Off the Grid Read online

  OFF

  THE

  GRID

  Also by Robert McCaw

  Death of a Messenger

  OFF

  THE

  GRID

  A KOA KĀNE HAWAIIAN MYSTERY

  ROBERT MCCAW

  Copyright © 2019 by Robert McCaw

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  While this novel draws on the spirit and history of Hawai’i, it is a work of fiction. The characters, institutions, and events portrayed are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 978-1-60809-361-8

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  To Calli, my devoted wife, without whose

  patience and encouragement

  this story would never have been told.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE PLUME OF smoky steam rising like a sulfur cloud from a volcanic vent told Hilo Chief Detective Koa Kāne he’d been called to a nasty scene. He eased his Ford Explorer past the patrol car partially blocking the remote country road just outside tiny Volcano Village on the Big Island of Hawai‘i. Ahead, an ambulance and a fire truck barred the way. The air was thick with sauna-like humidity. Ditches and giant hāpu‘u fern trees crowded the edges of the narrow lane, leaving no room to pull off, so Koa parked his police SUV behind the ambulance.

  He skirted the fire truck, stepping over a thick hose snaking up the road. Oily smoke billowed from the flaming hulk of a brown Honda Civic about thirty yards ahead. The badly crunched and partly obscured car lay upside down in a ditch under the front end of a dump truck. The yellow color and Hawai‘i County seal on the door marked the truck as property of the county highway department.

  The pump on Engine 19 from the Volcano fire station screamed at full power, feeding pressurized water to two firefighters battling the blaze, trying to slow the flames enough so other firefighters, kept back by the heat, could douse the flames with chemical foam and carbon dioxide. Through the acrid fog of water, steam, and smoke, Koa recognized Deputy Fire Chief Darryl Opatta commanding the effort. Darryl’s round face and coarse black hair made him look younger than his forty-some years. They’d worked other bad fire scenes together and taught safety and fire prevention to schoolkids. Opatta was a good man. Koa waved and the deputy fire chief acknowledged the gesture.

  Koa reconstructed the accident in his mind. The Honda must have been traveling toward him on the one-lane asphalt road when it was blindsided by the dump truck coming from a crossing dirt lane. The truck must have been barreling along to have rolled and crushed the smaller vehicle, rupturing its gas tank and igniting the contents.

  As chief detective, Koa rarely attended the scene of even the worst traffic accidents. The dispatcher had alerted him to this crash only because he lived close by and the first responding patrolmen hadn’t been able to locate the truck driver. The empty truck left Koa puzzled—county employees were never supposed to leave the scene of an accident. A hit-and-run by a county employee involving a fatal accident could saddle Hawai‘i County with damages in the millions.

  The firefighters, shooting water onto the burning hulks, inched closer to the fire. The flames receded and the smoke lessened. As Opatta yelled instructions, the firemen gradually closed in on the crushed vehicle. Suddenly, a scream rent the air, prickling the hairs on the back of Koa’s neck. Someone—it sounded like a woman—had survived the accident only to be trapped in the flames.

  Acting on instinct, Koa sprinted toward the vehicles. It was a stupid move. Opatta yelled at him, but he barreled ahead. He was twenty feet from the smoldering wrecks when they exploded in a fireball. The front end of the dump truck rocketed upward, absorbing most of the force of the explosion. Still, the shock wave spread like a tornado, slamming him to the ground. An explosive thunderclap deafened him, so he barely heard the whine of flying metal, but something hammered his left shoulder and pain spiked down his arm. For an instant, he was back with the Fifth Special Forces Group in Mogadishu, Somalia, caught in a toxic hailstorm of rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons fire. Odd how an explosion could transport you ten thousand miles in an instant.

  The buzzing in Koa’s ears subsided. He rose to his knees, testing himself for injuries. His shoulder hurt like blazes, but he wasn’t bleeding. He’d been near vehicle explosions before, but not like this—not like a five-hundred-pound bomb exploding in his face. Vehicle explosions happened in war zones … or in terrorist attacks. What the hell was inside that Civic?

  He faced a new terror. The two firefighters knocked down by the blast had lost control of the fire hose, which thrashed back and forth like a mad python, threatening to decapitate anything in its path. The hose swung away, smashed into the ground, and whipped back toward Koa with deadly force. Only his combat training saved him. He dove to the ground and heard a whistling noise as the nozzle slashed through the air just inches over his head.

  The runaway hose collapsed. Opatta, closest to the pumper truck, had killed the power. As Koa climbed off the ground for the second time, he flexed his arm and checked his shoulder, testing his upper bicep where he’d been struck. He’d have the mother of all bruises, but he’d been lucky. One of the two firefighters previously manning the hose got up, but the other man was unconscious. EMTs ran forward to attend to him.

  “Get on that hose, now!” Opatta roared. Firemen scrambled to retrieve the hose and were soon again fogging water on the burning wrecks. The explosion had sucked the energy out of the fire, and the flames died rapidly. The blast had torn apart the Civic, leaving little more than the engine block and twisted frame. The screaming woman inside was no more, vaporized in the explosion.

  “Damn,” Koa swore, joining Opatta. “What the hell was that? More like a bomb than a gas tank explosion.”

  “Christ almighty, you got that right.” Opatta’s eyes were wide, and he seemed disoriented. “Christ almighty,” he repeated. Opatta appeared to be suffering a post-traumatic effect. Koa had commanded troops
who’d been stunned after a nasty fight.

  He put a hand on Opatta’s shoulder. “You okay, brah?”

  Opatta let out a long sigh. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I’m okay.” He shook his head and seemed to regain control. “I need to get my arson guys out here.”

  “And an expert forensics guy. Get one of those explosive consultants from O‘ahu,” Koa suggested.

  “Good idea. I’ll call ’em.”

  “I’ve never seen a fire hose break away like that. It damn near took my head off.”

  “Damned strange,” Opatta agreed. “Never had one of those safety nozzles stick open like that. Something must have jammed it, maybe from the explosion.”

  “What do you make of all this?” Koa waved his arm, taking in the destroyed vehicles.

  “Quirky. The whole scene is quirky as hell.” Opatta jabbed a meaty finger at the yellow truck. “That county truck … what the hell is it doing here? These roads are private. There ain’t no county maintenance in here. Where’s the truck driver? He’s done a goddamn runner. And speed. That truck was movin’ fast, fifty miles an hour, maybe more, on that shit-ant dirt road. Plus, no skid marks.” Opatta turned, pointing toward the intersection where the dirt lane dead-ended into the narrow macadam road. “Where’s the skid marks? Something’s fishy. Like the crash was deliberate.”

  Koa was thinking the same thing. A staged accident killing whoever had been driving the brown Honda would add up to murder.

  “Engine 19, this is Volcano station, do you copy?” the radio on Engine 19 blared.

  The fire chief grabbed the handset. “This is Fire Two, I copy.”

  “Fire Two, is Chief Detective Kāne with you?”

  “Roger that,” Opatta responded.

  “Have him call Sergeant Basa. He’s got a possible 701.”

  Koa’s head snapped around. 701—police-speak for first-degree murder. First, a vehicular homicide and now a murder? Koa felt a surge of adrenalin and a flicker of fear at what he might find.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WOMAN’S SCREAM echoed in Koa’s ears, and he continued to see afterimages of the exploding wrecks. They, like other searing memories, had become a part of him, adding layers to the burden he, other soldiers, and first responders carried. But Koa’s memories were personal. Like the twisted face of Anthony Hazzard, the sugar mill manager he’d killed. Or the awful firestorm in Mogadishu, Somalia, where he should have died.

  Such experiences haunted some, hollowing them out inside. It happened to a lot of cops, but Koa had learned to tame his demons. Instead of being consumed by thoughts of the men he’d killed, Koa channeled his guilt and revulsion into a passion to exact justice. A grizzly crime scene only made him more determined to nail the perp. It might not work for other cops, but it was his way. He turned his outrage at the senseless violence in his world into something he could live with.

  Koa first confronted death when his father, a simple sugar worker, had fallen, or been pushed, into the giant steel rollers of a cane-crushing machine. Eighteen at the time, Koa had seen the brutality of the sugar fields suck the life out of his dad. In just a few years, the vibrant, fun-loving man of his early youth had become stooped and withered long before his time. Along with other workers, his dad had tried to unionize, only to be brutalized by the mill manager, one Anthony Hazzard, and his overseers before the giant steel rollers of the cane-crushing machine had finished the job.

  Already angry about the abuse his father had suffered under the ruthless regime of the sugar barons, Koa was devastated by his father’s death. Then he heard rumors from other sugar workers that the death had been no accident, but rather a warning to other laborers against unionizing. Koa’s despair turned to outrage, and he set out to make the bastards pay for their treachery. His fury focused on Hazzard, the mill manager, and Koa exacted his revenge.

  Almost a year later, Koa signed up for the Army and left Hawai‘i. Pushing himself hard, he earned a place in officer candidate school and then the Special Forces. In nightmares, he died on godforsaken battlefields in faraway places. God’s retribution for what he’d done to Hazzard. On his tour of duty in Somalia, the awful dreams nearly became reality in a maelstrom of violence, like nothing he’d ever imagined. Things had been hard growing up poor in Hawai‘i, but life had been precious. Not in Somalia, where crazed fanatics seeking martyrdom lurked around every corner. Koa pumped himself up with a dozen kills, but his brothers-in-arms, like Jerry, his buddy and dearest friend, were not so lucky.

  He and Jerry had been together since the first days of their training, supporting each other and watching the other’s back. They’d lived in swamps and mountains, eaten snake meat side by side, and picked lice from each other’s hair. Jerry pulled him out of quicksand during a swamp march and covered for him when he faltered. Jerry often spoke of his future, back in his home town of Seattle, where he planned to become a policeman, like his father. He talked about it so much the guys nicknamed him the “damn cop.”

  In Mogadishu, they’d been tasked to capture Mohamed Farrah Aidid, a Somali warlord, and his followers in the Habr Gidr clan. Although operational commanders requested tanks and armored vehicles, penny-pinching civilian politicians refused. As a result, Koa’s team went in ill-equipped in the face of unexpectedly strong Somali opposition.

  During the operation, he, Jerry, and six other members of the team came under heavy fire and were forced to hole up on the second floor of a burned-out building waiting for reinforcements. Koa had been on lookout at a window with Jerry behind him. Koa had seen something out of the corner of his eye and ducked reflexively an instant before a sniper fired. The bullet marked for him hit the “damn cop.” Jerry died less than fifteen minutes later. Koa knew that he, not Jerry, should have been going home in a body bag.

  Jerry’s death hit Koa like an epiphany. He owed Jerry. He owed Anthony Hazzard. Getting killed in the Special Forces wouldn’t pay those debts, but there was a way to honor Jerry’s dream and atone for his own recklessness. He returned to Hawai‘i, and as Jerry had intended, became a cop. He recognized a certain irony in his decision—killer becomes policeman—but maybe having disguised his own crime, he’d be one step ahead of the next killer. A commitment to the police became his penance for Jerry’s death and atonement for his own sins. His commitment gave his life a sense of balance and purpose he’d lost in killing Hazzard. At the same time, his secret made him intensely suspicious of others.

  Forcing thoughts of his past away, Koa called Sergeant Basa on his cell. Basa was Koa’s go-to man. Although he lacked Koa’s military background, the bearlike police sergeant had worked his way through a half dozen jobs in the department. He’d started off walking a beat in Hilo, then he’d worked out of a patrol car, served as a dispatcher, and graduated to shift supervisor. He now supported the detective bureau.

  Basa, like Koa, had gotten ahead through hard work and personal sacrifice—the old-fashioned way. That reinforced the bond between them. They’d worked dozens of cases together. Basa was tough, attuned to happenings on the street, and had a keen sense for what had to get done at a crime scene. Koa hoped one day he’d decide to become a detective. Professional buddies, they were fierce competitors when it came to keihei wa‘a, outrigger canoe racing.

  The sergeant, expecting Koa’s call, answered on the first ring. “Koa?”

  “I’m listening. Tell me about the 701.”

  “We just had a call from the rangers at HVNP.”

  Koa felt a shiver run down his spine. After three serious, but failed, relationships, he’d finally met the one. Nālani had been a technician at the Alice Observatories when they’d first met, but had long dreamed of becoming a ranger at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park. She had previously served as a park ranger and passed all the exams but had to wait for an opening. Then, several months ago, a spot at HVNP had finally opened, and she’d been sworn in as a park ranger. They’d celebrated with a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne.

  Koa had been smitt
en from the first time he’d seen her smile, but could hardly believe such a babe could fall for a forty-three-year-old, hard-boiled cop. An image of her smooth, round Hawaiian face, bright black eyes, and flowing black hair popped into his mind. He’d been surprised when she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. Once they began dating, neither his job nor the eight-year gap in their ages had seemed important. Still, Koa often wondered if she’d stay with him if she knew he killed a man and gotten away with it. The dirty truth in his own past made him suspicious that others also harbored vile secrets, and Nālani was no exception. He’d checked out her background.

  She was an island girl. Like too many Hawaiian children, she’d come from an illicit affair. An older Hawaiian man had impregnated her teenage mother. Nālani had barely known her father before he disappeared into prison when she was four. Five years later, after giving birth to her second illegitimate daughter, Nālani’s mother overdosed on meth. Even before her mother’s death, Nālani had been raised mostly by her grandmother—her tūtū—in the tiny town of Hōlualoa, south of Kona.

  She’d been a lucky orphan. Her tūtū, who’d nurtured a dozen grandchildren and other relatives, had been quick to spot the spark that set Nālani apart and demanded excellence in everything she did from schoolwork to sports. She’d escaped the poverty that trapped so many Hawaiian children, including her half sister, and won scholarships, opening the door to a first-class education in college and graduate school in California. She’d become a biologist, worked for a pharmaceutical company, and been a park ranger before returning to Hawai‘i. Like many other natives, the islands were in her blood and drew her home.

  After they’d dated for three months, she’d moved into Koa’s cottage near Volcano. She’d changed his life. They hiked for miles through the forests and craters of the national park, where she taught him to recognize Hawai‘i’s unique bird and plant life. She’d studied kapa—bark cloth making—and showed him the many plants, like ‘akala, kōlae, and milo, used to create the dyes that made Hawaiian bark cloth special. He invited her to join him in teaching young teens in the art of keihei wa‘a, outrigger canoe racing. She’d had a natural way with the kids and soon attracted several young women to their Saturday afternoon canoeing classes. Koa smiled as he remembered the first time they’d made love—after dinner around a fire under a star-speckled sky high up the slopes of Mauna Loa, they retired to their tent for a night of unrestrained bliss.