"Yeah, sure, but—"
"The circle has closed. Why do you ask questions as if you are a policeman?"
Hully gestured with an open hand. "Mr. Harada, I meant no offense. I merely ... we merely ... thought we'd offer our sympathies in what we had assumed would be a dark hour, for you."
Harada said nothing.
Sam said, "I guess that was our mistake."
For several long seconds, Hully just stared at the little grocer, who didn't even blink. Then Hully rushed out onto the wooden sidewalk, anger bubbling; Sam followed. Hully was several storefronts down, moving quickly through the interracial crowd, when Sam caught up with him. 'Take it easy, Hul....You just ran head-on into a cultural war I've fought every day of my life."
Hully stopped, looked at his friend. "Something smells."
"Yeah, fish and dirty diapers and incense. What, you think Harada killed his own niece? Why? Because she was Christian?"
Hully didn't know what to say, and was still looking for words when a small dark man in a snap-brim fedora, orange tie, and brown rumpled suit was suddenly in their midst.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Detective John Jardine demanded. His dark eyes were daggers.
"I, uh... well..."
Jardine took Hully by the back of the arm and bus-tied him into a booth in a nearby cafe. Sam came along, a wide-eyed bystander, who slipped in next to Hully.
A waitress in a kimono came over, and Jardine said, "Three coffees," and she went away.
"You were grilling that guy," Jardine said.
"You... you heard?"
"There's no damn door. Sure I heard—I was on my way in to interrogate him myself. What in the hell are you doing, walking my damn beat?"
Calmly, Hully said, "Have you talked to my dad today?"
"No—we've missed each other, traded phone calls. Why, is he in this too?"
With another glance at Sam, who shrugged, Hully sighed and made a clean breast it—sharing not only the notion of the informal investigation he and his father had been conducting, but the various pieces of information they had discovered.
Though he looked irritated, the Portuguese detective jotted much of this down in his small notebook.
"Thank you for the information," Jardine said, sliding the notebook into an inside suit-jacket pocket. "Now—give your father a message for me: leave this to the professionals. I won't write about his jungle, and you and your father need to stay the hell out of mine."
Hully leaned forward. "Are you looking at any suspects, other than Harry Kamana?"
An eyebrow arched. "I was about to interview that grocer, wasn't I? Damnit, boy—leave this to the police." He looked sharply at Sam. "What's your part in this?"
Sam's eyes widened. "I'm just a friend of Hully's ... I was a friend of Pearl's, too."
"Where were you last night?"
"At a college dance—pregame bash."
"But you weren't at the game today?"
"I don't like football."
"But you went to the 'pregame bash'?"
"Well, sure—I do like girls."
"Did you like Pearl Harada?"
"Not that way... hey, what is this?"
Jardine looked pointedly at Hully. "How's this guy for another suspect? We're looking at everybody and everything... including you, Mr. Burroughs."
A uniformed officer, a young Polynesian, peered in the cafÈ's storefront window and seemed relieved to see Jardine. The cop hurried in and stood next to the booth, hands behind him.
"Detective, may I have a word?" Jardine rose and, pointing to Hully and then at Sam, said, "Stay," as if to a pair of dogs.
Hully and Sam watched out the window as the uniformed cop delivered some slice of detailed information that made Jardine cover his mouth; then the detective pushed his fedora back on his head, and turned and gazed through the cafe window at Hully. He crooked a finger.
Hully raised his eyebrows and gestured to himself. Jardine frowned and nodded. Soon Sam had been left behind and Jardine—with the uniformed cop at the wheel—was sitting in the front seat of a squad car with Hully in back, feeling like a suspect.
"What's this about?" Hully asked. "Just ride," Jardine said.
Past the end of the Waikiki streetcar line, Jardine's driver headed out Diamond Head Road. The road was just about to begin making its winding way up the cliffs, when the squad car drew up along the roadside where another squad car was already parked.
Wordlessly, Jardine approached an opening between the rocks where another Polynesian uniformed cop was posted at the mouth of the path; the cop nodded to
Jardine and pointed down. Following the swarthy little detective—whose driver had stayed behind—Hully did his best to keep his balance as he navigated van-sized rocks down the grassy, sandy slope. On the beach below, the rock-infested white beach, lay a body—a naked man, sprawled on his stomach. Two more cops stood watch, but this fellow wasn't going anywhere.
The sand was moist under his slippers, as Hully trailed after the detective, who made a beeline to the body and knelt. The nude, slender frame of the corpse became a specific person when Hully got close enough to see the pale, sand-flecked, bulging-eyed face, the surf rolling up nearby, threatening to dampen the dead features.
"Recognize him?" Jardine said to Hully, looking up from beside the body.
“Terry Mizuha," Hully said. His tongue felt thick; his head was spinning. He turned away from the corpse, walked a few steps down the beach, his back to the cops and the body.
Then Jardine was at his side. "You said this boy might have more information to share."
Hully had included a summary of his conversation with the (late) guitar player when he had filled Jardine in, at the Chinatown coffee shop.
"Yes—he said he had to think... to 'sort things out' He'd said maybe we'd talk in a few hours."
"It's been a few hours—but Terry doesn't seem too talkative."
Hully swallowed, shivered. "How was he killed?"
The wind off the ocean was threatening to whip away Jardine's fedora, but somehow it stayed put. "Garroted—probably with a small rope."
Hully shook his head—such a violent way for so gentle a soul to meet his fate. "Do you still think Harry Kamana killed Pearl Harada?"
Jardine twitched a nonsmile. "I'd say a little doubt is raised."
Hully snorted a humorless laugh. "Well, Kamana sure as hell didn't kill this guy! I saw Terry at the Niumalu, well before lunch!"
Jardine heaved a sigh, and looked back toward the body. "We were probably not meant to find him so soon.... This is a rocky portion of the beach, not visible from the highway. But some tourists stumbled across him... forty-five minutes ago."
"What's the significance of finding him sooner, rather than later?"
The sharp eyes landed back on Hully; the faintest of smiles etched itself on Jardine's thin lips. "I'm supposed to write this off as a mahu kill."
"A what?"
"Mahu ... fairy—homosexual. Lots of queers get killed in Waikiki, usually by soldiers or sailors. Kind of a... local tradition that horny servicemen, short of money, pick up a mahu on a street corner for a free 'thrill.' Some of these servicemen are sickened by the experience, and take it out on the poor bastards, after."
"You don't really think this is a—"
"No. But I'm supposed to. Terry Mizuha was a known mahu—and he's nude, possibly preparing for ... you know."
"In the middle of the day?"
Jardine frowned. "That's why I say we weren't supposed to find him so soon. I would like to talk to your servicemen friends, Fielder and Stanton."
"Why, you think one of them may have lured him out here, on a pretext?"
"Possibly. It's secluded enough, even for a daytime tryst Anyway, there are no signs of the body being carried down the slope. He would seem to have been killed here, on the beach."
"But he could have been killed elsewhere."
"Yes—if the killer had an accomplice to help him ca
rry the body down the slope. The body could have been transported here in the trunk of a car."
"Did you find the clothes?"
Jardine nodded. "I'm told they were neatly stacked in the rocks nearby."
The afternoon was dying. The setting sun seemed a red-hot ball of flame, tinting the waves pink, as if the ocean were watered-down blood.
The detective looked up at Hully with eyes that were bright but no longer hard or sharp. "Would you help me tonight, Mr. Burroughs? We'll go to Hotel Street and find that sailor and that soldier."
There was no question about it: Hully would go along with Jardine. But just the same, he said, "I thought I was supposed to leave this to the professionals."
"You'll be with a professional. What do you say?"
Down the beach, foamy surf licking ever nearer, Terry Mizuha seemed to have no objection.
"I had nothing else planned," Hully said.
TEN
An Evening at the Shuncho-ro
At the top of Red Hill, Burroughs slowed his Pierce Arrow to take in the panoramic view of Pearl Harbor on this peaceful evening—the scattering of stars in God's purple Hawaiian sky competing with the man-made twinkling of buildings and ships, the ebony sea highlighted shimmeringly by the rays of the near-golden moon. Dance band music drifted up from the officers' club below, the view including the Naval Station, Luke Field, and—in the distance—the Ewa Sugar Plantation; but the equipment, the trappings, of the great base were lost in the night, the workshops, the big hammerhead crane, swallowed by darkness, with only the lights of the Pacific Fleet remaining—and there were plenty, what with every battleship in port. Winding down the hill, passing through Halawa Gulch, the convertible glided by fields of sugarcane, which waved at the writer, friendly in the moonlight.
A sign told Burroughs that Pearl City Road Junction lay ahead just three miles, where a left turn would take him to the Peninsula residential section and the Shuncho-ro teahouse.
He had not connected with Hully, and Burroughs wondered what his son might have uncovered—he only hoped the boy hadn't gotten himself in any jam. For once Burroughs valued his son's friendship with Sam Fujimoto—snooping in Chinatown without a safari guide would have been reckless. Not that he was worried, really, other than a standard fatherly concern: Hully was as smart as he was strapping, and could damn well take care of himself.
On the other hand, it was a murderer they were chasing. And Burroughs was starting to wonder whether Pearl Harada's death really had been a simple crime of passion, driven by the jealousy of one suitor or another ... or was it a small yet important part of something greater and far more sinister?
Back at the Waikiki Tavern, after Colonel Fielder had departed, Burroughs and FBI agent Sterling had sat and talked for another fifteen minutes, in the matched-roofed pergola on the beach. No more rum punch: a waiter was dispatched to bring coffee for both men. As they spoke, a tropical sunset painted the water, the world, with shades of red and orange; but as the sun's ball of fire slipped over the horizon, darkness rapidly invaded.
Burroughs had told Sterling about the informal investigation he and his son were undertaking into the Harada girl's death, assuring the agent that Hully had not been clued in on Otto Kuhn's suspected status as a sleeper agent.
"To me, the most interesting thing you've come up with," the ruggedly handsome FBI agent said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "is that phone call that Kuhn and his wife argued about."
Burroughs lifted an eyebrow. "Apparently, Otto told her to deny there'd been any phone call, or anyway not to mention there had been one."
Sterling's eyes narrowed. "But who rang Otto, in the middle of the night? And why?"
"He's a sleeper agent—maybe it was a wake-up call."
The FBI agent nodded. "Maybe in a way it was—Otto receives a call, and then before you know it, he's on your doorstep, telling Jardine he witnessed Kamana killing that girl."
"You mean... the real murderer called him, and ordered up an alibi?"
Sterling made an openhanded shrugging gesture. "There's really only two reasonable alternatives, here: Kuhn did the killing and blamed Kamana; or someone else did the killing, and Kuhn is alibiing for him... or her."
"Her? Mrs. Kuhn, you mean?"
"She remains a viable suspect," Sterling said, and sipped his coffee. "Otto's reputation as a playboy has been well earned—he does run around on Elfriede ... and you gotta give Otto his nerve for that: his wife is the niece of Heinrich Himmler himself."
The saltwater breeze suddenly seemed chilly to Burroughs. "So I really do have Nazis living next door."
"No doubt of that."
"Then where does the damn phone call come in?"
Sterling threw his hands up. "Search me. But I can tell you this—there's a reason why Pearl Harada's murder sent up a warning flare at my office ... particularly with Otto Kuhn as a supposed eyewitness, apparently fingering a fall guy."
"Why is that, Adam?"
The agent leaned forward. "Remember what I told you about the network of nisei who are helping compile a list of potentially disloyal Japs here in Oahu?"
"Sure."
"Well, Pearl Harada's uncle—the Chinatown grocer—is on that list."
Burroughs half climbed out of his wicker chair. "Jesus, Hully went to question that guy this afternoon!"
Sterling patted the air, calmingly. "I didn't say Uncle Harada was dangerous—just that he's loyal to his native country... like a lot of issei in Chinatown."
Issei were first-generation immigrants.
Sterling was saying, "Until recently, Harada displayed photographs of the emperor in his shop. Plus, he's vocally supported Japan's war on China, buying Jap war bonds, helping organize an effort to send 'comfort bags' to Japanese soldiers—blankets, shoes, candy."
Burroughs shifted in his chair. "Well, this is beginning to look like Pearl Harada's death may have more to do with espionage than affairs of the heart."
Sterling shrugged again. "There's no question this was a beautiful girl who could have driven a man to some irrational, jealous act of violence... but with both her uncle and your 'Nazi-next-door' in the scenario, an espionage-related motive remains a distinct possibility."
"And let's not forget she knew Vice Consul Mori-mura, either—or that he was reading her the Riot Act in the parking lot, a few hours before she was killed."
Sterling's reaction was not what Burroughs had expected: the FBI agent laughed.
Astounded, Burroughs said, "This is funny, all of a sudden?"
"I'm sorry. It's just... That guy's hard to take seriously. My guess is Morimura was yelling at her because she wouldn't give him the time of day."
"How can you say that, Adam? Fielder admits this clown spends most of his time engaged in 'legal' spying."
" 'Clown' is the key word, there." Sterling sipped his coffee, then leaned forward again. "Listen, Ed—Morimura is an idiot. I have it on good authority that everybody else at the Consulate hates his guts, considers him a lazy ass. We've had him under surveillance, from time to time, and the guy just wanders around like a tourist, never takes a note or a photo or makes a sketch."
"Maybe he has a photographic memory."
"I sincerely doubt it, considering all the brain cells he's lost to sake. Morimura's a simpleton and a sybarite."
Burroughs was shaking bis head, astounded by Sterling's attitude. "Kuhn's a playboy and you take him seriously."
"Morimura spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor and screwing geisha girls—end of story."
"Maybe he's just a clever agent—you were concerned enough about the Consulate burning their papers, yesterday, and Morimura's a damn vice consul...."
Sterling held up his hands as if in surrender. "Check him out yourself, if you like, Ed—this is Saturday ... he'll no doubt be at the Shuncho-ro teahouse, tonight. The management keeps a room upstairs for him, to pursue his debaucheries, and then sleep it off." Sterling checked his watch. "As for me, I have to get over
to General Short's quarters, to try to jump-start him into taking all of these matters seriously... the Mori code, the Harada murder, the Consulate burning those papers. ..."
Burroughs sighed, shook his head. "What the hell does it all mean, Adam?"
Sterling rose from his wicker chair. "Figuring that out isn't my job—my job is convincing General Short to figure it out."
The Shuncho-ro—Spring Tide Restaurant—was on Makanani Drive on the slopes of Alewa Heights, a surprisingly un-Oriental-looking two-story wooden house with generous picture windows on both floors and clean modern lines that wouldn't have been out of place back in Frank Lloyd Wright's Oak Park, Illinois, where Burroughs had lived in the teens. In the midst of a lush garden—no palms in sight—hugged by flowering hedges, the Shuncho-ro perched on the mountainside looking down on Honolulu, a breathtaking view any tourist—or spy—might relish.
Burroughs left his Pierce Arrow in the dimly illuminated crushed-coral parking lot, which was fairly full, the restaurant doing a good business. He noted, parked on the other side of the lot, a black Lincoln with a Japanese chauffeur in full livery asleep behind the wheel—the vice consul's car, no doubt.
The writer also recognized another car in the lot, a dark blue '41 Cadillac convertible. He'd seen this distinctive vehicle at the Niumalu many times: it belonged to Otto Kuhn.
The wide entryway of the teahouse had horizontal wooden spindlework on either side, a motif repeated in the vestibule, a strong, stark design that again recalled Oak Park's Frank Lloyd Wright--and Wright's own Japanese inspiration. A host in a black suit and tie asked if Burroughs had a reservation, which he did, having called ahead; after leaving his shoes at the door, Burroughs was shown by a teahouse girl in a pate blue kimono to a low table for one, where he sat on a tatami mat.
The sparsely decorated, oak-trimmed, cream-colored dining room seemed about evenly divided between Japanese-Americans and tourists, all of whom—like Burroughs—were rather informally dressed, in anticipation of the teahouse's sit-on-the-floor service. He did not see Morimura or Kuhn among the diners here on the first floor.
He drank a cup of tea, and when the geisha returned for his order, he said, "I was hoping to link up with two friends of mine, who told me they'd be dining here, this evening—Otto Kuhn and Tadashi Mori-mura?"
The Pearl Harbor Murders Page 11
