Death of a Messenger Page 7

  “You would be of service, like the old puhi?”

  “I would.”

  “What service?”

  “I work on the docks, around delivery trucks. I know masters, mates, deckhands, truckers, buyers. I see things, I hear things … things that are no good for the island …”

  “You would tell me these things?”

  “When it would help the fishpond.”

  “Help the fishpond?”

  “When it would be good for the island … good for the few who have not been poisoned by the Westerners.”

  Koa understood the value of such an informant. “I can trust you to do this?”

  “My son, my first and only son, will remain here in this pond … on this island … and you will have no further trouble from him. On that you have my word.”

  “Wait here.”

  Koa retrieved the badly shaken boy, then fourteen, from the lockup. When Koa guided him into the interrogation room, the fisherman’s son stood, eyes cast downward, unable to meet his father’s gaze. Koa left them together for over an hour. Hook’s arm embraced the boy’s shoulders when the two of them finally walked out of the police station.

  Three weeks later, the big man presented Koa with a magnificent sixty-pound ‘ahi, its rich red flesh still glistening from the sea. In the cavity of the fish, Koa found a note detailing the location and operation of an illegal drug lab in the Ka‘ū district. The police raided it two days later and arrested six people for the illegal manufacture and distribution of amphetamines.

  Hook Hao became a friend in the intervening years. His natural intelligence and ambition served him well—from fisherman to mate to trawler captain, from owner of one vessel to owner of two, then into leadership of the Suisan wholesale fish business. In the meantime, Reggie had grown up. While he had stayed out of the criminal courts, his father’s success had eluded him. He ran a semi-solvent charter fishing business. Except now Reggie was hospitalized in a coma.

  The sound of a bell broke Koa’s reverie. Hook gave the buyers only a few moments to formulate their bids. Then he lowered his steel gaff to the first ‘ahi to start the auction. “Lesgo, lesgo, lesgo.”

  “Three dolla,” came the first bid.

  “Lesgo, mo’better, mo’better fo’ da ‘ahi. Geevum, geevum, brah.” Hook’s quick voice packed the words into a blur.

  “Three-fifty.”

  “Three an’ sixty.”

  “Mo’better, brah, mo’better, mo’better, mo’better, brah.”

  “Three-seventy.”

  “Three-seventy … Three-seventy … an’den … an’den … lesgo, brah.”

  “Three-ninety.”

  “Three-ninety … three-ninety … no mo’better … three-ninety … pau.” A step forward and the hook touched the next ‘ahi, leaving the winning bidder to write the price and his mark on a scrap of paper to be patted onto the damp fish. Settling up would await the end of the auction. “Lesgo, brah … lesgo …”

  Sometime later, Koa climbed down to the quay. The last step was a long one, and he held his neck as he eased himself down. Boarding Hook’s boat, the Ka‘upu, the albatross, he slipped into the wheelhouse of the weatherworn fishing vessel. He crossed to the back of the small cabin to examine the photograph on the bulkhead over the chart table. It showed a young man whose innocent eyes peeked out from under a shaggy mop of hair. The black-and-white photo of Reggie Hao, taken within the past year, was the latest in a progression that had occupied the place of honor over the Ka‘upu’s chart table.

  Heavy footfalls on the deck—thuds, followed by the squish of rubber boots—announced Hook’s arrival. With a fluid motion Hook lowered himself into the captain’s chair behind the helm.

  “Good auction, Hook?”

  “Okay,” he said with a grimace, “but not like the old days.” The pidgin had disappeared from the big man’s vocabulary, as though he had switched personalities upon leaving the auction floor. “But you’re not here to talk fish.”

  “No. I came to talk about Reggie.” Koa paused. “He’s still in a coma?”

  The weariness in Hook’s eyes answered Koa’s question.

  “Mahalo for coming.”

  “Sorry that I couldn’t come sooner.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The doctors have told me very little. His vital signs are normal, but his brain is asleep. They can’t tell me how long. Maybe an hour, maybe a day … maybe forever.” Hook’s voice cracked.

  “Have you talked to a specialist?”

  “Yes, a neurologist from Honolulu. There’s nothing they can do, except wait.”

  “What was he doing on Kaho‘olawe?”

  Hook’s mouth twisted slightly. “He was in with a group committed to kanaka maoli,” he said, referring to the restoration of native sovereignty. “Kaho‘olawe was a sacred place for our ancestors. It was the gathering place of the kahuna … the center for their study of the stars and navigation. Reggie and his friends were trying to rescue mea makamae, treasures, from Kaho‘olawe.”

  Koa instantly saw the folly in such a mission. “But that’s crazy. Everybody knows that Kaho‘olawe was a Navy bombing range, littered with unexploded duds, just waiting to go off.”

  “The ho‘iho‘i i ke ea groups have always been a little reckless, you know that, Koa. You remember, they sent swimmers out to Kaho‘olawe while Navy planes were still dropping bombs. Yeah, they’re reckless.” The giant fisherman clenched his fists. “Too reckless. Damn, I wish he hadn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Hook … so sorry.” Koa paused to let the old fisherman get control of his emotions. “So who was in this group?”

  “Reggie never told me. I heard him refer to the ‘ohana huna, the secret family, but I never paid a lot of attention. I just kept telling him to stop going out there …”

  “He went more than once?”

  “Oh, yeah … maybe five times … or ten … I really don’t know …”

  “And they found … ancient treasures?”

  “Yeah. Kaho‘olawe was a place of many shrines, many carvings, many gods … you know that. It holds many mea makamae of old Hawai‘i, at least to the extent the Navy hasn’t bombed everything.” The big man’s voice took on an angry tone, and Koa understood. As a Hawaiian, he too respected his island heritage. The navy had wrecked Kaho‘olawe, and the haoles didn’t care.

  “Were they working with the Bishop Museum or one of its archaeologists?”

  The look in Hook’s eyes answered Koa’s question even before the fisherman spoke. “The ho‘iho‘i i ke ea don’t have much use for museums.”

  “So I suppose Reggie and his friends hid what they found … hid it away in caves somewhere here on the Big Island?” Koa knew he was treading on sensitive ground.

  “There could be a legal problem for Reggie, yes?”

  “Yes. Trespassing because Kaho‘olawe is still off-limits, but that’s a misdemeanor and prosecution isn’t too likely in any event. Theft of protected antiquities could be a bigger problem. That’s a state and federal felony. Have the Maui police said anything about charges?”

  “If the police know, they aren’t telling me.”

  “What have they told you?”

  “There were three of them—Reggie, Aikue ‘Ōpua …”

  “The sovereignty activist … the guy who’s always quoted in the papers about the restoration of native rights?”

  “That’s him, Aikue ‘Ōpua, and a Garvie somebody.”

  “What do Aikue and this Garvie guy say? The police must have talked to them.”

  “That’s the strange part. ‘Ōpua says they were trying to protect their native heritage … working to protect Hawaiian treasures from the haoles. They were digging when a dud blew. All three of them got knocked down, and Reggie didn’t get up. ‘Ōpua tried to revive him and then went for help.” A shadow crossed Hook’s face. “But Garvie refuses to talk to the police.”

  “You mean he’s invoked his Fifth Amendment rights?”

  “Yeah … and the pol
ice say he has some kind of a criminal record.” This news surprised Koa. Unless the crime was trespassing or something similar, it didn’t fit the usual activist, filled with virtue for the cause. “What kind of a criminal record?”

  “The police haven’t exactly been forthcoming.” Hook’s eyes flickered, and Koa realized that he would have to check out this Garvie character. “I’m worried. I’m worried that even if Reggie recovers, he could face some kind of criminal charges.”

  “That’s not impossible, but the courts always go easy on sovereignty types. Hell, I doubt they could get a jury to convict.”

  “It’s more than that. Can I say something in confidence?”

  They had come to this boundary before, and Koa gently reminded his friend, “Yes, Hook, I will do everything in my power to preserve your confidences. But you know I’m a cop … I’ve got certain obligations.”

  It was Hook’s turn to pause. Then he nodded. “Reggie’s charter business is failing. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy. I hope … I just hope he was out there protecting our heritage and not selling treasures to rescue his business. It scares me. It really scares me.”

  Koa stared out at the ocean, taking in the long, rolling swells without really seeing them. An unbidden thought leaped to his mind. Could there be a connection between Reggie’s Kaho‘olawe trips and the Pōhakuloa investigation? Was it mere coincidence that two separate incidents involving stolen artifacts surfaced in the same week? Koa suddenly had a bad feeling about Reggie’s trips to Kaho‘olawe.

  “Hook, if Reggie was selling things dug up from Kaho‘olawe, how would he do it? Anybody you know fence that sort of stuff?”

  Hook frowned as he pondered this new angle. “Sell archaeological treasures … I don’t know. There’s nobody on the island handling that kind of stuff … nobody I ever had a line on. Maybe Honolulu. There might be some low-down dealers in Honolulu, but most likely it would be mainland or foreign.”

  Koa could hear the desperation in Hook’s voice. Though Hook had the pulse of Hilo and a good many of the other ports around the islands, his reach didn’t extend too far beyond the docks. “You want me to look into Reggie’s situation, Hook?”

  “Could you do that?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call a friend on the Maui force. The Maui police owe me a couple of favors.”

  “You are hanohano.”

  Koa smiled. Being a cop, natives rarely paid him such a tribute. “There is no higher compliment.”

  The two men once again lapsed into silence, taking in the sounds of the sea and the harbor. Minutes passed before Hook broke the silence.

  “You been up at Pōhakuloa?”

  “Yeah,” Koa said. “Hear anything about the body?”

  “Nothing. Saw the piece in the paper. Even did a little trolling. There’s nothing about that saddle business on the docks. Not even a whisper. Who died up there, anyway? Anybody I’m supposed to know?”

  “That’s the problem, Hook. We don’t have an identification. Heard anything—anything at all—about somebody gone missing?”

  “None of the locals have disappeared … least that I know of. Must be an outsider from one of the other islands. Or the mainland. Maybe foreign. What does this dude look like? That might help.”

  They had reached the boundary again, and Koa stood firm. “Right now, we’re going with what was in the papers. We may have more later.”

  Hook looked hard at Koa. “You got a killing an’ you don’t know what the pigeon looks like?”

  Koa nodded.

  “And you haven’t got fingerprints either, have you?”

  Again, Koa nodded.

  “Some kind of professional hit?”

  “Could be. Look, Hook, just suppose … I’m not saying it’s so, I’m just supposing … that the victim up in the saddle was into something illegal …”

  “Like I told you last month, the pakalolo crop is gonna bust some kind of a record.”

  “It could be smuggling, but how ’bout kooks? Human sacrifice … ritual killing … that sort of stuff?”

  Hook drew back, his face mirroring the way Koa had felt back in the cave. “Ritual sacrifice? You gotta be kidding. There’s been nothing like that since that bunch of bikers raped and killed that girl three, maybe four, years ago.”

  “It’s no joke, my friend.”

  “Christ, this one’s real heavy, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s heavy, but I don’t want that word on the street, Hook. Wouldn’t help tourism, you know.”

  “You know me. I’m all ears and no mouth.”

  “Odd description for an auctioneer.” Both men laughed.

  So, Koa thought, as he returned to his Explorer, I struck out with the man who has ears to the ground everywhere. He pushed the remote locking gadget when he was still a distance away, popping open the driver’s door. He’d have to go back to the evidence. Maybe a dead man could tell them something, after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LATER THAT MORNING Koa drove to Hilo Memorial Hospital, running twenty minutes late for his eleven o’clock appointment with the county physician to witness the autopsy. He found Shizuo Hiro behind his desk in a tiny, cramped second-floor office. X-ray light boxes, several holding large panels of film, covered one swath of the wall behind Shizuo. The white room, with its white desk and white-frocked doctor, had an antiseptic smell that reminded Koa how thoroughly he disliked hospitals. Not to mention the doctors who hung out there.

  “Hello, Shizuo.” Koa put on his best public demeanor for the Japanese obstetrician.

  “You lose your watch?” snarled Shizuo. “You said you’d be here at eleven.”

  “I got held up.”

  “I hear you found a bunch of old Hawaiian junk out at Pōhakuloa.”

  Koa felt the color rise in his face and his jaw harden. “No, Shizuo. We found a royal grave and an underground workshop from the 1600s. It’s a significant discovery.”

  “The 1600s … that’s nothing. Japanese culture extends back to 30,000 BC.”

  Koa wanted to shove the arrogant Japanese doctor’s head inside one of his light boxes, but he restrained himself. “Is Dr. Cater here?”

  “Down the hall. But make it damn fast. I’ve got one in the labor room. Any time now.”

  “Good. You should stick to what you do …” Koa faltered. He couldn’t imagine the man did anything “best,” and left the sentence unfinished as he turned away.

  Two doors down the hall, Koa found a man in a white hospital coat with miniature medical corps insignia on one lapel and a tiny silver oak leaf on the other. Red-faced and heavyset with baggy jowls, the man plainly knew his way to the officers’ club bar. “Dr. Cater?”

  “That’s me.” He spoke with an Irish brogue thick as tar. “You must be Chief Detective Kāne?”

  “Koa … my friends call me Koa.” Koa offered a hand, which the Irishman shook vigorously. As pain radiated through his shoulder, Koa wished people would back off the power handshakes.

  “Sean McHaney from the Honolulu force sends his regards.”

  Sean had been on the Hilo force back when Koa had returned from overseas to be with his sick mother—the one rock-solid pillar in his life. A native healer of some local renown, she’d used all her connections to get Koa into the prestigious Kamehameha schools for children of Hawaiian descent and prodded him to perform. In the tug-of-war between his father’s failure and his mother’s hope, she’d won. It was a debt he could never repay.

  He’d never thought of leaving the Special Forces until his friend Jerry, who’d always wanted to be a policeman, had died in Koa’s arms and Sean had suggested he come home to join the Hilo police force. The need to be with his ailing mom and the necessity for someone to exert some measure of control over his seriously wayward, frequently incarcerated brother had sealed the deal. Sean’s career had later stalled, while Koa’s had kept charging ahead.

  “Sean McHaney … that old Irish cop got me started in police work. How do you know Sean?”


  “The Army’s teamed up with the Honolulu police many times, and Sean has a nose for the tough ones. We’d better go see your so-called coroner. He’s on OB call and doesn’t have much time.” The venomous tone in Dr. Cater’s voice took Koa aback, but the doctor hustled out the door and down the hall to Shizuo’s office before Koa had a chance to question the source of his hostility. But something, Koa sensed, was seriously wrong.

  “Ready to do the autopsy?” Koa asked as he and Cater reentered Shizuo’s office.

  “It’s already done,” Shizuo said with a gleeful little snarl.

  “What?” Koa demanded. Christ, this was an unwelcome surprise.

  “Yes, sir,” Shizuo chirped. “I’m seeing OB patients this morning, so I did the autopsy last night.”

  “Damn! You knew I wanted to witness it.” Koa could barely contain his anger.

  “Cops don’t add much to autopsies … they just get in the way,” Shizuo responded dismissively.

  Fuck, Koa thought to himself. When am I ever going to be rid of this arrogant asshole, this make-believe coroner? Shizuo was one of the ironies of Koa’s life. He’d avoided prosecution for his own crime because of an incompetent medical examiner, and now he was stuck working with an equally unskilled medical hack.

  His control reasserted itself. What was done, however wrong, was done. He’d simply have to make the best of it. “So what did you find?”

  “I’ll make this quick.” Shizuo picked up a red folder from his desk. “I’ve got some surprises.” The Japanese obstetrician held up a single finger and paused for effect. Koa grimaced at the clichéd gesture. He’d seen defense lawyers mimic that same pose—just before they tore Shizuo apart on cross-examination. “First, the visible wounds were not fatal. Any premortem damage to the facial structure and the hands was painful, but not fatal.”

  Shizuo raised a second finger. “Second, there was inadequate blood in situ. The degree of hemorrhage is not consistent with the tissue damage. That evidences postmortem trauma. It is my opinion”—Shizuo didn’t bother to acknowledge his military colleague—“that your victim was dead for at least two hours before the lacerations were inflicted.”