The Pearl Harbor Murders (8 page)

"It's the Japanese girl," his father affirmed. "Pearl Harada. Head crashed with a rock—I caught this son of a bitch red-handed."

Literally: the musician's right hand was damply red with blood.

"I'm going to take Harry here to our bungalow," O. B. said, holding on to the slumping, bawling musician, "and call the cops. You go alert Fred at the lodge, and have him post somebody at the crime scene, so that the body isn't disturbed."

Had the situation not been so loathsome, Hully might have laughed. "I'll be damned, Dad," he said. "You really
were
a cop."

Burroughs nodded, and dragged Kamana off.

Hully went to the lodge and woke the manager, filling him in as they walked to the beach, where the younger Burroughs got his first close, grisly look at the beautiful dead woman with the ugly head wound, bathed in gold by an obscenely beautiful Hawaiian moon.

Manager Fred Bivens—who was in his pajama top and some trousers he'd thrown on, a heavyset genial fellow in his forties—turned away, aghast.

The tide sweeping onto the shore had a distant sound, despite its closeness, like the hoarse echo of a scream. The ocean stretched purple to the horizon, glimmering with gold, almost as lovely as this girl had been.

"Are you all right, Fred?" Hully asked, touching the man's arm.

"What a hell of a thing," Fred whispered. "What a hell of a thing... She was a sweet kid. Flirty, but sweet—and so talented... What a goddamn shame."

Hully understood and shared all these sentiments, and was not surprised by the tears in Fred's eyes.

"Can you stay here with her, Fred? Till the police come? Dad's calling them."

Fred ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, shaking his head, as if saying no, as he said, "Sure... sure. Poor sweet kid..."

"We need to keep everybody away. Dad says this is a... crime scene, now. So you need to keep your distance, too, Fred—don't touch her or anything."

"Don't worry."

Moments later, Hully joined his father in the bungalow. The whimpering musician was seated on O. B.'s typing chair, which had been situated in the middle of the sitting room. Kamana sat there, slumped, chin on his chest, one hand on a knee, the other hand—the bloody one—held out, palm up, as if he were trying to weigh something.

O. B.—who had thrown on an aloha shirt and some chinos but whose feet were bare—stood with his muscular arms folded, staring at the musician like a scornful genie.

"Fred's standing watch," Hully said.

"Good."

"When will the police get here?"

"Soon. I got lucky."

"How so?"

"Have you met my friend Jardine?"

Hully shook his head. "Don't believe so."

"He's a Portuguese—the best homicide detective on the island—works out of City Hall, not the police station. Officially he's a detective on the Honolulu PD, but he operates strictly out of the prosecutor's office, principally on murder cases."

"That's a good thing?"

Burroughs came over to his son, turning his back to the seated, moaning musician, and whispered, "Local PD is so corrupt, it makes the LAPD look squeaky-clean."

"Jeez."

"Jardine's straight as an arrow. Luckily he was in, at this hour."

"Why was he?"

A tiny half smile crinkled O. B.'s bronzed face. "When he isn't working a murder case, he makes a habit on weekend nights of standing at the corner of Hotel and Bishop, giving the soldiers and sailors the evil eye. He's known around there as a hard-nosed cop, so standing guard like that, looking at passersby like . they're all suspects, well it's his idea of crime prevention....1 caught him at his desk just before he was heading home."

Hully figured this Jardine had probably given his friends Fielder and Pressman the "evil eye" tonight—and many nights.

"I want to wash my hands!"

Hully and his father turned toward the musician, who had finally stopped sobbing and spoken—actually, more like yelled.

O. B. went over to the man—who was holding the blood-streaked hand out, staring at it—and sneered down at him. "I just bet you'd like to wash your hands of this."

The slight, pockmarked, roughly handsome Kamana looked up, as if startled, as if realizing for the first time just what he was being accused of—even though he'd already run guiltily away. "I didn't do this."

"You didn't, huh," Burroughs said. It wasn't really a question.

Kamana's eyes were about as red as the bloody hand. "I loved her....1 loved her more than life!"

"More than
her
life?"

"I didn't kill her!" Though he'd stopped crying, he nonetheless seemed on the verge of hysteria. "I'd sooner kill myself!"

O. B. grunted a humorless laugh. "Maybe you'd better save it for the cops."

But Kamana wanted to talk, and the words tumbled out of him—how two years ago Pearl Harada, who had been visiting relatives in Honolulu, auditioned for his band, on an impulse. When Kamana told her she had the job, Pearl had moved from San Francisco to Oahu.

"I knew she was something special.... It was more than just her looks, or that nice voice of hers... so much like Dinah Shore ... she had star quality. She could have gone places.
We
might have gone places!"

Hully knew what the man was doing: Kamana was talking about her because it was a way of keeping her alive. Though it seemed obvious he'd killed her, this man just as obviously was deeply sorry she was dead.

O. B. didn't seem terribly moved by any of this. "So you might have 'gone places' ... and that makes you innocent of her murder? As in, why would you kill your meal ticket?"

Kamana was shaking his head, and he seemed desperate to be believed. "She was more than that to me ... so much more. I didn't date her at first... I tried to keep things... businesslike. But we hit it off so well, musically, it was just natural for us to get together, in other ways.... I wanted her to marry me. But she wouldn't. She said her career came first, and she didn't want to settle down anyway ... and she dated a lot of guys, mostly servicemen who followed the band. Then this Fielder came along ... and she got serious with him ... said she was going to marry him ... quit the band... quit show business ... quit me."

Hully asked, casually, "So you argued? Tonight?"

"We've argued several times about it," Kamana said. Talking seemed to calm him. "But not tonight. I... I accepted it and... well, I was hoping it would just... pass. Anyway, I figured in the long run it was just a

pipe dream....That Fielder kid, his colonel papa wouldn't put up with his boy marrying a Jap. I stopped arguing with her—maybe she would come to her senses, maybe she wouldn't, but that Fielder kid would ... or at least his father would make him come to his senses."

"So," Hully said, "you were just... chatting tonight, down on the beach."

Kamana shook his head, emphatically. "I wasn't talking to her on the beach ... not at all, not tonight! I heard arguing ... my bungalow's near the beach, you know ... and recognized her voice ... heard a man's voice, but it was soft, I didn't recognize it. Then I... I heard her scream, and I ran out and down there... and..."

He began to weep again, instinctively covering his face with his hands—smearing the blood all over himself. Hully glanced at O. B., who looked back with wide eyes.

"... She was dead....My lovely Pearl was dead.... Somebody killed her....All crushed in ... I tried to help her, and got her blood on me...."

His pockmarked face was streaked with blood, now—he looked like an Apache with war paint.

A knock at the door made them jump, even O. B., who said to Hully, "Get that."

The man Hully let in was small and swarthy, a hawk-faced obvious plainclothes cop in a snap-brim fedora, rumpled gray suit and red tie. His eyes were small and dark and needle-sharp.

"Hulbert Burroughs," Hully said, extending his hand to the little detective.

"John Jardine," he replied, and shook Hully's hand, a strong grip.

Jardine and O. B. shook hands, as well. The elder Burroughs had already filled the detective in on many of the particulars, over the phone.

"How did you get blood on your face, Mr. Kamana?" Jardine asked bluntly, standing uncomfortably close to the seated musician.

"It isn't on my face," Kamana said, stupidly, holding up his hand, where the blood was just a stain, now.

"It's on your face."

Kamana's grief had subsided and fear was moving in; with Honolulu's top homicide cop staring him down, the musician obviously was grasping what kind of spot he was in. "It... it was on my hand... I must have... must have touched my face...."

"How did you get it on your hand?"

Hully and his father sat on the couch as Jardine questioned Kamana—just preliminary stuff, but Hully was interested in the musician's responses, which were for the most part a rehash of the things Kamana had emotionally blurted to Hully and O. B.

But Hully was impressed by the unrehearsed consistency of Kamana's answers.

Before long, Jardine was lugging Kamana—his hands cuffed behind him—outside into the breeze-kissed dark, where he turned the musician over to a uniformed cop, a Polynesian who walked Kamana toward a squad car waiting in the parking lot near the lodge. From down toward the beach came bursts of light, as if a tiny lightning storm had moved in.

Noting Hully's confused expression, Jardine said, "Flash photos."

Hully nodded—like his dad had said, the beach was a crime scene now ... and Pearl was no longer a person, but evidence.

The Portuguese detective said to O. B., "Do you mind a few questions? While it's all fresh in your mind?"

"Not at all. Shall we go back inside?"

O. B. was opening the screen door for the detective when a figure came rushing up, dressed in white, a ghost emerging from the darkness.

Otto Kuhn—in a white shirt and white linen pants, looking like a male nurse seeking a doctor—seemed out of breath, though his bungalow, next door, was hardly any distance. His light blue eyes had a startled look.

"Are you with the police, sir?" he asked Jardine in his thick yet smoothly accented second tenor.

"I'm Detective Jardine."

"I'm Otto Kuhn—I live there." He pointed toward the bungalow past a cluster of palms. "Could I speak to you, sir?"

Jardine gestured toward the sitting room, which beckoned beyond the screen door O. B. held open. "Mr. Burroughs, do you mind?"

"Not at all."

And soon Hully and his father were again seated on the couch, spectators, as the German real-estate agent spoke excitedly to the Portuguese detective. Though Kuhn towered over the little man, literally, Jardine's commanding presence loomed over the German, figuratively.

With an inappropriate smile, Kuhn said, "I saw you arrest that... native. That musician."

"You did."

"Yes, and you were correct to do so. I... hesitated to come forward until I was sure he was safely in custody."

"You sound as if you were afraid of Kamana, Mr. Kuhn."

Kuhn swallowed, nodded. "I'm not proud to admit that is the case. You see... I saw of what brutality he was capable. My bungalow ... a window looks out on the beach. It is somewhat blocked by trees, but I had them trimmed back, recently ... for a better view."

"What kind of view did you have tonight, Mr. Kuhn?"

"I was sleeping," he said, tilting his head, as if onto a pillow, "and woke suddenly...." He jerked his head straight up.

Hully winced; these histrionics were somehow distasteful.

Kuhn was saying, "I heard arguing, loud arguing, a man and a woman. I rolled over, to go back to sleep ... my wife did not waken, I must emphasize, she saw nothing."

"All right."

Gesturing with both hands, the German said, "The arguing got louder. Heated, you might say. I went to the window, to complain. I think if I shout at them, they might stop, and I can sleep again, and no one would be harmed. But when I got to the window ... that's when I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The murder. That man... the Hawaiian musician, Kamana... he had something in his hand... a rock, I think. Something heavy, anyway, small enough for him to grasp. He raised his hand, and I wanted to shout, 'Stop!' But I was too late... she screamed, and he struck her. Struck her a terrible blow."

Kuhn lowered his head, shaking it, as if remembering this terrible thing... but something about it seemed hollow to Hully. He glanced at his father, to see if he could read any similar reaction, and noted his dad's eyes were so narrow, they might have been cuts in his face.

"This is a very interesting story, Mr. Kuhn," Jardine said. "I have one question—why didn't you call the police?"

Kuhn nodded toward O. B., on the couch. "I saw Mr. Burroughs capture the Hawaiian....Edgar was obviously taking him to justice. I calmed my wife... she had woken by this time, and heard my story, and had become terribly upset... and I simply waited for you to arrive." He smiled, clasped his hands in front of him, like a waiter about to show a patron to a really nice table. "I would be most happy to give you a formal statement, tomorrow, at your headquarters."

Jardine said nothing for a few seconds; then he sighed, and said, "Why don't you show me the window you saw all this through?"

Kuhn nodded, curtly. "My pleasure."

Pleasure?
That seemed an odd thing to say....

Hully found this German's story unsettling, and unconvincing, despite the way it hewed to the particulars of Pearl Harada's death.

As he accompanied Kuhn out, Jardine turned to O. B. and said, "We'll talk tomorrow, Mr. Burroughs. Thanks for your help—shouldn't have to bother you again, tonight."

"Good night, John," O. B. said, seeing them to the door.

"Nice meeting you," Jardine said to Hully, and then they were out of the door.

A few minutes later, Hully was folding the couch out into its bed, and his father—in a fresh pair of pa-jama bottoms—came out from his bedroom and stood there, bare-chested, with his hands on hips, Tarzan-style.

"I thought that trombone player was a killer," O. B. said, "until ol' Otto started agreeing with me."