by Debra Bokur
Hara looked at him expectantly. “I don’t follow, sir.”
“Mr. Hausuka is one of Maui’s more successful small-time crooks. You haven’t been here long enough, I suppose, but he’s a familiar face.”
Walter crossed to his own desk and sat down. He turned his computer screen slightly to avoid a shaft of sunlight coming through the office window and typed Polunu’s name into his file search. A few seconds later the printer hummed, indicating that it was ready to deliver the pages that Walter had selected for printing. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the printer.
“Have a look.”
Hara reached toward the printer and retrieved the pages. He gave a low whistle as he read the long list of minor offenses that Polunu had racked up over the years. “Looks like his career—if you can call it that—started when he was in grade school.”
“Indeed it did,” agreed Walter.
Hara shook his head. “Seems like after you’ve been caught shoplifting for the tenth time, you’d figure out it’s a bad idea.”
Walter shrugged. “Or it’s become such ingrained behavior, such a familiar way of life, that it’s the default option. Why buy a candy bar if you can slip one in your pocket when no one’s looking?”
“Except someone was looking.”
Walter laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. For every time some shop owner’s called us in because Polunu Hausuka’s sweet tooth got the better of him, there are probably a hundred times that he walked away without anyone ever knowing.”
“Interesting, I suppose, that he never made the jump to anything bigger.”
“Well, it’s not as though Maui has an organized candy crime syndicate to speak of.”
“Drugs.”
Walter nodded. “True. Plenty of that.”
He looked out the window. On the other side of the partially opened louvered glass, a group of parrotbills had gathered in the thick vegetation. He could hear their song and thought briefly of how beauty was so often confined to the surface of things. The birds’ songs belied the scratchings and battles, the hunting and small deaths that made up so much of their existence, just as the island’s lovely face hid its share of darkness and despair.
He turned abruptly back to Hara.
“This guy is kind of a master pickpocket. Our very own Hawaiian Fagin, if you will. Specializes in the tourist trade. Right now, he’s working at one of the resorts. We get ongoing complaints of disappearing wallets and purses after every luau performance there. Not coincidentally, our hero has a role as a warrior in the show. Never been able to catch him in the act, but I’d be willing to bet my breakfast that he’s behind it all.”
Hara looked alarmed. “If we know what he’s up to, shouldn’t we station someone there to catch him? Maybe plant someone on the hotel serving staff or something?”
“Hardly worth the effort.”
Hara looked unconvinced. “Well, shouldn’t we at least bring him in and scare him a bit? Tell him we know what he’s up to? And what about this Fagin? Is he Hausuka’s mentor or some kind of fence?”
Walter stifled a groan. “His mentor? Yeah, I guess you could say that’s exactly what he is.” He eyed the younger man with a degree of curiosity. “Where did you go to school, anyway?”
Hara seemed surprised at the question. “Honolulu.”
“They have a library there?”
“Of course they do.” He paused. “Sir.”
“You ever go there?”
“The library? Sure. Sometimes.”
“Glad to hear it, Hara. Glad to hear it. I’m going to go out and get some lunch. Find out where Polunu is holed up these days, and I’ll pay him a visit later on.”
He left, letting the door slam shut behind him. He passed the tree where the parrotbills were still engaged in happy song, and turned toward the parking lot, wondering as he walked how any kid could get out of high school without at least a passing knowledge of Charles Dickens or Oliver Twist. Then he thought of his own kids, whose literary interests seemed increasingly limited to shortening words and phrases to text to their friends. He didn’t like what was happening to so much of the world, but realized he had very little control over any of it. What he could do was what he did best—find out who was committing crimes on his beloved island, and make sure they were held responsible for their actions.
CHAPTER 16
The crackling in the underbrush turned suddenly to silence. There was a strange whiffling sound, followed by a snort, and the bushes erupted into a panorama of thrashing movement. Close by, Hilo stood poised, frozen like a statue, one front leg bent and saliva dripping from his muzzle.
Pig in the brush.
With a single, fluid movement, the dog launched his enormous body into the air and landed on the far side of a ring of palm scrub. The pig squealed, fleeing, bent on escape. Hilo thundered across the earth, his thoughts of food, sleeping, being scratched behind the ears, and riding in the Jeep coalescing into one obsessive goal: catch the pig.
The chase was good—far more so for Hilo than for the pig. An interloper had been discovered, pursued, and punished for trespassing. When Hilo emerged from the underbrush, he was sweating and his muzzle was covered in blood, but he was wagging his tail in absolute contentment.
On the way to her car, Kali saw him trotting toward the porch and shook her head. Damn dog. The feral pigs that populated this part of the island had become a fixation with him, and he’d been known to careen across the road in front of traffic while in hot pursuit. Last winter the sight of his huge gray body hurtling in front of their rented convertible had caused two astonished tourists to run off the road and slide down an embankment, narrowly avoiding having the remainder of their tropical vacation take place in a Maui hospital. Kali had not only arranged for a tow truck but had also bought the tourists dinner to make up for the event. Who would have guessed, she wondered—and not for the first time—that the scent of a wild pig could be such a powerful aphrodisiac?
She climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and removed an old hand towel from beneath the front seat, ready to wipe Hilo clean. The Jeep was an old Willys model left over from the post-Vietnam shipments of used vehicles dumped off in Honolulu. Makena’s description of it wasn’t completely unfair. There was nothing wrong with the engine, but the transmission was on its last legs. Despite a seemingly endless round of maintenance and repairs, it wouldn’t stay in gear unless she held it there, making hard turns a challenge.
Hilo, oblivious to mechanical issues, jumped into the passenger seat, bits of blood-flecked saliva still visible on his lips. Kali cleaned him to the best of her ability with the towel, then studied the printed list she’d brought with her. It showed the names and addresses of Maui residents who’d reported a loss of one or more solar panels. Whoever the thief was, Kali gave him or her credit for being industrious. Rarely had a neighborhood or property been targeted more than once, and the thefts were spread all over the island.
Many of the residences were winter or vacation homes occupied for only short amounts of time each year, making the exact time of a theft difficult to pinpoint. The fact that the thefts had occurred across different districts also meant that they were being reported to different police in different jurisdictions. And, as she’d come to learn, what happened in one official backyard may or may not ever make it into any shared pool of island knowledge.
She’d spent the morning and the entire previous day reinterviewing the off-island theft victims by phone and the local theft victims in person. She’d just left the last person on the list. No one had seen anything, and no one had noticed their panels missing until a flux in power output had finally prompted them to call one of the various maintenance companies responsible for servicing their systems. Her gentle inquiries as to any strange events or unusual sightings coinciding with the disappearance of panels had been met with blank looks and confusion. No one besides Mr. Uru and Birta had seen a faceless entity darting about in the darkness.
It was now 3:0
0 p.m., and she was completely frustrated. She folded the printed list and placed it in her day bag, then sat for a moment, staring out of the windshield. She felt tired and in no mood for the long drive ahead. While it was growing late in the afternoon, the Hana Highway—though less crowded—was still an arduous undertaking. A few miles along the road, she decided to make a detour into the village of Paia for a late lunch. She swung the Jeep onto Baldwin Avenue, then parked in front of the Octopus Café.
As a child, she’d lived in this neighborhood. Her mother’s cottage had been a few blocks away on one of the winding side streets leading off of Baldwin, but in those days, the quirky, brightly painted café, with its image of a grinning orange octopus wrapped around an exterior wall, hadn’t been here. She dimly remembered an empty lot with a makeshift basketball hoop hanging dejectedly from a palm tree. The building that now housed the café had been built years later and had been at various times a laundry, a gift shop, and a beach sports shack where surfboards and snorkeling gear could be rented by the day.
With Hilo at her side, Kali went in and found a table. She liked to sit with her back to the wall, where she could watch people without them necessarily realizing they were being watched. It was a habit she’d developed long ago, one that had grown out of all the times she’d dined alone in O‘ahu. She told herself the habit of memorizing useless details about strangers she most likely would never see again kept her skills of observation both sharp and dependable. Someone else might think she was simply bored or lonely; in truth, she was simply curious.
“Howzit, Kali? Haven’t seen you down this way in weeks.”
The man who’d spoken was Simon Carver, proprietor, dishwasher, and backup waiter at the Octopus. It was a popular stop for tourists making the long drive to Hana, and Carver was known for the sumptuous take-out picnic lunches he always had at the ready. Kali liked the food and the atmosphere and usually enjoyed a conversation with Carver, who paid attention to what was going on in the area, and who was often a good source of local information. While Carver was fully aware of Kali’s status as both a detective and an authentic kahu, to him she was just an interesting local who happened to like fresh fish sandwiches and the occasional scoop of pistachio ice cream.
The Octopus hadn’t yet begun to fill with the evening dinner crowd, and Carver grabbed two chilled bottles of soda, then pulled up a chair next to Kali.
“Hot day,” he said.
Kali nodded in agreement, taking one of the bottles and clinking it against Carver’s. “Okole maluna!” she said, offering the island version of “Cheers.”
“Anything interesting going on in the deep, dark underworld?” Carver asked, grinning. “Better yet, any more tourists up in Hana reporting sea monsters near the beach?”
Kali smiled, relaxing against the high wooden back of her chair. “Not this week.”
“Too bad. It’s good for business.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “Something you’re not telling me?”
Carver laughed. “You’d be the first to know. Right after I sign a contract with HBO or the New York Times for an exclusive.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that.” Kali took a long drink from her bottle, then set it carefully on the table. “You heard any talk around here about anybody starting up a solar supply business out of their garage?”
Carver considered for a moment. “Can’t say I have.” Then his face lit up, as if he had suddenly remembered something. “I did hear about the old woman over in Kihei getting beat up and her solar panels being stolen, though. Some kind of connection?”
“Maybe. There have been reports all over the island of panels going missing.”
Carver watched as a couple entered the restaurant. A waitress came out of the kitchen, smiling, and showed them to a table. He turned back to Kali.
“You think someone’s taking up a collection or just keeping them for themselves? They’re pretty expensive.”
“No idea. Seems like too many have been taken just to supply power for one home.”
“Well,” said Carver, “maybe there’s a do-gooder collecting them for his whole family. Or some kolohe just making trouble.”
“Might be.” She hesitated. “There’s also been some talk of a ghost.”
Simon looked at her in surprise. “A nightwalker?”
“No, something moving around in the dark that doesn’t have a face.”
Carver was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “I got nothing. But I’ll keep my ears open.”
Kali finished her soda, and rose, ready to leave. Hilo stretched and sat beside her, waiting. “Don’t suppose you got a mahimahi sandwich back there I could take with me?”
“You bet.” Carver slipped through the beaded curtain blocking off the kitchen and returned minutes later with a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of cream soda.
“Mahalo, Simon.” Kali took the food and slipped a few bills onto the counter. “You hear anything interesting, give me a call, okay?”
“Sure.”
Kali stepped out of the egress, then took a deep breath of the warm, salt-tinged air. Hilo followed, sniffing at the bag. They were about to walk away when Carver appeared again, then held out a burger to Hilo.
“This solar thing . . . ,” he said as Hilo swallowed the food. “Isn’t there some old Hawaiian legend about the sun and the demigod Mui? Wonder what the elders would think of how long it’s taking us to get behind the concept of renewable energy.”
Kali nodded slowly, an idea, half formed, darting through her thoughts. “Mui trapped the sun with his ropes and pulled it out of the sky, then made it do exactly what he wanted it to do. You’re right.”
Carver nodded, and Kali grinned at him.
“You know, you’re pretty smart. For an old guy, anyway.”
Kali looked at her phone, checking the time. She’d promised to meet Walter at the Wailea Palm Harbor Resort while he talked to his candy thief. She headed down the street toward her car, with her sandwich and soda, Hilo close beside her. Carver’s laughter followed them both into the light.
CHAPTER 17
The slow drive back to Hana gave Kali plenty of time to think. Prompted by Carver’s remark, her mind wandered to the legend of Mui and how he had snared the sun. It was one of the Hawaiian origin tales taught to her by her grandmother. The story chronicled the exploits of the clever demigod Mui, who pulled the islands up out of the sea, lassoed the sun, and wrested the secret of making fire from a selfish brood of mud hens that were intent on hoarding the knowledge for themselves.
The colorful and often violent creation myths had been a constant source of frustration to the missionaries who set up local schools in the islands in their quest to convert the native population to their beliefs. Most of the Hawaiian children had grown up with the stories as part of their lives: the tales explained the order of the universe in a way that made sense to them. As far as Kali was concerned, they were no more fantastic than tales of turning water into wine or parting seas. She’d never understood the issues that arose between people when it came to religion, or why adherents of every denomination had to insist that only they could truly explain the riddles of the universe. Personally, she preferred a little mystery.
Like most creation legends, the Hawaiian stories were riddled with acts of cruelty and ferocity. While she recognized this, they were still part of who she was, and a powerful source of connection between her and all the other life and environmental forces that made up the planet.
In the Hawaiian stories, Mui wasn’t always a positive figure. He shared many characteristics with the Native American figure of the Trickster Coyote, who was engaged in constant acts of mischief. At least in the legend that told of how he’d captured the sun, Mui began with good intentions, based on deep familial concern for his mother’s well-being. Each day he watched as the sun rose and fell within the space of mere minutes, leaving his poor mother unable to finish her daily tasks before darkness washed across the landscape.
; Intent on finding a way to provide her with more daylight, he made his way to Mount Iao, then struggled up the steep ridges and climbed to the top of the sleeping volcano. From here, he could see the peaks of Mount Haleakal, recognized by the Hawaiians as the House of the Sun. He pondered the sun’s exhausting schedule and became convinced that even a force that powerful must require some degree of rest. He considered the possibilities and formed a theory that this must be the very spot where the sun found a few moments of respite between its rapid excursions to and from the heavens.
After descending Iao, Mui lay down, resting in the fragrant fields near the volcano. For days, he paid careful attention to the arrival and departure of the sun, carefully observing the route the blazing golden orb followed in its continuous path around the island world. As he rested, Maui planned and plotted, determined to find a way to capture the fiery and uncooperative star.
Carefully, he traversed the dense, pathless countryside and arrived at the foot of Mount Haleakal. He ascended to one of its peaks, then studied the landscape of the quiet crater, which stretched nearly twenty miles across. He walked to the edge and looked into the depths, some twenty-five hundred feet below. Within the crater, two gaps could be seen from which molten lava had spewed during the volcano’s last eruption.
On the eastern side was the deep gap of Koolau. This, Mui told himself, was the place where he would hold the sun prisoner. But first, he must capture it and subdue it, and then he would release it only after he’d taught it not to run so quickly through the sky.
Mui returned home and told his mother of his plan. She gave him a length of powerful woven rope, from which he fashioned a strong lasso. He returned to the crater at the top of Haleakal’s brow. As the sun slowly came into view, he cast his rope over and over and caught each of the sun’s rays in turn, then bound them to the trunk of a strong wiliwili tree. The sun resisted, fighting vigorously with Mui, but was unable to break free from the demigod’s lasso.
