Mahu Blood

by Alex Beecroft

  “I’m trying to get hold of Maile Kanuha. You got a number on her?”

  “You working on Edith Kapana’s murder?”

  “Yup. You know anything about it?”

  “Didn’t you read my profile in yesterday’s paper? Hers was another death in a long line stretching back to 1893.”

  30 Neil S. Plakcy

  “I read it. Maile Kanuha. Her number.”

  “Give me a quote for today’s follow up story.”

  “This isn’t a quid pro quo, Greg. If you don’t cooperate, I’m sure I can find some reason to haul you in for obstructing an investigation.”

  “You ever hear of the First Amendment?”

  I handed the phone to Ray. “You talk to him.”

  Ray gave Oshiro the statement he wanted, though it lacked much detail, and in turn Greg provided the number. Greg promised if he came up with anything in his profile that might be relevant to our investigation, he’d let us know. I wish I believed him. The only way I’d get anything from him was via the newspaper.

  “I always admire your people skills,” Ray said, hanging up the phone.

  “Greg Oshiro’s not a person, he’s a reptile.”

  “Or a valued member of the fourth estate. Depends on how you look at it.”

  I growled at him, and he laughed, turning to his computer to check out the agency where Maile worked, the Department of Agriculture Quality Assurance, whose offices were not far from police headquarters.

  “You want to get some coffee?” I asked Ray. “How about we pay a visit to Dexter Trale at the Kope Bean, then go see Maile?”

  “Somehow I don’t see this guy as a barista.”

  We hopped in the Jeep and took the H1 to the airport exit, navigating the local streets to find the address Karen had given us. It was a long, single-story building in an industrial park. A small sign over the front door read “Kope Bean Receiving.”

  “Guess you were right. Dex is not a barista.”

  There was no one in the reception area, and though the desk was cluttered with papers, it didn’t look like anyone regularly sat there. I pushed the door open into the warehouse, and the MAhu BLood 31

  pungent aroma of roasted coffee beans swept out over us.

  “Should have stopped for coffee before we got here,” Ray sighed.

  The ceiling was about ten feet high, and all the ventilation ducts were exposed below the flat roof. Pendant light fixtures hung every twenty feet or so. The walls were lined with wooden pallets, stacked with boxes of coffee cups, napkins, sugar and so on. There was some classic Hawaiian music playing softly in the background, the kind of stuff my parents used to listen to when I was a kid. I thought it might be Sonny Chillingworth, but I wasn’t sure.

  Along the right-hand wall, a middle-aged Thai woman sat at a computer terminal, with a phone headset, talking and typing.

  “Let me repeat the order back to you,” she said. “One carton of stirrers, four cartons of napkins, two bottles of macadamia nut syrup and your regular order of beans. You know we’re having a promotion on the logo mugs? Can I send you a box of them for display? Great. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  She pulled the headset off and turned to us. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Dexter Trale.”

  “He’s the skinny haole over there by the loading dock.” Her phone rang, and she popped the headset back on. “Thank you for calling the Kope Bean central distribution center.”

  We looked in the direction she had pointed, where a tough, wiry haole was arguing with a big Samoan guy. “Mr. Trale?” I interrupted. “Honolulu police detectives. Can we have a word with you?”

  The Samoan slapped his hands together, said, “Your problem now, brah,” and walked away, toward an open loading dock door.

  As we showed Dex our IDs, the Samoan slammed the back of his truck closed, got in and drove away.

  “Thanks a fucking lot,” Dex said. “Now I’ve got to explain why that delivery was short.”

  “Sorry, brah. Bad timing. But we’ve got some questions for 32 Neil S. Plakcy

  you.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  I doubted that was true. But he shrugged, and said, “I need a smoke. You want, you can follow me.”

  A guy on a pallet jack zoomed past us, carrying a load of boxes. He stopped under a sign that read “Store #3” and began offloading as we walked past him.

  “You the boss here?” I asked Dex.

  “You could say that. We handle the distribution for all the Kope Bean stores on O’ahu.” We came to the row of open doors on the loading dock. “The store managers call their orders into Tuli over there, and she puts them into the computer. That generates tickets for the pickers and packers in the back. They put together the pallets, and the jockey brings them up here and lines them up for the trucks. Me, I just stand around and make sure nobody fucks up.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from its place under the sleeve of his snug T-shirt. He was a guy who liked to show off his body; if that shirt had been any tighter you’d have called it another layer of skin. His faded jeans were just as snug, cupping his ass; the back pocket was artfully ripped to show a glimpse of what looked like red satin boxers.

  He jumped lightly from the dock to the ground, and I pulled my attention back from Dex’s ass to do the same. He took a lighter from his jeans pocket, but the wind was kicking up so it took him two tries. When he got it lit, he peered at both of us.

  “We’re looking into the murder of Edith Kapana,” Ray said.

  “Want to tell us about her?”

  “She was some kind of aunt or cousin of my girlfriend’s. Last year, her house got knocked out on the Big Island, so she came to live with us.”

  “How was that working out?”

  “She was a meddling old busybody, but she helped Leelee with the baby and she handed over her Social Security. And what MAhu BLood 33

  the hell, you can’t just toss an old lady out on her ass, can you?”

  “You know anybody who had a grudge against her?”

  Dex looked from Ray to me and back. “You think somebody killed her?”

  “Body in the morgue makes that pretty clear,” Ray said.

  “Nah, man, I mean, like somebody killed her on purpose? Not just ‘cause she happened to be marching in the wrong place?”

  “Somebody wants to shoot up the crowd, they spray a lot of bullets around,” Ray said. “Whoever shot Edith was aiming at her and was a damn good shot, too.”

  Dex fumbled his cigarette, and it fell to the ground. He crushed it out with his heel, then pulled another from his pack.

  “I don’t know nothing about it,” he said, head down, focused on lighting the cigarette.

  “Where were you Friday morning?” Ray asked.

  Dex looked up, his dark eyes focused on my partner. “Here.

  Working.”

  “Somebody can back you up?”

  Dex shrugged, took a long drag from his cigarette. “We got a time clock. I punch in when I get here, punch out when I leave.”

  Ray looked at me, and I raised my eyebrows. Then he handed Dex his card. “You think of anything, you give us a call, all right?”

  he asked.

  Dex shoved the card in the torn back pocket of his jeans, the white paper half hidden by denim, the other half stark against red satin.

  “What do you think?” Ray asked, after Dex had gone back in the warehouse, and we were walking back to the Jeep.

  “I don’t trust him. But you see how he kept fumbling those cigarettes? I don’t know that he’s got the kind of steady hand you need to aim so precisely.”

  “They have drugs for that,” Ray said.

  34 Neil S. Plakcy

  “Yeah, I know. They have drugs for everything.”

  the MAN who wouLd Be kiNg

  Maile Kanuha’s office was only a couple of blocks from headquarters, so rather than mess with downtown traffic and parking, we left the Jeep at the police gara
ge and walked. We found her surrounded by piles of paperwork, with a phone in one ear, typing something on her computer. She was an older woman, with iron-gray hair in tight pin curls. When she finished the call, we showed her our ID and said we had questions about the KOH.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about personal business on state time.”

  “I’d be happy to clear it with your supervisor. This is a murder investigation, and that takes precedence over…” I looked at the top file on her desk. “Licensing dealers in bee pollen.”

  She looked at the clock. “I guess I can take a coffee break.

  Come with me.”

  We went into a small kitchen with a couple of round tables and plastic chairs. “You want coffee?” she asked. “We get the best beans here, grind them ourselves.”

  “Can’t resist an offer like that,” I said, and Ray agreed. We didn’t talk over the noise of the grinder, but once Maile had dumped the grounds into the filter, she sat down at the table with us to wait for the brew to finish.

  “How about if you fill us in on the background of the Kingdom of Hawai’i,” I asked. “We’ve read, but I know the media tends to distort the truth.”

  She smiled. “I couldn’t agree with you more. The KOH

  begins with Ezekiel Kapuāiwa, who grew up in a small town on the Big Island, raised by his grandmother Victoria, who was a direct descendant of Kamehameha V.”

  “I thought Kamehameha V died a bachelor,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s true. But you don’t need to be married to father 36 Neil S. Plakcy

  a child.” A sharp tang rose up from the coffee pot and snaked through the room. It didn’t smell like the kind of fresh beans Maile had promised.

  “He has proof of this?” I asked.

  “There are no records of the birth of Ezekiel’s great-great-grandfather,” she said. “But the family lore is that Ulumaheihei Kapuāiwa was the manuahi of Kamehameha V.”

  “A manuahi is an illegitimate son,” I said to Ray.

  “Kamehameha studied at the Royal School,” Maile continued.

  “And the records show that some female students who were there at that time were expelled and married off quickly. Ezekiel was told that the family of the girl was ashamed, so they kept the secret of his parentage. Kamehameha wanted his son to succeed him, but his advisors refused to let him make the boy his heir, because the girl had claimed publicly that her husband was the boy’s father, and it would have caused a great rift. That’s why he declined to name a successor.”

  “And the son did nothing when Kamehameha died?” I asked.

  “Never stepped up, never made a claim?”

  She shook her head. “When his father died, Ulumaheihei was seventeen. His mother was dead, and his maternal grandfather insisted that he was not qualified to lead the people. The Legislature took over then, electing our kings and queens, right up to Lili’uokalani. When she was deposed, Ulumaheihei was already dead, and his son Moses was only twelve years old. The family kept hiding him, afraid for his safety.”

  “We learned a bunch of those old folk tales when I was in Hawaiian school,” I said. “Pele and Lono and the other gods and goddesses. What makes Ezekiel’s story more believable than any of those?”

  The coffee finished brewing, and Maile got up and poured for each of us. The paper cup was thin and burned my fingers as I picked it up.

  Maile’s mouth was set in a firm line. “I believe Ezekiel Kapuāiwa because I believe the Hawaiian people need a leader MAhu BLood 37

  to bring them to freedom. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his great-grandfather’s name was Moses.”

  But Moses came from the Old Testament, the very Bible that the missionaries, including my own grandmother, used to subjugate the Hawaiian people, to wipe out their old gods and to replace them with Jesus and his disciples. I didn’t see any point in arguing about gods and history with her, so I just asked, “How does Ezekiel connect to Moses?”

  “Moses had a daughter, Victoria, who was Ezekiel’s grandmother. She raised him after his parents died, and she always told him it was his burden and responsibility to bring the people of Hawai’i out of their indentured servitude.” Maile smiled. “About five years ago, he accepted his legacy and began to work on behalf of his people to restore their historic rights and privileges.”

  Ray must have sensed my growing frustration, because he put a hand on my arm and stepped in. “There are other groups with similar claims to the throne,” he said. “You think any of them could have tried to disrupt the rally on Friday?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Maile said. “You have to understand, there’s a lot at stake here. In 1893, the US took over an independent nation, and our people have lived under a prolonged military occupation ever since. If things work out the way we hope, we could gain reparations in the millions of dollars, as well as the return of crown lands to the people of Hawai’i.”

  “The indigenous people of Hawai’i,” Ray said. “Newcomers need not apply.”

  I sat back against the plastic chair, sipped my cooling coffee and watched the two of them spar.

  “The traditional definition of a Hawaiian is someone who is descended, at least in part, from the aboriginal people inhabiting the islands at the time of first contact with the Western world,”

  Maile said. “I’m not going to debate the position of those who have profited from this illegal occupation.”

  Ray made a few notes, then looked up. “We’re not interested 38 Neil S. Plakcy

  in a debate, either. Do you know of anyone in particular who might want to sabotage your efforts? Get any threatening notes?

  People who have disagreed with you?”

  Maile laughed. “There are at least ten different organizations competing for the right to rule the kingdom of Hawai’i. When you consider the entrenched interests—the corporations, the attorneys, the landowners who would have their properties taken from them and returned to the people—the list is endless.”

  She didn’t know anything about the rumors the police department had heard and couldn’t name any names. And the coffee wasn’t that great, either.

  Walking back to headquarters after our meeting, I was lost in thought. How could the simple killing of an old woman have so many suspects and so many complications? Would we ever be able to find anything?

  “What did she mean by returning crown lands to the people?”

  Ray asked, bringing me back to the present.

  I sighed. “It’s complicated.” I motioned around us. “To the ancient Hawaiians, owning a piece of the land was as foreign as owning the sky or the ocean.”

  We stopped to wait for a light. The sun beat down, and sweat dripped down my back. I looked around at the crowd of tourists on their way to the Iolani Palace and at the broken coconuts on the ground beneath a palm tree.

  Ray was waiting for an answer, so as the light changed, I said, “The ali’i, the ancient chiefs, were the stewards of the land, and they granted the people the right to live on the land and cultivate it. In 1848 Kamehameha III set up the Great Mahele, which changed everything and created three categories of land ownership: the crown, the government and the people.”

  The tourists in front of us stopped for a photo opportunity beneath a palm tree tilted at a forty-five degree angle. Ray and I dodged around them. “When Queen Lili’uokalani was overthrown in 1893, the crown lands didn’t belong to her but to her position. Like Maile said, she and Kamehameha V were MAhu BLood 39

  elected.”

  “Didn’t know that,” Ray said. “We didn’t get much Hawaiian history in the Pennsylvania schools.”

  “Anyway, the new government of the Republic of Hawai’i took all the crown lands and lumped them in with government land. All that land then shifted to the US government in 1898 and then to the state of Hawai’i in 1959.”

  “How much land are we talking about?” Ray asked, as we climbed the steps into headquarters.

  “Anywhere from one to three mil
lion acres. Depending on who you listen to and how you define the term. Pearl Harbor, all the Halawa valley, the land where the state capitol building stands… it could be a big deal.”

  “That’s a whole lot of motive to disrupt anybody who’s trying to be in charge.”

  the Voice of hAwAi’i

  I swung up to Papakolea on my way home, looking for the drug dealers Aunty Edith had been making trouble for. The narrow streets clustered around the slopes of Pu’owaina Crater, overgrown with banana, bougainvillea and hibiscus. There were lots of places for illicit entrepreneurs to hide from da kine police.

  For the most part we call the area Punchbowl, the name of the national military cemetery built in 1948 to commemorate the soldiers and sailors who died at Pearl Harbor. There are now over 33,000 graves there. Papakolea, for many years, was a kind of living grave for Hawaiian people, the way reservations on the mainland were for Native Americans. Though things had improved, it was the right kind of place to foment support for Hawaiian nationalism.

  As I circled the neighborhood a fine mist accumulated on my windshield, turning quickly to a steady light rain. Within a few minutes it was pouring, torrents of water cascading down road and ravines, and even the street-side entrepreneurs had run for shelter. I was glad to make it back to Aiea and Mike as thunder boomed and lightning crackled. It was nice cuddling with him to the sound of rain pinging off the metal roof.

  Tuesday morning, I got in a few minutes before Ray and sat at my desk reading Greg Oshiro’s latest article on Edith Kapana’s death. He highlighted that the police had no suspects and no leads. I couldn’t argue with that.

  I’d just finished reading the article when the guard downstairs buzzed. “You in charge of the shooting at the rally?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Got a letter down here for you. Little kid dropped it off.”

  Ray came in, and I went down for the note while he got settled, carrying a pair of rubber gloves with me, just in case. “This Hawaiian kid ran in, T-shirt, board shorts, rubbah slippahs,” the 42 Neil S. Plakcy