1 Murder on Moloka'i (11 page)

twenty-two

Kaluna and I continued down the trail to Kalaupapa and searched the village for more clues. Fruitlessly. Later we hiked back up with our only potential evidence: three spent syringes.

At the trailhead we stopped to quench our thirst and catch our breath. I told Kaluna I needed another favor.

“Now what I goin’ ask may sound
lōlō–
crazy, you know– but I gotta ask.” I peered into the mule guide’s eyes.

“Jus’ ask.”

“We gotta exhume Coco.”

“Do what fo’ Coco?” His brow furrowed.

“Dig ‘em up,” I said. “You can get one backhoe from da Moloka‘i Ranch, eh?”

“‘Ae.
But goin’ take a while fo’ put da backhoe on da trailer and haul ‘em hea.”

“How long?”

“Two, t’ree hours.”

“Den how long fo’ dig up da grave?”

“T’irty minutes,” he said. “Counting da shovel work, too. But no mattah.” He grinned. “I put ‘em in hea’, I can dig ‘em out.”

“Jus’ one more t’ing. You got one veterinarian?”

Kaluna nodded. “Dr. Wyllie.”

“Call Dr. Wyllie.” I checked my watch. “Almost noon now. Ask ‘em if he like come hea’ at …”

“Not
he,”
Kaluna interrupted. “Dr. Wyllie one
wahine.”

“O.K.–ask her if she can come at t’ree.”

“What reason I goin’ give?”

“Blood test fo’ Coco.” With my forefinger I made a needlelike gesture poking his arm. “We gonna send da blood to one mainland lab fo’ drug check.”

Kaluna dashed up the winding red road to the phone in the mule stable. I followed, then hopped into my rented car and raced back to Kaunakakai.

Drugs and drug paraphernalia pointed first to the doctor, obviously. But while Benjamin Goto had the means, he seemed to have less motive than the other suspects. This, coupled with the fact that just about anyone can possess syringes and illegal drugs, kept my attention focused on the others.

Did Milton Yu trade in harder drugs than
pakalōlō?
Did Heather Linborg dabble in dope? Did the wealthy Parke partake with her? And might Emery Archibald’s proclivity for drugs be revealed through the identity of his secret companion? Trying to picture the stiff Rush McWhorter shooting up strained my imagination, but he might well have worked behind the scenes. No matter, I would cast my net wide to catch the guilty–be it one or all.

I was still mentally casting that net when I pulled up to the Moloka‘i Beach Hotel. I made a quick call to check on Adrienne–still no change–then approached the front desk. My request to see the housemaid Mele had suggested I interview was greeted with a scowl. The new receptionist on duty seemed to instantly dislike me.

“Raine will not see you,” she said, hands defiantly on hips.

Was it my sweat-glazed face or my rank T-shirt and board shorts?

“There must be some mistake,” I tried to explain. “You see, last night Mele said …”

The scowling lady interrupted. “Don’t play games. I know who you are.”

“I’m Kai Cooke.” I handed her my card. “I’ve never met Raine.”

She glanced at the card. “You’re not baby Kanoe’s father?”

“I’m a private detective.”

She eyed me up and down. “You don’t look like a private detective.”

“I’ve just come from Kalaupapa. I’m working on a case that Raine could help solve. Now, would you please call her?”

“She’s cleaning the beachfront cottages.” The receptionist pointed. “Over there.”

Among the dozen or so beachside cottages, I found one with the door opened to a housekeeping cart. I knocked, then walked in. An attractive local woman with raven hair was snugging a fitted sheet over a queen-sized bed.

“Raine?”

She glanced up warily. Her forehead shone with beads of perspiration.

“Mele suggested I talk with you about a case I’m working on.” I gave her my card. “I’m a private detective.”

Raine handed back the card without looking at it. “If Moku sent you about custody of Kanoe, you can forget it.”

“I have no client named Moku,” I assured her. “In fact, I rarely work on Moloka‘i. I’m only here to investigate the death of a Honolulu woman on the Kalaupapa cliffs.”

“Oh, da mule accident?” Raine’s expression changed, and so did her speech. “Why you nevah say so?”

“Maybe you like help me wit’ da case?” I replied in kind, heartened at a possible breakthrough.

“Last night Mele wen’ show me in da hotel registah da name Archibald. He wen’ stay in one oceanfront cottage wit’ anoddah man guy name Stevens. Dey come Septembah t’ird and stay t’rough da seventh. You can remembah dem?”

“Was more than one mont’ ago,” Raine said. “Plenny guest come since den.”

“Maybe dese two guest particulah. Maybe call attention to demselves?” I tried to jog her memory.

“What dis Archibald look like?”

“Slender
haole.
‘Bout forty. He wear fancy kine glasses– tortoiseshell–and dress elegant. Pinstripe suit. Scarf. Dat kine stuffs.”

“Hmmm …” Raine was thinking.

“Oh, almost forget. He wear one spicy masculine cologne.”

“I t’ink I remembah da man you call Archibald.”

“What you remembah?”

“I t’ink he and da oddah guy–dat Stevens–dey
māhū.”

“Māhū?”
I wondered if she had the wrong pair. “Da two men gay?”

“Two
men?”
Raine raised her raven brows. “One was only boy.”

“Stevens was one boy?”

“Nineteen, twenty, max. Big muscles, you know. Liked fo’ show them off. And da tattoo of one knife on his arm. How I forget dat?”

Stephan’s bloody dagger.
Suddenly it came to me. Stevens was Archibald’s young assistant. I recalled Archibald’s nervousness around the boy in my presence.

“Archibald and da boy wen’ take drugs?” I tried to make a connection to the three syringes.

“I dunno,” Raine said. “I nevah see dat kine in da room.”

“Dey act funny kine,” I said, “like maybe under da influence?”

Raine shook her head. “Dat’s all I can remembah.”

“Thanks, eh? You’ve been a big help.”

I wished I could have thanked Raine with cash–to help with her baby–but if she were deposed to testify, the first thing the defense attorney would ask was if she had been given anything in exchange for her testimony. A potentially valuable witness might be erased. I could over-tip a bartender with impunity, but slipping a few bills to a chamber maid in a hotel where I was not a guest was another matter.

I said goodbye to Raine, wondering why Archibald’s young friend hadn’t taken the mule tour that day. Upon reflection, the answer seemed clear. For his business’ sake, Archibald probably wouldn’t want to have been seen with the boy.

Driving back toward Kalaupapa, I tried to sort things out. Archibald had come to Moloka‘i, at least in part, to enjoy his muscular young assistant. So what did it mean? Was Archibald merely a middle-aged family man who sought an exotic getaway with his paramour? Or was he, and perhaps Stephan, connected to the
hui?
Since Archibald’s travel business depended on Hawai‘i tourism, he had some slim motive of his own to silence the woman bent on derailing Kalaupapa Cliffs. Maybe the
hui
had something on him, or he owed them a favor.

Archibald could not be ruled out. I stomped the accelerator and darted toward the cliffs of Kalaupapa.

twenty-three

When I returned to the trailhead, Kaluna had already dug a big hole. He sat up high at the controls of a dull orange backhoe, its long, thundering claw tearing away at the grave. Red earth surrounded the deepening pit.

Next to the grave stood a wispy woman with delicate features and angel-fine hair. She was young–fresh from veterinary school, I imagined–and looked more like a violinist than a large-animal vet.

When Kaluna saw me, he shut off the earthmoving machine and climbed down. I introduced myself to Dr. Wyllie, who extended her doll-sized hand, saying “Hello” in a surprisingly strong voice. Kaluna carried his shovel to the open grave and began spading gingerly around the edges.

“Mr. Cooke, you would like blood drawn from the dead mule?” she asked.

I nodded. “I’ll be sending the blood to a California lab for analysis.”

“And how long has the animal been buried?”

“One mont’,” Kaluna said from Coco’s grave, pitching out a shovel of red earth.

Dr. Wyllie frowned. “In this hot, humid weather, the mule may be decomposing by now. I’ll be lucky to find a single vein.”

“We need a blood sample to prove the mule was drugged.” I showed her the three syringes in the sealed plastic bag.

“These are 3-cc syringes,” she explained, “used more often on humans than large animals.”

“Whoever did this probably wasn’t a vet.”

Dr. Wyllie’s frown deepened. “I’ll see what I can do.” The slight doctor walked toward the backhoe, its orange claw now resting on mounds of red earth surrounding the open grave.

Down in the pit with the dead mule, Kaluna tossed up one last shovel of damp soil. Hands covering his nose from the stench, the
paniolo’s
eyes were watering.

“Dat’s Coco,” he choked out. “But not like I bury him.”

Kaluna had cleared off enough red dirt so that we could see what was left of the carcass. As he climbed out, I peered in. The stench was unbearable. All I could discern of the animal was a mere skeleton covered by a thin hide. His once-rounded haunches and broad girth of muscle and fat and fur were gone. If there were any blood in the veins of that carcass, if there were any veins at all, I would count it a miracle. Kaluna walked slowly to the precipice overlooking Kalaupapa. He gazed silently at the distant village.

Dr. Wyllie pulled an empty syringe from her bag, then donned a surgical mask and latex gloves. She climbed down into the grave and began searching for veins. I pulled out my camera and photographed her as she checked from rump to muzzle, then shook her head and climbed out again.

“No veins we can use.” The pale doctor looked relieved as she pulled down her surgical mask and began to remove her latex gloves. “Maybe a week or two ago, but not now.”

Without a blood sample showing Coco had been drugged, my case was fast slipping away. I tried to think.

“Wait!” I motioned to Dr. Wyllie to keep on her gloves. “Are the mule’s vital organs intact–liver and kidney and all?”

“I can’t say,” she replied warily. “I’d have to surgically open the carcass.” Dr. Wyllie flashed that sweet frown again.

“I’m just remembering a case,” I explained. “A Kaua‘i man found in a pineapple field–dead for more than a month. He yielded up a liver with enough blood to show evidence of drugs.”

“Well, if you want to go to that extreme, blood in the liver stores drug residues at ten times the concentration of blood in the veins.”

“Perfect.” Now I was hopeful again. “All we need is the mule’s liver.”

Dr. Wyllie was now grimacing. She didn’t seem to relish the assignment, but began removing surgical instruments from her medical bag–scalpels, clamps, some other stainless tools. She snapped her surgical mask back into place, snugged her latex gloves, and again climbed into the hole. I took more photos as she cut along Coco’s gut, opening a gaping cavity under the ribs. When she lifted the severed hide, the stench that emerged was beyond foul. Despite the stink, I made myself move in closer to snap more photos.

In a little while the petite vet climbed from the grave with grime and gore from her fingertips to her elbows. That nasty death smell followed her. But she had delivered the trophy. In her hands was a liver the size of a football. It looked in amazingly good shape.

Dr. Wyllie said nothing. She seemed in a somber mood.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded and removed her gory gloves, her strong voice fading. “This was my first surgery on a dead mule.”

“And I bet you hope it’s your last.”

She gestured to the grimy organ. “To send this liver to California, you’ll need a Styrofoam mailer. And an ice pack wouldn’t hurt …” She paused. “I’ve got a mailer in my van, but the ice pack you’ll have to find elsewhere.”

“I’ll pick one up in Honolulu. I’m catching the next flight out.”

I stepped to where Kaluna stood, still gazing down at the distant sea. Though in a hurry to take my prize back to Honolulu, I didn’t rush the mule guide. For him, opening the grave had evidently opened old wounds.

I put my arm on Kaluna’s shoulder. “Coco nevah make da
wahine,
Sara, go
hala,”
I said. “Was not his fault.”

“
Mahalo,
Kai.” He smiled slightly. “If you nevah come hea to
nīele,
to nose around, I always wonder ‘bout Coco. Now I know. He stay one good mule.”

Kaluna climbed onto the backhoe and began covering his mule with red earth, while Dr. Wyllie and I hiked up the winding dirt road to the stables. She placed the oversized liver into a plastic bag fetched from her van, then put the sealed bag in a Styrofoam mailer. Next to the liver, in another of the doctor’s plastic bags, I set in one of the three syringes Kaluna had found on the trail.

I had the veterinarian handwrite a statement summarizing her procedures, which I took with me on my flight back to Honolulu. A few fellow passengers eyed curiously the box in my lap. Fortunately, the liver’s unspeakable odor was trapped inside.

The Twin-Otter landed in Honolulu at four-thirty. I rushed to a drugstore to buy an ice pack, then back to the airport, barely beating FedEx’s five o’clock deadline to fly my parcel overnight to San Francisco. I debated showering off the day’s filth before visiting Adrienne. All things considered, it seemed unimportant. When I got to her hospital room, I found her as I had left her– pale, cool, and breathing slowly. I reassured both of us aloud that I was making progress toward vindicating her sister.

“We’re going to win,” I told her. “And you’re going to wake up to share in the celebration.”

Back at my Waikīkī apartment, two phone messages awaited: one from Niki, which, like her photo, I tried to ignore; the second was from Archibald, who now recalled that although all four mule riders had taken the Kalaupapa bus tour, the overweight physician, Dr. Goto, had asked to be dropped off early at the restroom near the tethered mules. The doctor had apparently apologized profusely, regretting that he had drunk too much water after the hot ride down.

The suspect with the least motive, Dr. Goto was, however, most likely to possess the means to sedate Coco–syringes and drugs. After dropping out of the bus tour, he could have slipped among the mules, eluded Kaluna, and injected Coco. But why?

Goto’s complicity wasn’t a scenario I had much envisioned. Regardless, I needed the doctor’s fingerprints, and the sooner the better. If Goto’s prints matched those on the three syringes, the case was nearly solved. Drug evidence linking the syringes to the mule’s collapse would be the clincher. But I wasn’t banking on the solution being this easy. Besides, maybe Archibald was attempting to shift suspicion from himself, if only to keep my nose out of his private life. Or maybe the paunchy Goto really had been dehydrated.

Later that night I crawled into bed with the evening
Star-Bulletin.
On the front page, a story secured one more piece of this complex puzzle–Baron Taniguchi’s bloated body had been found floating in Honolulu Harbor. He had been shot, execution style, in the head.