1 Murder on Moloka'i (14 page)

twenty-eight

With three hours until Lani arrived, I swam and sunned at the resort’s beach. My shadow stayed hidden at first. Then, reclining in a lounge chair behind the
Hawai‘i Tribune Herald,
the thin man briefly exposed his pale face. He didn’t look like he was having much fun.

When I left the beach at five, the man followed me. I stopped in at the ABC Store off the hotel’s lobby, bought a woman’s sun hat, and carried it away in a shopping bag. The thin man watched me from outside the store, then followed me to the elevators.

Up in my room I showered and dressed for dinner in front of the TV. The local news carried a slanted report on the Kalaupapa Cliffs project. Two supposed Moloka‘i residents spoke in favor of the resort, both too slick to be believed.

The reporter mentioned Friday’s Land Zoning Board hearing as the last step to approval of the development, as if approval were a foregone conclusion. No one from the coalition had been interviewed, nor was the coalition survey mentioned that showed 94 percent of Moloka‘i’s residents opposed the project. And, of course, no death toll was given.

At twenty minutes to six I rode the elevator to the lobby and stood outside by the valets waiting for Lani. The setting sun backlighted the tide pools in a butterscotch glow. A few minutes later she pulled up in a silver Porsche, waving through the sunroof. She screeched to the curb.

Slipping into the leather bucket on the passenger side, its soft hides reeking of newness, I offered her my hand. Lani warmed mine with both of hers and looked me square in the eyes.

“Manny didn’t tell me you were so young.”

“I’m thirty-four,” I said, inhaling her heavy floral perfume. “I must have ten years on you.”

Lani giggled. “I’ll show you a good time.”

She gunned the Porsche and we launched from the Royal Kona Hotel like a rocket. Suddenly I noticed on the dash the ominous word
turbo.

“‘Ono,”
Manny had called her. I could see why. Luminous eyes, jet black hair, slender tanned limbs. She looked wholesome, almost innocent. Her sweet perfume magnified this impression. But the plunging neckline of her black cocktail dress and her heavy eye shadow undercut it.

Lani ripped along the waterfront toward Kona around curves at a pace that would have flipped an ordinary car. She reeved that turbocharged 911 through its countless gears.

“I
love
to go fast,” she said. “But I’m just learning to drive the Porsche …”

No truer words could have been spoken. I braced myself around each curve as Lani talked nonstop. She must have had a drink or two before picking me up. In a short span I learned that she had met Manny once when he performed in Kona. They hit it off. Soon she found herself on the singer’s payroll, “entertaining” him and his guests when they visited the Big Island. It was a strange story. And a sad story. Though Lani probably didn’t think so.

On one hair-raising turn, I popped opened the Porsche’s glove box. Inside were two CDs, an Almond Joy candy bar, some loose condoms, and a Big Island map. I closed it back up and glanced behind us. Nobody. Was the thin man already at the restaurant? Or did he trust Manny’s girl to chaperone me?

Lani pulled up to the Windjammer, a trendy Kona seafood spot along Ali‘i Drive that resembled a yacht pointed into the breakers. She emerged from her car with a large black sequined handbag that matched her cocktail dress. She was a tall, statuesque woman–quite tall for a local girl–within a few inches of my own height.

Winding our way through the bustling restaurant– appointed with the spars and beams and fixtures of a seagoing galley–we emerged onto the bow deck overlooking the twilight surf. Lani ordered a Mai Tai and I, a beer. Our drinks arrived as we scanned the long menu. I also continued to scan the restaurant for the thin man. No sign of him.

Lani wasted no time putting away her Mai Tai. When the waiter arrived, she asked for another. We ordered dinner and a bottle of Chardonnay, then chatted as Lani slugged down her second drink. She was already getting a little woozy.

By the time our entrees came Lani was well into the wine. Her cheeks blushed like ripe mangos.

“Kai …” Lani smiled coyly and gripped my hand. “I … li-like yooo.”

The more she drank, the more she slurred. Despite her undeniable allure, I felt sorry for Lani. She had gotten caught in Manny Lee’s web. A new Porsche, some cash, and no doubt a condo by the sea had been her payment. I wondered if ten years down the road Lani might concede she had made a mistake. Her heavy drinking made me suspect that already she had an inkling.

By the time we finished dessert, Lani was in no shape to drive. I paid the check with one of Manny’s hundreds, then eased her limp body into the passenger seat. She didn’t seem to mind my driving her new car. I aimed the silver rocket back to the resort, getting a feel for its breathtaking acceleration.
Da buggah fly!

Pulling into the resort, I skipped the valets and parked the car myself in a dim corner of the lot. I slipped her keys into my pocket and helped the weaving Lani up the elevator and into my suite.

Inside she stumbled into the bedroom and fell onto the king-sized bead, sprawling there with a naughty-girl look on her face.

She giggled, kicked off her sandals, and fumbled with the zipper of her black cocktail dress.

“I shooo yooo a good time …”

twenty-nine

Lani made a “come hither” gesture with her little finger. I played along, helping with her zipper and slipping off my aloha shirt. I rolled back the bedspread, then the blanket and top sheet. She squirmed out off her dress.

I wondered what the thin man, no doubt listening in through the woodwork, would expect from us. Groans and moans and banging on the wall?

“Roll over on your tummy,” I said to Lani.

“Yess, yess …” She quickly turned over. She had a body to die for. Too bad I wasn’t ready to die.

I grabbed a bed pillow, removed its case, and twisted it into a rope. I slipped the fabric into her mouth.

“Wasss going on …”

I tied the pillowcase behind her shimmering black hair before she could finish her muffled sentence. Then I unplugged the phone cord and bound her hands and feet behind her, snug but not painfully tight. She could sleep on her stomach comfortably enough all night until she was found the next morning.

“Ahhh!” Lani tried to scream, without much effect. The result was a muted cry such as the thin man next door no doubt expected to hear. I let out a few lusty groans myself and rocked the bed against the wall for good measure.

Next I searched Lani’s black sequined handbag. Soon I found her lipstick and makeup kit, carrying them and her black cocktail dress into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I emerged looking like a woman–sort of. I had put on lipstick, blusher, and eye shadow and had donned Lani’s bra, stuffed with toilet tissue, and her black dress. Next I put on the lady’s sun hat I had bought and tied the scarves under my chin. Fortunately, I’d brought a pair of rubber slippers that would have to do with my costume. I stuffed my own clothes and my files from the case into Lani’s large handbag

Before leaving the suite, I glanced again at Lani. The
‘ono
local beauty lay naked on the bed. Her glistening eyes looked at me with a doleful expression.

I covered her with the top sheet and blanket, then whispered in her ear: “Sorry, Lani. Your friend Manny has gotten mixed up in some nasty business. By Friday you’ll know what it’s all about. Sleep well.”

I fluffed a pillow under her head and tiptoed from the room, locking the door behind me.

The silver Porsche opened remotely with Lani’s key and I slipped into the driver’s seat. The turbo motor fired with a throaty growl as I aimed toward Kona on Ali‘i Drive. A mile down the road I pulled off to consult Lani’s map. There is no direct route from Kona to Hilo. The high ridge between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea separates the two towns. The shortest route–85 miles–climbs east over the remote Saddle Road between the two volcanoes. Since at night this narrow mountain pass can be tricky, it seemed prime turf for another one of the
hui’s
accidents. A longer route, the Hawai‘i Belt Road, stretched north through
paniolo
country to Waimea, then turned south down the rugged Hāmākua Coast. But if the
hui
was watching the remote Saddle Road, they would likely be watching the Belt Road, too. That left the longest route to Hilo–120 miles–weaving through the coffee groves of South Kona, around the southern tip of the island, and up into Volcanoes National Park. Would the
hui
figure on my taking this long and circuitous route? I hoped not.

The Porsche’s clock said 8:29, less than two hours until the last flight to Maui. Before me lay the dark two-lane Kuakini Highway curving along the Kona Coast. Stars spread like crystal dust across the sky. I revved through the Porsche’s lower gears, relishing the musical notes of its turbocharged motor at red line. Almost instantly I was over the speed limit.

I checked the rearview mirrors. Empty as the night. Few cars plied the highway on this starry Wednesday. But I stayed hyperalert, checking the speedometer, whose needle on the straightaways swept to 100. Checking mirrors. Checking the fuel gauge. Adrenaline pumping.

The village of Captain Cook blinked by as the highway rose gradually through the leeward hamlets of Kainaliu and Kealakekua, into South Kona coffee country. The Porsche’s powerful high beams illuminated the narrow, twisting lanes in front of me, carving through desolate lava flows. I checked the mirrors again.

A flashing blue light.

No way could I pull over tonight. I was traveling at twice the speed limit in a borrowed car, lamely disguised as a woman. The cop would stop me and lock me up. I would miss that Maui flight.

No way.

When the darkened highway swung east near the Big Island’s southern tip, on a straight stretch through Hawaiian Ocean View Estates I put the pedal down. The speedometer quickly swept past 100. Then 120 … 140 ….

I was still flying when I reached the southernmost town on the island, Nā‘ālehu. “35 mph” was the posted limit. I blew by at 135. I checked the mirrors. The blue light was gone.

Climbing the long grade into Volcanoes National Park in a sudden downpour, I thought about Manny and his twisted idea of
‘ohana.
By returning to Honolulu before the Zoning Board hearing on Friday I would be betraying him. By exposing the
hui
, if I got that far, I might tarnish his new, clean image. Or maybe put him behind bars.

Trying to save the cliffs was the right thing, the
only
thing, to do. If Manny perceived this as a violation of loyalty to family–
‘ohana–
he was wrong. Loyalty to the land–
‘āina
– should be higher.

The landing lights of a distant jet illuminated Hilo Bay. Hilo International Airport–the sign loomed ahead on the drenched highway and none too soon. The rain cooperatively cut back to a mist, then stopped. I pulled into the parking lot with little time to spare, locked Lani’s very warm Porsche, kept the keys in case I needed them later, and hurried to the terminal.

At the ticket counter, the agent did a double take when she saw my disguise. Was I a harmless cross-dresser? Or was I dangerous? I explained that I was flying to a costume party on Maui and didn’t have time to change there. She bought my story, checked my ID, and sold me a ticket.

I walked away from the counter, fast enough to catch the plane but not to call attention to my pitiful self. An airport clock said 10:15. Ten minutes to departure.

When I finally reached the gate the agent announced: “Last call for flight 946 to Kahului, Maui. All ticketed passengers should be onboard.”

I scanned around the passenger lounge. No police. And no one suspicious enough to represent the
hui.

I handed my coupon to the agent and stepped down the jetway. The Boeing 737 was less than half full. Passengers were scattered randomly among many empty seats. I commandeered a row of three all to myself, and watched as the plane pushed back from the gate. The window reflected back my disguise– smeared lipstick, frowzy eyes, blushing cheeks.

Soon the jet turbines were humming and the terminal was shrinking away from my window. With little air traffic this late, the pilot taxied directly to the runway and revved the big fans as we thundered into the darkness over Hilo Bay.

thirty

Before dawn the next morning the ripsaw whine of a Twin-Otter jolted me awake. It was Thursday. Kahului Airport, Maui. Twenty-four hours to the Kalaupapa Cliffs hearing on O‘ahu.

I uncurled from the vinyl chair that had been my bed for the night in the passenger lounge. My mouth tasted fuzzy. My back ached. My head pounded. But I had eluded the
hui.
So far.

Before going to sleep last night I had re-dressed as a tourist, complete with sunglasses purchased at an airport gift shop and a weathered L.A. Dodgers baseball cap I had bought from a genuine tourist for thirty bucks. I had heaped Lani’s things and my Kalaupapa Cliffs files into a duffel, also purchased from the gift shop. Lipstick and eye shadow removed, once again I traveled as a man.

The 6:00 a.m. Twin-Otter flight I awaited offered two advantages: one, it was the first plane of the morning from Maui to Honolulu; and, two, it would arrive at the remote Island Hopper building, distant from the Inter-Island Terminal serving the larger jets from Kona and Hilo, which was no doubt being watched by the
hui.
That my flight first stopped on Moloka‘i was not my choice. Though at this point I had few choices.

The tiny airplane puttered on to the runway, throttled up, and climbed into the dawn. The plane banked over Kahului Bay, skirted the gently sloping hills of West Maui, and crossed the channel between Maui and Moloka‘i.

Four passengers got off at Moloka‘i and three more climbed on for the short leg to Honolulu. Soon the Twin-Otter was airborne again. The pilot swooped over the majestic Kalaupapa cliffs, aglow in the early morning light.

It had been two weeks since Adrienne hired me to investigate her sister’s death. Justice for Sara is what she had wanted. A seemingly straightforward request.

But the investigation had unearthed a conspiracy at the very root of island government. To ensure approval of the Kalaupapa Cliffs project despite overwhelming opposition, the
hui
had stopped at nothing. Sara’s death, the original focus of the case, now served as only one tragic example of Chancellor Trust’s ruthlessness. Today they were close to victory. The Land Zoning Board was about to approve their project. Unless I could stop them.

The Twin-Otter touched down in Honolulu at 7:10 and taxied to the Island Hopper terminal. When the pilot shut down the screaming turbines, I quickly squeezed out the door. Ducking behind another passenger walking to the quiet terminal, I looked around. No one seemed to notice me.

My Smith & Wesson. It lay at the bottom of a trash receptacle in the Inter-Island Terminal, which was surely being watched. I walked there quickly. I didn’t see any
hui
operatives as I slipped into the restroom.

A man with a dirty yellow beard stood at the sink brushing his teeth. I stood by the stainless waste container and turned on the faucet. Without removing my baseball cap I washed my face, shiny with sweat. My cheeks were darkened with stubble. I wished I could brush my teeth. But more than that, I wished he would finish so I could retrieve my gun.

Finally the man gathered his toilet bag and left. I reached down under the trash liner. It was there–a cold, heavy lump. I slipped the revolver into my duffel and left the restroom.

In front of me was one of Bobo’s moke pals. But his dark eyes were glued to the arrival gates.
Had he spotted me?
I turned and put some distance between us, then glanced back. He was still there, still watching the gates intently.

I walked briskly from the terminal. My duffel felt heavier with the Smith & Wesson aboard. A quarter mile ahead on the corner of Aolele Street and Nimitz Highway rose the airport Holiday Inn. It was morning rush hour, seven thirty, and town-bound traffic choked Nimitz.

I crossed the street and glanced back. Still nobody.

Before 8:00 a.m. may seem an odd hour to check in to a hotel, but not in Hawai‘i. I told the front desk clerk I had just flown in from Auckland on Air New Zealand, stopping over in Honolulu before returning to Los Angeles. My Dodgers cap corroborated my story.

“Very good, sir.” The aloha-shirted clerk smiled blandly.

With room key in hand I stopped by the lobby gift shop and bought disposable razors, a gaudy aloha shirt displaying hula dancers and waving palms, and a straw hat who band said “Hawai‘i Paradise.”

By 8:30 I was showered and dressed and calling the FBI. Agent Javier’s phone just rang.
Damn!
I mentally prepared a message for his voice mail. Then I heard, “Javier, FBI.”

“Bill, did you receive the fax from Bio-Tech Labs in California?”

“Yeah,” Javier said. “What’s this about? We don’t usually investigate dead mules.”

Briefly I explained the Kalaupapa Cliffs conspiracy and how the Chancellor Trust
hui
had run down Adrienne and killed Sara and her student, Baron Taniguchi.

“Kalaupapa Cliffs?” Javier pondered. “I read about that in the morning paper. The Land Zoning Board hearing is tomorrow, right?”

“That hearing has to be stopped.”

“Why?”

“It’s rigged. I’ll have the evidence at your office by noon. If I don’t show, take a look at my safe deposit box at First O‘ahu Savings on King Street.”

“In thirty minutes I can have a car there to pick you up, Kai.”

“Can’t risk waiting, Bill. If you want to help, alert the U.S. Attorney’s Office that you’ll be requesting an injunction suspending that Zoning Board hearing tomorrow. We need to work fast.”

“Where are you? Let me send a car.”

“See you at the federal building.” I hung up.