The Pearl Harbor Murders (11 page)

"Sounds like he'll need one," Kaupiko said.

"No question about that. But I thought maybe you fellas ... his friends ... would like to know that I, for one, found his story convincing."

"I can't believe Harry'd hurt a fly," Jack Wong said. He was also a sax player.

"He was crazy about Pearl," somebody else chimed in.

"Most people think his loving her is a motive," Hully said. "I'd just like to know if any of you guys ever saw Harry act violent—ever behave like a hothead, blow his top over anything."

Nobody said anything; everybody was sitting down again, and the band members exchanged glances, often shaking their heads.

Hully stood with hands on his hips. "How about Harry saying anything about Bill Fielder muscling in on him? Did Harry ever have a shouting match with Pearl, over that or anything else?"

No one said a word.

Hully searched the cheerless faces. "I'm not a cop ... I'm just a friend of Harry's, who wants to make sure he doesn't get a raw deal outta this."

"Harry hardly ever raises his voice," Wong said. "That's his problem—we'd be playing at the Royal Hawaiian right now, with the following we got, if he was more aggressive."

Wong's fellow band members were nodding.

"Okay, guys," Hully said, easily. "Listen, I'll be over at my bungalow, for a while, if anybody wants to share anything, one to one, man to man. Okay?"

More nods.

Hully turned and headed out, to the tune of chairs getting pushed back and murmuring among the members.

Kaupiko caught up with him about halfway across the dance floor, taking Hully by the arm. "Let's talk," the trumpet player said, and nodded toward the courtyard, which the dining room opened onto.

The rock garden at the center had a little waterfall which made just enough noise to give them some additional privacy.

"Are you investigating Pearl's murder?" Kaupiko asked, his expression thoughtful.

"Not officially," Hully said. "But I think there's at least a possibliity that Harry Kamana is innocent, and I don't see the police going down that path."

"And if Harry's innocent, somebody else is ..."

"The word is 'guilty,' Jim. Yes." Hully rocked back on bis heels. "How many of the band live here at the Niumalu?"

The round-faced musician stroked his chin, which was almost as blue as his shirt—he needed a shave.

"Besides Harry, and Pearl? Just a couple. Most are local. Harry's from the big island, though, and needs lodging when we work Oahu, which lately has been most of the time."

"I had the idea that Pearl lived with her uncle, that grocer, in Chinatown."

Kaupiko nodded. "She did, when she first came here. But once we got this steady gig at the Niumalu, Harry negotiated with Mr. Bivens to get her a room in the lodge."

"Who else lives here at the hotel?"

The musician looked around, rather furtively, apparently checking to see if any of his band mates were watching... or listening.

“Terry Mizuha," he said, finally. "He's the only guy besides Harry that was really cozy with Pearl."

"Did she date him, too?"

Kaupiko laughed.

"What's so funny, Jim?"

"Sorry." The musician's expression was sober again. "Listen, I don't want to talk outta school. Terry's a great guy, helluva guitar player."

"Okay—now drop the other shoe."

He shrugged. "I don't think Terry likes dolls. He's, uh ... you know." Kaupiko held up his hand and made a sideways shaking gesture.

"But he and Pearl were friends?"

"Yeah. Sort of... 'girlfriends.' Hey, don't spread that around. We don't care about Terry's tastes—he's discreet and he's a good musician and he's our pal. Anyway, some of the people we work for might not hire us if they knew he was that way. So mum's the word."

"I appreciate you leveling with me, Jim."

Kaupiko sighed, shook his head. "We all loved Pearl. She could've taken us to Hollywood or somethin', someday, if some bastard hadn't done her in. And I want to thank you for saying what you did in front of the band—you really got everybody thinking. I mean, in our hearts we didn't believe Harry could have done that terrible thing ... but we believed what we were told."

"That's understandable."

He sighed again, relieved this time. "Anyway, I'm going down to the police station and see about Harry—like you suggested."

"Good. Before you go, is there anything else you can think of, that might be pertinent?"

Kaupiko's eyes squeezed tight in thought. "Come to think of it... I did see Pearl have an argument last night, but not with Harry. Before we went onstage."

Hully leaned in. "Who with?"

"Do you know that Japanese diplomat, that idiot skirt-chaser Morimura?"

"I know who he is—he sat with Dad and me at the luau."

Kaupiko nodded. "Well, he had her cornered, out in the parking lot, away from everybody and everything, out by that big fancy car of his—it's a Lincoln. He was really chewing her out, shaking his finger at her....

She just had her arms folded and was taking it, chin up, kinda proud."

"Huh," Hully grunted. "What did you make of that?"

Kaupiko shrugged elaborately. "I didn't know what to think, and I never said a word to Pearl about it. I mean, I always thought that Morimura character was just a harmless grinning jerk, always chasing tail."

"You think Pearl and Morimura may have dated?"

Another, less elaborate shrug. "I suppose anything is possible. But it doesn't ring true, somehow. Morimura doesn't seem her type—she liked musicians, and she liked servicemen ... that was about it. And that's the only time I ever saw them together."

"Okay."

Kaupiko gestured with a pointing finger. "If that cop asks me about this, I'm gonna tell him, too."

"Good. It's not a competition—in fact, say and do anything you can that will help get that guy Jardine off the dime, and looking at some suspects besides Harry Kamana."

The two men shook hands, and Kaupiko headed back toward the bandstand, while Hully returned to the lobby, intending to ask Bivens which room was Terry Mizuha's, wanting to talk to the guitar player.

But Bivens was no longer behind the front desk, apparently off doing some other Niumalu chore. That was all right—it was even good—because Hully didn't need Bivens's help to find Terry Mizuha.

The slender musician was sitting on a cushioned wicker chair, between two archways that looked out onto the parking lot.

Mizuha, in a cream sportshirt and white slacks and cream slippers, had almost delicate features—handsome but vaguely feminine, his dark hair long, slicked back like an Oriental George Raft. His Iong-lashed eyes were dark-circled and webbed with red.

"I hoped you might come through here," Mizuha said. His voice was soft, gentle, melodic. Hully pulled another of the wicker chairs up.

"Why didn't you stop me in the other room, Terry, when I asked for information?"

"Jim beat me to it. What did he fell you?"

"That you and Pearl were good friends."

"That's true... that's true." He covered his face

with a finely boned hand and began to weep. Hully, embarrassed, dug out a hankie from his pocket and handed it to the man, who took it gratefully; for two excruciatingly long minutes, Mizuha wept into Hully's cloth. When the slender man lowered the handkerchief from his face, his eyes were even more bloodshot. He said, "She was my
best
friend."

"Do you know anything about her murder?"

"I know I saw that soldier... Stanton? She had dated him, before the sailor boy—Fielder? I saw him yelling at her, after the dance, when we were packing up."

"Did the others see this? Why didn't they—?" Mizuha was shaking his head. "They didn't see the argument. It was outside, he had her up against the wall of the lodge. I... I interceded. He almost struck me, but I pretended she was needed by Jim, for band business. Stanton stalked off."

"Did you hear anything of what was said?"

"Just the usual spurned-lover recriminations."

"Did Stanton threaten her?"

"Not overtly. Just his manner. I do think she was afraid... she was trembling. I put my arm around her." He began to cry again, into the hankie.

Hully waited, then asked, "Is there anything else you saw, Terry? Anything else you know?"

Mizuha bunked. "What do you mean... anything else I know?"

This seemed a peculiar reaction to Hully, who shrugged. "Just that."

The pretty eyes narrowed; the smooth forehead furrowed. "You're not a detective, are you?"

"Unfortunately, no—just a friend trying to help a friend who is beyond help, really."

He swallowed, nodded. "You were going to talk to Colonel Fielder for her, weren't you?"

"Yes....My father agreed, also."

Mizuha sat forward, a strange urgency in his voice. "What did she say to you? What did she tell you? Or your father?"

The intensity of the man made Hully rear back, a little. "Nothing, really—obviously, she wanted to state her case, plead for the colonel's consent to the marriage."

Mizuha's eyes tightened, but otherwise he relaxed, air escaping as if from a balloon, his body becoming even smaller. Then he said, "Let us talk again,"

"Sure."

"I have ... I have to sort a few things out. I have to think."

“Terry, if you know something, tell me, hell, tell the
police.
..."

Mizuha was shaking his head. "I'm too distraught right now. I'm confused. I'm afraid. Please give me a few hours....We'll talk again."

“Terry..."

But the conversation ended there, because something attracted Hully's attention: he saw Bill Fielder getting out of a gray Ford sedan (it beloriged to Colonel Fielder), having just parked in the Niumalu lot.

Something was terribly wrong: Bill was smiling, his expression cheerful; the young Naval officer—who was in a green sportshirt and chinos, on this fine off-duty day—was even whistling a tune.

"We'll talk more, later," Hully said, and Terry Mizuha was getting up and going off in one direction, as Hully—shuddering as if from cold on this warm morning—moved through that open archway into the parking lot, where he approached Bill, catching him before he entered the lodge.

"Hey, Hully." The handsome, cleft-chinned Fielder wore a winning smile. "Hell of a beautiful day, huh?"

"Yeah, Bill—nice weather, even for Hawaii." He touched his friend's arm. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, better today. I skipped Hotel Street, and had it out with Dad, and..."

Hully stopped listening to his optimistic friend, his own mind throbbing with the inescapable realization that
Bill did not know about the murder....

"We have to sit down,". Hully said, guiding his confused friend into the lodge lobby, "and we have to talk."

"What's wrong with you? What the hell—listen, I have to see Pearl, she's waiting, I'm a little late...."

"Sit down, Bill. I have to tell you something—something very bad. Very sad."

Hully sat his friend down in the wicker chair the musician had vacated and he stood in front of his friend and quickly, calmly, as gently as he could, told Bill Fielder that Pearl Harada had been murdered.

Bill's cry of emotional pain echoed through the lodge like that of a mortally wounded beast.

The young Naval officer fell onto the parquet floor and assumed a fetal position and Hully got down there with him, taking his friend into his arms, patting him on the back, comforting him as Bill howled and wept. Hully couldn't even offer Bill a handkerchief because the trumpet player had taken it.

But no handkerchief could have contained the tears of the young sailor.

It was a long time before Bill got settled down enough to begin asking questions about the particulars.

Then, suddenly, the brawny officer was on his feet. "Harry Kamana?
Harry Kamana
did this? Where the hell is the bastard? I'll break his goddamn neck—"

Hully held him by the arm. "The police have Kamana, Bill—he may not have done it. He says he didn't."

But Bill didn't want to hear about that. He pulled away from Hully, ran out to the car, and tore away, throwing crushed coral like rice at a wedding.

Hully wondered what the hell good Bill thought he could do, what sort of revenge he could take, with Kamana behind bars.

He also wondered if there was the remotest possibility that his friend was good enough an actor to have concocted this entire scene—because if Bill were the murderer of Pearl Harada, he would've had to have done that very thing.

EIGHT
Halftime

The Termite Palace—as locals affectionately if accurately referred to the wooden-bleachered Honolulu Stadium—had hosted Bing Crosby concerts, championship boxing matches, and even a notorious race between Olympic runner Jesse Owens and a horse (Owens won). The unprepossessing facliity—at the
ewa
(west)/
makai
(seaward) corner of King and Isen-berg streets—was also home to every Oahu sporting event from club baseball to college football games, like today's annual Shriner-sponsored contest.

The stands were packed, over twenty-five thousand in attendance—10 percent of the city's population---which was unusual: college games were usually lucky to draw half that many fans. The big local attraction was high-school football, the eight-team league an Oahu obsession, fueled by gambling interests whose weekly betting turnover was said to be half a million dollars.

Burroughs found the casual corruption of Honolulu at once amusing and disturbing. To a writer, the irony of sin in paradise was appealing, and he disliked the legislation of morality; but the town's wide-open gambling and unfettered red-light district jarred his conservative Midwestern sensibilities.

Somehow the rollickingly enthusiastic crowd—watching the game for its own sake (little betting attended college games)—gave Burroughs a lift. He was enjoying this exceptionally beautiful day with its clear sky and sharp sunlight as much as anyone in the polyglot assemblage, which contained more than its share of high-ranking military personnel, including Colonel Kendall "Wooch" Fielder, next to whom the writer sat. As the first half neared its conclusion, with the Roaring Rainbows of the University of Hawaii leading the Bearcats of Willamette (Oregon) University fourteen to nothing, the reserved seat on the other side of Burroughs—meant for FBI agent Adam Sterling—was vacant.