus fluttered like a tropical bird in her hair. The flower matched a pair of red-rimmed eyes, marred by hours of endless crying. It looked as if all the world’s sorrow had gathered together and welled up inside her. That same sadness flowed into me, as I felt myself begin to choke up.

“I’m so sorry about Sammy,” was all I could manage to say.

She gazed blankly, as though uncertain that someone was really standing there.

“Who are you?” she softly questioned.

“I’m Rachel Porter, the woman that found your son.”

A strand of wavy white hair fell out of its bun, and her stubby fingers dutifully brushed it from her face.

“Then you’re partially responsible for my Sammy boy’s death. You’re the one that he went to see,” she quietly stated.

Her voice was as flat as the sea just before it’s whipped up by a storm. I could only imagine the pain she must have been feeling.