Death of a Messenger

by Robert McCaw

  He felt a surge of relief. No matter what had provoked Harper in the first place, Nālani plainly intended to put an end to his advances. He felt bad for doubting her fidelity and guilty for not being around to protect her, but mostly he was concerned for her future safety. “Christ, I’d like to go up there and teach the asshole some manners.”

  She looked alarmed, and he realized why she hadn’t told him in the first place. “Please, Koa. I’m leaving Alice, and I want it to be on good terms. I’ll spray the bastard if he tries anything, but I don’t want to create an incident if I can avoid it.”

  He couldn’t disagree with that. “Okay, but keep this with you.” He tossed the can back to her and watched her put it back in her purse. “And call me immediately if he tries anything. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Still bothered by the issue, but knowing it was beyond his control, he turned back to his cooking. Yet he was so unnerved, he immediately knocked a knife off the counter. He jumped back to avoid getting skewered, and his abrupt movement triggered a burst of pain. The jolt shot all the way down his arm to his fingers. He winced and grabbed his neck.

  “Koa Kāne.”

  Nālani never used his full name. He turned to see her staring at him with her arms folded across her chest.

  “When are you going to schedule that surgery?”

  “I’m seeing the surgeon the day after tomorrow, but—”

  “But what, Koa?” she demanded sternly.

  He didn’t like being pinned down like this, but he saw no way out. “I don’t know. I’m just not sure.”

  “Not sure about what?” She had a fierce look in her eyes. “You’ve got two opinions; and both doctors agree. Do you really want to lose the use of your right arm?” Then both her face and her voice softened. “We’ve got years ahead of us, Koa. Neither of us wants you disabled.”

  Her words struck a blow. She didn’t want him … disabled. He felt cornered but fought the instinct to be combative. “Okay. I’ll schedule the surgery.”

  “Good. That’s settled.” She grinned. “Now mister master chef, fix me some grub.”

  He put the issue aside for the moment and concentrated on coating the nori-wrapped ‘ahi in the cold tempura batter before placing it into the hot oil sizzling in the wok. He turned the fish repeatedly. When the outside had turned crisp, but the ‘ahi remained rare inside, he sliced the rolls and arranged the pieces on plates before adding capers along with a beurre blanc sauce. He served the seared ‘ahi with salad, edamame, and more chilled chardonnay. The dish ranked among Nālani’s all-time favorites.

  “Did you identify the victim of that god-awful killing out at Pōhakuloa?” Nālani asked.

  Koa was glad she had switched to a new, more familiar topic. “No, not yet. But you won’t believe what we found.” He described the canoe coffin, the bird woman, and the workshop. “Your guy, Jimmy Hikorea, says it’s a major archaeological find. And, I’ll have you know, yours truly participated in the discovery.”

  “That’s fabulous. I’m sorry I wasn’t there too.” Her face blossomed into a huge smile, and he felt absurdly pleased. She too saw the oddity of a police detective dabbling in archaeology. “What was it like, you know, the moment you realized the importance of the cave?”

  “It’s hard to describe, but down in that cave, I felt a pilina, a connection, to my roots … to my ancestors. I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time.”

  “That’s neat,” she encouraged. “Describe it for me.”

  “Those men … their lives were so brutal, but they made things of exquisite beauty. I mean, the bird woman just grabbed me. And the canoe, painted red, the color of the gods, reminded me of my grandfather’s stories.”

  “That’s cool, Koa. That’s our heritage.” Like many poor Hawaiian children, Nālani was raised by her grandmother. Tūtū, as Nālani invariably called her, had nurtured a multitude of children and was quick to spot the spark that set Nālani apart. Whether playing at ‘ōlelo nane, a game of riddles, or surfing the big ones, tūtū accepted nothing less than the best from her favorite granddaughter. And so Nālani learned to excel. Only years later after graduate school did Nālani understand just how much she owed to her uncompromising tūtū. And tūtū inspired the love of Hawai‘i’s unique natural beauty and culture that inevitably drew Nālani back to the Big Island despite lucrative opportunities on the mainland.

  “Yeah,” he said, caught up in the excitement. “I remember my grandfather, and even my father sometimes, used to fascinate me with stories of the kahuna kālai wa‘a,” he said, referring to the expert canoe makers of the ancient Kāne clan.

  “I wish I’d known your grandfather. He sounds a lot like my tūtū,” Nālani mused as she savored a slice of ‘ahi. Koa wasn’t one to talk much about his past. During their courtship and even after they began living together, he’d regaled Nālani with stories of his military service and his detective work, but hadn’t talked much about his family. His hesitancy stemmed partly from chagrin at his lowly roots and partly from reluctance to discuss his youngest brother, Ikaika, who’d been a juvenile delinquent before graduating to serious crime and serving time in the slammer. But the real reason had been his secret criminal history. He couldn’t tell her about the most devastating event in his life, one that helped drive him to become a cop and motivated him to pursue justice for victims for crimes.

  “My dad worked the sugar mills and died in an accident when I was sixteen. He was only forty, but after twenty-two years in that damn place, he walked bent over, like a crippled old man. I hated that goddamn mill—God, how I hated it—and I swore I wasn’t going to let a lousy dead-end job suck the life out of me.” Koa realized he’d never shown her the picture and grabbed his billfold. He pulled out a dog-eared photo of the old Hāmākua Sugar Mill. “I carry this picture with me always to remind me never to end up like he did.”

  He left the story there, not reciting how he’d suspected Anthony Hazzard, the mill manager, of arranging his father death or how he tracked the man to a remote hunting cabin in the Kohala mountains, started a fight, and accidently killed the man. He’d never shared that personal history with anyone and wasn’t about to tell Nālani.

  Nālani’s face softened and her eyes seemed to glow. “He’d be proud of what you’ve accomplished, Koa.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Koa gave her a wry smile. “Even though, like many Hawaiians of his generation, he never had much use for the police.”

  They fell silent as they ate the ‘ahi.

  Koa reached across the table, softly covering Nālani’s hand. “You’re going to leave in a couple of months. Why not just quit now?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to sit around for four months, and besides, the park service hasn’t actually hired me yet.”

  “What if Harper tries something, and you can’t get to your spray?”

  “I’ll be careful, Koa. I promise.”

  This uninspiring reply left him uncomfortable, just like the whole affair left a sour taste in his mouth. Men who harassed women didn’t just stop … that’s what made them harassers. He respected Nālani’s desire to leave Alice on good terms, but if Charlie Harper made another unwanted pass at her, he’d teach the creep a lesson or two.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KOA RACED HIS dark blue Ford Explorer up the Belt Road toward Hilo. His friend, Hook Hao—fisherman, auctioneer, Hilo legend—had phoned with despair in his voice while Koa had been up at Pōhakuloa. “He’s hurt, Koa. Hurt bad.”

  “Who? Reggie? Reggie’s hurt?” Reggie was Hook’s twenty-two-year-old son.

  “He’s in a coma.” Hook sounded exhausted. The usual spark was gone from his voice.

  “Where? Hilo Memorial?”

  “No, over on Maui.”

  “How? Was he in a car accident?”

  “No. He was on the abandoned Navy bombing range on Kaho‘olawe. An old bomb blew up.” The small island of Kaho‘olawe south of Maui had been taken over by the
Navy as a bombing range during World War II. Although no longer in use, it was littered with bombs that had failed to explode.

  “Jesus, Hook. How bad is he hurt?”

  “He’s unconscious, some kind of concussion. They’re not sure when, or if, he’s going to come around.” Hook choked on the words.

  “What was he doing on Kaho‘olawe?”

  “I don’t have much. Reggie can’t talk, but the police say he and some guys went exploring. I don’t have details.”

  None of this made sense to Koa, but he did know one thing. He wasn’t going to let Hook down. “I’ll come by after the auction.”

  “Mahalo, Koa … mahalo.”

  As he reached the outskirts of Hilo, Koa’s mind shifted to the identity of the Pōhakuloa victim. Figuring out the identity was the critical first step. Scene-of-the-crime evidence might be crucial to a conviction, but the victim’s background typically provided the first clues to the identity of the killer.

  Koa puzzled over unanswered questions. Most people had family and friends. Why hadn’t a friend or relative reported the man missing? Most people worked for a living. Why hadn’t an employer called the police? West Hawaii Today and the Hilo newspapers had run stories about the discovery of an unidentified body in the saddle area. Why hadn’t someone called?

  Had the victim been homeless? He brought the victim’s mangled face—his forehead, his hair—into mental focus. Above the smashed face, the hair, although matted, had been short along the sides and trimmed around the ears. The man couldn’t have been without a haircut for more than a month. So probably not homeless. A tourist traveling alone? Possible, but somehow it didn’t fit. If someone had kidnapped and killed a tourist, why conceal the victim’s identity? Koa nevertheless made a mental note to have patrol officers check hotels for a missing guest, perhaps with an unpaid bill.

  Maybe the victim had been someone who could be expected to stay out of touch for days at a time. A traveling salesman? A freelance writer? A drug courier? Pakalolo or marijuana, known locally as “Puna butter” and “Kona gold,” remained the island’s largest cash crop. Peace had generally reigned lately among Hawai‘i’s drug traffickers, but almost anything could trigger a feud among them. If the victim had associated with criminals, that would explain the lack of a missing-persons report.

  Was the victim connected to the adjacent royal tomb or the stonecutters’ cave? Both walls—the one from the cave into the tomb and the one from the tomb into the stonecutters’ workshop—had appeared intact, undisturbed for decades. But someone had been in the workshop and looted a burial crypt. Was the proximity of the victim to the stonecutters’ workshop mere coincidence? Possibly, but Koa hadn’t become chief detective by trusting in coincidences.

  The deceased’s involvement in illegal archaeology would provide motive. Artifacts like the bird woman had great value on the black market. Koa had seen men killed for less. The man’s participation in a criminal conspiracy would explain why his co-conspirators hadn’t called the police. It might even explain the mutilation: suppose the deceased were an archaeologist or an antiquities smuggler; the killer might want to conceal his identity. But why would the killer leave the victim so close to the treasure? Questions and more questions without answers.

  In the end, Koa decided he needed an entrée into the local antiquities community. Jimmy Hikorea might be able to provide the contact.

  Koa turned a corner onto Lihiwai Street in front of a weathered one-story storefront and fish market. After parking his Explorer, he crossed the street, heading toward the crowd collected around the big open-air stall at the end of the building. Unshaven fishermen in grungy overalls and knee-high black rubber boots mingled with drivers from trucks scattered along the street. Buyers from the island’s restaurants, hotels, and grocery chains, dressed in slacks and short-sleeve shirts, rounded out the regulars.

  Koa liked the rituals of the fish auction, its timeless authenticity. Fishermen sipping quart-sized cups of takeout coffee, swapping sea stories while eyeing each other’s catch. Here, as much as anywhere in the islands, multilingual pidgin filled the air, mixed with the smell of steaming coffee, saltwater, and fish offal.

  Neat rows of ribbed fiberglass pallets held ‘ahi—whole black tuna, weighing anywhere from seventy-five to 250 pounds each. Smaller ‘ahi, grouped head down in twenty-gallon white plastic buckets, would be sold in lots. Mustard-colored mahimahi, some over six feet long, lay side by side on another row of pallets.

  At just over seven feet, Hook Hao towered over the next tallest man in sight, and his outsized head, bald and shiny, gave true meaning to the phrase “a head taller.” Hook wore his usual uniform—threadbare T-shirt, blood stained blue jeans, and snowshoe-sized black rubber boots. He wielded a short-shanked gaff, which accounted for his nickname, like an extension of his hand. Yet what Koa saw were the dark circles under the giant’s eyes. Reggie’s troubles had taken their toll on the old fisherman.

  As Koa watched, Hook’s gaff shot into an ice chest and jerked back, dragging a hundred-pound ‘ahi. With a flick of his wrist, Hook affixed the fish to an electronic scale suspended from a ceiling track. A helper called out the weight to a worker, who wrote it and the owner’s mark on a slip of paper he slapped onto the fish, using its natural moisture as glue.

  While one of the helpers dragged the freshly weighed tuna to an empty place next to its kin on one of the pallets, Hook drove his gaff back into the ice chest. To the surprise of nearly everyone on the auction floor, the gaff brought forth a moray eel. Hook held the mottled brown sea snake aloft to get a measure of the beast—a good eight feet.

  At that moment, Hook caught sight of Koa and their eyes locked in a familiar gaze. Despite his weariness, a smile crept into Hook’s eyes. They went way back together, back to a time when Reggie had found a different way to get into trouble.

  Koa had been a junior detective that first time they’d met, having just returned from arresting a half-dozen high school kids for growing pot behind the Hilo high school stadium. Somehow, Hook got word of the arrest and showed up at the police lockup. The hulking beast of a man, dressed in fishermen’s gear, smelling of stale fish, and chomping on a stubby remnant of a cigar, approached Koa, suggesting they have a word in an empty interrogation room.

  “Detective, you don’t know me, but I know of you. You are hanohano.”

  Koa hadn’t been afraid of the man, but he couldn’t help feeling a little intimidated by his size. “You find me honorable?”

  “I have come to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you know the story of the puhi, who stole from the sacred fishpond of the ali‘i at Kohala, the place of the whale?”

  Koa stared at the huge man, repulsed by his unkempt wharf odors, yet curious at his bizarre approach. “No, Mr.—”

  “Hao. Hook Hao.”

  “Ahhh, that’s your son in the lockup?”

  “He pula, o ka ‘ānai ka mea nui.”

  Koa smiled at the Hawaiian saying. Translated literally, the words meant: A speck of dust in the eye causes a lot of rubbing. Yet Hook meant the wrong of one family member brought shame to all. “No, Mr. Hao, I don’t know the story of the puhi. Does this have something to do with tonight’s drug bust?”

  “You might profit from its ancient instruction.”

  Intrigued by the man, Koa sat down at the table and motioned the larger-than-life fisherman to the opposite seat. “Okay, Mr. Hao, I have a minute. Tell me the story of the eel.”

  Hook laid the stub of his cigar on the table and drew himself up to begin. “The fishponds of the ali‘i at Kohala were sacred kapu to all, save the old lawai‘a, the old fisherman, who tended the ponds. But one day the lawai‘a noticed a puhi, a great speckled snake of an eel, wiggling through an opening in the seawall. As big around as a small tree and longer than a canoe, the eel bore down on one of the fattest of the aku, and, right before the lawai‘a’s eyes, took the prized fish and vanished into the sea.” Hook had the islander’s gif
t of storytelling, and Koa felt the man’s rhythmic cadence drawing him into the tale.

  “‘I have seen the thief and I will catch him,’ promised the lawai‘a. That night the lawai‘a tied the end of the hau rope to a tree and lay near the seawall with his stone club. He dangled the hook beside the hole and waited for the kapu breaker to come from the sea. The old fisherman waited, sure that the puhi would come. And come it did.” Hook paused for effect.

  “As the puhi reached the seawall, he took the bait. The water swirled as the puhi tried to free itself from the fishhook. All night the lawai‘a struggled until, with the coming of dawn, he finally pulled the puhi onto the rocks. Both man and beast were exhausted, but the old fisherman lifted his stone club high, ready to smash it down upon the puhi.” Hook seemed to breathe harder as he described the struggle.

  “To his amazement, the puhi spoke. ‘It is true, old lawai‘a, that you have won and have the right to kill me, but that would be most unwise.’ The astonished lawai‘a stared at this strange talking puhi.

  “‘And why would it be unwise?’ the lawai‘a croaked.

  “Again, the puhi spoke. ‘If you let me go free, I, myself, will guard your fishponds and keep them safe from all the other puhi in the sea.’

  “‘How do I know that you, a thief, will keep your word?’

  “A third time the puhi spoke. ‘Because I will entrust something to you more precious than my own life.’ The puhi made a sound—click, click—barely heard, and another smaller puhi appeared. ‘This is my son, my first and only son. He will come and live within your fishponds.’

  “And so the lawai‘a allowed the puhi to go free, a decision he never came to regret. For the old puhi kept his word.” Hook made a circling motion with his hands, signaling that all had come out right in the end. “That is the story of how the puhi became the protector of fishponds at Kohala.”

  His story finished, Hook Hao picked up his cigar and sat staring at Koa. His black eyes were intelligent and clear. He had a forthright look, despite the smell of salt and fish offal. Koa contemplated the man, trying to make up his mind. The fisherman seemed content to let the detective’s evaluation run its course.