1 Murder on Moloka'i (12 page)

twenty-four

Before sunrise Tuesday morning, I phoned the California lab that does my blood work. Though barely twilight in Honolulu, the laboratory technicians at Bio-Tech in Daly City had already taken their mid-morning coffee break.

The lab manager, Ernie, confirmed that the Styrofoam mailer had arrived that morning by FedEx. Elaborating on my transmittal letter, I explained that the enclosed syringe probably contained traces of the suspected drug. I suggested a sedative such as morphine.

What I needed, I added, was the drug identified in both the blood and the syringe. The job was rush. Even though blood samples sent from Hawai‘i normally took a week or more to analyze, I needed results in two days.

The manager laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding, Kai. We have a two-week backlog. Besides, the comprehensive drug screen takes several days–even if we didn’t have a backlog.”

“Just test for morphine. It’s a strong hunch I have.”

“Then you want only the presumptive opiate test?”

“Yes–and fast.”

“With luck we might complete that test in two days, if we had no backlog.”

“I’ll call you Wednesday afternoon for the results.”

“You can call whenever you like, Kai.” He laughed again. “But that doesn’t guarantee …”

“Ernie, this is life or death.”

“We’ve got a half dozen jobs like that!”

I took a long, deep breath. “I’m in big trouble, Ernie. You’ve got to help me out.”

He was silent for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I hung up the phone. The Land Zoning Board’s charade hearing to approve the Chancellor Trust resort was only three days away. By Thursday, at the latest, I needed to present my case against the
hui
to the FBI. Then a federal judge might suspend the hearing pending an investigation–that is, if I got the crucial blood evidence by Thursday. Without it, neither the FBI nor a federal judge was likely to buy a loony story about murder by mule drugging.

As the rising sun peeked above the misty Ko‘olau Mountains and flooded my
lānai,
I dialed the office of Dr. Benjamin Goto. He wasn’t in at this early hour, so I left a message:

“Dr. Goto, could you see me briefly today? I’d appreciate your help in identifying a suspect in the Sara Ridgely-Parke case. Please leave a message at my office as to your best time.
Mahalo.”

Whether or not the doctor responded, I wanted to be ready for him. With a fingerprint kit I keep in my flat I dusted the two remaining syringes. The Ziploc bag containing them, as I had hoped, also preserved several prints. Using pressure-wound tape, I pulled each print off the syringes and fixed it on a three-by-five card. This resulted in six cards containing reasonably good prints–whether Goto’s or one of the other suspects. Perhaps by this afternoon I would know.

Before leaving for the hospital to visit Adrienne, I grabbed Niki’s photo from my nightstand. I removed Sara’s speech from where it was still sandwiched between the snapshot and its cardboard backing. Then with glass cleaner and paper towels, I sprayed and polished the framed photo until it shone like mirror. I slipped Niki’s gleaming snapshot in a paper bag and placed the bag, along with my fingerprint kit, the syringes, and Sara’s speech, in my briefcase.

By eight that morning, I was heading for the Halekōkua Medical Center. Cruising along the Ala Wai Canal, I glimpsed the smoke grey van in my rearview mirror. Trying to lose it seemed pointless, since the
hui
most likely knew where I was going. I turned right onto the McCully Street bridge, crossed the canal, then steered my Impala
mauka
toward the hospital on Punahou Street. When my destination became clear, the van dropped back and turned off on a side street.

I detoured to a one-hour photo shop at King and University streets, and dropped off the pictures I had snapped on Moloka‘i of Kaluna discovering the three syringes and Dr. Wyllie extracting Coco’s liver. Along with the veterinarian’s written statement, these photos would document the real cause of Sara’s death. All that was left for me to do was uncover its agents.

At the hospital, Adrienne slept pale and quiet in her room– an oxygen tube still assisting her breathing and an IV dripping fluids into her arm. When I touched her hand, her skin was neither cold nor warm. She seemed precariously balanced between death and life.

I left her connected to this world through only a few tubes and that gritty, determined spirit of hers that had gotten me into this.

Driving back to Maunakea Street, I kept a close eye on my rearview mirror. No van. Its absence seemed almost more ominous than if the
hui
had kept right on my tail.

Along the way I picked up my Moloka‘i photos. Clear. Unmistakable. Kaluna’s slithering under
kiawe
bushes to fetch the Ziploc bag and Dr. Wyllie’s removal of Coco’s liver were frozen in time. I could still smell the stench from that grave.

Business was slow this Tuesday morning at Fujiyama’s. Just one customer picked over strands of orchids in the refrigerated display cases. In the back, Chastity and Joon were stringing
pīkake
blooms. Such a fresh fragrance arose from that
pīkake
that I asked the
lei
girls to string three intertwined strands for Adrienne. One strand of
pīkake
traditionally represents friendship; three strands, the highest degree.

I climbed the stairs to my office and listened to my phone messages:

“Eh, brah, how much you charge fo’ find one missing surfboard? One dumb dodo steal mine at Hale‘iwa …”

One drawback of calling myself the “Surfing Detective.” The next message made me more alert.

“This is Dr. Goto’s office,” said a crisp, businesslike receptionist. “The doctor can see you this afternoon at five o’clock.”

Goto had taken the bait. Though I was a little surprised at the late hour of the appointment. Since he saw patients only from ten to two, I wondered why he was waiting until five.

I picked up my briefcase and locked my office behind me. Passing back through Mrs. Fujiyama’s, I grabbed Adrienne’s
lei
, and paced down Maunakea toward my bank, First O‘ahu Savings on King Street, where a clerk ushered me into a private booth and retrieved my safe deposit box. From my briefcase I pulled each piece of evidence I had collected and put it into the safety box, retaining copies of the fingerprints I had dusted from the syringes.

It was nearly ten-thirty when I returned to my parking garage. With six hours until the interview with Dr. Goto, I did something not every detective would understand. I drove to the North Shore and went surfing.

At exactly five o’clock I was riding a mirrored elevator to the eighteenth floor of Goto’s office building. The empty waiting room looked the same as before. But today, no one sat behind the desk.

Within moments of my arrival, the doctor himself emerged from his inner office. His pale skin, hanging jowls, and rounded belly did lend credibility to Archibald’s report that Goto had to drop out of the Kalaupapa bus tour to relieve himself.

“Please come into my office, Mr. Cooke.” Goto greeted me with his smiling almond eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” His cordiality, however, failed to conceal a hint of nervousness.

As Goto slipped behind his teak desk, I noticed the photo from Caesar’s Palace was gone from his wall.

“Sorry about the short notice,” I said, starting my spiel. “I’m grateful for your help in solving this case.”

“Anything I can do,” he said graciously. “My receptionist told me you wish to speak again about the unfortunate accident on Moloka‘i.”

“That’s correct.” I opened my briefcase, pulling out the paper bag containing the framed photo of Niki. I turned the picture toward him.

“That’s an attractive young woman,” Goto said, staring at Niki’s string bikini and sexy smile.

“I’m hoping you can identify her.”

He leaned forward, studying her face. “She doesn’t look like the criminal type.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, doctor, what innocent-looking people can do.” I handed him the photo. “Here, take a closer look.”

Goto seemed to be trembling as he grabbed hold of the clean glass.

“Did you see this woman on Moloka‘i on the day of Sara Ridgely-Parke’s death?”

“She looks vaguely familiar.”

“Go ahead. Take your time.”

The doctor squinted at Niki’s smiling face. “It’s funny,” he finally said. “I fly quite often to medical conferences on the mainland. Denver. Chicago. Indianapolis. This woman looks like a flight attendant I’ve seen on several trips.”

“That so?” I cringed. I hadn’t thought Goto would actually recognize Niki. “You also fly to Las Vegas, don’t you?” I tried to change the subject.

Dr. Goto frowned. “Not anymore.” His guard, which had been perceptibly relaxing as my questions focused away from him, now went back up.

“Sorry I can’t do any better with your suspect.” He handed back the photo.

“Thanks for trying.” I slipped it back into the paper bag, then tucked the bag in my brief case.

Dr. Goto rose, signaling that the interview had ended.

“May I ask just one more question before I leave?”

“Surely.” He seemed to brace himself slightly.

“It was reported that you did not complete the Kalaupapa bus tour–that you were dropped off early to use the restroom. Is that correct?”

“I’m embarrassed to say, yes.” Goto smiled self-consciously. “I was quite dehydrated after the long, hot mule ride and I drank a large quantity of water to compensate.”

“How did you occupy yourself while the others completed the tour?”

“I sat down and rested, of course.”

“Near the mules?” I studied his face.

He winked playfully. “I stayed upwind of the mules, if you know what I mean.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I headed for the door.

“My pleasure.” He made a little bow.

I saw myself out with Niki’s photo, covered with Goto’s prints, tucked safely in my briefcase. My hunch was that the doctor was attempting a mediocre acting job. Now with his prints all over my frame, I would finally know for sure.

In the parking lot below Goto’s mirrored tower, I unlocked my Impala and set the briefcase next to Adrienne’s
pīkake lei
on the front seat. I was so elated about getting the doctor’s fingerprints, I didn’t see the smoke grey van pull up behind me.

twenty-five

Three big mokes–huge, meaty local boys–yanked me from my Impala and tossed me into the van. Before I had stopped rolling around in the back, we were speeding down Ala Moana Boulevard toward Waikīkī.

One of the big men sat in back with me, where there were no seats, blocking the van’s sliding door. He must have tipped the scales at three hundred, easy. None of the mokes spoke to me. I said nothing to them. A warm, salty-tasting liquid dripped down my face.
Blood.
I must have cut my forehead.

As the van slowed in traffic along Waikīkī Beach–where camera-toting tourists awaited another perfect sunset–then curved around Diamond Head and its lavish seaside estates, I began to doubt my hunches on this case. J. Gregory Parke I had least suspected. But now that we were headed for Kāhala–his ritzy neighborhood–I wondered. Could Parke be behind all this? And was it an ominous sign that none of my abductors took the slightest precaution to conceal our route from me?

Suddenly the van turned off Diamond Head Road short of Parke’s colonial castle, headed
makai
down a palm-lined private lane, then pulled up to an imposing black wrought-iron gate with a dozen spikes shaped like the ace of spades. The gate opened automatically and the van glided over flagstones onto the grounds of a magnificent oceanfront estate.

My captors unloaded me, still without saying a word. The only sounds were the clacking of coconut palm fronds along the secluded beach and the constant splash of waves.

The mansion looked Mediterranean, with bright white walls and red tile roof that might have pleased my eyes under other circumstances. Surrounding us were expansive tropical gardens, black granite pool and spa, and clay tennis courts encircled by those whispering palms. A four-car carriage house, with only one door open, revealed a flame red Lamborghini. The exotic Italian machine displayed a personalized plate: “Manny.”

Manny Lee, my cousin Alika’s famous uncle, had not laid eyes on me since I was a little
keiki
. I faintly recalled him singing
“Aloha ‘Oe,”
that familiar Hawaiian song of farewell, at my parents’ funeral. Halfway through, his voice broke. The international star–and local tough guy–overcome by emotion.

I was taken to a marble
lānai
overlooking the sea, where he reclined on a chaise lounge, nursing a high ball. Manny was fiftyish. His long hair black, but turning salt-and-pepper. Pixie-like face of Hawaiian and Chinese aspect, youthful considering the life it had seen. Gold chain around his neck and gold Hawaiian bracelet on one wrist emblazoned with his name.

Manny said to the biggest of the three mokes, “Bobo, t’anks, eh?”

As the trio walked away, my suspicions about the singer were instantly confirmed.

Manny Lee was a legend in and out of the islands. He was the most famous living Hawaiian pop singer, owner of multiple gold records. Tales of his exploits with women, with money, and with drink and drugs were legion. His association with underworld thugs made him feared. Messing with Manny–so it was said–led to broken bones. Of late, he had supposedly turned over the proverbial new leaf and become a leading investor in local enterprises.

He gestured to the
lānai
chair across from him. I sat. The setting sun glinted blindingly on three gold records visible in a nearby cabana and also starkly illuminated Manny’s face. In the fiery orange glow he looked both saintly and devilish, a wayward spirit poised between the poles of goodness and evil. I gazed warily at this pop luminary, this aging star, this distant relation through marriage who had summoned me.

“Long time no see, Kai,” said Manny in his melodious tones.

“Back when Mom and Dad died.”

“I sang at their funeral,” Manny recalled. “You just one
keiki
then, maybe too young to remembah.”

“I remembah.” I daubed a blood drop trickling down my forehead.

“Kai, family–
‘ohana
–is important. You marry yet?”

I shook my head.

“Find one nice local girl. Raise some
keiki.
Living alone no good. I know.” He winked.

“Thanks for the advice.”

“One more piece of advice.” Manny glanced toward his glinting gold disks, his eyes scouring the cabana as if searching for someone. “Kai, let da
wahine
who wen’ fall from da mule on Moloka‘i rest in peace.”

I studied his illuminated face. “Stop my investigation?”

Manny again glanced away. “If you not one family membah, you awready be dead.”

“Are you in the
hui?
With Zia and the rest?”

“Kai, I cannot make gold records forevah.” He shrugged in a gesture of resignation, or maybe apology? “All entertainahs do business on da side. You be loyal and someday da
hui
cut you in, too.”

I sat motionless, not wanting to believe what I was hearing.

“Take one vacation for a few days. My travel agent already book you in one oceanfront suite in Kona. First class. Meals and everyt’ing on me. Bobo give you da tickets when you leave.”

“Go to Kona? What for?”

Manny peered into my eyes. “You stay in Kona until aftah Friday’s zoning board hearing. You get ‘um, Kai?”

“Yeah, I get ‘um.” At that moment I understood better than he could imagine–the arrogance of power that believes itself above the law.

“Your
‘ohana
no like you die young, Kai. I doing this for dem. We all family and grow up close.”

The three mokes trudged slowly into view like foraging bears. Manny rose and shook my hand. As the trio led me away in the dying sunset, Manny called in our direction.

“Kai, no forget.
‘Ohana!”

When I looked back, Manny was no longer alone. Another man, thin as a ghost and barely five feet tall in a white suit and aviator sunglasses, had emerged from the cabana and was whispering in his ear. They stood together in conspiratorial closeness, as the newcomer puffed on a brown cigarette whose raw, pungent odor I could smell from twenty feet away. Then it dawned on me: The other man was Umbro Zia.

Manny nodded to Zia in a gesture of reassurance as the two conversed in whispers. I assumed the nodding pertained to me. The
hui
had me, Manny was probably explaining to Zia. I would no longer interfere.

The mokes loaded me back into the grey van, more gently this time. The hefty driver, Bobo, handed me a packet stuffed with a first-class airline ticket, hotel voucher, and a wad of crisp green bills. Ben Franklins. Hundreds. Also inside on a handwritten slip was a Big Island phone number and a name, “Lani.” Beneath that, in Manny’s own hand: “Call Lani. She one
‘ono
babe and she show you a good time.”

I sat on the floor of the van next to a computer, monitor, and keyboard that hadn’t been there before. The equipment resembled my stolen PC. As the van screeched up the flagstone driveway toward the automatic gate, I looked at the computer more closely. It
was
my PC.

The ride back to Goto’s mirrored tower was uneventful. In the quiet, gathering darkness I contemplated the significance of my trip. Whatever Goto’s role in the murder, whatever tangled relationships existed between Sara and Parke and McWhorter, there was no longer any doubt that the
hui
was at the center of it all.

The van pulled up to my car in the flood-lighted parking lot. As I climbed out, one of the mokes lifted the PC from the van and put it on the pavement. Before I could open my trunk, the van was gone.

My briefcase still sat miraculously on the front seat. I clicked the locks open. There was the bag with Niki’s framed photo in it. The
hui
must have felt Manny’s warning would be sufficient to send me packing to Kona. I loaded my computer into the trunk and drove to the hospital in a heady cloud of perfume from the
pīkake lei
I’d bought that morning for Adrienne.

By the time I reached her bedside that evening most visitors had already departed. Her stillness intensified the quiet. Drawing close to her, I explained that I knew now who had killed her sister. And I would be back soon, I said in farewell, to tell her how the rest of the business turned out. I kissed her unresponsive cheek, the same cool, pale white as the
pīkake
blossoms I placed in her open hand.

Before leaving the hospital, I called the Honolulu office of the FBI, closed for the night. I left a voice-mail message for an agent I knew named Javier. Not certain who might be listening in, I was deliberately vague:

“Bill, expect a fax from a mainland lab. I’ll explain later.”

Back at Mrs. Fujiyama’s flower shop, I lugged my computer past the darkened display windows, around to the side door, and up the fire stairs to my office. Connecting the PC to its power and printer cables, I switched it on. All documents relating to the Ridgely-Parke case had been erased, while every other document remained. Neat job.

I shut down the computer, then turned to Niki’s photo. If she only knew how much she was helping on this case. I dusted the glass and frame for fingerprints. There were several good ones. I checked them against the six cards containing prints from the syringes. They matched.