The Fire Thief

by Debra Bokur

  “Welcome to my home.”

  Kali nodded in return, then glanced toward the kapa cloths. “Those are exceptionally fine pieces of work,” she said.

  “Yes, early examples. The bark used was soaked and pounded repeatedly over a period of weeks to attain that level of pliability. Those particular pieces were most likely items of ritual clothing for a chieftain’s family, worn only for important occasions. No one today spends the proper amount of time in the cloth preparation.”

  Kali peered at the one closest to where she sat. The beautiful bark cloth had been painted with images of fish, each finely detailed.

  “I’m told you also have a collection of war clubs, which is actually why I’m here.”

  “Yes, I have several. It’s not a large collection, but each of the clubs is authentic. Would you care to see them?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s not,” said Kinard. “I keep them under glass in my workroom. Do you mind following me? I assure you it will be much faster than carrying them all out here.”

  “Of course,” said Kali. She walked behind Kinard as he made his way down a short hallway and into a large room overlooking the back garden. It was obviously used primarily as an office, but there was a long glass-covered case running along one of the walls. Kali walked over to it, then looked in with curiosity. The case, which was locked, was lined with a length of dark red velvet. On its surface, two daggers and four war clubs of varying shapes and sizes had been deliberately placed to show their carvings to the best advantage.

  Kinard took a key from a small drawer in his desk and unlocked the case. He reached in and extracted a hook-shaped club that had been fitted with a rim of shark’s teeth and handed it to Kali.

  “A fishhook club,” said Kali, studying it closely. “Koa wood, with teeth from a tiger shark.”

  Kinard smiled, pleased. “Exactly.” He looked at Kali appraisingly. “Are you native Hawaiian?” he asked, with no hint of embarrassment. “I’m assuming from your tattoos that you are.”

  “Yes,” said Kali, equally at ease. “My grandmother was an historian here in Maui. The tattoos are to make sure I never forget my lineage.”

  Kinard nodded in approval. Kali knew she needn’t explain that the tattoos had been received the traditional way, with a bone needle tapped with a rock, to make sure the needle pierced the skin deeply enough, while she bit down on a piece of wood.

  “Too much is being lost,” he said. “Thank goodness people have come to their senses, and the language is being reintroduced to schoolchildren. I used to despair that the culture would simply disappear.” He paused. “May I ask who your grandmother was?”

  “Pualani Pali,” Kali said.

  Kinard looked up, his eyebrows raised. “My goodness. I knew her, you know.” He walked over to a bookshelf on the opposite wall, extracted a hardcover book, its cover showing that it had been frequently used. He walked back over and handed it to Kali,who placed the club back into its empty slot in the display case.

  “Lore and Legend of the Hawaiian Archipelago, by Pualani Pali, Ph.D.,” she read. She looked up at Kinard and smiled.

  “Look just inside the cover,” he said, and Kali opened the book. Inside, there was an inscription, written in her grandmother’s familiar, graceful script: To my dear friend and colleague, whom Hawaii has embraced as one of her own.

  Kali touched the writing gently, then handed the book back to Kinard.

  “We met at the university during one of her many lectures there. She was a brilliant woman,” Kinard said, his voice clearly reflecting respect.

  “She was, indeed,” said Kali, suddenly overcome with a feeling of acute loss. She turned back to the case and bent over slightly as she looked closely at the other pieces, trying to regain her composure.

  “These all seem to be koa wood,” she noted.

  “They are. As I’m sure you know, it’s very long lasting and resilient. And quite hard. The teeth vary. Several of the clubs have teeth from more than one type of shark. One has boar’s teeth.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve sold any of your pieces or had anything stolen from you over the past few years?”

  Kinard looked surprised. “No, indeed. I’ve been gathering these pieces since my days at the university. I invest only in the authentic weapons, of course, and they’re surprisingly hard to come by. Plenty of cheap replicas floating around, but I’m not interested in those, not even the more well-made ones. Occasionally, I get a request from someone who’d like to see them.”

  “How often does that happen?”

  “Rarely. I think the last time was about a year ago. A young man making weapons was interested in seeing how they were constructed by early indigenous peoples.”

  Again, she felt the chill.

  “Do you remember who that was?”

  He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. He wasn’t Hawaiian—I do remember that—but if you ask me to describe him, I won’t be able to. I seem to remember that he had an accent, but I’m afraid I really don’t remember much about the visit other than the knife discussion.”

  She glanced again at the contents of the glass case, trying not to show she was bothered by what she’d just heard. Silently, she berated herself for allowing herself to be suspicious that it might be Elvar. The very idea was ridiculous in the extreme, and she pushed the thought away.

  “How did you find the pieces you’ve invested in?” she asked.

  “Several pieces were advertised, but the others belonged to families that were dispersing the belongings of someone who had recently passed on.” He peered at Kali, knowing that she understood the implication.

  Kali nodded. “Of course. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are still many traditional Hawaiians who believe that keeping the belongings of a family member around after the person has died can bind the spirit to a place,” she said. “Giving away personal items allows the spirit to move on unencumbered.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kinard. “Though, from a practical standpoint, valuable items are often sold, rather than given away. When I’ve been fortunate to hear of something of this nature becoming available for purchase, naturally, I follow up to see if there might be an item worth adding to my small collection.”

  Kali looked at one of the clubs, which was shaped like a broad paddle. “That’s a nice piece.”

  “Again, the teeth are from a tiger shark,” said Kinard. “What many people don’t realize is that the clubs weren’t necessarily used to hit or strike an opponent with force, but were often used with a slicing motion. The teeth would rip the skin and cause considerable damage. If the teeth were long enough, and the club was handled by an expert, the damage might extend to broken bones or pierced organs.”

  Kali moved toward the door. Kinard closed and locked the case, then replaced the key in his desk drawer.

  “If someone broke in here,” Kali said, “that case doesn’t offer much of a challenge. Especially not with a glass top and the key a few feet away in a drawer. Do you have anything else, perhaps more valuable, stored elsewhere?”

  Kinard smiled. “Everything I have is right here in this case,” he said. “I’m afraid I hold no illusions about security. In my nearly eighty years as a resident of this planet, I’ve learned that if someone is determined to rob you of something, they are unlikely to be dissuaded by the small gestures made by locks and keys. I choose to go about my final days in as trusting a manner as possible. Shame on those who would take advantage of that.”

  Shame on them indeed, thought Kali.

  “Though you seem certain that no one has had access to your collection, I’m afraid it will be necessary to borrow the pieces for a short time, Professor. I’ll help you wrap them up. We should need them only for a few days at most.”

  “Oh?” He looked at the glass case and back to her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it’s to do with an investigation.”

  “I und
erstand,” he said. He seemed concerned, and Kali sought to reassure him.

  “No harm will come to them. You have my personal guarantee.”

  She wrapped and labeled each item separately, supervised closely by the professor. Kali said good-bye to Kinard after accepting his invitation to come back for dinner in the near future so that they might talk more about Hawaii and her grandmother’s work.

  She climbed back into the Jeep, where Hilo sat waiting, his head resting on the dashboard, his tail thumping the back of the seat. In the rearview mirror, she could see Kinard standing in his doorway, watching as she pulled away. She gave a brief wave, but he didn’t respond.

  She radioed the station and was put through to Hara.

  “I’m heading over to the Josephs house now.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The sunlight was brilliant, and the afternoon was pleasantly warm. Kali eased back out onto the main road, heading north. She knew this road well but was fully aware of its ability to deteriorate rapidly in bad weather. The earthen cliffs bordering one side could disintegrate into dangerous mudslides when the heavy rains came, and she’d been caught on the wrong side of timing on more than one occasion.

  She pulled off onto a small secondary road that was poorly marked by a bent sign, and drove slowly until she found the driveway leading to the home of Franklin Josephs. The house at the end of the driveway was an ill-kempt single-story with a rusted pickup truck parked half in and half out of the garage. The lawn was overgrown, and the trim around the windows and doors had peeled to the point that the paint color was indistinguishable.

  Hara was already there. Kali climbed out of the Jeep and joined him beside the police cruiser.

  “You can be the tough guy today,” she told him. “I’ll be the friendly local who’s interested in his collection.”

  There was no reply to their knock on the screen door. From just inside, Kali could hear the sound of a television, tuned to a home renovation show. She knocked again and heard a squeaking sound, as though someone was repositioning themselves on a chair.

  “Anyone home?” she called.

  There was still no reply.

  “Maui police,” announced Hara, his voice authoritative. “Come to the door, or we’ll let ourselves in.”

  This time, there was a response.

  “What the hell do you want?” It was a woman’s voice, sounding extremely displeased. “If you’re here for Frankie, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.”

  The woman to whom the voice belonged came into view. She was in her late fifties, as far as Kali could tell, and was wearing a nightdress of thin, faded cotton. Her feet were bare, and she looked as though the idea of washing her hair had long ceased to be of any personal interest. Kali did a quick mental calculation, remembering that Josephs had been described as being in his midthirties.

  “Are you Franklin Josephs’s mother?”

  “Well, I’m not his sweetheart,” said the woman, looking suspiciously at Kali.

  “We’re here about his weapons collection,” said Hara. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “What?” she said, frowning at the document Hara extended toward her. “Guns? There aren’t any guns in this house. I won’t have it.”

  “Not guns,” Kali said. “Historic Hawaiian weapons. We’ve been told he has a collection, and we need to speak to him about that. It’s our understanding that he’s—” Kali cut herself off. “We understand that he’s considered to be a bit of an expert in the area, and we need some help in a murder investigation.”

  “Well, he’s not here. I already said.” The woman’s voice was calmer, as though she had been mollified by the idea of her son being useful. “I don’t know where he is, or when he’s coming back, and I don’t care, either.”

  “Did he move out?” Kali asked.

  She shrugged. “His stuff’s still here. He just took off with that trampy girlfriend of his. Didn’t say when he’d be back. Didn’t leave any money for groceries, either.”

  “Exactly when did you last see him?” Kali asked.

  “Told you. A couple of weeks.”

  “And you have no idea where he’s staying?” Hara asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t believe her.

  “I don’t,” she snapped. “I’ve called everywhere. I’m out of beer, I’m out of bread, and I don’t have anyone to take me to the bank or the store. He’s always been a lousy son.”

  Kali and Hara exchanged looks.

  “Right. Very sorry about your difficulties, but we’ll take a look at his collection now,” said Kali.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, pushing the screen door open. Kali and Hara walked inside. Hara looked around with barely concealed disgust. Franklin Josephs’s mother was a slob.

  “Is this his house or yours?” Kali asked.

  “His. He was letting me stay, on account of my no-good asshole of a husband getting hit by a car and not leaving me any insurance.”

  Kali wondered briefly if he had been hit by the car or had jumped out in front of it on purpose.

  “And does Franklin have a room of his own?”

  “Room? He has a bleeding suite of rooms, all his.” She looked toward the back of the house. “Me? I have the sofa.”

  Followed by Hara, Kali walked through the living room, past the television set, and into the hallway that ran to the rear of the house. She opened the first door and found herself in a large bedroom. Not tidy, but definitely an improvement on the front of the house. She looked briefly in the closet and the small chest of drawers, but they were filled with clothing.

  The next room proved more interesting. For starters, it was locked. Mrs. Josephs shook her head when asked about a key, and Kali didn’t argue. If Mrs. Josephs had one, she reasoned, she’d have already been inside to snoop around herself. She looked at Hara.

  “Why don’t you stay here and keep Mrs. Josephs company? I’ll be right back.”

  She walked outside and located the window to the locked room. Near the garage, she found an old five-gallon plastic paint bucket and carried it to the spot beneath the window, then climbed up to peer inside. There was no curtain, and she could see easily, despite the security grating that had been fitted over the window. The room was sparsely furnished, but there was a small desk, and two large trunks against one wall. The rest of the room was taken up by a large metal filing cabinet and a sagging easy chair.

  Kali walked back to the Jeep and opened the toolbox she kept in the back. She removed a small pry bar and returned to the front door. Mrs. Josephs was standing there, looking out with some alarm at Hilo, who had climbed out of the Jeep and was sitting in the shade it cast on the driveway.

  “Is that some kind of horse?” Mrs. Josephs asked as Kali walked past her and opened the door.

  “Yup,” she said. “Teeth like a bear, though.”

  The woman stepped back, then followed Kali inside, openly suspicious.

  “We’re going to open the door to your son’s room, as well as the filing cabinet and the trunks inside.”

  Mrs. Josephs scowled but didn’t protest. “Go ahead, honey. Knock yourself out. Wouldn’t mind seeing for myself what’s in there.”

  They had the door open in less than a minute. Hara stood, half guarding the entrance and half watching. The trunks were also locked. Kali made short work of the locks, snapping them with the pry bar.

  In the first, there were several ceremonial headdresses and an embroidered robe. There was something about them that struck Kali as mass produced rather than handmade, and she set them back inside the trunk, exactly as she’d found them.

  The second trunk held the weapons. There were only three, but these were clearly old. Besides a short dagger, there were two war clubs, each wrapped loosely in soft cloth. Kali looked through the desk, but there was nothing she could find that pertained to the weapons collection belonging to Josephs. She noted that the space was wired for high-speed Internet service, but there was no comp
uter in the room. Josephs had to have a laptop, which he’d probably taken with him.

  In the filing cabinet, she and Hara found things of more interest. There were neatly sorted files that detailed a fairly successful eBay business trading in Hawaiian artifacts. There were orders and receipts for each transaction, along with detailed descriptions of the items that had been bought or sold, many with pictures attached. There was also information about whom he’d purchased each item from and whom he’d sold it to, including their contact information. It looked as though Franklin Josephs was a fairly professional businessman, even if he hadn’t lucked out in the parental genetic pool.

  There were too many files to go through on short notice, so Kali instructed Hara to bundle them all up while she collected the war clubs. When they finished, they made their way back to the front of the house. Mrs. Josephs had taken up position on the couch and was staring without any apparent enthusiasm or comprehension as a television presenter mindlessly destroyed a beautiful natural stone wall with white paint.

  “We’re taking your son’s historic weapons and some files,” she said. “Officer Hara will give you an itemized receipt. They’ll be returned later.”

  “Take whatever you want,” Mrs. Josephs said, not looking up.

  “I need you to sign this, then. It says you understand I’m removing these weapons and documents for official purposes, and that you agree the list is accurate.”

  “Fine,” she said, then scrawled her name on the form Kali extended to her. Still without looking up, she asked, more quietly, “Did my son do something awful?”

  “Not that we know of,” Kali answered, wondering if the woman really even cared, and interested that she should ask. “We’ll be sure to let you know if we find out otherwise.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” Mrs. Josephs mumbled. “And bring that stuff back. Maybe I can sell it.”

  They let themselves out, and Kali whistled to Hilo to get back into the Jeep. As she began to pull out, her cell phone rang. It was Walter.

  “Mango,” he said.