by Debra Bokur
“Banana,” answered Kali, wondering if Walter had suddenly made up a secret code.
“No, damn it,” said Walter, sounding slightly more exasperated than usual. “The wood. It’s mango. Whatever Kekipi was hit with, it was made of mango wood.”
“Got it,” said Kali. That, at least, might narrow things down a bit. “I’ll fill you in on the collectors when I get back to Hana.”
“Looking for a dinner invite?”
Dinner. The invitation to seafood stew with Elvar and Birta. Well, that would have to wait until another time.
“Guess I am,” she said.
“I’ll warn the missus. See if you can get here by six. The girls have some kind of event to get to later, so we’re going to eat early. We can talk after they leave.”
Kali drove south along the highway, taking her time on the dirt section of the road as she drew closer to Hana. She was hungry, and whatever Mrs. Alaka’i had prepared for the evening would likely be delicious. Nor would Mrs. Alaka’i care if Hilo made himself comfortable on the wide stone terrace. And, if the past was anything to go by, she’d leave with plenty of leftovers to stash in her sad, almost empty fridge.
CHAPTER 31
The light had just begun to creep across the floor through the uncurtained window, but it was bereft of warmth. Kali rolled over and pressed her face into the back of the sofa, engulfed by a feeling of profound loneliness. She admitted to herself, finally, that the reason she slept here instead of in her own bed was that the empty space beside her was too much to face—more weight at the beginning of the day than she had the strength to carry.
Her mind searched for something normal, something familiar and pleasant that had nothing to do with murder or theft. She thought back to dinner at Walter’s. His wife, Nina, had prepared tender pulled pork with sweet potatoes. And there was coconut cake for dessert. Walter’s three daughters—Beth, Lara, and Suki, who called her Auntie Kali—had surrounded her with their laughter and happy noise.
When dinner was over and Nina was busy readying the girls to go out, Walter and Kali had retreated to the lanai. Walter had built a fire in the stone pit, and they had pulled their chairs close to the warmth. Once the sun went down, even Hawaii had her moments of chill, and the two had relaxed for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth, before they’d turned their thoughts to murder.
“The professor said he estimates that over eighty-five percent of the authentic weapons he’s looked at over the years have been made from koa wood,” Kali had said. “He’s seen a few carved from monkeypod and mango, but not many. Koa, being hard, plentiful, and long lasting, was—and still is—the wood of choice. In the past, it was also a class thing. Being especially beautiful and coveted, it was considered a premier wood and a worthy choice for a warrior.”
“Snobbery among the war crowd?”
“Something like that. The point is, if the club that was used to kill Kekipi was made of mango, that eliminates a lot of choices.”
“Sure. All we have to do is find the one guy with the right mango club.”
“The lab is running tests on all the weapons we’ve collected so far, just in case. And these might help,” said Kali, pulling the envelope with its stack of receipts and orders belonging to Franklin Josephs out of her worn canvas messenger bag. “The second collector, Josephs, has been running a fairly profitable buy-and-sell business for about the past ten years, lately mostly Internet based. He’s sold three mango clubs in that time. All of them are trimmed with shark’s teeth, all of them are at least a hundred years old, and only one of them was sold to a buyer here in the islands. Maui, specifically. The other sales were to mainland collectors.”
Walter leaned forward. “So,” he said, “assuming that a mainland collector would hardly plan a vacation that involved packing a large tooth-rimmed killing weapon, we should pay a visit to the Maui purchaser.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Who is it? Do we have a current address?”
“We do.” Kali paused, enjoying herself. “The collector is one Polunu Hausuka of Hamoa Beach, just down the road.”
Walter made a choking sound. “No kidding? Funny how he keeps popping up, isn’t it?”
“I was thinking the same thing. At least we now know what he’s been spending some of his hard-earned money on.”
“Yeah, it’s very nice that he’s contributing to the local economy, rather than buying stuff off-island.”
“At least he’s buying. That, alone, is surprising.”
They got up and walked back into the house, still fragrant with the smells from dinner. Walter, looking thoughtful, walked her to her car and told her to go home and get some sleep, that he’d pull another search warrant for their field trip to visit Polunu.
She slept poorly again, unable to remember her dreams. She got up and made herself a cup of strong black tea, then cleaned up the small kitchen. It was nearly ten o’clock by the time she heard Walter’s cruiser pull up. She went out to meet him on the front porch and noticed that he had his 9mm Smith & Wesson holstered. He looked at her, an eyebrow raised in question.
“I’m guessing you’ll be ready with some obscure prayer to keep us safe, instead of something potentially useful, like your gun.”
She shook her head. There had already been enough gunfire in her life, but she wasn’t stupid. “I’m armed. And I’m bringing Hilo.”
“No you’re not. Hara’s already developing a procedural ulcer about civilian dogs in official police equipment, and I’m pretty sure finding hair all over the seat from you bringing your pet monster along would send him over the edge.”
“Would you rather take the Jeep? If Polunu’s there, the police car will probably spook him.”
“Your transmission is shot.”
“Just when I go into reverse.”
Walter snorted. “Suppose,” he said, “that you have to make a quick getaway. Or, heaven forbid, join a pursuit. That thing is likely to fall apart underneath you.”
Kali was offended. “It hasn’t yet.”
They’d reached the police car, and Walter opened the door. “It only takes once, you know.”
“I don’t have any trouble getting around. You’re just heavy handed. Or spoiled from driving this sissy automatic.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Walter said. “You’re navigating, by the way. The GPS is on the blink again. What’s our turnoff to Polunu’s place?”
“Next right. He lives on the road that heads downhill toward Kipahulu Valley.”
“I know the turn.”
“Do we know if he lives alone?”
Walter shook his head. “No missus or roommate listed in anything we have on him.”
Kali stared out the window. Even petty crooks like Polunu Hausuka had friends. Mike had thought that the meth dealers had been alone. She hadn’t stopped him from leading the raid. The meth dealers had had plenty of friends, and they’d all been expecting the cops.
They parked a short distance from Polunu’s house. There was no garage, and the overgrown driveway was empty. There was a light on somewhere in the house, however.
“We’ve got a white delivery van, nineteen ninety-one Chevy model, registered to him as active, but I don’t see a vehicle anywhere in sight,” said Walter.
They walked toward the front door.
“Wait,” she said, squatting near a set of clearly visible tire tracks. “Look familiar?”
Walter joined her. He looked closely at the mismatched tracks and gave a low whistle.
“Mind if I give a cautious ‘Eureka’?” he asked. “These look like they could be a match for the tracks in the clearing. See the big patch mark on this one, about two inches from the edge?”
“I see it. We’ll get photos while we’re here.”
They approached the house carefully.
“Light’s coming from the kitchen,” she said, keeping her voice low. “No sound of a television or radio.”
Walter turned to Kali. “Okay, let’s knock on the
door and say hello.”
They climbed the front steps. Kali stood beside the door, just out of sight, while Walter knocked, his gun drawn. There was no answer. He tried the handle and glanced at Kali. The door was unlocked.
He called out loudly enough for anyone inside to hear. “Polunu Hausuka, you home? Maui police. We’ve got a pizza for you.”
There was no answer. Flies buzzed against the door’s outer screen. Kali and Walter waited, listening for the sound of any movement from within.
“Shall we?” Walter asked, and Kali nodded in agreement. Kali eased the door open and stepped aside, allowing Walter to enter first. She followed quickly. It took them less than a minute to move through the small house.
“There’s no one here,” Walter said.
Kali walked through the dim living room, past a cheap-looking sofa, then stepped through a doorway back into the kitchen. The light they’d seen from outside came from a bare bulb hanging over the small wooden kitchen table. On the table, a full cup of coffee sat, cold. The milk had congealed on the surface.
She nodded toward the coffee cup. “That’s been here for a while,” she said.
“Yeah. Looks like he’s out for the day.”
Kali said nothing but returned to the living room area and switched on the overhead lights. On the wall over the sofa was a watercolor painting of a hula dancer, framed against an impossibly full moon. The television, a large and very new model, occupied one wall, positioned next to a stereo with an elaborate speaker system. It all looked expensive.
“Little bigger than a candy bar. I’m guessing he didn’t walk out of a store with those underneath his arm. Means he’s got some spending money,” noted Walter. “And look at that,” he added, pointing to the opposite wall.
A long spear was displayed, mounted carefully on sturdy hooks.
“Okay.” She looked critically from the spear to the sagging sofa. “And he’s also making significant financial investments in historic objects instead of furniture. That doesn’t explain why he would take a valuable war club to the beach and then hit a teenager over the head with it. What’s the connection?”
Walter turned to Kali in mock amazement. “You’ve actually met Polunu Hausuka, yes? And seen the video that’s circulating? Not exactly a brain trust.”
“Okay, but why would he be carrying something of historic value around with him?”
Walter looked at the spear, admiring the carving, clearly impressed. “Maybe he was taking it somewhere to show off,” he offered. “Or to resell for some fast cash.”
“Or,” said Kali, thinking about the information they’d pulled on Polunu, “he was using it in the luau show.”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose,” said Walter. “But unlikely.”
They made a cursory search of the house. In one of the house’s two small bedrooms, they found a carved ceremonial drum.
“Not exactly a weapon,” observed Kali, “but it definitely looks valuable.”
The closet revealed that Polunu also had a lot of new clothing, including an expensive-looking leather jacket. Walter pulled out the jacket, eyeing it with great curiosity.
“Now, where on earth does he wear that? He’d roast to death in it in Hawaii,” he said.
“Where did he even get it?” asked Kali.
Kali walked into the other of the house’s bedrooms, a tight space that appeared to be used mainly for storage. She lifted a cardboard box off the floor and carried it out to the kitchen table. She pulled open the flaps and found that the box, though rather large, contained only a small throwing ax, made of koa wood. There was also a shipping receipt. She took it out and examined it carefully. “This is interesting.”
Walter peered into the box. Kali held up the slip of paper.
“This receipt is from Josephs,” she said. “It’s dated over two weeks ago, which jibes with the records we found in his files. The receipt is for this throwing ax, and for a war club made of mango and trimmed with shark’s teeth.”
Walter and Kali exchanged looks.
“If it’s here, it’s hidden,” said Walter. “But it doesn’t make any sense that he’d hide one artifact away and leave the other one sitting here in this box. He’s unlikely to have gotten rid of anything of historic value, even if it was used to kill Kekipi.”
“We haven’t checked the yard or the garage.”
“You do that. I’ll make one last cupboard and closet search inside. Looks like it’s time we brought him in for questioning.”
Kali let herself out the back door and into the overgrown yard. The garage was empty except for a lawn mower and a few tools. The exterior wood siding had large gaps in it, and no interior shelves or other places to leave anything, especially something of value. The floor was dirt, much of it sprouted with weeds and tufts of grass, which benefited from the sunlight flowing through the spaces between the wallboards.
She walked to the rear of the garage and looked out of the building’s single window. A good-sized aluminum storage shed had been erected behind the garage, completely out of sight from the driveway or the house, half concealed by tall shrubs. She could see that the door was secured with a heavy chain and a padlock. There were no windows visible.
“Walter!”
She heard his footsteps hurrying across the wooden porch on the back of the house. As he joined her, she nodded toward the shed.
“This shed looks brand new, and that’s interesting,” she said.
“There’s a padlock on the door.”
“Do we have just cause for a little forced entry?”
Walter pretended to consider the question carefully. “Depends, I suppose, on who you’re asking. If you’re asking me, I’d say it’s time to locate a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. There could be a murder weapon inside that shed. Maybe a body to go along with it, if you’re seriously questioning a superior officer about his decision-making skills.”
Kali looked disapprovingly at her uncle.
“Don’t give me any stink face,” he told her.
It took them nearly twenty minutes, working in turns, to cut through the heavy chain with the tools they’d taken from the trunk of the cruiser. The door swung open, and Walter stepped inside the shed, shining his flashlight around. There wasn’t much to see other than a stack of tarpaulins in a corner and a few gallons of half-used paint. Otherwise, the space was completely empty.
“Well, this is disappointing,” said Walter, the disgust evident in his tone. “Why in the hell was it even locked?”
“You want to do a psychological analysis of the way thieves think?” asked Kali.
“Probably just habit,” said Walter, “the way you flip off a light when you leave the room, or automatically lock your door behind you.”
“I don’t think so. The floor looks like something’s been repeatedly dragged across it, and the number of tarps could have been used to cover up something large and potentially valuable he wanted to keep hidden. The size of that chain definitely suggests he had something here that he didn’t want anyone to take.”
“Like?”
“Canoe, propped up on its end? Something historic?”
Walter shut off his light. “Well, whatever it was, it’s not here now.”
“Yeah,” said Kali. “And neither is Polunu Hausuka.”
They closed the shed door and put the tools back into the car, then carried the spear, the throwing ax, and the ceremonial drum to the car. Walter filled out a notice alerting Polunu to the whereabouts of his belongings and whom to call for their return.
Later that night, while lying on the sofa, with Hilo nearby, snoring happily, Kali wondered about Polunu and his motivations. His collection suggested that he had some pride in his Hawaiian heritage, as well as an appreciation for beauty. Why, she wondered, was he squandering his time on Earth as a thief?
She fell into a deep sleep. This time, there were no gods or goddesses appearing in her dream space, delivering obscure messages. There was no restless tossing
and turning. Just a deep and welcome darkness.
CHAPTER 32
At five thirty the next morning, Walter’s cell phone rang. He fumbled on the night table next to his bed and located the source of disruption. His wife rolled over, still asleep.
“Alaka’i here.”
“Hi, handsome.”
Recognizing the voice, he grunted, immediately annoyed. “What do you want, Makena?”
“Money,” came the slightly slurred voice on the other end of the line. “Money, money, money. And lots of kisses.”
He disconnected, dropped the phone onto the table, and pulled the light cover up around his neck.
The phone rang again. Walter looked at it with aversion, then grabbed it, slipped out of bed, and walked into the hall and into the kitchen. He continued to let it ring, expecting Makena to give up. She always did. After five rings, the call switched over to his voice mail. But seconds later, the phone began ringing again. He hit the ACCEPT CALL button, but before he could begin the lecture that was on the tip of his tongue, Makena spoke.
“Money for information, asshole. I saw something, and believe me, you want to know what it was.”
“What, no sense of civic duty, Makena? Right and wrong? Balancing out the darkness with a little light?” He knew it was useless to appeal to this side of her, if it even existed. “What did you see?”
“I’ll tell you for five hundred dollars.”
He laughed. “Even if I trusted you, which I don’t, I wouldn’t give you five hundred dollars. I don’t even have five hundred dollars.”
Makena swore. “That’s okay. You’re always such a jerk. I’ll just go to the other guy, Mr. Fancy Boat. Bet he’ll pay.”
Makena hung up, and Walter felt suddenly uneasy. Was Makena playing at blackmail? Maybe she had seen something. He shrugged, dismissing the feeling. Chances were if she had actually witnessed a crime involving a boat, it was nothing more impressive than someone dumping trash overboard, or a local official with his pants down, taking a cruise with someone else’s wife.
He went out to the front porch and looked at the sky. It was a clear morning, and he needed to locate Polunu. He decided to start by checking his address again to see if he’d come home. And if he had no luck there, he’d drive over to the resort and see if anyone on the luau staff had any idea where he might be. Drunk in a ditch, most likely, thought Walter. Or laying low, in the hope the resort manager hadn’t yet caught wind of the YouTube video of the incident with the woman tourist.
