The Fire Thief

by Debra Bokur

  “We might get some prints,” Walter told Birta and Elvar. “But I doubt it. The whole job looks pretty professional.” He grinned broadly and patted Kali on the shoulder. “But here’s the good news. Kali’s officially on neighborhood watch for you. Meanwhile, if you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  Birta made no comment. She simply turned and trudged toward the house, the sunlight glinting on the edge of the muffin plate, which she still held in her hand.

  The others watched her go. Elvar turned to Walter.

  “Thanks for coming over and having a look. Birta gets so excited about everything.”

  Walter smiled. “No problem. It sucks to come home and find out you’ve been robbed.” He turned and looked across the lawn toward Elvar’s workshop. The red glow of the hot forge could clearly be seen. “I saw something about you on the news, didn’t I? About your knives? I think the reporter said you’d made some swords for a movie that’s going to be filmed on Kaua‘i.”

  Kali looked at Elvar in surprise. “Really? Birta never said anything.”

  Elvar shrugged modestly. “Yes, I was asked by the set designer to make a replica sword and a battle hammer. I’ve made a few before for films, but they were small budget movies shot back in Iceland. I don’t think anyone ever saw them.”

  Walter looked impressed. He winked at Kali. “Sounds like a pretty cool job. You must be excited.”

  Elvar nodded. “Honored. They’ve given me some direction as to the size and length of the blade, but the design and inscriptions are up to me, provided they conform to the time period of the film. It should be a fun project.” He gestured toward the workshop. “I’ve already made a few models to run by the film people before I start on the full-scale pieces.”

  Walter glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, good luck with it.” He turned toward the police car. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up. Kali, see you at the station.”

  As Walter drove away, Kali stood awkwardly in the yard. There was a slight breeze, and her hair lifted across her cheek. She pushed a strand away, trying to think of something clever to say, but Elvar had already turned back in the direction of his shop.

  “Back to work, I guess,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Kali smiled briefly. She stepped into the shadows of the trees where the path between the houses twisted away, whistling for Hilo. Elvar, stoking the fire in his forge, didn’t seem to notice.

  CHAPTER 8

  Kali and Walter tried to make themselves comfortable on the hard, narrow bench that served as a visitors’ seat in the austere exterior office of the medical examiner, placed there deliberately by Stitches to discourage lingering. It wasn’t easy, especially for Walter, whose bulk required considerably more space than that offered by the bench.

  Even Kali was ill at ease. There was a faint chemical smell clinging to the air, and she was hyperaware that just a short corridor away, the boy’s body lay stretched out on a cold autopsy table.

  “You checked in with Kekipi’s mother this morning?” she asked, overcome by the image.

  Walter looked off into the distance. “When I got there, she was in his room, gathering his belongings.”

  “Getting ready to give them away, of course,” said Kali. “The traditional way. Holding on to the belongings of the deceased keeps their spirit trapped.”

  “Yeah. Said she was going to donate them.” He faltered. “She’s anxious to get him home.”

  Of course she would be, thought Kali. There were important rituals to perform. The body needed to be washed with salt water before burial; the family’s mourning would not be complete until he had been sanctified and his spirit freed to begin its journey to lani, into the Hawaiian heaven.

  They sat, waiting. Somewhere in one of the offices leading from the reception area, a clock ticked, measuring out the morning.

  “I wonder,” she said to Walter, “if the boy knows where he is now. Maybe he thinks he’s dreaming.”

  His face filled with sadness.

  She knew he was likely thinking of his own kids. She didn’t need to have any of her own to wonder how anyone could survive such a loss—to marvel at how those who were faced with the task of burying their children were able to carry on.

  “There were boxes stacked on the floor, all of them already labeled—books, posters, music. There was part of a sweatshirt poking out of one of them. She pulled it out to show me. It was new, one of those logo shirts from the University of Hawaii. She said the guy from the university who came out to tell him he’d won the scholarship had brought it as a gift.”

  Kali waited.

  “She folded it up. Real careful, like. And then I told her what we’d found, that maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

  Kali closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the mother’s distress.

  “But she had nothing to add to what we already know?” she asked.

  “Just what I told you. He’d been frequenting the same beach access point for as long as he’d been able to carry his own board, and had surfed with pretty much the same group of friends for years.”

  Kali considered this.

  “Not much from his friends, either,” said Kali. “No quarrels or fallings-out with anybody, no change in his behavior, no indication of drug or alcohol use, no pregnant girlfriends. Everything we hear just reinforces the picture of a well-liked, intelligent, hardworking kid who loved to spend his free time riding waves.”

  Yet two days had passed since the body had washed ashore, and the trail—such as it was—wasn’t only cold but invisible, too. No one had seen anything, heard anything, or offered anything in the way of even the most tenuous lead. And there was no sign of a murder weapon.

  “You know,” Walter said, “we have to consider this could be some kind of freak accident. Maybe he did just crash into the lava. Maybe the tooth was caught up in the stone, and there was some perfect storm of events that led to this.”

  Kali looked at him sideways, knowing he didn’t believe a single word of his own speech. “Sure, Walter.”

  He looked affronted. “You saying crazy things never happen?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying—”

  The hallway door near the reception area opened, and Stitches stepped out, cutting short the conversation.

  “You’re both here. Good.” She turned without another word and walked back into the her office. Kali and Walter exchanged glances, then got up and followed her. She was already seated behind her desk by the time they entered. She pointed to two chairs drawn up across from her, indicating that they should sit.

  Stitches regarded them over the rim of her narrow, silver-framed glasses. Only a few traces of gray could be detected in her wavy, thick brown hair. The hair framed a pleasantly proportioned face, and her intelligent deep blue eyes were a rare shade, nearly purple in the right light.

  She leaned across her desk, pushing a small glass vial toward them.

  “Here you are,” she said as if the vial was completely self-explanatory.

  Kali picked it up, turned it slowly in her fingers, then looked up questioningly. “What’s this?”

  “A glass vial,” Stitches said, her voice weary.

  Kali hid her own annoyance. “Yes, I got that part. What’s this little chip of a thing inside it?”

  “Wood. To be more precise, a splinter of wood that came from something quite old.”

  Kali held the vial up to the light, and studied it more carefully. “Where’d you find it?”

  “His head, in the main wound. There were abrasions, of course, from the lava, but those followed death. This splinter was buried a bit deeper than a surface examination revealed, and I’ve only just recovered it.”

  Walter raised an eyebrow. “If he didn’t drown and was carried to the water after he was killed, is it possible it’s something unrelated, like a splinter that worked its way out of an older wound?”

  Stitches shook her head. “Not even remotely possible. If this had been ther
e for a while, the area leading to it would have completely healed over, and there would still be scar tissue—perhaps just a miniscule amount—around it, indicating where the injury had been. If it had been more recent, then the area immediately surrounding it would have shown signs of trauma, such as pus and irritation where the body was rejecting the presence of a foreign object. No, this splinter was lodged at the same time the tooth found its way into the tissue.”

  Walter took the vial from Kali and stared at the small, narrow shard inside.

  “The lab ran a few tests to determine the type of wood,” said Stitches. “It’s definitely tropical, but we’re waiting on an exact species match.” She watched them carefully as she answered. “More important it’s quite old. At least a hundred years old, probably more. So, the object with which he was struck was an old, heavy piece of wood. I still don’t understand the shark’s tooth, but I guess that’s your department.”

  She waited.

  Walter shifted uncomfortably.

  “How about one of those old fishing plaques? You know, with the fish mounted on them.” He looked at the two women, both of whom were regarding him skeptically. “Someone could have used an old piece of wood they had lying around to mount a prize, like a shark.”

  Kali leaned back against her chair, shaking her head. Before she could say anything, Stitches spoke.

  “The tooth is from an adult shark. It seems highly unlikely that a fully grown and extremely heavy shark, mounted, as you suggest, on a large piece of wood, and perhaps hanging randomly on a tree close to the beach as decoration, would be the first thing a killer would reach for to smack a young man over the back of the head.”

  Walter flushed. He raised his empty hands, palms up, admitting defeat. “Some adult sharks aren’t that big,” he answered, his voice defensive.

  “No . . . ,” said Kali slowly. “But there may have been something ritualistic about this death. At least we should consider the possibility. The tooth may have come later, after he’d already been struck down with a wooden object. Placed as a talisman. Or as a signature.”

  “Well,” said Stitches, turning to Kali, “I suppose you’re the person to figure that out.”

  Kali’s face showed no expression. “I guess it’s possible. Though nothing comes to mind, really, as far as a legend or myth.”

  Stitches stood up, having offered both her latest findings and her opinion. “Well, we’ve all dealt with killers before. Narcissists at the core. Their reasons and behavior are rarely rational in nature. Though they are quite frequently selfish.”

  Walter stood, as well, clearly grateful that the meeting was drawing to a close.

  “That’s true,” he said in agreement. “The real rationalization comes later, while they’re trying to come up with an acceptable excuse for their actions.”

  “There’s never an acceptable excuse for cold-blooded murder,” Stitches said, her voice firm.

  Kali gave a grim smile. “Couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  Walter and Stitches looked away, knowing she was thinking of someone else. Kali rose, as well. Walter followed her to the office door and out into the reception area. They left the building, letting the doors close behind them, shutting out the scent of chemicals and sadness.

  CHAPTER 9

  Kali drove to the station later that morning, overwhelmed by a combined sense of urgency and frustration. The attack victim had still not regained consciousness, and the doctor in charge of her care had already pointed out several times that the combination of the victim’s advanced age and the severity of the injuries left no guarantee that she would recover to a point that made questioning her a possibility.

  Yet someone certainly knew what had happened—just as someone had also been there with Kekipi Smith and had likely watched as the last breath left his lungs and dissipated in the warm island air. Most likely, that person was the very one who had taken his mana—the spark of his life fire—from him.

  She parked the Jeep and went inside. Walter was seated at his desk, and looked up as she pulled a chair close and sat down, her legs crossed.

  “I don’t know where to turn on this,” she said, weariness evident in her tone. “It seems so random. All we’ve got is a splinter of old wood and an island full of trees.”

  “Maybe we just can’t see the forest yet,” offered Walter, half serious. He held up a single sheet of paper. “Meanwhile, here’s something to keep you occupied. I checked with the main station in Wailuku to see if there have been any updates since last night regarding panel thefts or anything weird on other parts of the island. There’s been nothing new for a week, except for the nighttime attack and what your neighbor reported.”

  Kali glanced around the small, cluttered satellite police office. There was still an old fax machine in one corner. Kali recalled the former humming of the printer as pages made their way through before falling unceremoniously to the floor, the machine’s basket having long ago been removed to serve the purpose of dish rack for the multitude of coffee cups continuously cycling across the counter near the small sink.

  She took the sheet of paper from Walter and studied it. On it were the most up-to-date addresses and phone numbers for everyone reporting missing panels, and the contact information and Web sites for four companies supplying solar panels and related equipment to homeowners throughout Hawaii. For a moment she was surprised there were so few suppliers—this was followed almost immediately by a sense of profound relief that she wouldn’t have to chase down fifty separate businesses spread across the entire chain of islands.

  Only one of the supplier addresses was on Maui. Two of the businesses were located on O‘ahu, near Honolulu, and the fourth was on the Big Island, up the coast from Kona, in the quiet town of Waimea. Kali frowned, calculating. The off-Maui addresses would have to be dealt with later. The Big Island meant a flight or crossing the dividing water in the Gingerfish. O‘ahu would also require a flight and negotiating heavy traffic and, most likely, an overnight stay.

  “All the theft victims have been interviewed through the main station in Wailuku,” said Walter. “However, the majority of owners are people living in other states who keep vacation homes here. They may not even visit every year.”

  “How many total missing panels?”

  “So far, one hundred ten, all taken from Maui residences. Again, some are multiples from big houses that are rarely occupied, and more than half were removed from arrays that were mounted next to the structure, rather than only on the roof. One property had ten panels taken from an array of thirty panels. Most, like your neighbor, didn’t notice right away.”

  “So conceivably, there could be more. Maybe even a significant number, but they haven’t been reported yet?”

  “Exactly.”

  “First theft?”

  “Initial report was a month ago.”

  “Okay. I’m on it.” She paused. “Maybe,” she added, the frustration evident in her voice, “if I’m distracted, it will shake some thoughts loose about the murder.”

  She phoned the Maui business and made an appointment to see the owner later that afternoon, explaining that she hoped to get some background information on the solar energy business. The hour-long drive led to the flat cement exterior of the Maui Solar Company, which was striking in its anonymity. The reception area was hardly an improvement, though Kali noticed that someone had made an attempt to soften the industrial setting with a stab at decor in the form of a potted bird-of-paradise plant and an outdated framed poster of an island music festival.

  A young woman sat at a desk that was empty except for a computer and a telephone. Behind her was the entrance to the main area, what Kali assumed to be a warehouse where goods were stored until sold and transported elsewhere on the island.

  The woman looked up as the door swung shut behind Kali, and smiled in greeting. “Aloha. May I help you?”

  Kali smiled in return, looking around. “Aloha. I’m Kali Mhoe. I called earlier.”

 
“Oh, right. You’re the policewoman who wants to speak to Mr. Uru.”

  “That’s right. It’s Detective Mhoe. You are?”

  “Vanessa. I’m Mr. Uru’s assistant. I deal with the orders and purchase details.”

  “Does Mr. Uru have time right now?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” she answered, looking at Kali with open curiosity. “He’s expecting you, but just let me tell him you’re here, okay?”

  Kali waited as the woman walked without haste through the wide doors leading to the warehouse. She returned soon with a middle-aged Japanese man behind her. He extended his hand in greeting, smiling in an open, friendly way.

  “Detective Mhoe. I’m Harold Uru. I hope I can be of some help.” He turned, gesturing for Kali to follow him. “Would you like me to show you around, and you can ask questions while I explain what we do here?”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  Vanessa hovered near the entrance. “Can I be of any help?”

  “No. I’ll walk her around,” said Uru. “If she has any questions about the sales process, she can stop by your desk before she leaves.”

  Kali watched as the woman walked away without saying anything further. She was wearing heels, and her shoes made a businesslike clicking sound against the floor. It was very un-Hawaiian to dress so formally during the day, and Uru seemed to sense Kali’s unspoken thought.

  “She’s new to the islands. San Francisco business school graduate. I don’t think she likes sitting inside at a desk all day.”

  “I get that,” said Kali, feeling a rush of mixed embarrassment at her unspoken rash judgment, mixed with sympathy for anyone who was trapped indoors in Hawaii.

  Together, she and Uru walked among the rows of solar panels. They were in two general sizes, the smaller measuring two by three feet, the larger three by five.

  Uru paused beside a row of shelves that contained batteries.

  “Is your home by any chance powered by solar energy?” he asked Kali.

  “Yes.” Kali shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable at her lack of knowledge about the technical aspects of the system installed on her house. “But I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really pay much attention to how the whole thing works.”